Unique Arcana Characteristics: Large black wings, talon-tipped fingers. Outdated speech and old-fashioned clothing.
Before Flash: Prophesied to be the reincarnation of the great Arendgast—an errand spirit (more commonly known as an angel). Worshipped by the Sect of Arendgast, a remote, ages-old cult, separated from modern society.
The Mount on High, Canadian Wilds
Day 0
“Are you ready to begin, Exalted One?” the high sectaire asked me, his bushy gray brows raised.
“Yes.” I removed my suit coat, laying it on my bed, then untied my cravat. “I am ready,” I lied. What man of nineteen would be ready for a day like this?
My tone was even despite the dread that threatened to overwhelm me. After removing my vest and fob watch, I drew off my white lawn shirt, taking my time to fold it, my gaze surveying my lantern-lit room, possibly for the last time.
My chambers were the most luxurious in the colony, my bed large enough for half a dozen people. I had countless stacks of books—my only link to the outside world—but they were all ancient. Above my desk was artwork depicting angels falling from the heavens.
Was I about to join them?
I could stall no longer. I straightened and headed toward my door, exiting before the high sectaire. We made our way down the corridor toward the great cavern chamber.
Centuries ago, the sect—chased from Europe, and then from the very ground itself—had moved to this secluded mountain, seeking refuge inside the heart of its peak.
In the cavern chamber, dozens of sectaires had gathered to follow my historic walk. All told, this colony numbered seventy-eight, the number of cards in a Tarot deck. Half were female, half male. Their voices rang with excitement. The sect had awaited this moment for generations.
As we entered, an elder called, “Quiet everyone.”
At the candlelit altar, I stood beside the high sectaire, making my face impassive. No one would ever know the strangling urge I had to flee. I was about to start sweating, despite my lack of a shirt. I resisted the impulse to rub my damp palms on my trousers.
In a resonant voice, the man addressed everyone, signaling the beginning of today’s ritual. I barely registered his words as I contemplated my life.
As ever, I wondered about my birth parents. I’d been missing for seventeen years. Did they still long for me as I longed for them? They would never know the importance of their sacrifice. Could they have accepted the ritual I was about to take part in?
I doubted they could have accepted my dual nature.
An Arendgast was both angel and animal, a creature torn between base and noble instincts. When I’d been twelve, I’d asked the high sectaire how I could overcome my animal instinct for self-preservation during the ritual. His answer had filled me with horror.
Perhaps I should have run then. . . .
Though our records—the Chronicles of Arendgast—had been burned long ago by fearful villagers, the elders had passed down sacred knowledge to help me in the Arcana game, tales of the past and foretellings of the future.
I was to beware my worst enemies: Death, the Empress, and the Emperor. My staunch ally was forever the Tower; I was to seek him out as soon as possible.
I had also been prophesied in this game to give my heart to a great warrior, another Arcana: “One who slays from afar.”
Surely that meant I would survive the ritual!
The elders had also passed down the date of the foretold Great Cataclysm.
Today.
The apocalypse would befall us, the game beginning in its wake. But I should have heard Arcana calls by now. What if the elders had misremembered the date?
The lack of calls meant one of two things, both of them dire: I was not the Arendgast. Or the game didn’t begin today.
Either option equaled my demise.
My life had taken just one fateful turn to get me to this precipice, figuratively and literally. When I’d been two, a sectaire—allegedly a minor arcana—believed he’d witnessed the earliest seed of my tableau flickering over me. That night, he’d stolen me from my birth parents, bringing me back to the Mount.
I gazed over the crowd, finding him. His face was red, his eyes bleary. Had he truly seen my tableau so long ago? He swore I was the seventh coming of Gabriel.
But then, that sectaire also drank a lot.
And right now he looked . . . nervous.
My entire destiny had been shaped by a drunken sectaire. Would I pay the ultimate price for another man’s mistake?
“Exalted One . . . ?”
I snapped my gaze to the high sectaire. “I am ready,” I lied again. Though I’d spent my life preparing for this, I was most decidedly not ready to free fall a mile to the ground.
If I made the leap of faith too far in advance of the game, my wings wouldn’t be fully formed.
The others parted the way for me to reach the ledge. As I trudged through the cavern, sectaires tried to catch my eye for tonight’s closing ritual, reaching out to touch my chest and back. “Choose me,” they whispered.
Was I the only one who doubted my survival? Each step brought me closer to my probable death.
I swallowed when the edge of the cliff came into view, but I kept walking.
Closer.
If I was the Archangel and the game truly began today, my wings and claws would burst from my skin as I fell. My senses and healing would be heightened.
I would fly over lands I didn’t know, loosed from the Mount for the first time.
Closer.
As the sun set, I would return with fire, a ceremonial light, all part of the ritual. Then the colony would drink strong spirits and celebrate into the night, the great cavern ringing with cheer.
I would be expected to choose four bedmates among the sectaires, the most beautiful and handsome among them. Having never so much as kissed, I was nearly as nervous about that part as I was about the fall!