The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) by Morgan Blayde Page B

his shadows, shuddering with obscure passions that I a human might never fully understand.  Yet I smiled, damning propriety until he regained composure and pulled away.
    With the retreat of his cloak, I discovered that we were not where we had been.  The streets were gone.  The buildings of the city enclosed us, but were distant, indistinct shadows.  We occupied a woodland path in some kind of preserve.
    “Where have you brought me?” I asked.
    “The third ring on your game board.”  His answer was soft as a butterfly’s kiss.  “Your last duel has earned you the right to advance this far.”
    Too much distance lay ahead for me to celebrate such a small victory, but I was grateful.  “What is this place?”
    “It has several names, but I call it the Forest of Angels.”
    “There are angels here, besides you?”
    “Of a sort.  I come here to help the lost and abandoned.”
    I did not like the sound of that. 
    We traveled stone paths that would have been white if not for the spoiled light of this world.  The black iron lampposts we passed only deepened the sickly green.  The trees to either side of us sloughed feathery strips of bark for the wind to push about.  Serpentine branches attenuated into extinction with no leaves adorning them.  Only a matting of shed bark lay in drifts underneath.  I did not know if this was natural, or if the trees were blighted by the eternal twilight, but I thought it sad that this was what passed for beauty in this City of the Dead.
    The woodland thinned as we approached a barren, slate-gray expanse.  It took several long moments to be sure that this body was truly water, untroubled by any wind.  I could not see the opposite shoreline since a haze of fog crawled over the water.  The distant towers of the city seemed to float on cloud s.
    A honey-tressed little girl, dressed in a faded charcoal shift, squatted by the shore.  She nudged away a tiny paper sailboat that drifted out of arm’s reach and came to a stop beside several others.  As we neared, she stood and stared at the clustered armada, sighing gently at their failure to get any farther.
    “Angelique,” Azrael called.
    The girl, no more than nine or ten, whipped around at the sound of his soft voice.  Her sad face ignited with a smile.  Her eyes sparkled.  “Azrael, you are back!”  She ran and flung herself into his cloak, hugging his shadow , unmindful of the bitter cold of his embrace. 
    “I always keep my promises,” he said.
    “I knew you would come,” she cried.  “The others all went on, but I waited.”    
    The others?  Was she one of the angels he mentioned?  Was this park haunted by orphan children turning feral?
    Pulling away, the girl hopped like a bunny in her excitement.  “Do a trick for me!” she pleaded.
    “But of course!”  Azrael scooped up a handful of slate blue, water-smoothed stones from the bank.  Theatrically, he waved his free hand over them, composing a mystic spell.
     
    Shimmer, glimmer—kisses of light,
    Dance in my hand —tears of the night.  
     
    He drew the rocks into his cloak and immediately thrust them forth again.  His head dipped so his white-fire eyes could bring out the true color of the sapphires, opals, and rubies he now held.  His hand tilted.  Angelique caught the sparkling cascade with small, cupped fingers.  Her eyes widened with wonder and joy as she stuffed the treasure into one sleeve, making it hang heavily.  She gripped the cuff tightly, hiding the excess material in her fist so that the clacking stones could not spill as her arm fell to the side.
    He smiled.  “You know, of course, that the jewels will be common stones by morning.”
    The little girl grinned back.  “Yes, but I will enjoy them while they last!”  She skipped away, then turned and raised her voice, “I want to show the others.”
    Azrael followed and I hurried to keep by his side. 
    I realized something. “There never will be a morning for her in