I knew my fight was hopeless. But I was comfortable with Despair. After listening to Pride’s recollection of events about his fall from grace, I’d had enough. I was calling Michael out, once and for all. Sometimes, it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about setting an example. Sacrifice.
Something an angel was supposed to do—not an orphan at the end of her rope.
I lifted my katana upright before me and swept out my wings, fanning the flames behind me. “Decide.”
Michael set his jaw. “I do not want this, Callie.”
“Then don’t do this, Michael,” I said.
“You risk breaking the Spear.”
I shook my head. “No. You risk breaking the Spear by swinging your sword at it—at me!” I fired back.
“Why are you here if my suspicions are unfounded?” he hissed, exasperated. “You see how this looks and you try to paint me as the guilty party?”
I shrugged. “You assumed the worst in me from the moment you arrived. In your shoes, I would have asked you the question before passing any judgment. When have I ever given you reason to assume my intentions were in any way nefarious? You keep forgetting that the Spear chose ME!” I roared.
The Spear is not a weapon. Aala and Ryuu’s analysis whispered in the back of my mind. But I wasn’t using it at all, let alone as a weapon, so I ignored it.
Michael gritted his teeth, obviously torn. “I told you what was at stake. The Seven must not take Kansas City,” he rasped, his eyes desperate. “Yet you are here, talking with Pride! What am I supposed to think?”
“If you knew he was here all along, why are you only just now coming by?” I asked, hitting him with the hard questions. If he wanted to talk about the potential for an all-out war between archangels and archdemons, I would totally understand and even accept it. But his track record was consistent. He always showed up with his sword when a prize was on the line—never when an innocent life was on the line.
“I follow orders, Callie. I can’t just swoop in whenever I wish,” he whispered.
I cocked my head. “Orders? Gabriel sent you here?”
He nodded. “Yes. To protect the Spear.”
I frowned. “Protect it from what, exactly? It’s not in any danger. No one can take it from me without my permission, and surprise, surprise, the demons don’t even care about it! So, tell me, what exactly is Gabriel so concerned about?”
Michael was silent for a few moments. “He did not say,” he said, sounding slightly troubled.
I scoffed. “And how did Gabriel suddenly know Pride was here? The timing is incredible. If he knew Pride’s whereabouts, why didn’t he send you here earlier to chase him away?”
“I do not know.”
“And how did he know I was here?”
“I do not know.”
“I’m sensing a theme, Michael.”
He nodded woodenly. “If an archangel came into direct conflict with an archdemon on earth, there would be open war. Kansas City would become an angelic battlefield, and no human would survive.”
I nodded. “And your boss still sent you here, knowing an archdemon was inside. He isn’t giving you the whole story. You came here, willing to kill me with your sword of justice, clad in armor of ignorance. Even while knowing one of the Seven was here. I’m just spit balling, but don’t you think you should have been given some backup? Confronting me and one of the Seven Sins does not require a buddy?” I asked, shouting. My words rang out over the hills, echoing.
Michael slowly lowered his sword and the white fire surrounding us began to dim. “I…do not know,” he whispered, looking as if his wings had suddenly been ripped from his back. Case in point, they began to droop as he stared down at the ground, his eyes dimming in time with the fire. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he murmured, agreeing with me, and not sounding relieved by the revelation. “Why would—”
“RPG!” a voice shouted. I heard the telltale thump of a goddamned rocket propelled grenade and my eyes widened in alarm.
Michael looked up sharply and his eyes widened as his gaze shifted to something over my shoulder. The light of the sun winked out between one moment and the next, and I felt a concussive thump about two feet away from me—like I had been standing too close to a Fourth of July artillery shell when it went off.
It should have incinerated me or obliterated my eardrums, but something had muffled it. I still heard the roar of flame, but it sounded muted.
I checked myself to find that I wasn’t a burning, smoldering corpse, but I did begin to cough and choke at the cloud of smoke filling the front lawn. “What the fuck is happening?” I shouted.
I looked up at the sky, wondering why it had grown so dark, and I flinched to find a canopy of inky black feathers sheltering me. In fact, those feathers created a defensive wall to my side as well.
And it hadn’t just protected me. Michael stared at our savior in disbelief. “Pride,” he whispered, sounding both awed and horrified. Pride grunted, lowering his massive black wings enough to peer over the top and assess our apparent attackers.
“Who the fuck just shot a rocket at me?” I demanded.
Pride turned to look at me from only inches away and I sucked in a breath, physically jolted by his haunting, nightmarish beauty. Those devilish blue eyes promised long, sensual nights and even longer, bloodier battles against anyone who tried to interrupt us. I realized, in that singular moment, that Pride had been heavily muting his aura from me when we’d first met.
But out here, under attack…
Hot. Damned.
His power radiated off of him like an open oven. I felt him dial it back down, and I let out a shuddering sigh of relief, blinking rapidly to get my bearings.
“Dozen nephilim,” he growled. Then he winked at me. “You’re one bad ass broad, Callie. Has anyone ever told you how sexy crazy looks on you?” He asked, indicating my earlier exchange with Michael. I grinned in spite of myself and nodded smugly.
Michael sputtered, sounding as if he was short-circuiting. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. I couldn’t tell if he was angry at us or the nephilim.
“Easy, brother,” Pride told him with a roguish grin. “Maybe they were trying to protect you from this prickly little rose,” he said, swatting me firmly on the ass.
37
I squawked in surprise, but it was mixed with laughter.
Pride cackled as I swiped my sword at him, easily dancing out of range as he buffeted his thick black wings, forcing me to shield my eyes from the blast of air.
Michael sputtered at the world in general.
Then the three of us turned to face the nephilim as Pride finally lowered his wings.
Two of us were smiling. The other one was Michael.
Rather than a virtuous army of nephilim, I saw a dozen scared as hell young men. But they weren’t looking at us. They were looking about twenty feet over our heads.
The three of us glanced up to see Samael in complete demon form—a monster of truly epic proportions. Instead of skin, he had scales made of darkened coins, and his horns were at least ten-feet-long each. His eyes blazed with red fire. His wings blocked out the sun. I slowly turned back to the nephilim with a shit-eating grin on my face.
“You guys ever met my godfather?” I called out, releasing my angelic armor and calling my wings back in now that my godfather was here to keep me safe—
One of them dropped his rocket launcher, and the damned thing misfired straight at Samael. I gasped in fear but Samael lurched forward to catch it in his mouth like a dog catching a frisbee—where it exploded. He abruptly sneezed, spewing flames into the air. He shook his head, his face on fire, and chewed up the metal fragments as he let out a bone-chilling laugh. Then he spat the metal glob onto the ground in front of the nephilim hard enough to create a small crater.
One of them grabbed his crotch with both hands, obviously peeing his pants. Others drew swords in shaky gestures, making the sign of the cross over their faces. I’d give
them that much. They wouldn’t die bravely, but they were willing to die holding their ground—
Two of them took off running and I burst out laughing.
Michael stormed forward, pointing his sword at the lot of them. Pride gripped my shoulder and gently squeezed. “I don’t like this,” he said, shaking his head, and there was nothing humorous in his voice.
In fact, he sounded downright troubled.
“Stand down!” Michael shouted, indicating both parties. To his credit, the glare he shot Samael was equally as fierce as the one he shot the nephilim. Samael didn’t impress him, which really put things into perspective for me.
What the hell would an archdemon such as Pride’s full form look like if Michael was so unconcerned about the giant, Samael? I risked a glance at Pride from the corner of my eye. He was still in human form, wearing only his silk pajama pants and no shirt, but regal, black feathered wings grew out of his back, looking startlingly majestic rather than horrifying or monstrous.
Samael grumbled something and I felt it in my boots, even if I couldn’t translate it into a word. But he didn’t antagonize the nephilim further. After taking a rocket to the molars, I would have let him play with the nephilim for a few minutes as fair compensation. I glanced down to see that the fire on my katana had finally extinguished, so I sheathed the blade and folded my arms.
Michael rounded on the nephilim, now that he was certain no one was going to escalate the fight. He absently snapped his fingers, and the two nephilim in the distance—almost to safety—suddenly tripped and ate dirt. They did not get back up. Michael grunted disgustedly. “What is the meaning of this?” he growled, singling out one of the lead nephilim—a gangly, strawberry-blonde, twenty-something who looked like he had qualified for the job by beating his sister at Call of Duty.
“Lord Gabriel sent us, sir,” the nephilim said, obviously conflicted.
“Did Lord Gabriel command you to introduce yourselves with a rocket?” he asked in a chilling tone.
The nephilim—startling everyone on my side of Archangel Michael’s DMZ—nodded affirmatively. “Yes, Lord Michael. Anything to take out Callie Penrose.”
The front lawn grew as silent as a tomb. I blinked, slowly turning to look at Pride. He looked just as startled as me. But I watched as the demon within stared out through Pride’s dreamy blue eyes, and he took a subconscious, protective step closer to me, curling his lip at the nephilim.
I felt my heart flutter with both fear and…
Appreciation. Pride had almost lost his ever-loving shit after hearing Gabriel’s shoot-to-kill order on me.
Michael glanced back at me with a grim look. In his eyes, I saw a great leviathan stirring just beneath the surface. I sucked in a sharp breath as I finally caught a glimpse of the legendary archangel I had wanted to see ever since I’d been a pig-tailed brat doodling in the church hymnals on Sundays. I could see the truth in his face. He was just as livid as Pride. He had not been told—and would not tolerate—Gabriel’s order.
Michael rounded on the nephilim, making them flinch. “Gabriel sent me here ten minutes ago,” he said in a foreboding tone, “and he gave me no such order. You expect me to believe he so drastically changed his mind in such a short span of time?”
The nephilim suddenly realized the situation he’d been put in, looking like he now envied the two who had fled. He licked his lips nervously. “She has agreed to marry Wrath.”
“The hell I have!” I shouted, outraged. “He hasn’t even proposed yet—” Pride groaned beside me, slapping his forehead with his palm. I closed my eyes. Damn it. That hadn’t sounded the way I’d intended.
I opened my eyes to see Michael glaring at the nephilim. “In the last ten minutes, she agreed to marry Wrath?” he asked, his voice dripping with cynicism. “I see Pride and Samael, and everyone knows Wrath despises them.”
The nephilim stammered, obviously not having an answer. “I have a picture of her signing the contract with Legion earlier this morning,” he said, pulling out his phone hurriedly.
I shook my head angrily, ignoring the curious look from Pride. “I absolutely did not!” I told Pride under my breath, unwilling to take my eyes off Michael as he took the phone and began flipping through pictures. “I did see Legion, and I refused to sign his contract—for the second time,” I hissed.
Pride turned to look up at Samael, speaking in a strange tongue. Samael replied in a low growl, making the ground rumble beneath me. I turned to shoot them both a furious glare. “Would you two shut up?”
I turned back to the nephilim in time to see two of them on either edge of the line lifting assault rifles and setting me in their sights. “For God!” they shouted in unison.
And then they opened fire.
Michael let out a roar and a pair of massive, white-feathered wings ripped out of his back, blocking off all the nephilim from me, even the two gunmen. But he wasn’t quick enough to stop all of the bullets. I felt three sharp impacts hit me in the chest, and then I was sitting on my ass, staring at Michael’s back in shock. The guns continued to unload and I saw Michael’s feathers quiver as his wings were peppered with impacts, even producing a faint trickle of bright red blood in two places. I saw his hips swivel ever so slightly and all sound abruptly ceased.
Then he collapsed to his knees. There were no more nephilim in front of him.
“Where did the nephilim go?” I mumbled, wincing at the painful throbbing sensation in my chest. Pride pulled me to my feet without asking and then began fondling my boobs.
I swatted his hands away, wincing in pain, but he ignored me, redoubling his efforts, so I relented. He let out a stunned breath and finally ceased his groping—much to the relief of my bruised girls. “What the fuck are your clothes made of?”
“Why?” I asked, peering past his black wings at Michael.
“Because they saved your life,” he breathed, shaking his head. I barely heard him.
Because I was staring at the kneeling archangel in sudden understanding. I took a stumbling step, biting back the pain arcing across my bruised chest. “No,” I whispered. “Michael saved my life.”
I couldn’t take my eyes away from the crimson stains in his wings, even as they sagged low to the ground in abject shame. As I shambled closer, Pride ducked under my arm to support me, expediting our travel time as we approached the archangel.
And that’s when I saw the headless nephilim—ten bodies oozing blood across the dying grass. Michael had stabbed the tip of his sword into the ground and knelt before it, holding the hilt with both hands as if it was the only thing supporting his weight.
The blade was painted bright red with the hot blood of the nephilim.
And the archangel wept.
I sucked in a breath and Pride froze in disbelief.
Michael had just fallen from grace.
And it was all my fault.
“Why?” I whispered to Michael. “Why would you risk everything to save me?”
Michael rested his forehead against the hilt of his blade. “So Pride wouldn’t have to save you,” he whispered.
Pride stared at his brother, a look of pain and regret tearing him in half—and through it all, love.
Love for his brother.
38
The area was silent, and I knew it wasn’t my place to speak.
“You don’t even like me!” Pride snapped, sounding disproportionately angry.
A faint laugh bubbled up from Michael’s throat. “I don’t have to like you.”
Pride was staring at him in disbelief.
I cleared my throat gently. “I don’t understand,” I said, softly.
Pride curled his lip, sounding like he wanted to bring the nephilim back to life so he could kill them all over again with his bare hands. “In saving you, I would have instantly retaliated by killing them all.”
“Which would have started an open war on the streets of Kansas City,” Michael said. “I did it for him so that all those deaths would not fall on
his shoulders. They were my responsibility. My burden.”
“And now you will fall. You fool,” Pride growled, and I saw that his eyes were brimming with angry tears. He folded his arms, averting his gaze from his brother.
Michael just nodded, accepting the price without shame.
Samael stepped up behind me, back in his human form. He checked me over with a concerned look on his face, and then let out a sigh of relief. “That’s some armor,” he said, shaking his head at Aphrodite’s gift.
Then he stormed past me and hoisted Michael to his feet. “You fool!” he said, shaking his brother by the shoulders. “You blind, stupid, sanctimonious—” And then the greater demon was pulling the archangel in for a tight, brotherly hug, forcefully slapping him on the back as he continued his angry tirade in a low growl.
Michael smiled absently at the affection, but his eyes were very far away.
They finally separated and we stood in silence, staring at Michael, and waiting for…well, I don’t know what, exactly. For him to fall. Whether that meant losing his wings or suddenly turning into a demon of some kind, I wasn’t entirely sure.
Pride began to fidget and Samael was tapping his foot worriedly. Michael hung his head, occasionally alternately glancing over his right or left wing—both still dripping blood.
Nothing happened. Except for Pride getting twitchier, Samael getting tappier, and Michael almost giving himself whiplash by checking each wing every half-second.
“Okay!” I finally snapped. “This is kind of like how men hate asking anyone for directions, isn’t it?” I asked, frowning at their impatient tics. “I’ll just say it out loud. Why hasn’t Michael fallen?”
Anghellic: Feathers and Fire Book 8 Page 22
