Pride and Samael exchanged meaningful looks, but didn’t speak. Michael finally lifted his head to stare at me, and his face was pale. “It means,” he whispered, staring at the dead nephilim, “that I was in the right. That their order to kill you was either a lie, or that Gabriel had no authority to make such a command.”
Pride sighed. “You guys ever seen an archangel have an existential crisis? Because you’re about to see an archangel have an existential crisis,” he said. “Been there, done that. I’m going to go see if there is a Starbucks around here. Their Frappuccinos are like mouth sex without the sin, and I think Michael is going to need one.” Then he was walking back to the mansion, muttering under his breath while angrily punching his fist into his palm. His black wings evaporated after only a few steps.
I blinked, trying to process his comment. I turned to Samael, arching an eyebrow in hopes he would explain. “I’ll go keep an eye on him,” he said. “You deal with…” he gestured vaguely at Michael, “that.”
“Gee. Thanks,” I muttered, as he jogged after Pride. “We probably need to get out of here. The place is burned!” I said, cupping my hands around my mouth to make sure they both heard me. Samael flashed me a thumbs up without turning around, and then he was striding up the stairs and into the house, where I heard the sounds of crashing glass—as if Pride was breaking every fragile thing he could get his hands on.
I turned to Michael, realizing I could only deal with one meltdown at a time. He was staring at the blood on his sword, and occasionally forcing himself to look at the bodies. I did the same, shuddering at a new thought. My father had been one of them. An elite version, judging by how everyone spoke of him, but he would have died just the same as these rookies. “Thank you, Michael.”
He nodded numbly.
I glanced at the blood on his pristine white feathers. “Are your wings okay?
He nodded. “I’m fine. But what does this mean? I would know if Gabriel had fallen.”
I didn’t even want to think about that chilling thought. “How about we come up with a cover story? I know! I blackmailed you into helping me. You only saved my life to protect the Spear of Destiny.”
He slowly turned to look up at me. “That is a lie.”
I held up a finger. “Only if you know the truth.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Which I do.”
“Fine. A better one, then. If you wouldn’t have saved me, I would have destroyed the Spear.”
“Also a lie,” he said with a frown. “You do understand that the story isn’t the problem, right? It’s the lie.”
I grumbled an affirmative response. The goodie-two-shoes definitely hadn’t fallen.
“Were you really going to marry Wrath?” he asked.
“Of course not!” I snapped, throwing my hands up into the air. He stared at me, waiting. I let out a frustrated breath. “But he did ask me,” I admitted. “And I might have decided to string him along until I came up with a plan to stop him,” I said, cringing at the fuse I’d just lit.
Michael’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “You did what?”
Pride came sprinting out of the house tugging a tee on over his head as he ran. He’d changed out of his pajamas and thrown on some jeans and military boots. Samael was hot on his heels, and both of them looked anxious. Pride tugged his shirt down and pulled his hair back into a ponytail before slipping on a pair of aviators. I stared at his shirt and burst out laughing.
Blasphemy is a victimless crime.
With a picture of Jesus riding a dinosaur.
He skidded to a halt, grinning at my reaction. “Okay. Good news and bad news,” he said.
Michael opened his mouth with an emo look on his face so I cut in. “Good news.”
“Okay. We get to drive a convertible.”
Samael leaned towards me with a disgusted grimace. “It’s a Mazda Miata—”
“It’s a convertible!” Pride snapped, glaring at him. “And now you get to drive.” He tossed the keys to Samael, and I swear to God there was a little disco ball on the keychain.
I bit back my smile and nodded. “And the bad news?”
“No sin-free mouth sex for Michael. There isn’t a Starbucks for twenty miles—”
Samael swatted his arm, discreetly shaking his head as he gauged Michael’s body language.
Pride sighed in resignation. “And we don’t want to be driving around those extra twenty miles because we both have a price on our heads, now,” he said, pointing at Michael and then himself. “Congratulations.”
Michael stood as still as a statue, looking numb. The other two were just as helpful, as if they were waiting for a motivational speech to kick off the family road trip.
I clapped my hands together, pleased that they all flinched. “Let’s go! They already know about this place, so there’s no point standing over the evidence.”
Pride led the way, jogging ahead and motioning for us to follow him around the side of the house towards a detached garage. I glanced back to where Michael had taken down the first two fleeing nephilim. “Think those two ratted on us?” I asked him, thankful that he wasn’t too shell-shocked to move.
He met my eyes for a fraction of a second and shook his head. “I killed them, too. It all happened on reflex,” he murmured. I winced, reaching the garage just as the door began to rise, revealing Samael trying to fit his large frame into the cutest little red sports car that had never heard the words male dignity. Pride was grinning in the passenger seat as I guided Michael towards the smallest backseat ever.
I shoved him in before pausing long enough to think of the obvious. “Wait. Why don’t I just make a Gateway?”
“No!” the three frantically shouted in unison, swiveling their attention to me, revealing horrified looks.
I froze, holding up my hands in an appeasing gesture, and then I climbed into the backseat beside Michael. “Mind telling me why?”
“They might be using a tracker,” Pride said, turning to look at me as Samael turned over the engine. “They can pick up the scent of magic and follow it. We need to go old school until we know we’ve lost them.”
Samael turned the key in the ignition and the toy car revved to life like an ambitious lawnmower. The stereo kicked on, blaring Yeah! by Usher, of all songs. And then we were racing away at sixty-six horsepower. Apparently, Pride was a self-proclaimed karaoke king, because he was soon belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. It wasn’t long before I was singing right along with him, laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire situation—three angels and Dracula cruising down the backroads in a convertible Miata.
Michael began blushing uncomfortably as soon as he started paying attention to the lyrics, which only made me laugh harder.
“Where are we going?” Samael shouted, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“Wherever the music takes us!” Pride crowed, fist-pumping the air. Then he lifted his phone to take a selfie with miserable Michael in the background. “Hashtag road tripping with my bros!” And he actually posted it on Instagram. Because, of course he had an account. He was Pride, after all.
Rather than wading into that cesspool of a conversation, I leaned closer to Samael. “Let’s take them to church!”
He glanced back at me with a grin, and then nodded.
Roland was going to be so pissed.
39
I opened the doors to the church and ushered everyone inside as quickly as possible. We had parked the car a few blocks away, and left the keys in the front seat, before hurriedly fleeing down a back alley. Because Pride had informed us that he’d stolen the car two days ago, and that it hadn’t actually belonged to Circle Seven Holdings.
He told us this only after we saw our first police cruiser.
I closed the doors behind me and let out a breath of relief. No sirens. We were in the clear. The church was dark since Roland had blacked out most of the windows for his vampires. The last time I’d set foot in here, I’d fought Roland almost to t
he death. It was where I’d first officially met Samael. Putting it into context, that hadn’t happened all that long ago.
I turned around to see Pride pointing a finger pistol into the church. “Pew! Pew! Pew!” he said, miming trigger pulls with each sound effect. I groaned upon noticing each shot had been aimed at one of the church pews Roland had kept for aesthetic reasons. He grinned at me from over his shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
A new voice interrupted us from the shadows near the altar. “What do you think you are doing—”
Pride deftly spun, suddenly wielding a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum, and pulled the trigger. A concussive boom made the air shudder, and I felt a pulse of magic from Pride’s target.
I dove forward and snatched the gun out of the archdemon’s hand before forcefully shoving him back. “Are you insane?” I snapped, popping open the cylinder and ejecting the rounds into my palm. “What part of low profile did you not understand?”
Pride cocked his head, looking confused. “He’s a vampire. Just make another one, Dracula.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, seriously considering pistol-whipping him. Instead, I flicked a round at him with my fingers, hitting him right above the eyes with a solid thunk. He slapped a hand over his forehead, cursing at me. “Pew!” I said, mimicking his sound effect from earlier. I shook my head and turned towards the altar, shoving the revolver down the back of my weapons belt and pocketing the four rounds. “Sorry Roland!” I called out.
Pride shot me a glare, and I grinned smugly at the red mark on his forehead. He muttered unhappily as he turned to stare into the darkness with an impressed look on his face. “You’re fast, vampire,” he murmured. Then he suddenly took notice of the silver statue in the corner of the room—the angel I had trapped the moment he fell from grace. “Hey! I know that prick! Selfie time!” he crowed, strolling over to the statue to pay his disrespects.
Michael and Samael had seated themselves on the nearby pew and were speaking in low tones, seemingly unaffected by Pride’s childish curiosity, the gunshot, or the vampire preacher. Roland walked up to me, his crimson eyes flicking between each of my new friends with a mix of anger and trepidation. “A word?”
“That’s The Word to you, heathen swine!” Pride jeered, snapping a selfie with Nameless.
I sighed, turning to my old mentor. “Ignore him. He’s drunk,” I said, gesturing at Pride. “And yes, it’s about as bad as it looks,” I admitted under his scrupulous glare. I was very familiar with the look, because I’d made him practice it for ten years.
He nodded, facing me but keeping his eyes on the others. I hadn’t spoken to Roland recently, but we were on the mend since our momentous fight. The only reason he lived was because Samael had blocked my sword from killing him in this very room. Roland’s ruby red eyes settled on Michael and I saw a flicker of compassion cross his face, replacing the tension. “He is hurt,” he said.
I nodded. “He said his wings—” I coughed into my fist, realizing I’d almost said more than I should. Wings meant angels, and Roland would fangirl over an angel. I rephrased my comment on the fly. “He said he would wing it. Just a minor flesh wound.”
Roland eyed me suspiciously. “I was speaking of his heart—figuratively. He’s in pain. Internal pain.”
I smiled at my old mentor, deeply touched by the genuine concern in his voice. He had been a pastor, first. A Shepherd of the soul before he’d become a Shepherd of the blade. Roland had the heart of a teddy bear, but the claws and fangs of a sleuth of actual bears. “Yeah,” I agreed, following his gaze to assess Michael’s situation. “That’s putting it mildly. He had to make a choice between two terrible outcomes. He’s torn, fearing he made the wrong call while knowing he made the right call.”
Roland smiled empathetically. “Like a Shepherd choosing to become a vampire?” he asked, gently.
I felt a smile creeping onto my face. “You know, it’s almost exactly like that.”
“Maybe I could talk to your friend,” he suggested, “if you think it might help.”
I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. If Roland managed to cheer up Michael without realizing who he was actually talking to…it would be the greatest gift I could possibly give him—to help his hero.
Because Archangel Michael was Roland’s Michael Jordan.
“You might be the only man who could,” I admitted honestly. “We won’t be here long,” I assured him.
“This is your sanctuary, Callie,” he said, squeezing my hand in his. “Take all the time you need.”
Then he was walking past me on silent feet. “How did you dodge that bullet?” I asked. “I felt magic.”
Roland turned and lobbed something at me. I caught it, frowning. “Something I learned from you…the last time we were in this room,” he said. Then he continued on, leaving me to feel guilty all by myself as I stared at the bullet slug in my palm. When we’d fought here, I had used orbs of power to catch lightning bolts he had thrown at me, freezing them in mid-air.
He’d used one to catch Pride’s bullet. I shoved it into my pocket as a keepsake.
With nothing else to do, I made my way over to Pride, who was speaking to Samael in hushed tones near the Nameless statue. My ears grew hot as I picked up the tail end of their conversation.
“Did you just say assassination contracts?” I hissed, interrupting them. Michael and Roland were already deep in conversation, and Michael was smiling faintly. His shoulders looked less rigid, which was a good start. “I thought you were being hyperbolic when you said you two had a price on your heads.”
Pride turned to me. “What did you just call me?” he asked in a low growl. “Hyper-what?”
I took a calming breath. “I didn’t know you meant a real assassination contract, earlier. Talk.”
He held out his hand. “Give me my gun back and I’ll talk.”
“Talk or I’ll make this statue a new friend.”
He grinned brightly. “I like you, Callie.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the statue without remorse over his brother’s plight. “I tuned into archangel radio and it was all anyone was talking about. Apparently, Wrath put a hit out on me for conspiring with Michael to help kidnap his betrothed, Callie Penrose.” I bit back my instinctive snarl, and Pride nodded knowingly. “Dick move, right? Get this—Gabriel put a hit out on Michael for murdering nephilim and then attacking me and Samael, risking a war. But both are claiming it’s to prevent an all-out war before the other side does something foolish. I think we all know both are just covering their asses, because whatever Michael was doing at my house, he was definitely set up.”
“Agreed,” Samael said. “If his orders were genuine, Michael should have had a flight of angels as back-up. In which case, Gabriel wouldn’t have been able to send a second crew of nephilim to kill Callie without it looking suspicious.”
I grunted. “Are you two really suggesting that Gabriel is…what, fallen? Or just incompetent?”
Samael shrugged. “He gave conflicting orders within a ten-minute window. If he had wanted you dead, he wouldn’t have sent Michael to you, first. He needed a scapegoat. We all know incompetence is a joke.”
Pride stared into the middle distance, thinking. “But everyone would have known if Gabriel had fallen. And yet it’s the only logical explanation. Except he hasn’t fallen. And Michael hasn’t fallen. It quite literally makes no sense.” He shot me a look. “And I’m not being hyper-whatever.”
I rolled my eyes. “Could someone have pretended to be Gabriel?”
Samael shook his head. “No. Michael would have easily seen through it. Even the nephilim would have.”
“And we’re sure they were nephilim, right?” I asked.
The two looked at each other and shrugged. “Michael was convinced,” Pride said. “He spoke with them as if he knew them. He didn’t demand to speak with their commanding officer or anything, like he probably would have done if he didn’t know them.” He grunted. “Whic
h means Gabriel sent those guys to their deaths. Add that to the list of his crimes,” he muttered. “And I didn’t sense any illusion or concealment magic. They smelled like Heaven to me.”
I sighed. “Well, Michael couldn’t have been in on it, because he’s now the target of this assassination contract. Also, I don’t think he has a deceitful bone in his body.”
Pride grinned. “Every man has at least one deceitful bone in his body, and I can show you where—”
“Message received,” I interrupted, holding up a hand to cut him off. I risked a discreet glance at Michael to see that he was now facing Roland openly, and talking back just as much as he was listening. He was also smiling openly.
“That’s one hell of a vampire,” Pride mused, impressed. “How is he able to stand in a church?”
Samael butted in, telling Pride all about Roland. I was surprised at how much he seemed to know, and at the level of praise he gave my old mentor.
Once Samael was finished with his baseball stats version of Roland’s biography, Pride stared at the two in disbelief. “From vampire hunter to master vampire, and now he’s counseling an archangel.”
“Let’s not interrupt them,” I urged. “Whatever he’s saying has worked better than anything we’ve tried.”
Pride nodded distractedly, not seeming to realize that he was smiling at his brother—as if seeing him in a new light. As if brotherly love had been rekindled—
“He has no idea, does he?” Pride asked, his smile stretching into something mischievous. “That he’s talking to an archangel. He doesn’t know.”
I stepped in front of him just as he made a move to ruin Roland’s ministering. I shoved Pride back into the statue—hard. “If you fuck this up, I will shove the Spear of Destiny so far—”
He grinned toothily. “Give me back my gun and I’ll drop it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why? An archdemon doesn’t need a gun.”
He held out his hand. “Because it’s not right to steal, and it makes me feel cool.” I waited for the real answer. He sighed. “If I kill a nephilim with a gun, there is a lower chance of them pinning the murder on me—precisely because an archdemon wouldn’t use a gun. If I use my wings or claws or anything even remotely demonic, it’s easy to point the finger at me. And just like that, their assassination contract gains credibility. Why do you think the nephilim used guns rather than their blessed blades or whatever holy weapons the kids use these days?”
Anghellic: Feathers and Fire Book 8 Page 23
