“Blood and salt,” Lincoln said. “A life pentagram.”
Sammael smiled, hearing us despite the wicked wind blowing at this height and the rain that now sheeted down. Two exiles stood at each point of the pentagram, though I suspected their purpose was more to do with security than any ritual. More curiously, four women stood behind him. And they were not exiles. They looked like gypsies but I could sense that they were Nephilim, possibly his own progeny.
“Salt represents this earth, you see,” Sammael pronounced, adjusting his belt and exposing the long sword sheathed at his side. “All rituals require unions—blood, life, earth, and sacrifice. With my power and your blood—the life force of angels—I can cross the realms and he will meet me.” He stood tall, despite his short stature. Proud.
“Why the tournaments? Why bother with the elaborate setting? Was it just to get your kicks?” I asked.
Sammael’s expression changed to one of amusement. “It is the dawn of all tomorrows, and I will be God to all who survive. Let’s just say I’m trimming the fat.”
And finally, I understood. He wanted them all gone. That was why he had lured such a vast number of the strongest and most competitive exiles to the same place at the same time. It ensured his end result and reduced the competition. Through our bond, I could feel Lincoln’s disgust.
Sammael’s enjoyment only seemed to increase as he gauged our reaction. “I must admit, I expected you to bring more bodyguards with you. However, since you have made it so easy for me, perhaps I should just allow my exiles to take out your partner now and we can bleed you after.”
My eyes flicked to the exiles now edging in our direction. I grabbed Lincoln’s hand and he didn’t hesitate to open his power to me, giving me whatever I wanted to take.
My amethyst mist, now speckled with Lincoln’s colors, surrounded us, and with a determined will, I sent it out to do my bidding.
One by one, as my eyes remained glued to Sammael’s, I brought the ten exiles under my control and held them still. To drive my point home, I stripped the power from one, then two, then four of the closest exiles, releasing them as they dropped to their knees screaming. Now only human.
“I wouldn’t say I’ve made it so easy,” I said, trying to hide the fact that even I was surprised it had gone so smoothly. I still had the other six well under my control, and I was tempted to just get it over with and return them for judgment, but until I had Spence, I needed bargaining chips.
“I’ve seen that trick before,” Sammael said, feigning boredom, though I noticed a telltale twitch at his jaw that suggested otherwise. “Release them,” he said.
I did as he commanded, watching as the stunned exiles turned fierce eyes first on me and then on the four—now humans—who had been reduced to nothing more than rodents in their eyes. Before I could blink, they grabbed the four men and threw them straight off the building. My stomach turned over while I did my best to keep my expression neutral.
Sammael smiled knowingly. “Consequences, Violet. Aren’t you tired of them?”
“I know indeed what evil I intend to do, but stronger than all my afterthoughts is my fury, fury that brings upon mortals the greatest evils.”
Euripides
“You said you would release Spence’s mind!” I yelled into the wind, keeping my feet wide apart for balance. “I’m here! Release him!”
Sammael produced an oversized silver chalice with intricate designs etched into it. It hummed with an energy I instantly recognized. Lincoln squeezed my hand, letting me know he had made the connection too.
He has a tabernacle.
The first tabernacle I had come across had been in Jordan, and in an offering of exile and Grigori blood, it had produced the ancient scriptures once hidden away by angels.
I now understood from where Sammael was drawing the extra power that would help him cross the realms—a relic from the time when angels walked on the earth, imbued with their power.
Sammael looked at his watch. “We only have minutes left. Fill it.”
The women standing behind Sammael stepped back, as if moving into position. I noticed then that their eyes had changed since I first looked. The whites and irises had been replaced with pure black. They were Nephilim, but they were also something else.
“It’s too big. She’ll bleed out!” Lincoln yelled.
“Release Spence first!” I yelled at the same time.
“Violet,” Lincoln cautioned, but we both knew I had to do this.
Sammael’s eye twitched. He really didn’t like to negotiate. A gust of wind whipped across the rooftop but his shirt barely ruffled while Lincoln and I struggled to keep our feet planted. It became clear that Sammael had some kind of protection within the pentagram.
“Know that if you do not give me your blood, my witches will find him and take it back. I will make sure he exists locked in a reality of pain and nothingness for hundreds of years.”
I shivered at his warning.
So that’s what these women are—exile-made witches. The real Voodoo.
“I believe you. Now release him.”
Lincoln’s phone rang. I saw Chloe’s name on the screen and watched as he answered and listened.
“He’s alert. He’s demanding she give him a dagger.”
My heart skipped and I let out a shuddering breath as I nodded.
He’s okay.
“Your blood!” Sammael roared.
I let go of Lincoln’s hand and pulled out my dagger, walking into the pentagram, careful to avoid the lines of blood and salt. Lincoln had been right: the chalice was large. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to stand after I had filled it with my blood. But I’d made my deal with the devil and I sliced my wrist open, carefully wiping the blade against my sleeve until it was clean as my blood, swirling with silver currents, gushed into the silver tabernacle.
I could feel Lincoln’s anxiety at my back as I bit the inside of my cheek to distract me from the pain. Sammael’s eyes lit up with greed as he watched my blood drain into the chalice.
When the chalice was finally full, Sammael held out his hand.
“Dagger,” he ordered.
Oh shit.
“Now!” he yelled when I hesitated.
My mind raced with options. Fight him? Refuse him?
But he could take Spence’s mind again as easily as he had returned it.
Give it to him?
What could he use it for, anyway? A Grigori blade could kill exiles but not angels. And I’ve already made sure to wipe my blood off the blade.
I clenched my jaw and held out my dagger. He snatched it and pushed me back and out of the pentagram. Lincoln caught me when I stumbled weakly, and I felt his healing soothe me instantly as he closed the wound on my wrist and helped replenish some of my strength.
Using my Grigori blade, Sammael opened a small wound on his palm, hissing in pain as he did so, and allowed a few drops of his blood to mingle with mine. Then he passed the chalice to his witches and threw my dagger off the edge of the building.
In a trance-like fashion, the witches separated most of the blood into two small bowls and returned the main chalice to Sammael before resuming their places.
The full moon was at its peak, and in the distance, the bells of St. Louis Cathedral began to chime over the rain and the battle cries below. Lincoln continued to pummel his healing and strength into my depleted body as two of the women stood opposite one another, each holding a bowl containing my blood stained with Sammael’s. Gracefully, in perfect sync, they threw the blood high into the air. Unaffected by the winds, the two streams arched and joined high above our heads, and then remained suspended as my blood, red and silver, turned to glistening shades of black. I bit back my gasp.
A black rainbow.
The air around us began to still, gravity started to distort, and a slight vibratio
n surrounded Sammael.
“What is that?” Lincoln asked from beside me, his hold on my arms tightening as he stared at the black arch.
I stared ahead, inevitability and fear mingling to create a bitter taste in my mouth. “He’s done it. The realms are crossing.”
Sammael heard me, his eyes alight as he pulled a long sword from the sheath at his waist and poured my remaining blood over the blade.
When he stepped toward the suspended arch of blood that would be his gateway, the hunger and victory in his eyes was maniacal. “His last thought will be of you—the knowledge that the very thing he created was the thing that delivered his end.” His voice lingered over the final word.
Sammael stepped through the gateway, disappearing from this world. The arch of blood instantly dropped to the rooftop floor, and his human witches collapsed a moment later.
However he plans to return, it will not be through this gate.
Lincoln checked the witches.
“Are they…” I started.
He shook his head. “Unconscious. Maybe in some form of coma.” He stood back up. “Vi, what was Sammael talking about when he said ‘the very thing he created’?”
I looked around us. Chaos had closed in. Below, I could see the war between light and dark exiles. There were too many. Thousands. Their battle had migrated to the river, using the open land along the embankment for maximum fighting space. I could hear their screams carrying in the wild wind and knew that many of our Grigori brethren were paying the ultimate price.
We’re losing.
This is the beginning of the end.
Small explosions sounded nearby and the rain shot down like sheets of glass. I studied the place where Sammael had disappeared as I answered. “I’ve always known,” I said, realizing now that it was true. “I just wasn’t ready to believe it.”
“What?”
I held out my hand for Lincoln. He took it without question, and I looked deep into his green eyes, hoping I might have the chance after all of this to tell him all the things that my heart wanted to scream from a very different rooftop. “I know who my angel maker is,” I said. Lincoln watched me, holding his balance strong against the weather, his eyes flickering as he tried to make sense of my words…and then widening when he did.
“Oh,” he said.
I mirrored the thought and pulled my katana from the sheath at my back, checking my arrows and that my secondary dagger strapped to my thigh was in place. “Are you ready?”
“Always,” he said simply.
With my love at my side, with my angel maker waiting for me, and with death already at the party, I crossed the realms.
• • •
I escorted Lincoln through the crossover, knowing I was risking it all, considering that everything I wanted was held clasped in my sweaty hand. But this was my life. His too. And we would take this chance together.
Even so, I tightened my hold.
The moment we made the transition, the wind vanished, the rain stopped, and we were in another place, an uncharted space.
“The desert?” Lincoln asked, looking around first in wonder, then in panic. “Vi, there’s nothing…anywhere.”
I shook my head. “The space can be anything. For some reason, I almost always conjure a desert, but now that we’re here, I can…” I smiled. “Watch.”
I closed my eyes, willing this image away and for the truth of this space to reveal itself to me. I opened my eyes when I heard Lincoln gasp.
“Oh my God,” he said.
The desert was gone.
Darkness enveloped us.
Lost souls glittered in the space beyond, and hundreds of rainbows lit the nothingness before us—bridges to a cosmos of possibilities.
My angel maker stood at a distance, another at his side. My maker’s expression remained calm, his sword gripped loosely in his right hand. The angel beside him was startlingly identical to my maker, though I instinctively knew that he was his opposite in every way.
Like Uri and Nox. The ultimate balance of light and dark.
And behind them…an angelic army wearing silver armor over white linen and holding imposing swords were mounted on a field of proud white horses. The vision so otherworldly, so…heavenly, it almost brought me to my knees.
Sammael’s back was to us as he stood facing them on foot, his sword at the ready. His glasses and shoes were gone, and he was now in gray linen pants with an untucked white shirt.
I wasn’t sure if he knew we had crossed over. But my angel maker’s eyes looked beyond him—even as Sammael shouted his challenge—and deep into mine, searching, knowing.
Did he always know it would come to this?
I think he must have.
Tentatively, I released Lincoln’s hand, hesitating before letting him go completely and flinching with relief when he remained beside me when we finally broke the last contact.
“A challenge is my right in this place!” Sammael yelled. “Would you set your army on me or prove your worth? You who are so mighty, favored above all others, and so worthy of all praise!”
It wasn’t difficult to play the conversation forward. Angels were prideful creatures even though they claimed to be emotionless. Not one would hide from a forthright challenge, nor would they relinquish the chance to defeat a mighty foe such as Sammael.
Sensing what I was about to do, Lincoln leaned close to my ear. “Our connection is altered in this place. I don’t think I can heal you here,” he whispered desperately. “You’re still weak from the blood loss. Let me do this.”
I turned to him and cupped his face in my hand. “You will. You’ll be with me every step of the way, but we both know it has to be me.”
Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly and gave a short nod. “Be smart. Be ruthless. And keep our connection open. If I can help, let me,” he said.
I nodded and my heart swelled. This, more than anything, was Lincoln’s great sacrifice. His willingness to let me take the ultimate risk, knowing there was a great chance I would not survive, was an act of love beyond anything I had believed possible. Using my control and will of this space in time, I altered my katana as I approached, lengthening the blade to match that of Sammael’s.
“You challenge my maker, and so you challenge me!” I called out, causing Sammael to spin in my direction. “If you wish to fight him, you must first defeat me.” I pulled my extra weapons—my arrows and thigh dagger—from their sheaths and threw them to the side, keeping just my sword that matched his.
The statuesque angels did not react to my intrusion. Sammael, however, while clearly unsurprised to see me, was caught off guard by my proclamation.
“You cannot fight me,” he said, laughing loudly. “I have my greater power here. I am unstoppable.”
I flexed my grip on the hilt of my sword and used my will to change our surroundings into a full oval arena with a hard dirt ground, Roman style.
I shrugged. “I have great power here too.” I gave him a taunting smile, knowing that this would be the best way to lure him into engaging with me.
“Are you going to let the human fight for you?” he questioned my maker. “Are you so pathetic?”
My angel maker tilted his head, unperturbed. “She is a representation of me. I see no reason why not. If you cannot defeat her, you certainly should have no right to challenge me.” But when his eyes swung briefly to mine, I glimpsed the sadness and I understood then that, though my angel maker was entirely angel—emotionless and aloof to matters of the heart—in his own way, he cared for me.
Sammael responded by turning his sword and leaping in my direction. Laws of gravity and force did not work the same way in this place, and as much as I was able to bend this piece of the universe to my will, it was quickly apparent that Sammael could control elements of it
as well.
I spun, keeping myself grounded, remaining tactical as all of my training—first with Lincoln then Griffin, Nyla, Rainer, and Gray—came to my aid. Our swords clashed with such ferocity that sparks flew each time they collided.
As Sammael reared his sword back to strike at my side, I raised mine to meet it and, risking a one-handed hold, took the opportunity to strike out with my free hand, hitting him hard across the face.
He blinked from shock and stumbled back. I didn’t delay, moving forward and kicking out in an attempt to disarm him. He dodged my efforts and managed to slice his sword at my arm, causing a deep gash just below my shoulder.
I winced, staggering to the side. I could feel Lincoln’s power surging through me, giving me strength even though our healing connection was not working.
Our swords rose again. Sammael’s technique was flawless as little by little I lost momentum and he gained the upper hand. When his blade sliced into my thigh, I cried out, falling to one knee before I could steady myself. He didn’t hesitate to pounce, kicking me so hard across my face, I first flung back then forward onto all fours as blood flowed from my mouth and I spat teeth onto the ground.
I could feel Lincoln pacing the arena and the army of angels watching impassively while Sammael steadily beat me to death. I tried to get back onto my feet, but he kicked the side of my head with his booted foot.
And he laughed the laugh of madness.
Determined, I staggered back to my feet, somehow still gripping my sword. I parried a few strikes and with all my remaining strength, I swung out, my blade skimming his chest but little else. Sammael, enraged by the small incision I’d made, stormed forward in response. His sword collided with mine; the weight was like a mountain, and when he drew back for another strike, I knew my reaction was too slow.
The blade burned its way through my stomach and my scream was bloodcurdling.
I fell.
He had bettered me. Life was pouring out of me, my mind drifting toward an inevitable end. And I was tortured to realize there was so much I had yet to do, so many things that had been put on hold. Strangely, in that moment, as I struggled to find air to fill my failing lungs, I wished for a canvas, for one more chance to paint and see the world in color.
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