Always, Ange

by Heather Killough-Walden

  However, the archesses were precious and they were people, and Angel wasn’t a monster. She knew that each one of them moved through life with only half of the soul they could have. Each precious, perfect woman was in fact incomplete. They needed the archangels almost as fiercely as the archangels needed them. Angel could not and would not prevent these matings from occurring.

  In fact, she was trying to help them along. She didn’t know why. Probably, they would make it to one another just fine on their own. It was fated to be, after all. But the magical, dangerous creatures of the world were awakening. They could feel the Culmination beginning as readily as Angel could. It was a humming in their blood, calling them out.

  The archesses shone like candles in the dark, drawing this danger toward them. As much as Angel felt she was needed on the planet now more than ever—now that the monsters were coming to life—the archesses needed her more. They were innocence and goodness embodied in a world where such things were more rare by the second.

  That wasn’t all.

  Angel knew that she was only on Earth because this was where the archesses had been sent. It all boiled down to them in the end. She existed because they did. And if anything happened to them . . . Angel would feel as if she’d lost a part of herself as well.

  True to the promise the Old Man had set forth two thousand years ago, everything was happening at once now. Each of the archesses was of the right age. Some of them were even linked to one another in some fashion. Not all of them had realized their powers yet, but Angel had no doubt that they all would very soon.

  She had but to locate the fourth and last archess and she would be able to keep tabs on all of them until the archangels could find them for themselves. The fourth went by the name Rhiannon and lived in New York City, which was fitting; that was where her fated archangel worked as well. Angel had only just happened upon the woman’s location the night before and in the same way she’d learned the whereabouts of the other three archesses. She’d dreamed it. It was further proof that these women were very much a part of Angel. There was no denying it.

  Angel blew out a sigh and threw the covers back on her bed. It was going to be another tiring night. She would have to transport to Manhattan. There was no point in wasting time trying to book a flight. She needed to get to Rhiannon as soon as possible and make sure she was okay. Since the supernatural creepy crawlies had begun to emerge, it had become evident to Angel that they preferred bigger cities. More people, more chaos. It didn’t get much more populated or chaotic than Manhattan. And Angel had a bad feeling.

  It took her a quick fifteen minutes to shower and dress and another few seconds for her to magically dry her hair. It was easy when you could have any hair you wanted. Instead of going for short or red or curly, you simply went for dry.

  By 7:30 p.m. New York time, Angel was a tall raven-black-haired woman with green eyes standing beneath a sheltering tree in Central Park. As usual, she hid herself under the material of a long-sleeved zip-up hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. It was November and the weather was very mild in New York for this time of year. A gentle breeze that was a little colder than comfortable tore a few strands of her fine hair from the band she’d tied it back in, but she ignored it.

  Just as it had for the other three archesses, her latest dream had given her the exact location of the fourth archess. But there had been a cloudiness to it that hadn’t existed with the other three. Something about it was troubling.

  The wind picked up as Angel stood beneath that tree, and she finally had to shove her hair back out of her face, tucking it back beneath the hood of her sweat shirt. The barometric pressure was dropping; she could feel it all around her. Angel glanced up to see clouds rapidly forming over the light-speckled New York City skyline. The early night sky was darkening at an unnatural pace.

  Across Central Park, pedestrian travelers in the twilight dim hurried their pace. Stragglers still making their way through Central Park forced a briskness into their step. Normally, New Yorkers couldn’t really be bothered by something as mundane as windy weather. But they must have sensed the wrongness in the air, as well, because they rushed to get to their destinations, their heads lowered in concentration.

  It’s Rhiannon, Angel thought. There was no doubt in her mind. The archesses possessed the ability to control weather. It was one of their four primary powers: the ability to affect the weather, telekinesis, the power to control fire where it exists, and the ability to heal. Angel had often wondered whether the women naturally possessed four powers because there were four of them and four archangels. It seemed like a popular number, but it was just speculation—and it didn’t matter anyway.

  Whatever the reason, the archesses often had a hand in sudden gales, and this one was no different. What worried Angel was the fact that the weather almost always reflected what an archess was feeling. And there was a tempest coming. The atmosphere was disturbed.

  “Come on, where are you?” Angel muttered impatiently. Her eyes scoured the remaining people on the darkening park paths. She was looking for long, wavy red hair. It would be the most readily recognizable feature on the fourth archess. A few unsuccessful seconds later, Angel moved from beneath the tree to quickly make her way out of the park and onto Central Park West.

  Lightning split the sky to the northwest, and Angel broke into a run. She realized her mistake even as she sprinted down the street. She’d dreamed of a park in Harlem and had automatically assumed it was Central Park North. But there was Morningside Park, as well.

  The atmosphere became increasingly apocalyptic as she turned onto Cathedral Parkway at 110th and made her way toward Morningside Park. She followed the storm, letting the building darkness and electricity in the air guide her legs. The wind was howling by the time she stopped in front of the back end of the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. The black iron gate around the enormous property was topped with barbed wire and rose tall and foreboding. The massive church beyond looked truly gothic and haunted, especially now, outlined as it was against the building storm. Lightning flashed behind the tallest turrets, followed by quick, crashing thunder that vibrated the cement beneath Angel’s feet.

  Another bolt split the sky, this time too close, and the thunder actually caused Angel to duck reflexively. The monstrous sound was accompanied by a cry of pain from within the cathedral’s walls.

  Angel was instantly mobile, rushing forward to climb the iron gates and use telekinesis to bend the barbed wire out of her way at the same time. Not for the first time in her incredibly long existence, she wished she possessed the ability to fly, the way her name would suggest. But this ability was beyond her reach, and despite her efforts, the metal scraped her skin through her clothing as she propelled herself up and over and then landed on firm footing on the other side.

  The ground beneath her feet was soft, absorbing the impact. Angel glanced down and did a double take. Black? She thought.

  Black dandelions spread across the yard of the church, gathering in clumps here and there. Angel had never before seen a black dandelion. Was such a thing possible?

  A second bolt of close lightning seemed to tear the universe in half for a split second, the sound like the death knell of a god. Angel jumped and ducked her head, the dandelions at once forgotten. She tried to ignore the pain in her eardrums as she raced toward and around the stone building to an arched wooden door that led through one of the seven chapels lining the back of the church and into the ambulatory beyond.

  The door was locked, but Angel made short work of it, again using telekinesis to jimmy the bolt. It pulled back, and Angel threw open the door.

  She moved through the chapel and stepped into the church with an ambivalent mixture of relief and trepidation. The dirt and debris the wind had picked up outside had begun to sting, and she was happy to be out of it. But the atmosphere inside the church was ominously quiet—and preternaturally cold.

  “I was wondering how long it would take before you showed up . . . Ange
l.”

  Angel stopped dead and began to turn in place, her gaze straining to search deep into the darkened corners of the enormous building. The smell of Frankincense lingered in the chilled air. Dim light shone through the bluish circle of stained glass on her end of the church, but it did nothing to cut through the shadows.

  “Who’s there?” she asked, her words forming condensation in the frigid air. The voice that had spoken was deep, but reedy, as if pushed through a throat that was not completely solid.

  Incorporeal, Angel thought as she readied for a fight.

  The voice tsked her, and she could imagine some kind of ghost monster shaking its head. “I’m disappointed, Angel. With everything I’ve heard about you, I have to admit that I expected more.”

  “Where is the archess?” Angel asked next. She took a step further into the ambulatory and toward the choir’s section. Her body was beginning to feel stiff underneath the onslaught of the sudden cold. If she’d had to guess, she would imagine the temperature within the church as well below freezing.

  The sound of cracking ice answered her query, and Angel zeroed in on it. She spun in place, her gaze rising along one of the walls to where a young beautiful woman with long, wavy red hair hung upside down from a group of thick black wires that had most likely been set up for electric lighting. Her ankles were encased in what looked like metal manacles. The archess was trussed up and gagged, and both the chain that held her and the wires she was connected to were coated in rime.

  Angel could only imagine that she must have been utterly drained of magical ability or she would have used telekinesis to free herself by now. The storm she’d inadvertently caused in her distress outside most likely sapped what remained of her strength. Not to mention the cold.

  “Rhiannon,” Angel muttered.

  “She’s fine,” came the insipid reply. It was closer this time—only a few yards in front of Angel. She blinked into the darkness and raised her hand, preparing to conjure up a fire ball.

  “Well I guess everything is relative,” Angel quipped, thinking of how the blood must be rushing to the archess’s head. At least she was alive.

  A chuckle from the darkness sent an icy chill up Angel’s spine. “She’s a little worse for wear, I’ll admit,” the voice continued. “These archesses are a tough breed. I had to throw far too much at her to make her settle down. But she’ll be good now, I think. And she’s served her purpose anyway.”

  He wanted to get me here, Angel thought. He used the archess to draw me here because he knew I would follow her. It was impossible that anyone should know this—that anyone in the world could know so much about Angel. And yet, here she was. Obviously not impossible after all.

  “Show yourself,” Angel demanded softly.

  “If you insist.”

  Angel put two and two together and figured out what he was even before he’d fully materialized. The incorporeal nature of his other form, the incredible power he’d displayed so far, the arctic temperature of the air. . . . Only one paranormal creation had ever possessed all of these attributes.

  Phantoms.

  Chapter Nine

  The phantom smiled at her through teeth that were black, in sharp contrast to the milky-white of its body. It stood seven feet tall and as it bowed low in mock respect, its skin slithered and swirled as if it were coated with a thin layer of fog. Angel had never seen a phantom before. She’d heard of them, of course. They were supposed to look like photo inverts of mortals, though they stood taller than normal humans, as well.

  The phantom before her now possessed shoulder-length blue-white hair so fine it looked like a baby bird’s feathers, and eyes that were no more than pools of bottomless black. Despite the nearly intangible nature of his flesh, the phantom looked incredibly strong. His chest was bare and broad, and around his tight abdomen were strings of arcane symbols written like tattoos of neon blue-white ink.

  Angel at once wondered how she was going to defeat him. She had never personally met a phantom, but she knew they could disappear at will, transport through a space of any size in the blink of an eye, and when they touched you, it sapped your strength, chilling you from the inside out. A colder death did not exist.

  Stall him. “Why am I here?” Angel asked.

  “Because he wants you here.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “The one who knows who you are. The one who knows everything—from beginning to end.”

  Angel had no idea what the phantom was talking about. “I’m afraid you’re gonna to have to be more specific,” she said, barely managing to get the entire sentence out with enough clarity. Her jaw was stiff in the freezing air, and her lips were numb. “Lots of people think they know everything.”

  “Ah,” the phantom said, disappearing from where he’d been standing only to reappear several yards to the right a split-second later. “But they’re wrong,” he said. “And he’s not.”

  “What do you want with me?” she asked next. As they spoke, she racked her brain for some kind of attack plan, but the cold was making it hard to think, and she was coming up empty-handed.

  “You must perish,” the phantom told her. There was no inflection to his words this time. It was a simply stated fact. “So that he can live.”

  Angel tried to swallow past the tightness in her throat, but it was too dry. Her joints were beginning to ache. The floor and chairs of the church were frosting over. Angel had never been overly fond of the cold. She loved the sun, warmth, light. This wasn’t how she wanted to die—at night, frozen.

  “If you’re going to kill me, the least you could do is be a little less cryptic,” she shot. The pain was making her irritated and lending a little acid to her tongue.

  The phantom’s response was to once more disappear. This time, several seconds went by in silence. Angel stood very still, her senses reaching out for the slightest vibration in the air.

  “You are what Samael seeks,” the phantom said, its voice echoing off of the walls of the church in a wholly unsettling manner. “And so you shall be what he loses.”

  Angel froze in a way that had nothing to do with the cold temperature then. Whoever had sent the phantom knew about Samael. He knew about Samuel Lambent. He knew that if Angel were destroyed, Samael would be . . . weakened. The end result would be so devastating, Angel didn’t want to consider it.

  Whoever had sent the phantom was afraid of Sam. And he really did know everything after all.

  Angel felt the phantom materialize a split second before he became fully corporeal behind her. She spun and lashed out with everything she had, knowing that this was it. It was now or never; only one of them was going to leave the church alive.

  A massive bolt of sheer force shot from her outstretched hand, connecting with the phantom’s chest and sending him flying backward through the center aisle of the cathedral. A trail of fog or mist followed his progress until, halfway down the aisle, he once again vanished.

  Angel gritted her teeth in frustration, and, deciding not to leave anything to chance, she let loose with another force blast. The wave of invisible power rippled from her hand, moving outward across the rows of chairs to shove several of them out of their places. A few toppled back end over end and one or two cracked beneath the strength of blast. But there was no sign of the phantom, and there was no warning before Angel felt his incorporeal form move through her, his hand swiping the interior of her body like an icy claw.

  She was weakened at once. Her legs gave out beneath her as her breath crystalized in her lungs and her blood froze in her veins. The pain was unbearable and she began to black out, spots of dark and light floating in her vision before her eyes shut of their own accord.

  She fell forward onto hands that barely managed to catch her. Even as her mind slipped into the chaos of fear brought on by the pain, her body picked up the slack and knew what to do. Immediately, it began to heal itself, defrosting her insides like a massive heater. This was probably what the archess had done as well. How
ever, Angel possessed powers the archess lacked. The phantom was not the only one who could transport, and as far as Angel was concerned, it was far better to run away and live to fight another day than to die at the feet of an assassin.

  Get Rhiannon out first, she told herself. With great effort, she dropped flat to her stomach, rolled over, and looked up at the wires where the archess still hung. The woman was no longer conscious. Most likely, she would need healing; Angel was going to have to save strength for that.

  If she could transport to the wires, brace herself on them, and use telekinesis to unlock the manacles, she could grab Rhiannon and transport away. Even as she went over the harried plan in her head, she wondered whether she had enough power—not to mention dexterity—to pull it off.

  I can do it, she thought fiercely. She closed her eyes and concentrated, but focus was ripped from her with cruel precision as the phantom once more attacked, this time wrapping its immaterial fists around Angel’s throat. He lifted her from the stone floor and dangled her above it like a rag doll. Unconsciousness again threatened, a blackness that was an end to the suffering, but Angel’s will was strong. As ice crept through the skin, muscle, and bone of her throat and jaw, she ruthlessly forced her body into transport mode.

  The world began to waver, tilting slightly as it always did when she moved through space and time in the blink of an eye. And then it settled down again, and she’d gone nowhere.

  The phantom had realized what she was trying to do and ruined her attempt. Because he could transport as well, he’d been capable of tapping into that magic and canceling it out, anchoring her in place. Her opponent was quickly and almost effortlessly proving why his kind had been considered the assassins of the unnatural world for millennia.