Torn by Fury

by S. M. Reine

  “Metaraon’s daughter is in New Eden,” James said.

  “My daughter is in New Eden,” Ariane said.

  No wonder they hadn’t wanted James to know about her. Marion would be like Nathaniel and James: part-human, part-angel, a rare ethereal Gray with a witch’s heritage. If she couldn’t cast mage magic yet, she would most likely be able to learn.

  They thought he would use her.

  Worse, Elise thought that he would use her, since she hadn’t told him.

  He tried to swallow down the bitterness, but it would have been difficult even if he hadn’t been under the effects of Ariane’s potions. “Elise is looking for her, too. She’s going to war to bring Marion back.”

  A smile spread over Ariane’s lips. “Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?” She sighed. “Oh, Elise.”

  “It doesn’t seem quite so inevitable to me,” James said. Speaking was becoming easier, even as the rest of his body’s rigidity became more frustrating. “This war is doomed to fail. I find it hard to believe that Elise would sacrifice the lives of her friends and legions for you.”

  “Not for me,” Ariane said softly. “For Marion.”

  This time, it wasn’t a potion she pulled out of her purse, but a tiny leather-bound photo album. She opened it to the first picture and tilted it so that it caught what little light came from outside.

  The picture was Elise holding a sleeping baby. She looked miserable and stiff. Typical Elise.

  To have held Marion so soon after she was born, Elise must have sought Ariane out immediately after escaping Araboth—after she had left James behind. That wasn’t the behavior of a woman who loathed her mother.

  “Elise has helped me protect my daughter.” Ariane flipped to the next picture. Elise held an older baby on her hip, looking slightly less stiff, but no less miserable. “She visits often—any time she has a free weekend, but always the entirety of the month of December. We have been a family these last four years.” And James hadn’t had a clue.

  In the third and final picture, Elise was holding a toddler, perhaps two or three years old, with a head of wild brown curls and luminous blue eyes. Eyes just like Metaraon’s. Eyes just like James’s.

  It wasn’t nearly as shocking as the fact that Elise was actually smiling down at the girl in her arms.

  Ariane snapped the small album shut. “If you believe that Elise wouldn’t go to war for her sister, then you don’t know her at all.”

  Apparently, he didn’t. The idea that this blood-drinking sadomasochistic demon that resembled his kopis could do such a thing—take care of her mother and sister for so long, for no reward, in total secrecy—just didn’t fit.

  “Let me go,” James said. “Elise will get into New Eden. You don’t need me.”

  She stood, pulling her purse over her shoulder again. “I didn’t realize Elise was going to war. She cut our last December together short, and she…” Darkness flashed through Ariane’s eyes. “It would explain why she wasn’t there to protect Marion from abduction.”

  “You can’t blame her for that.”

  “I don’t,” Ariane said. “I blame the angels. I blame Metaraon.” She strode to the door, tossing a look at James over her shoulder. “If we don’t need you to reach New Eden—and if you know about Marion—then I’m afraid that Anthony is right.”

  She slipped out of the room silently, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air over James.

  You deserve to die.

  Twelve

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, New Eden’s healing tower had looked like it was made of opaque glass. From within, it was transparent, collecting the light of dawn and scattering it throughout the corkscrew staircase. It was so bright that Abram’s eyes ached.

  “Angels,” he grumbled. Even that quiet word echoed strangely throughout the tower, multiplying into a chorus of hushed whispers.

  Summer put a finger to her lips and shook her head. She pointed down.

  Abram followed the direction of her finger with his gaze. There was movement underneath them, distorted by the see-through stairs. People were moving several stories below. With that much echo in the tower, it wouldn’t take much noise to be detected.

  He took care to lift his feet as he walked, trying to muffle the squeaks of his rubber soles against the floor. Summer had been smart to abandon her shoes.

  His sister padded slowly down the stairs, nose lifted to the air. He wondered if she could really smell anything distinct. She sure looked like she knew where she was going. Abram’s senses were still going haywire—being in an ethereal city was as good as being deaf. His kopis senses were useless.

  Voices echoed up the tower.

  “Tamriel is back. She says that it’s been closed.” It was a male voice with an English accent, clipped and professional.

  “Finally,” responded a woman.

  Was Abram imagining things, or were those voices coming closer?

  Summer grabbed his arm and pulled him into an archway. It was hard to hide when all the walls were semi-transparent—he had to settle for hunkering down near the corner, where the thickness of the glass would obscure their figures the most.

  The rustling of feathers sighed around them as the pair of angels scaled the stairs. They stopped on the floor below.

  “She also wanted to know if you’ve decided how to handle our other problem. Have you given more consideration to my proposal?” asked the male angel.

  Summer leaned in close to Abram, whispering under her breath. “Nash isn’t far. I can smell him. We should sneak around these guys.”

  Abram fell silent, gesturing for Summer to do the same. He wanted to hear what the angels had to say.

  “I’ve thought of little else,” the woman said. “It’s a terrible suggestion. It’s haunting me.”

  “You have to waive your policy if you hope to neutralize her as a threat.”

  “No, Makael. We’ve already discussed this.” That voice sounded familiar.

  The male angel continued. “She could kill us all if you allow her to survive. It only takes one to breed thousands. You remember what happened when Hermokrates attacked Eleutherna—you remember how many lives we lost before we were forced to draw back.”

  “It will be just as easy to kill her after she gives birth.”

  “How many werewolves could the Alpha produce in the months between then and now?” Makael pushed.

  The Alpha? Abram sat back against the wall, rubbing a hand over his cheek. He hadn’t shaved. His chin was rough with stubble, and the slight bite of coarse hair against his palm helped clear his mind.

  “You have my answer. Kill her mate, but leave her untouched. She’s less of a threat if she won’t shapeshift. Once we’ve severed New Eden, she won’t be able to reach us anyway.”

  “She’s allied with the Godslayer, whose aspis is capable of magecraft. Magecraft and dimensional manipulation. Do you truly believe she won’t find a way to reach us? Even a single werewolf running free within our walls could shatter everything we’ve struggled to build.” Bodies shifted on the other side of the wall. Abram wanted to see what they were doing, but didn’t dare move. “Allow me to deploy assassins before we close the last door.”

  The long silence that followed left Abram’s heart beating a little too fast.

  “Are they talking about killing Mom?” Summer whispered.

  Rylie wasn’t pregnant. Was she? Abram shook his head. “They can’t be.” He could easily believe that their mother might withhold that information from him, but not from Summer.

  “Eve would never forgive me,” said the female angel. She sounded so painfully sad that it hit Abram deep in his heart, making his throat burn. “Of all the necessary sins, this is the one I can’t commit.”

  “Eve is long gone, beloved one.”

  “She lives on within us all.”

  “She won’t live on within us if we’re slaughtered by a plague of wolves. Deploy the assassins. Please. For Eve. For all of us.”

  If the female
angel answered, then Abram didn’t hear it. The angels had started walking again, and their movements muffled their words. At the same time, Summer pulled him deeper into the hall toward the center of the tower, away from the angels. He almost didn’t allow her to move him.

  He had his gun, he had a knife. He might be able to take those angels down before the woman could give the go-ahead on the slaughter.

  But common sense won out over his anger. He stopped fighting Summer and followed her deeper into the tower. Through the glass walls, he watched the rippling figures of angels soar past outside, oblivious to the mortals in their midst.

  The halls within the center of the tower were wide, with arching roofs that made the tower feel like it was completely hollow. Abram glanced inside a few of the rooms as they descended further and further. They all looked very much like extremely luxurious hospital rooms, each with a single bed and single patient.

  And then Summer stopped in front of the entrance to one room—a high archway draped in gauzy veils, which looked surprisingly heavy when she pushed them aside.

  Abram glanced over his shoulder at the empty hall before entering.

  It was even brighter inside the healing room. The shape of the tower directed all that radiant blue glow down through the ceiling and into a narrow beam that fell over the bed, sort of like a magnifying glass angled in a sunbeam.

  That beam bathed the angel lying in bed in a silver glow, highlighting his brown hair, his straight nose, the hands folded over his chest. His wings were draped over either side of the bed, trailing along the floor. Gauzy white material swaddled him like a beautiful, pristine mummy.

  “Nash?” Summer whispered.

  The name was amplified and echoed a dozen times over. Nash… Nash…

  He didn’t react. His eyes were still closed.

  She moved to his bedside, resting her hand on top of his. Abram hovered behind her. Nash looked bad. Really bad. He was almost as scarred as Abel, though his wounds were still fresh and red. His chest and neck had been bandaged. The hair was beginning to grow back on the right side of his scalp.

  Uriel had lied. Nash wasn’t awake.

  “Oh no,” Summer said.

  Abram took two steps toward the door before an angel stepped through.

  Her hair fell in soft, foamy waves down her back, and a voluminous peach dress hung from her shoulders, somehow emphasizing her curves instead of hiding them. Her wings were more slender than Nash’s. She looked like a peregrine falcon—fast, graceful, and deadly.

  Leliel.

  “I thought you were dead,” Summer said.

  “Despite Nashriel’s best efforts, no. Thank Adam for the ingenuity of our architects. I recuperated in this very room.” She swept a hand toward the bed.

  Abram wasn’t in the mood for bantering. The sight of Leliel was all he needed to know.

  Uriel had betrayed them, the angels had wanted them inside New Eden, and they were fucked if he didn’t get them out now.

  He jerked the gun out of his holster and fired.

  Leliel was suddenly a few inches to the left, dodging the gunshot without effort. And then she was in front of him, seizing his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back until his elbow felt like it was going to pop.

  He sank to one knee with a grunt.

  Summer shifted, shredding her sundress with her hulking wolf form. The speed with which she could change was still completely breathtaking. She went from a cute girl to a wolf the size of a pony in the same amount of time it took Abram to rotate out of Leliel’s grip. He lunged for his gun.

  Summer leaped over him, paws outstretched.

  Leliel twisted. Her wing slammed into Summer’s side, knocking her aside before the wolf could hit. Claws scrabbled against glass. Summer slipped as she struggled to regain her footing.

  Abram’s hands closed on his gun. He flipped over to shoot at Leliel.

  She kicked it out of his hands and stood on his chest.

  Angels shouldn’t have been heavy, hollow-boned bastards that they were, but it felt like the whole tower had been dropped on Abram. He flattened against the floor. Punching against her lower legs did nothing. Leliel might as well have been stone.

  “Stop or I’ll kill him now, Summer,” Leliel said.

  The wolf froze, paws braced wide against the floor.

  Uriel slipped into the room. He had exchanged his usual skinny jeans and scarf for something a little more species-appropriate: floaty white robes, just like those of the angels that Levi had shown Abram in an old leather-bound Bible. He didn’t meet Abram’s eyes as he entered. “I’ve assembled the people you requested, beloved one.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Leliel said, her eyes glowing with warmth. Her weight shifted fractionally. Abram felt his ribs creak. “Please take the dog to the pool. Process her like the rest of her pack.”

  Abram could only assume that this “pool” was the place he had seen under the city. Summer growled. “What about me?” he forced out, hands still locked on Leliel’s ankles.

  “You have Our Father’s blood,” Leliel said. “We saw what you did in the ruins of Shamain’s temple district. You’ll be a more than adequate replacement for the prophet at the crux of our feeding system.”

  “You didn’t tell me about that.” Uriel shifted on his feet, eyes still lowered.

  Her tone sharpened. “Would it have mattered?”

  “No,” he said. “I just didn’t know about Abram. I’m surprised. Adam’s great-great-grandkid. It’s an honor. Can we really stick him at the crux?”

  “He’s the product of Adam’s dalliances with human women. It’s no honor to meet him—he’s an insult to Eve’s memory.”

  “I see what you mean,” Uriel said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  They were so fucking nice to each other. Respectful, polite, considerate. Abram wished he had his gun.

  Summer caught Abram’s eye. Even though she was a wolf, he thought that he could tell what she was thinking. She wanted to attack Leliel. She didn’t want either of them to get stuck in this pool thing.

  He shook his head. “Wait,” he mouthed. He had a better idea. Abram had been planning to get down to the pool anyway. It sucked that they didn’t have Nash, but he’d never really needed him anyway.

  He remained relaxed as three more angels entered. One of them was carrying a loop of rope—a leash. Another carried manacles. “Be gentle with them,” Leliel said serenely. “They’re our guests as much as the others.”

  Abram forced a smile at her as they picked him up. She looked startled by the expression.

  Just wait until I burn your city to the ground.

  An angel named Azrael escorted them out of the tower. Leliel walked with them to the exit, but didn’t follow them beyond that, and Abram was disappointed—he’d hoped that he would have a chance to be alone with her.

  Later. He’d just have to come back later.

  Azrael didn’t keep a close eye on Abram, but he didn’t have to. He’d affixed a silver choke collar to Summer. If she strayed an inch from his side, he snapped the lead, pulling the chain tight under her chin. The density of her fur wasn’t protection against silver. The spikes pushed through her flesh and made her whine.

  The sight of his sister collared made Abram’s vision go white with rage.

  Just give me a chance. Just give me one damn chance and I will end you, angel.

  But Azrael didn’t give him a chance, and in the meantime, they were being marched to a hill at the center of the city.

  Abram played at complacency, dragging his feet, leaving his arms slack in the shackles behind his back. He was pretty sure he could escape them. He lived in the most boring werewolf sanctuary in the world, which meant he had plenty of time to practice the kopis skills Seth had taught him—including picking locks.

  Nobody had thought to pat him down. He still had pins tucked under his leather belt.

  It wasn’t far to reach the hill, but the walk felt incredibly long, watching Azr
ael jerk at Summer’s chain.

  Just give me one chance…

  He fell back a step, sliding his finger underneath his belt to search for a pin. He found one and loosened it.

  It almost fell, but he caught it in his palm.

  Azrael yanked on Summer again. “Keep up,” he snapped at Abram.

  “Yes, sir,” he muttered, grabbing a second pin.

  They mounted the hill to the cemetery. It was obvious that nobody ever walked through that part of the city; the grass grew too densely to have been trod upon by feet—angel, animal, or otherwise. That, and the reverent silence, was almost as disturbing as the graves that rose out of the misty half-light of eternal morning.

  One grave stood taller than the others. It was a large cross with steps leading to its base. Dry vines hung from each arm, swaying gently in the wind.

  “Get up there,” Azrael said.

  Abram didn’t move except to roll the lock pick in his fingers. That tombstone must have been the crux. If he got up there, chances were good that he wasn’t going to come back down again.

  But Azrael’s chokehold on Summer was still too tight. Abram could see the pain in her eyes.

  Thinking fast, he mounted the steps to the cross, turning so that his back was flat against the stone. Azrael would have to drop Summer’s leash to tie him down or something—right?

  But Azrael stood back and watched.

  Something tickled Abram’s ankle. He looked down to see a gray vine touching his ankle, very much like the ones that he had been entombed in when he first woke up in the pool below. It slithered through his bootlaces, wrapped around his calf, and crawled toward his knee.

  A self-restraining cross. Perfect. He jammed the pins in the lock, hoping Azrael wouldn’t be able to tell what he was doing before it was too late.

  Vines began sliding over his other leg faster than the first ones. They numbed everywhere they touched. His skin buzzed like a beehive. Given a few more seconds, he’d start to pass out—that was what had happened when they’d stuck him on one of those slabs in the pool, anyway.