Amara interjected, ‘I saw a sign as we drove onto the grounds. It said Camden Haven, Captor’s Point.’
Meele nodded. ‘I can portal us home. Thank you, Hella. Remember: Sunlight.’
Hella’s chakras were burning so hot she began to feel faint.
Meele’s voice grew urgent. ‘Hella, you need to snap back. Warlocks and witches are the same: If you use your powers for too long, you will literally burn out.’
‘Oh,’ Hella said. ‘No one told me that. Why would no one tell me that?’ she asked, her breathing heavy. Hella collapsed to the floor with a light thud. ‘I tried getting back, I couldn’t. This is my first time. I can’t—’ Her head felt so hot that words were too hard to form. ‘Oh, crap. Am I going to die?’
Meele leaned forward. ‘No, witch. Now isn’t your time. Since you’re connected to me, let me try something.’ She shimmered, and Hella noticed golden blood at her throat, a shining scale missing, brutally torn away. Hella thought of the shiny thing the angel had tucked away and felt angry. Meele gently reached out and touched Hella’s amulet and a purple light flashed, then consumed the witch in a cool embrace. Hella’s eyes closed. She was sure her head would explode. At this moment, it would be a welcome relief from the agony.
Chapter Sixty-One
Harrow
In a desperate attempt to put out Hella’s growing fire, Harrow summoned his magic and set a river of water down on Hella, the force of it subsuming the couch.
Tommy staggered away from the onslaught, reproach in his eyes.
‘She is on fire!’ Harrow snapped, watching his water sizzle away to the red-purple flames engulfing Hella’s entire body.
‘That didn’t work!’ Tommy snapped back, looking urgently to Remy. ‘What do we do?’ he yelled at the room, desperate.
‘What if I wrap her up in ice?’ Harrow suggested. Harrow felt the overwhelming need to protect Hella. The way she had protected him, saved him. But he didn’t know how.
Remy had tried half a dozen spells, but to no avail. Neither of them argued with Harrow’s suggestion, so he summoned a blanket of ice upon Hella and watched as the ice washed over her, wrapping her in a cool embrace. Her breathing was scared, rapid. For a moment, she stilled, the flames dampening. They all watched on as the fire collected around her, under the ice, still writhing along her body. Then the fire grew stronger. Harrow tried to thicken and harden his ice, but didn’t want to entomb her. The fire was building and building, until it exploded through the sheen of cold, shattering Harrow’s ice into a thousand shards.
Hella began to scream.
‘That didn’t work,’ Harrow said, stricken. With a frown, he put a hand to his stomach, and found a cool shard of ice, sticking out of his skin the size of his forearm. Dark blue blood streamed down his side. ‘For fuck’s sake, today sucks.’ He gasped out as he collapsed into a chair just as Tommy helped break his fall.
‘You’re going to be fine, Hella will heal you when she gets back.’ Tommy’s hands were on his shoulders, oddly reassuring. Harrow’s eyes squeezed shut, but he forced them open. They all watched as Hella burned.
‘I don’t know that she’s coming back,’ Harrow said, his voice a whisper over the sickening crackle of flames dancing over Hella’s skin. Harrow finally had to turn his head away. He could not watch any longer. Then Tommy smacked his shoulder, and he winced.
‘Look,’ Tommy said, his green eyes wide.
The flames still crawled over Hella’s body, but they all watched on in shock as the fire began to turn purple. Hella stilled, no longer screaming. After a moment of silence, she sat bolt upright with a start, her eyes wild. And for the first time, glowing purple. The fire doused, and Hella looked all around the room, then started patting herself enthusiastically.
‘Oh my god, I’m back. Thank you, Meele,’ she breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘I was feeling sick and hot—what happened here?’ She looked around the room at everyone’s shocked faces, the burns on the couch and tables, Remy’s mouth fallen open. Then her eyes fell on Harrow sitting in the chair, the shard of ice sticking out of his stomach, blue blood staining his front as he shimmered in and out of his forms.
‘Well, you were on fire a bit,’ Harrow informed her. ‘I tried to ice you, and your fire exploded the ice.’ He shrugged. ‘And I got stabbed,’ he said, wincing.
Hella scrambled to him, her clothes still smoking but intact, and bent down to Harrow. Without warning, she pulled out the pointed shard of ice—Harrow shimmered as he yelped, his face twisted in pain—then she healed his wound as dark blue blood poured into his lap. His hands were on the arms of the chair, holding tight, with Tommy above him, holding onto his shoulders for support. It was helpful to focus on something other the gaping wound in his stomach.
A moment later, Harrow’s wound was healed, and he breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Before he could thank her, Hella wrapped her arms around his neck.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed in his ear. His vertical-slit eyes looked up at her with a question. ‘For staying by my side. I saw you, but you couldn’t see me. And for trying to, uh, douse me. I could feel it. But Meele kind of bolted me back.’ She glanced at Tommy, smiled awkwardly, then to her guardian. ‘I found Meele, she’s about an hour out of town in a place called Camden Haven. I freed her, Amara and Tessa. And she said to tell you that she figured out that angels can’t stand sunlight. It burns…’ Hella looked like she might faint suddenly. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she spoke, she seemed to be talking quickly, as if she had to pass on what she had learned.
The continued exertion of her magic, Harrow thought, was as draining and dangerous for her as it was for warlocks. Harrow put a hand on her. ‘Hella, stop. Take it easy.’
‘I couldn’t get back. Meele saved me.’ Hella fell to her knees, out of breath. Harrow’s eyes grew wide when he saw that her hands were gloves of red flames, burning out of control again. ‘I have to… the sunlight, she wanted me to tell you. It’s real. They fear it. Kills them. Use it…’ Her eyes rolled back, and Tommy and Harrow were both at her side to catch her head before it could smash to the ground. Harrow lay her gently down then cast a sharp glance at Remy, who slowly crept out of her seat.
‘She’s out of control. She’s so powerful, with one burst of emotion, she could burn this place down, or blow it up,’ the old witch said.
Hella was out, but breathing very fast, as if she still felt very warm, Harrow thought.
At least she had gotten back inside her body, but he wondered if she were in pain. From beside him, Remy said softly, ‘She’s a danger to us like this. She needs help that I can’t give her. Space, safety.’ She sounded defeated. ‘I have to make a call, set her back on the couch.’ Then she bent to Hella’s ear, and Harrow caught what she said. ‘I’m sorry, Hellora. It’s for your own good. You can come back when the time is right. When we need your powers for our battle, we will come for you. Rest, now.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Hella
Hella woke up in a strange room, lying on an unfamiliar bed. Twilight filtered in through the singular window to reveal shades of grey; the walls and floor were entirely stone. Adorning the room was only the bed and a wobbly-looking desk with a chair. Though, oddly, a black punching bag swung from the ceiling in the centre of the room, attached firmly with a thick chain. It looked new, shining and sleek.
The last thing she remembered was knowing she was going to burn alive, her own magic burnt out and used up. She had passed out. And, what was it Remy had said to her? Something… she let it swim around her mind while she stood up, wondering where she was. For a moment, she thought Tommy had brought her back to the Warlock House, to her rooms, to that comfortable bed. To Salem, who would meow and purr warmly at her.
As she looked out the window, at the nearby sea, she knew she couldn’t be there. Panic rose in her chest. So where was she? Suddenly, she checked her belt for the athame that she had kept on her person since she was fir
st attacked by Malachai. She sighed, without real surprise; it was gone. With a sweeping glance around the room, apart from the chair, there was nothing she could use as a weapon.
‘What the hell?’ she asked of the empty room. Attached to her new jail cell were two doors. An exit, she thought. She turned the brass knob of the door. It twisted. The door swung open to reveal a very small bathroom. Hella frowned, then tried the other door. The knob did not turn. She pulled and twisted, but it would not open. ‘Hello?’ she called out, banging on the door. ‘Where the hell am I?’ What is happening? The angels, she thought, they’ve taken me somewhere. They found me.
After yelling until her throat hurt, Hella finally slumped back onto the bed, angry and frustrated. She was stuck here. Wherever here was. She did not see a reason for the angels to keep her alive. She had no Marks to be harvested. Though, she remembered, Malachai had commented how bright her aura was. Maybe that was something they needed her alive for. But how had they gotten her? She was in the store, with Remy and the boys…
Hella went into the bathroom to wash her face, and glared into the small mirror casting back a more exhausted version of herself than she had ever seen. She was drained, she realised, from her extreme use of magic. Then a thought struck her. Astralling, of course. She wanted to smack herself in the head for not thinking of it earlier. She closed her eyes, focusing. Picturing Remy’s lounge room was easy. Hella focused her chakras, but something felt wrong. They did not burn too hot as they had earlier, but now it felt as though they would not even sputter to life. She opened her eyes. Nope. Still in her cell. Damn it. She turned and gave the convenient punching bag a great jab, lightly bruising her knuckle.
‘What the hell?’ she said again, more confused than ever. There was only a small window in her prison, but she peered through it. The sky was dark as ink now, the stars popping into the black. Hella slumped against the wall. ‘Harrow, or Tommy, I hope you’re looking for me, because I have no idea where I am. Remy, if you could—’ She broke off, finally realising what Remy had whispered into her ear as she’d fallen into the abyss.
I’m sorry, Hellora. It’s for your own good. You can come back when the time is right. When we need your powers for our battle, we will come for you.
‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Hella bolted to her feet and banged furiously on the door. ‘She sent me to The Force, how dare you!’ She thumped against the metal until her hands and arms were both numb and sore. ‘I was out of control, so you sent me away until you need me.’
She screamed, her cries echoing out of the building, through her window and falling upon the deaf ears of her captors.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Harrow
Harrow had to get out of Remy’s store. The Force had come to take Hella away, and, in Harrow’s haste to protect her, he had broken his nose in the tussle. Tommy had tried to reach him, to see if he was okay. But shimmered in that moment, Harrow had felt a boiling anger. If Tommy had touched him, Harrow feared he would’ve harmed him. So he had stormed out, but not without a piercing glare at the old witch, his sharp tail flickering in threat. Stunningly, she looked calm; not upset or guilt-ridden. Calm.
Harrow was steaming with rage. He walked blindly down the street, with no destination in mind. He wanted to throttle somebody. He wanted to know that Hella was okay, because she sure hadn’t looked okay. Her magic was burning her up. Harrow wanted to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe. Instead, he’d let them take her. He wiped dark blue blood, dripping from his painfully broken nose, onto his sleeve.
It was dark now, another warm Australian day kept the evening air warm. Walking alone at night wasn’t advisable, but Harrow made sure he looked human; he tried to keep calm to maintain the appearance, despite his anger. The young warlock travelled briskly, walking, hurrying, somewhere, anywhere. He thought about breaking into another bottle-shop to get a drink. Streetlamps flickered to life around him as the stars in the sky awoke.
A rustle from behind set him on edge. Harrow paused, then walked faster. Now, he thought about revisiting the Den, to pay Lisa a visit. But he was on the wrong side of town. Instead, he headed for the park, hoping to find some place to hide. He could not go to the Warlock House; it was one thing to show up when he knew his parents would not be there—he had watched them leave—but quite another to show up unannounced. And frightened. He would not let his parents see him frightened.
Wishing he was wearing a hood that he could draw up to cover his face, to hide in the shadows, Harrow walked farther into the night. In the street, from behind him, a hand clamped down over his mouth, muffling his scream. His pale-blue skin shone in the lamplight as scales appeared across his cheek. Harrow blasted shards of ice behind him, into his attacker, who cried out, lifting their hand from Harrow’s mouth.
Harrow whirled to face his enemy, the angel’s wings aglow in burning white flames. The angel was blond and pale, with eyes of teal. A dull recognition lit in the back of Harrow’s mind. The ice shards had caught him in the stomach, and he pulled them out gingerly, frowning.
‘I’ve rarely met a Cambion who has fought back so quickly. My admiration, young warlock.’
Harrow turned and ran for his life, back to Remy’s store—anywhere. After only a few steps, the angel was upon him again, his grip over Harrow’s mouth unbreakable. The young warlock squirmed as he started shaking. This is when Cambions were abducted, he thought. He was about to be dragged off to some basement to have his scales ripped off and kept as a trophy, like Meele and the girls may have before Hella found them. Harrow twisted in the angel’s iron grip. His pleading was muffled as he begged to be freed, for the angel to have mercy.
The angel, strangely, seemed to be speaking urgently. ‘Young warlock, please stop. Calm down.’
Harrow froze, terrified of what the avenging torturer might do if he disobeyed. He should have known better than to be out after dark, when the earth was a hunting ground for angels. He knew now that of course they only hunted at night. Hella had told them that angels could not stand sunlight; that it burned their skin, could even kill them. Even if he could believe that, and it was hard to do so, it did not help him now. It seemed that the vice-like grip on his upper-arms could never be weakened by sunlight.
The angel spoke again, softly, dangerously. ‘What’s your name, little Cambion?’ The angel carefully released his grip over Harrow’s mouth.
Heart beating in his throat, Harrow’s voice came out a hoarse whisper. ‘Harrow.’ The young warlock thought he might faint.
The angel moved, appearing in front of Harrow. There was something odd about him. His wings blazed furiously, lighting up the night sky like lightning. His face was perfectly carved, as if from marble, all sharp white planes in the dark. ‘Harrow, my name is Nerretti. You can call me Net. I believe we met, sort of, briefly. I removed Mal’s halo from your throat.’
Harrow froze. ‘You’re that angel. The one who stopped Malachai. You helped me?’ His legs felt detached from his body, he wasn’t sure if he could run. He wasn’t sure if he could move without collapsing. Tentatively, he took a step backwards.
The angel’s eyes seemed to soften. With a simple nod, his wings folded up, and he tucked them away, like a bird after landing. The angel, Net, reached out for Harrow. ‘I am, yes.’
Harrow stumbled over in his haste to get away.
Net reached out, grabbing Harrow’s arm. ‘Harrow, I’m not going to harm you. I’ve been sent to you, to help you.’
Harrow squirmed, desperately trying to free himself from the angel’s grip.
‘Harrow, look at me. Not all angels are the same, I won’t hurt you.’
For a moment, Harrow stilled. He looked up at Net, into his teal eyes, at the face he knew would kill him. Angels were killers, everyone knew that. Then, Harrow blinked. He wasn’t being killed, or tortured. Or hurt, really, though the angel’s grip was bruising. The young warlock grimaced as his arm began to lose circula
tion. Harrow tried to tug himself away, but the angel held firm.
Noticing, Net loosened his grip. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been sent here to help you. Your friend, Remy, sent me. There’s something you need from me.’
Free of the angel’s grip, Harrow stumbled back, still in shock.
Nerretti stepped back, unfolding his terrifying wings again, as if to attack Harrow after all. Harrow shielded his eyes from the painful brightness as Net grasped a feather from his wing, and gave a great pull. The angel’s eyes squeezed shut, as if in pain, and he pulled away a silky feather, tipped at the end with silver blood. He handed it to Harrow, who frowned, then remembered.
‘Remy told me about this,’ he said.
Net nodded. ‘It’s better to pass this on indirectly. Please take care of it. You’ll need it.’ Net stepped closer to Harrow, who instinctively flinched away. Net carefully took him by the arm he had bruised, holding him still. He held a glowing hand over the exposed blueing skin, healing him with a soft white glow. ‘We are not all cruel, Harrow. I am your ally.’
Chapter Sixty-Four
Azazel
Lying on his bed, Azazel smiled, looking out through the creviced holes in the cave wall, up to the shining stars. It was almost dinnertime. He rapped his long-fingered hands with broken-off blackened nails against the cave wall, tap-tap-tapping a rhythm from his long-lost youth. A thing he did when he was happy, or excited. His forked tongue grazed over his rough lips in anticipation. Slowly, he got up off the bed.
He opened the sleek dark wooden wardrobe and plucked a few items from the hangers. He dressed methodically, slowly. He found the task melodic, calming; the act of putting on human clothes felt like a disguise and a revelation at the same time.
Azazel sauntered out of his cave room, his shoulders squared and confident. This cave was one of the best places he had ever discovered in his hundreds of years on this earth. Over the last ninety-odd years, he had carved it out to his desires, and now it served his needs with perfection. It was underneath the central hub of his apartment, so conveniently close to the witch-drama. It ran many kilometres into the ground, off the coastal wall, deep into the cool earth, and held many rooms. Which was excellent, because he had a large family. Azazel ran his fingernails along the cave wall, delighting in the scraping noise it made as he strode out into the hall, down the sloping corridor, into the Gathering Hall where he liked to hold meetings. As ordered, his kin had gathered, and were waiting patiently for his instructions.
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