by Liz Meldon
Moira hesitated before she climbed out, trailing her fingertips across the feathers. Soft like silk.
Like silk that could deflect bullets.
She scratched at her shoulder distractedly, unable to tear her gaze away from those enormous wings until the doors finally shut for good. In an instant, the elevator was on the move.
“They’ll probably head to the second floor,” Alaric said.
“Or it’s angels wanting to come down here.”
“I don’t think they need the elevators to get around,” Moira insisted, squeezing Ella’s arm as she hurried by—her entire body on fire. They were finally here, finally inside Seraphim Securities. Severus. She had to find Severus.
A dark corridor loomed ahead, lit only by the faintest of circular lights in the ceiling. Moira hadn’t marched more than ten feet from the elevator when she saw the first prison cell. The intense light inside was an affront; she squinted, peering through the sturdy iron bars at the interior. Sand floor. Domed roof. A wooden pole in the middle, a demon chained to it.
At least, she assumed the shirtless, limp figure was a demon. Blond. Thin—thin enough to see the jagged outline of his ribcage. Scars crisscrossed over his back.
Her lower lip quivered.
All this time she had been thinking, obsessing, about finding Severus. Team Incubus Extraction had been at the forefront of her mind, even if the shitshow outside had temporarily distracted her.
Get him out. Get him away from Aeneas. All that was fine and good in theory.
But as she stumbled to the next cell, the iron-barred doorways staggered on either side of the hall, she realized she hadn’t mentally prepared for the actual rescue—for the condition Severus would be in when she finally found him.
Her breath hitched at the sight in the next cell: a woman this time, also shirtless, facing forward, blood caked around her nose and mouth.
“Severus!” Moira didn’t bother to hide her panic, her fear, and she screamed his name again, racing from cell to cell. Soon enough, Malachi and Alaric’s voices joined her—calling for Severus, his name echoing in a round through the seemingly endless corridor. Soon enough, the chaos demon overtook her, running ahead, thundering along, rattling the bars. Some of the demon prisoners called back, pleading for help, begging for someone to get them out. Moira ignored them—easily. She wasn’t there for them. For all she knew, they deserved to be in here.
Aeneas’s darkness couldn’t have spread to all the angels.
Something would have been done then, right? A whole squadron of angels couldn’t be as awful as her dad—they just couldn’t. Moira refused to believe that.
“They must have extended the halls by magic,” she heard Cordelia muse, the witch striding along after them, Ella at her heels. “Or they’ve burrowed into the entire city to make this prison.”
Moira shook her head, blocking out the witch too, focusing on the demons she found strung up in the cells. Alaric and Malachi were already three doors ahead of her, working their way along steadily, methodically, when her brain screamed for her to stop.
Look harder.
“Severus?” Her watery gaze ran the length of his back, ripped to shreds, the sandy ground at his feet bloodstained. That hair was the right length. His figure, while slimmer, looked the most familiar; she inhaled sharply, visions dancing across her mind of her hand drifting up his side, questing over the gentle curve of muscle, of gripping his shoulders while he took her, fucked her, loved her. Muffling a sob, Moira pressed closer to the bars, blinking back her tears as a rush of heat licked across her insides. Rage. Shock. Agony.
Fury.
“Severus!” She rattled the bars of his cell, slamming her hands against them. “Severus!”
Slowly, his head seemed to lift. Blink and you’d miss it. Her eyes widened.
“Severus!” She turned and shouted for the others. “Here! Here! He’s here!”
Alaric and Malachi’s footsteps pounded down the corridor, paired with the sharp click of Cordelia’s boots against the concrete. Moira scanned the bars, searching for a keyhole—and not finding one.
“There’s no keyhole,” she stammered. “How do we unlock it? How do we get inside?”
“Brother!” Malachi latched onto a bar with each hand, yanking hard, tugging with all his might. Once again, Severus seemed to try and lift his head, maybe look over his shoulder.
“What have they done to him?” Alaric murmured. He stood at Moira’s side, arms limp, eyes grey, until finally he too attacked the bars.
What had they done to him?
It’s all because of me.
Severus wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. His back wouldn’t have been shredded to ribbons of red flesh. He wouldn’t be hanging there, knees just touching the ground, the soles of his feet bloody too.
Trembling, Moira’s hands curled into fists. Now wasn’t the time for this. Now was the time to get him out. Ruminate later. Hate yourself later.
“They won’t budge,” Alaric grunted, tugging with all his might. Moira tried too, first gripping one bar with both hands, then one hand on two separate poles. But nothing gave—not even a little. Not with Moira, nor Alaric, nor Malachi. The iron stood, unyielding, mocking.
“I’m not sure if this will be of interest to anyone,” Cordelia interjected, and when all three glared over at her, she snapped her fingers and produced one of the magical grenades she’d used earlier. Nothing more than an inconspicuous silver disk, it sat neatly in the palm of her hand, pulsing with power. “I saved one—just in case.”
“Do it.”
Grabbing Ella’s hand, Moira jogged a few cells down, Malachi at her heels. The trio crouched, the chaos demon shielding them both with his hulking frame. Down the way, Cordelia had already attached the grenade to the middle bar; she and Alaric took cover on the other side of the cell. Within moments, an explosion rocked the dungeon corridor, the blast’s shockwave knocking Malachi into Moira and Ella.
She didn’t care. Moira didn’t even wait for the dust to settle. She was on her feet and flying through it. With her T-shirt yanked up over her nose, she picked through what was left of the bars; the grenade had blown open about five feet of space in the middle of the doorway. The bars at the end were still standing somehow, but there was enough space to climb through.
Her feet sank into the sand, making her stumble through her first few steps.
But she pushed through it. Pushed harder. Faster. As she propelled herself across Severus’s prison cell, tears sliced down her cheeks—and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the way she rolled her ankle, her foot sinking just a little too deep. She didn’t care about her other aches and pains, about the way her body protested the energetic burst.
“Severus…” She fell to her knees a few feet from him, sand flying up around her, and crawled the rest of the way. He twitched when her fingers grazed his side, skirting the tattered remains of his sweatpants, and flew along his bare torso, careful to avoid what looked like recently inflicted wounds—agony, torture—across his back.
Biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from sobbing, Moira stood up on her knees, examining him as she went. His arms looked like they had popped out of their shoulder sockets at some point, hanging so straight above his head that it made her stomach turn. His hands were deathly white and swollen. His face—his face was a nightmare. A handsome nightmare, but a nightmare all the same. Each exhale from his nose made the cracked, flaky skin on his lips dance. Dried blood smeared across his chin; above that, a bruise—purple and ugly, it marred nearly half his left cheek.
The right eye was swollen—black and blue and green, the bruising on its way to healed. Nearly there.
“Oh, darling,” Moira whispered, careful not to knock into anything, to jostle him, to really touch him like she desperately wanted to. “I’m so sorry.”
Over the sounds of the others approaching, their footfalls thick in the sand, Severus groaned. Barely audible, but she’d heard it. His
thick black lashes fluttered open, and she pressed her lips together hard to keep them from shaking. He didn’t need to see her break down. He didn’t need to see her weep like she wanted to—needed to. Instead, she forced a kind smile and gently stroked his hair. “Hi. I’m here.”
Moira had never seen Severus’s eyes so light before. Faint silver irises encircled his pupils; she suddenly found herself wishing those eyelids had parted to reveal full black.
“Get him down,” Malachi barked. “Alaric, the chains.”
While she shuffled somewhat out of the way, Moira stayed as close to Severus as she could while Malachi and Alaric wrenched the chains out of the post. They yielded easier than the bars had, and Severus’s body fell, limp and lifeless, the second they broke free. Moira caught him, her chest clenching at the hiss he made when her arm brushed the torn flesh on his back.
“Help me,” she grunted. Severus was dead weight in her arms. Worse than the angel. Worse than anything so far. One tear slipped free, but she brushed it away with her shoulder, settling onto the sand cross-legged as Malachi and Alaric guided Severus down with her. They propped him up on his side, his head on her shoulder, his back untouched by both the sand and Moira—the best she could manage, anyway. His body sagged across her, blanketed her. Cool to the touch, he just lay on top of her, chest rising and falling slowly.
“I’m so sorry, Severus,” she murmured, wrapping an arm around his chest, clutching his shoulder. It was the only way to hold him without hurting him. Her other hand went for his hair, stroking it, untangling it. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to go, either. I just…” She closed her eyes tight as she fought the breakdown.
When she opened them again, she found Malachi crouched in front of her, his dark gaze fixed on his brother. Sniffling, she pushed back the tears, the anguish of the moment. Her voice came out evenly when she spoke next—a small victory. “I just wanted you to be safe. I’m sorry. I never w-wanted you to go.” Damn it. She swallowed thickly, kissing the back of his head, holding him tighter. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave ever again. We’re partners, and I’m sorry.”
She inhaled sharply, stiffening when his hand crept up her leg and settled over her knee.
“M-Moira?” he rasped. Smiling so hard it hurt, she buried her face in the nape of his neck.
“Yes?”
“Love y-you too.” He gave her knee a little squeeze, his grip weak but noticeable. Gentle but present. She could work with that for now. When she straightened, he had his eyes open again, but his gaze drifted about, unfocused. “Shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course—”
“It’s not safe,” he croaked, voice growing stronger by the moment—stronger, but strained. Raw. Like he’d been screaming.
Moira knew the feeling.
“That’s why we have to get you out of here,” she murmured.
“It’s why we’re going to get you out of here, brother.” Malachi grasped his brother’s ankle lightly.
“Stupid t-to bring her—”
“She led the bloody charge,” Malachi protested, grinning.
Severus tried to shake his head. “Shouldn’t have come for me—”
“Shut up,” Moira whispered heatedly. Her silent tears dripped onto his neck, and she risked turning his body ever so slightly—just enough to steal a quick kiss. Severus winced, then tried to raise his hand, maybe to cup her face, to brush her stray hairs aside. But he couldn’t quite reach her. Not yet. Moira shook her head and stroked his hair, the back of his neck, stopping just before the lacerations started. “Just try to save your strength, okay? We’re going to get through this.”
Ella padded toward them, her face pale but her gaze determined. “Ella Thomas, best friend and human, reporting for duty.”
Her attempt at humor worked; blood dribbled down Severus’s chin, his lips ripping open as he smiled.
“So, I’m not really sure what to do here,” Ella said as she kneeled beside them, frowning.
“Just take his…” Not his hand. Something didn’t look right about either of them. While no longer ghostly white, they were swollen, probably sore. Skin-tight cuffs remained snapped around each raw wrist. “Just touch his arm. That’s all he needs.”
Ella placed a tentative hand on Severus’s forearm, inhaling sharply at first contact. “Oh.”
“It’s going to feel, uh, weird,” Moira told her. While she still felt the occasional prickle of jealousy at the thought of Severus with clients, with other women, there wasn’t an ounce of that with Ella. Relief flooded through her instead. “And that’s fine. However you’re feeling is just a biological response to an incubus.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Ella’s cheeks darkened, a red flush taking over as she looked upward, then bit down hard on her lip. Towering over all of them, Malachi stood with his arms crossed and jaw noticeably clenched, his gaze fixed rather pointedly on the shattered bars.
“Stop.” Severus grunted, weakly trying to shake Ella off. “I’m f-fine. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Severus.” Moira pushed his arm down, nodding at Ella’s curious look. “Just let us help you.”
“None of us want to carry you, brother,” Malachi added somewhat stiffly. “The least you could do is walk out of here on your own two feet.”
“F-fuck off, Malachi.”
Their eyes met briefly as they both grinned—Malachi’s smile not quite reaching his eyes, and Severus’s making his mouth bleed again.
“Uh, guys…”
Moira glanced toward Alaric, not liking the slight quiver in his voice, and her eyes widened. About twenty feet away, a lone bright white orb materialized into being. Moments later, as the panic soared through her like a bad case of heart burn, four more appeared, each one slowly expanding into a humanoid figure, still shimmering white.
“Fuck.” Malachi hastily positioned himself in front of them, while Cordelia crouched down behind Severus, a faint red glow engulfing her hands. The witch was positively covered in blood, all that sacrifice for so much magic, and before Moira tore her gaze away, she spied blood seeping through the thick red fabric of her riding coat too. How much more could Cordelia take in one day? From the look on her face—a lot.
In fact, she almost seemed to enjoy it.
“Do not engage, Cordie,” Malachi hissed over his shoulder. “Let them make the first move.”
Moira inhaled sharply as the first glowing figure shed his white light, revealing a pale man, tall and lean, in a tattered suit. Short, thick white hair swept over to one side—he’d be dapper in any other situation, minus the war-torn clothing.
Aeneas.
She had never gotten a proper look at him before. That day in the stadium, the light of all the angels who had come for Severus had obscured him. All she had seen were those eyes—her eyes. Glaring eyes. Ice-blue and hateful.
Now, in the few precious seconds she had to take him in, she noted they had a similar figure: lithe and willowy. He stood taller than her, but they had the same sharp chin and cheekbones. The same gauntness, which on Moira had slowly filled out since living with Severus.
And in that moment, she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone in her entire life. Hated that she looked like him—that she looked more his daughter than her mom’s. Hated him for what he had done to her, to her mom, to Severus. In fact, if the incubus hadn’t been sprawled out on top of her, she might have attacked him.
Fuck Malachi’s order. Moira deserved to shoot first for once.
Chapter Seven
Their eyes met, blue to blue, and Moira carefully passed Severus over to a distracted Cordelia. Aeneas lurched forward. In an instant, Malachi blocked her line of sight, stepping between her and the angel with a snarl. Chivalrous, but unnecessary. Aeneas could level Malachi, with or without Cordelia’s magic bubble surrounding the building. The only saving grace here was that he couldn’t barbeque everybody in a second.
Moira staggered to her feet, ready to s
hove Malachi aside—ready to face the creature who had irreversibly changed her life. However, just as she ducked under Malachi’s outstretched arm, the glowing figure of one of the other angels shot in front of Aeneas. It shimmered, then peeled back to reveal a seven-foot-tall Zachariah.
“Get out of my way, brother,” Aeneas ordered gruffly, but when he tried to shoulder past him, Zachariah held his ground. She couldn’t see the exchange between them, the looks on their faces, but seconds later Aeneas unfurled his enormous wings.
And Zachariah did the same. The rush of air threatened to knock Malachi off balance, sand whooshing up before raining back down again softly. Moira braced him, then looked back to Cordelia. She met the witch’s eye, an unspoken question passing between them. You got him? Cordelia nodded, pulling Severus closer, her hands pulsing a deeper red, her blood smeared across the side of his face. Alaric stood beside them, behind a visibly distracted Ella, his gun drawn and leveled in Aeneas’s direction.
“Explain yourself, brother.” Zachariah’s gravelly baritone filled the huge prison cell, deeper than she remembered—calming, too. Peaceful. “Explain your interest in this demon.”
Aeneas stepped back, his white brow furrowed, then looked to his fellow angels, all of whom had seen better days—their clothes torn, their hair disheveled, dried blood splattered across their hands. The other three orbs had materialized into angels as well: Cassiel, with his bright white curls and birdlike features; Raziel, shortest of the bunch, his trench coat a smidge too large; and Sariel, his faded skin dark like Zachariah’s, his sword in hand. Moira swallowed hard. They were officially outnumbered—and she knew right then and there that it would come down to her. Malachi couldn’t talk his way out of this, couldn’t throw his strength around. Alaric couldn’t shoot everyone. Cordelia—well, Cordelia was the wild card. Maybe she had a chance.
“This demon murdered his human whores, and now his friends wish to set him free,” Aeneas sneered. Once more he tried to step around Zachariah, and once more the much taller angel held his ground. “Mine interest is valid—”
