Azazel had had enough of him. He whipped out and struck at him, gouging the man’s flesh with pointed nails. It tore down his face as the man screamed. His eye popped out of his head with a squishy thud to the grass. Red blood flowed from his face as he thumped to the ground, already dead.
The woman looked up at Azazel, all attitude and flirtatiousness gone. She started screaming when he pulled her close, clasping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were blue like her dress, he noticed, as he took a healthy bite out of her neck. He had been right. She was good enough to eat. He dropped her to the ground. He watched as the woman’s red blood flowed about her dress, tendrils reaching out like fingers to brush her paling cheek and swim through her hair.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nerretti
It was impossible to tell whether or not Hella and Harrow were okay.
Net hadn’t been human for long, but he had already formed a nervous habit of biting his lower lip. To his surprise, it quite hurt if he chewed it too much. He tried not to do it, but he kept biting unconsciously. Piper sat quietly on the bed, in the corner of the cell.
Nerretti had positioned himself outside the cell with a clear view of the stairs which led up into the foyer of the Warlock House, just in case someone came down. He had carefully picked Amara up and lay her on the cold floor. She seemed okay, but he wished Hella were able to heal her. Anger flared inside him at Harrow. How could he do this to her? He’d seen that she cared for him.
The magical golden chain shone between the four of them in the cell. Piper had tentatively tested its strength by trying to walk away, but the chain had held firm, as if the metal were solid. They were bound together.
Tommy sat quietly. Net could feel the worry pouring off him in waves. His chest rose and fell heavily. He was stressed. ‘It’s been three hours,’ the young warlock said quietly. ‘Do they know what they’re looking for?’
Despite his long life as an angel, Nerretti had never come across a similar situation as this. All he could offer was a shrug. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’ In his experience, there had not been a lot of situations where he couldn’t offer his educated guess. Until Hella had come along, that is. Hellora Corvime—Or was it Harlem? he wondered now—had changed everything. Tommy ran his hands through his hair.
‘Have I caused you frustration?’ Net asked.
Tommy shook his head. ‘No, Net. I’m frustrated at the situation.’ He stared at the clock on the wall. ‘How long do you think it will take? Will they get tired or hungry there?’
‘I don’t think so. That’s why you’re connected to them. So, they don’t tire or burn out. And their bodies will be hungry and in need of food, but they won’t be in danger of starving for days,’ Net said, hoping he could offer some semblance of reassurance to the boy. Piper was silent. She must know this, he thought.
‘Do you have any clairvoyant powers, angel?’ Piper asked him suddenly.
Net blinked at her. ‘No, I don’t. And I’m no longer an angel. Why do you ask that?’
Piper tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘I didn’t know exactly what angels could do. I wondered if you could see the future like Scires. You share and faeries share angel blood, after all.’
‘We do, I suppose. But neither can I alter your memories, or hear your thoughts as faeries can. Angels are completely different. We were designed to kill demons, that’s all,’ Net said.
‘And Cambions,’ Tommy muttered. The words stung, but Net knew he had made up for his past crimes the best way possible. Tommy looked a little embarrassed by his comment, but said nothing else.
‘It’s not every day you can get the downlow from an actual angel,’ Piper continued. ‘Especially now that they’re gone. Sorry,’ she added. ‘That can’t be easy for you, I guess.’
Nerretti shrugged. He looked over at Hella. She didn’t seem distressed. Her breathing was even and her hands were free of fire. Harrow looked the same. They were safe. He hoped. ‘I never felt explicitly that they were my family,’ Net admitted. ‘And their hunting was wrong. I did what was right.’
Tommy’s lip curled into a grateful smile. ‘Thank you, Net. We couldn’t have done it without you.’
Nerretti nodded. ‘Why do you ask of my powers, specifically to foresee?’ he asked Piper.
Piper looked at Tommy, as if reluctant to share her reasons in front of him. ‘I wondered if you could have foreseen me and Hella. If Meele’s prediction about her growing up dark with me was true or not.’
Net looked from Piper to Hella and back. ‘I never had that power, so I cannot say. Personally, though, I believe that Hella is good. Her powers are strong, and sometimes it spills out of her control. To be honest, I don’t know you well enough, Piper, to have an opinion on if your daughter would have grown up dark under your care. But in her heart, she is good. I do know that.’
‘So good, she had to bring Harrow back from the dead,’ Tommy said. ‘He saved her life. So she tried to save his. But it was too late. Yet, somehow, she did it anyway.’ His eyes were glued to Harrow’s pale face. ‘I hope that never happens again.’
‘It was the left-over power from Remy’s amulet,’ Net said. ‘The power she used was blue, Remy’s colour. I don’t see that happening again.’
Piper nodded. ‘That does make sense. Remy would have worn that amulet for decades. It makes sense there was a piece of her still in it. It’s just kind of astonishing that Hella pulled a necromancy spell out of it, though.’
‘What do you think they’re looking for there, exactly? I mean, what does a disembodied soul look like?’ Tommy asked. He sat up against the plastic wall of the cell, shifting now and then.
‘All I know about that is that, when a solider—often an angel—dies in battle, they go on to Valhalla to train and become better fighters in their next life.’ Net wished he had brought some of the books from the store, but they hadn’t thought of that. The plan had unfolded rather quickly. His phone—Tommy had gotten him one and started teaching him how to use it—chimed and he fished it out of his pocket. A swell of guilt plagued his stomach as he realised he had two missed called from Grace Corvime, and several texts, asking what was going on, and where her daughter was. It was only then that Net realised Grace didn’t know.
‘What is it?’ Tommy asked, apparently reading Net’s expression. He wasn’t very good at shielding his emotions yet, it would seem. Net glanced at Piper.
‘It’s Grace,’ Net said. ‘Hella’s, uh, mother. She’s wondering where Hella is. She has a house full of Cambion children. I told her I would come over and assist her and I’m afraid I forgot.’
‘I’m sure she’ll understand,’ Tommy said, but Net shook his head.
‘I would very much like to tell her what’s going on, but the more people who know about this, the more dangerous it is.’ Guilt prickled his insides as Net tapped out a quick message. Sorry, caught up at the store. Hella’s here, she’s okay. She’s asleep. She needs some downtime. It wasn’t totally untrue, he reasoned. She was technically unconscious, and the poor girl really did need some downtime (not that what she was really doing could be considered as such). It was a curious thing, Net found, the guilt he felt at telling a lie to a woman he barely knew. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he knew he wanted to know her better, and lying was a poor way to do so.
After all this soul business with Harrow was over, he thought, they should all watch a movie or something. Spend a quiet day reading. Hella probably had a lot of schoolwork to catch up on. Net looked forward to settling into something of a normal life here on earth. He wondered if being in charge of the shop meant that it would be okay that he lived there. He didn’t exactly have money to live somewhere else. Using the money in the register to buy clothes was one thing, but Hella had explained to him the method of profits that the business relied on, and that, unless necessary, he shouldn’t take funds from the register. He had to admit, she was a very clever young woman, with a mind f
or business along with everything else.
Net suddenly wondered where humans went to buy food. He had either spent his time at Grace’s being fed, or Hella had been around to conjure food for all of them. He had no idea where to get food otherwise. He should ask someone. He frowned at the phone. Maybe the phone knew.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sam
Sam Serrow stood in the Surveillance Room at The Force’s new setup in Mill Valley. They had done a great job getting this all together in less than two weeks, since that witch and her little gang had destroyed their last building.
This place was just across the street. In the hallway, if you looked out the window, you could still see the ruined building. The Surveillance Room, Sam thought, was by far the most impressive. Looking at all the different screens, the reach of The Force really hit you. The equipment in here, he knew, was worth millions of dollars. Not that taxpayers knew that, of course. About half a dozen people sat at desks, monitoring screens. Sam could see the graphs that indicated the level of demonic activity, categorised by country, then by lethality. Usually, one little bump (a single death) wasn’t a big deal. Demons kill (and even eat) people. It happens. In the past, the angels usually interfered before The Force’s programs even registered the attack.
Sam had come in here to see if his hunch was right. Supernatural attacks appeared to be getting bolder. He was still new here, but he had come to inspect the graphs anyway. He tapped Leah on the shoulder and asked her about it.
‘Yeah, they’re up a bit. It does surge sometimes.’ She shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.
‘But vampire attacks?’ Sam pressed.
Without turning to face him, she said, ‘Sometimes they forget to be stealthy about it when they get really hungry. It doesn’t matter that much. That’s what we’re for. Duh.’
Sam rolled his eyes at the back of her head. She was not being helpful. It would seem that no one else was willing to admit what Sam was thinking, what he was really, truly afraid of. Now that the angels were gone, what was stopping the rest of the supernatural creatures from spilling into the human world?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Malachai
A rush of adrenaline coursed through Malachai’s veins as he swung his heavy metal blade through the air and down toward Ramiel’s auburn head. In the space of a heartbeat, Ramiel rolled out of the way just in time. The grassy hill finally worked to his advantage as he was huddled in the crevice of two small hills. Malachai didn’t have room to swing at him in there, but a smile crept over his face when he noticed that Ramiel’s ear was bleeding. Got him.
Instead, Malachai threw a smaller sword, a dagger, down in the shadows of the crevice where Ramiel had rolled. He could not roll out so easily. The blade struck into his forearm, burying itself up to the delicate hilt. More red blood was added to the endless field. Ramiel cried out and ripped it free. He was breathing fast, tiring.
Malachai would not admit that he too felt very tired. More so than he imagined he could. Again, he was angry for being made into a human in this useless wasteland of blood. He was a good fighter. He dared not glance around to find the Queen’s blonde crown right now, but he hoped she could see that he was much better than his older brother. He would prove himself and get out of here. Even if he had to kill every one of his partners. He was the best, and the only reason he had died was because he had been betrayed. That should not have counted, he thought angrily for the thousandth time.
Ramiel still held his blade, poised in his hand.
‘What you have to do now’—Mal drawled—‘is throw it. It’s not doing me any harm from over there.’ Ramiel didn’t even have the energy to look annoyed, Malachai saw with satisfaction. ‘Or you can just keep that one. You need it more than I do.’ Ramiel took a staggering breath and, with great effort, threw the blade. Mal could have ducked out of the way, but instead he smiled and stood perfectly still. Ramiel would have had to throw up, through the air, from the crevice below, much harder than Mal knew he could. Sure enough, the blade landed in the ground dully several feet away.
‘No, no. See, you wanna aim for me.’ Malachai laughed. ‘Oh, brother. No wonder you fell from earth.’
The Queen of the Valkyries floated over to them, her beautiful face impassive. She held her staff. She peered down at Ramiel, his arm flowing blood, then at Malachai. ‘You,’ she said to Ramiel. ‘Are in a bad position. Get up, coward.’ Then she looked at Malachai. ‘You have no business taunting your opponent. Don’t be cocky, be intelligent.’ She then floated off down the field, leaving Malachai frowning.
Ramiel seemed to draw strength from the queen’s reprimand. He crawled out of the crevice and whipped another concealed blade at Malachai that sunk deep into his side. Mal gasped, clutching at the blade. With a grunt, he ripped it out—hearing the scrape of steel on bone as is grazed by his rib—blood pouring in torrents down his armour, adding to the splattered ground. Then something caught his eye. A glimmer in the distance. They were not far into the field: Mal could see the blacksmith’s shop from here, but that’s not what made him pause stupidly in the middle of a fight.
What he was looking at, he realised with a start, was the promised witch. In Valhalla. Malachai growled, low in his throat, and started after her.
Chapter Forty
Hella
If Harrow was corporeal, she thought, he would walk up to her and shake her angrily. He looked mad enough to do it. He was pacing, frustrated, and Hella told him over and over that she didn’t know how to scry for his soul, let alone in another world, in astral form. Hella took a step back when she saw his eyes: they were solid black. She did not like those eyes. It was the last thing she had seen before she had passed out while he’d choked her.
Hella tried to take a deep, steadying breath—not that it physically helped her in astral-form. It was more psychological than anything else. Calming. ‘Harrow,’ she said evenly. ‘I can’t. I don’t know how to scry for your soul. We just have to look.’
He shot her a glare that made her think he wanted to throw something heavy at her. Even here, he wasn’t his old self. It made her ache inside.
‘Look, it should be something that has some meaning to you,’ Hella said, though really, she wasn’t sure about that. ‘Maybe it’s not on the field at all.’
Harrow paced, and, though she could see through him, she wasn’t looking through him until something caught her eye. The way one of the fighters on the field moved was different. Perhaps he was running away from his partner, though that seemed unlikely, she thought. They were soldiers. Then she caught site of the mop of dark hair and a glimmer of green eyes.
‘No,’ she breathed.
Harrow stopped pacing and glanced at her. ‘What?’ He had been rambling at her, and now paused, annoyed at being interrupted. When she didn’t answer, he turned and followed her line of sight. Harrow saw him too. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘He can’t see us, right?’ Harrow stepped a little closer to Hella, who was frozen.
She wanted to say, ‘No, of course he can’t.’ But there was a sinking feeling in her stomach that stopped her. Malachai was looking directly at her. She looked behind her, but it was just the blacksmith working, his head down, clanging away. The angel wasn’t looking there. He was looking at Hella, the one who had trapped him and organised Nerretti, his brother, to rip his heart out and send all the angels away. He was getting closer and closer. She could see that he was running toward her. A figure in the background had paused, unsure what Malachai was doing.
‘How can he see us?’ Harrow demanded.
‘I think our problem right now is: If he can see us, can he touch us?’ Hella hissed urgently. She didn’t want to wait to find out. She backed up a few steps, hoping Malachai couldn’t see Harrow too. The angel was very close now. So close she could see that he was bleeding from a serious-looking wound to the abdomen. Despite the situation, it made her glad that he was—and could be—wounded. He scrambled to a stop just short of
her. Hella wanted to back right up, through the walls and into the great hall, but she froze under the familiar contemptuous glare of his smouldering green eyes.
‘You,’ Malachai breathed. ‘Witch!’ He took a dagger from his leather belt and whipped it through the air, straight at her head.
‘Hella!’ Harrow yelled. It was the first time he had shown concern for her since she had brought him back to life. Despite the metal hurtling toward her face, for that, she was grateful.
It came as no great surprise when the metal whooshed right through her, though Hella’s heart (in Harrow’s cell) had begun to beat like a bird trapped in a cage. Malachai roared his frustration, a fresh river of red blood pouring from his wound. Harrow closed his eyes briefly in relief.
‘What the hell are you doing here, little witch?’ Malachai growled.
Seeing Malachai bleed red human blood was satisfying. He was no longer the big, dark winged creature in the night he used to be, towering over her alone in the park, his wings beating down on her. Hella almost smiled. She looked at Harrow. It couldn’t hurt to tell him, she thought. Maybe the angel would even let something spill that could help them. Harrow gave a half-shrug that, to Hella, that seemed to say, Go for it.
‘Harrow died in that battle, the same day as you, but I brought him back from the dead. His soul, however, didn’t come back. We thought it might be here.’ Guilt laced her voice, but she assumed Malachai would happily ignore that. It wasn’t guilt for his death, of course.
Malachai’s dark brows knitted together. Even though he bled, Hella noticed with some surprise that the intensity of his green eyes had not been enhanced by his angel qualities: that anger and contempt was all his own. A sneer pulled up his lip as his gaze fell to Harrow. ‘A warrior slain in battle, hmm?’ Malachai glanced over his shoulder to the Unending Field of Blood. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’
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