by Meg Collett
There was nothing meaningful on the desk. She turned toward the bookshelf behind her, walking her fingers along the rows of mismatched, haphazardly shelved books, binders, and odd trinkets. After a minute, she wheeled away, frustrated. Not knowing what to look for made it hard to find.
“What is your problem?” Clark asked finally. Michaela had paced the room twice now, leaving destruction in her wake.
Michaela looked up, glowering. “Excuse me?”
“You’re taking out way too much aggression on that chair.” Clark pointed to the leather wingback that Michaela currently shredded open with a letter opener. She held the object like a dagger, poised over her victim. “It doesn’t deserve that. Who would take the time to sew something into a seat anyway?”
“We have to figure out what Lucifer is doing here.” She stabbed the letter opener in Clark’s direction.
“Well, chill out, pop a pill, and go through those filing cabinets.”
She shot Clark a dirty glare. Apparently unscathed, he turned back to searching the desk with a steady assurance that suggested this was not his first prowling escapade. Michaela stalked past him toward the filing cabinets. She nearly knocked over a cold, half empty cup of old coffee sitting on the edge of the desk. Clark caught the cup, but the papers beneath fell to the floor. A small, worn book that had been lying beneath the pile caught his eye.
As Michaela watched, Clark set the cup aside and picked up the book. His fingers skimmed across the soft, thin leather. Deep lines formed between his brows as he traced the swirling, engraved lines on the cover. He even lifted it to his noise for a sniff.
“What is that?” she asked, interested. She hoped they had finally found something. She came to his side and reached for the book, but Clark couldn’t let it go.
“I don’t know.” His voice was low and reverential, all the usual swagger and sarcasm lost. Michaela looked from the book to Clark, watching his expression of bewilderment and wonder.
From where she stood, with her shoulder almost touching Clark’s, she saw the book was ancient, but she smelled something strange and dangerous coming from its pages. The air around them tightened, pressing in warningly. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, to drop the book, but before she could, Clark was creaking open the binding. The book unfolded in his vulnerable, human hands.
The moment it was opened, it reacted. Clark gasped. Michaela watched with wide eyes as a warm glow washed over the opening page, revealing words that appeared then disappeared. Clark nearly dropped the book as the pages started to turn like a stiff wind was blowing across them. Michaela couldn’t keep up as the words raced across the flipping pages before disappearing.
But they weren’t disappearing. Clark and Michaela both realized what happened at the same moment. Clark dropped the book with a curse.
Michaela didn’t catch the book, or even watch it fall. Instead, her eyes stayed transfixed on Clark’s skin. The words had raced from the book’s pages, to Clark’s hands, up his fingers, and into the skin of his forearms. The ancient language, one Michaela immediately recognized once it was still, inked in tight, intricate twists and hieroglyphics up to his biceps, leaving behind scorched skin and drops of blood.
“Oh shit.” Michaela heard herself say, but she didn’t recognize her voice.
Clark whimpered, clearly in pain. The tips of his fingers trembled as he held his arms out, inspecting them with wide, unblinking eyes. Clark weaved, looking like he might faint.
“Oh shit,” Clark echoed when he could speak.
Michaela touched the twisting red dragon that wove around his wrist and onto the top of his left hand. Smoke from its silent screeching mouth wove over and under his fingers. Clark shivered. When she looked up, their eyes met.
“Do you know what this is?”Michaela asked in awe. Clark shook his head, swallowing loudly.
“This is the insignia of the Watchers.” Her finger traced farther up his arm. “Do you know what language this is?” Clark stared at her and not the red words on his arms. She continued, “It’s their language.”
“Can you read it?” Clark croaked.
“No. It was the Watchers’ secret language. We thought the book had been lost. There was no known record of it…” Her eyes skittered to where the book laid.
“What is it?” Clark asked.
Michaela bent to retrieve the empty hull. Nothing remained on its cover or pages, but Michaela wasn’t looking for any identifying marks. She knew already.
“The Apocrypha.”
Michaela had heard rumors of the Apocrypha, but no one believed the Watchers put their secrets—their very source of power—to paper. The Watchers were exalted angels, a choir unto themselves, who held incredible magic. But along with their disgrace, their magic had been lost. Many holy angels believed it was for the better. No one, even the angels, should hold the secrets to the universe. The myth that a book contained the lost answers was enough to make any holy angel more than uneasy.
Yet, Michaela held the very book in her hands. Like it had done to Clark moments before, the book seemed to send its own whispered breath up Michaela’s arms that made her arm hairs stand on end.
The humans will win the war. They will be my army.
“Is this bad?” Clark asked is a shaky, young voice.
“Don’t let anyone see those marks under any circumstance. We have to go,” Michaela said instead of answering.
The lights flipped on.
21
“What the fu—”
Michaela pressed her hand hard against Clark’s mouth and yanked him to the floor behind the metal desk. His eyes were unashamedly wide with true fear, its smell filling her flaring nostrils.
When there was no immediate yelling or sharp objects flying through the air, Michaela realized the office door had never opened. It wasn’t the office lights that had turned on. She looked at Clark, who shook his head to say he wasn’t going to check it out. Michaela rolled her eyes before poking her head above the desk. The two-way mirror revealed it was the other room swathed in light.
Michaela stood, tugging Clark beside her. Together they watched as a man walked about the cramped viewing room next door before stopping in front of the window. He stared straight at them, but his face never changed. Clark waved slowly.
Without recognition, the middle-aged, pudgy man turned and walked toward the center of the room to sit on a wide, plush velvet chair so big his short legs didn’t touch the ground. He picked up a small remote on the arm of the chair and pressed a button.
In front of them, a thick curtain slowly started to rise off the well-worn carpet. When the curtain was all the way up, it revealed a thick glass enclosure suited to hold a wild animal. The man struggled to straighten in his oversized chair.
A figure slowly materialized from the shadows of the glass enclosure. Clark’s mouth opened with an audible pop. A flute began to play an old, sea swept song in the viewing room. They all waited in stunned silence.
The woman who stepped up to the glass had a full, curving, perfect figure. She drew her long, sinuous arms over her head, twisting and sliding them down each other. Her round hips swiveled and rocked to the song. Seaweed ran like vines up and between her legs, twisting around her hips as she danced. Huge green eyes were focused solely on the man sitting transfixed before her.
The woman’s face was as lush as her body, framed by red wisps of hair that seemed to blow in a soft breeze. But Michaela focused on the woman’s full, painted lips as they moved, forming the chords of an ancient song Michaela thought she would never hear again. For the briefest of a breath, Michaela saw a lightening-like slither of a serpent’s tongue dart out of her wide mouth. Her long lashes brushed across her cheekbones as she closed her eyes, drawing her hands down the front of her body to cup her breasts.
“Oh, shit,” Michaela whispered for the second time that night.
“Yeah, she’s something isn’t she?” Clark said dreamily as he watched the woman’s writhing body press and slide against
the glass. Keeping her eye on the creature, Michaela reached back and smacked Clark hard on the back of the head.
He jerked, ducking to avoid further blows. He turned to Michaela with a slightly peeved stare. “Jealously does not become you.”
“She’s a Siren, you idiot.”
Cocking his head, he looked back at the creature that was now on her knees. His mouth formed a round ‘o’ and his eyes grew wide. “As in the irresistible-mythological-creatures-that-sang-from-the-cliffs-to-draw-Odysseus-and-his-men-to-their-deathskind of Sirens?”
Michaela shook her head. “How many classes did you skip during your Descendant training? Sirens were the human wives of the Watchers. After I buried the Watchers deep in the mountain for their transgressions against man, I punished the women with an immortal life full of unfulfilled desires. They would want what they could never have for the rest of eternity. They can lure men in with their voice, but they will never feel a man’s touch again.”
Clark shook his head, watching the Siren dance a moment longer. The man in the room leaned halfway out of his chair, drawing closer to the glass—an enraptured expression on his face. His lips moved in time with hers, begging and pleading for more.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” Clark said under his breath.
“It was a punishment meant to remind them of their sins. I never thought Lucifer could use them like this.”
“Can he?” Clark asked, his attention still on the Siren.
Frowning, Michaela said, “No…the Aethere had to pardon them from Hell. They judge the souls, but I typically handled the punishments within our ranks. The Aethere are the only other angels who could lift a punishment I had enacted.”
“Right. But should we go?” Clark asked.
“No,” Michaela said. “Not yet. I want to see what she will do to him.”
Michaela’s forehead creased as she considered the coincidence of finding the Apocrypha and a Siren in the same club. Lucifer was up to something, and it went far beyond just having dancing Sirens in a sleazy club for pleasure. For the first time, Michaela began to agree with Gabriel. This was much bigger than the Aethere simply framing her and the Archangels.
The man stumbled out of his chair and closer to the glass. The Siren slid up from the ground like a toxic vapor until she was eyelevel with him, coaxing and encouraging him. Like he could pull her out of the cage, his hands pressed so hard against the barrier, the flabby muscles in his arms quivered. He leaned in and pressed his lips against the glass. With a lewd smile, the Siren lowered her head and met his lips.
“This doesn’t look good,” Clark whispered.
The Siren’s tongue flicked out, and the pane of glass folded into her mouth like moisture. Her hands reached up to grasp the man’s face, holding him tight against her.
“Uh, what’s she doing?”
Clark’s voice was urgent. The man convulsed and fell limp in the Siren’s grip, who continued to kiss him like she was trying to pull him inside her. Michaela squinted, staring intently at the Siren’s mouth.
A tendril of light passed out of the man and between the creature’s parting lips for a second before the light went back inside the man. Her tongue whipped out and flicked at the man’s unmoving lips before she closed her mouth.
“She’s tasted his soul…But didn’t take it.”
“Should we help him?” Clark quickly glanced at her before looking back to the scene.
“She didn’t completely kill him.”
The Siren closed her eyes, her features laid out in relaxed fulfillment like she had just eaten something delicious.
“What do you mean ‘completely’?” Clark’s voice squeaked.
The Siren bent over the human. It wasn’t until Michaela saw the thick red liquid that she realized the Siren drew his blood. The creature took so many vials that Michaela figured if the man wasn’t already dead he would be. When she finished, the Siren easily picked the man up and placed him back on the chair.
“He’s just unconscious. We should go,” Michaela said. Clark met her eyes and nodded. They both glanced back at the Siren at the same time.
She stared right at them—the two-way mirror was gone. Nothing separated Michaela and Clark from the deadly Siren. Her lips began to move again.
The sound hit Michaela like a punch in the gut. It ripped through her head, forcing away any thoughts, leaving only a horrible, tearing pain. Michaela doubled over, her body clenched against the shrieking in her mind. Her eyes watered, and hot vomit rose up her throat.
Pressing against the desk she looked up, eyes bulging. The Siren floated into the office, leaving a trail of seaweed behind her. The smell of the ocean filled the room, the wet brine suffocating and thick. The Siren was heading straight for Clark.
Clark was oblivious to the danger. His face was the same as the patron’s moments ago. He was enraptured, begging for more. He took a step forward as the Siren beckoned him with her sweet singing. His eyes glazed over, mouth agape. Michaela grabbed for him, but he stepped out of her reach.
With a tremendous heave, Michaela shoved herself into Clark, knocking both of them to the ground. Pressing her hands against his ears to block out the sound, the haze over his eyes cleared, and he finally looked scared as the Siren, breathing her rotten fish breath, hovered above them. The Siren turned to Michaela, glaring and vengeful.
The Siren recognized her then. With a flick of her tongue, the Siren grabbed Michaela, wrenching her to her feet. The wet seaweed snaked around Michaela’s legs, securing her to the Siren. The sound of waves slapping onto sand filled Michaela’s ears. The sea’s brine seeped through the Siren’s skin onto Michaela.
Michaela’s eyes settled on the soft skin along the Siren’s neck. The creature wrapped Michaela in a tight embrace that looked almost intimate—except the Siren sank her fangs deep into the meat of Michaela’s shoulder. Her claws dug into the muscles along Michaela’s spine, pulling and tugging for purchase on bone.
With a grunt, Michaela’s hand slipped along reptilian skin. She ran her fingers down the outline of the creature’s throat, and there she dug her hand in, her nails piercing the soft, decaying flesh. The Siren opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, Michaela propelled her hand deeper into the creature’s cold, gutted throat, crushing her windpipe with a swift clench of her fist.
The Siren fell dead at Michaela’s feet. Her hand dripped with thick, black mucus instead of blood. Shards of the creature’s throat dangled from her fingers. She turned toward Clark, who was on his feet. He looked away from the gore, his face drawn.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Clark answered with his hand already on the door, yanking at the locked knob.
Michaela reached around him, covering the metal with mucus as she fumbled with the lock. Clark pushed against the door as if he could open it with sheer will alone. Finally the lock clicked over, and they both stumbled into the hallway in a tangle of limbs and Clark’s curses.
Their breaths were heavy as they straightened off the floor. The mucus burned Michaela’s hand, and her shoulder throbbed from the Siren’s venom. She barely registered the pain, because adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her human body even more sensitive to her angelic blood.
Her arm was on Clark’s, yanking him in the right direction, when she screeched to a stop. She smelled him before she even saw or heard him.
Asmodeus was blocking their path.
22
Asz looked like hell in every way possible. His drooping, black wings made him a shadow, a spot of darkness easily overlooked. Dull, inky eyes stared down at Michaela, unblinking and uncomprehending. He reached to touch her face, but his hand paused, and a tremor ran down his body.
“Michaela. Michaela,” he whispered. “I’ve been looking for you. I thought I wouldn’t find you in time. But here you are. You found me.” He swayed. Michaela resisted to the urge to steady him.
“Michaela?” Clark echoed. His
body was wired tight beside Michaela, his eyes darting from the angels to the empty hallway.
Michaela’s slick, sticky hand still grasped Clark’s arm. Her shirt, soaked with her blood, stuck to her shoulder where the poison burned deeper into her muscles. Her vision was blurring, but even if she could have seen clearly, she wouldn’t have recognized Asz.
The angel in front of her was lifeless and certainly posed no physical threat. Even his feathers had no gleam, as if he might disperse into a legion of floating feathers any moment. He looked like a dead man walking.
“It’s fine, Clark. This is Asz,” she said.
“I know who he is,” Clark said.
“Let’s talk in the office.” Michaela motioned to the door from which she and Clark had just catapulted. She steered Asz into the room, and Clark softly shut the door behind them, sliding the lock into place. Asz saw the slain Siren and cringed away.
“A Siren tried to suck out Clark’s soul, which I thought was interesting considering they were forever damned to eternity in Hell.”
“They were freed.” Asz’s lips barely formed the words.
“Asz, what happened?” Michaela couldn’t help her anger. Asz had been the only angel in the cave the night Molloch attacked her, who might have helped her. Instead, he had left her with Molloch’s body, knowing Lucifer was coming to take her wings. “Asz!”
Michaela was shaking Asz before she realized what she was doing. Her shoulder protested, the torn skin pulling and oozing blood and mucus.
“Michaela,” Clark said. He pulled her away from Asz. “Give him a minute.”
Asz shrank away, chewing on his fingernail and bobbing his head. His shrunken form folded in on itself. “I’m so sorry. I’m so…so…confused. I don’t understand anything anymore.”
Michaela sighed and Clark let her go. She had expected the fallen Archangels to be happy and thriving under Lucifer’s thumb. She had prepared to hate them for it. But she couldn’t hate Asz like this, so broken and hollow.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry too.” Michaela touched Asz’s arm. His eyes were hopeful when they met hers.
