by Meg Collett
“Who’s Camille?”
Clark rolled his eyes. “The angel in the bedroom.”
“Why are you trying to fix her wings?” Zarachiel asked quietly. His words were measured and even, as if he’d already known what Clark was trying to do.
Clark glanced at Zarachiel in surprise before he spoke. “Lucifer told Gabriel that I would help him return to Heaven, which Gabriel thinks that meant Lucifer knew an angel without wings couldn’t go to Heaven without getting sick. So now Gabriel believes I might have the ability to do this.”
“To fix our wings….” Michaela said.
Clark held up his hands like he was motioning for her to slow down. “But it’s not working. I can’t figure it out. And Camille still has her wings. Neither of you do. I don’t know how I could fix that, and the only reason I’m trying is because of that damn vision.”
“But you think you could?”
Clark didn’t answer. The stress and exhaustion Michaela saw in his eyes was answer enough. He’d been trying, which meant he thought it was possible.
She didn’t know how she felt about this. She didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about this. Should she be happy? Or nervous? What if he could fix Camille, but not her? Her wings were long lost, divvied up and turned into weapons. If she had her wings, she wouldn’t get sick the closer she got to Heaven. She could return.
She might not die.
But that was dangerous thinking, and already excitement festered in her belly. Clark saw it in her eyes and groaned. “This is what I was afraid of. You think I can do it.”
“Clark,” Michaela said, ashamed to hear the waver in her voice. “You’re incredibly powerful. The Watchers’ ability to heal was without precedent. You really might be able to do it.”
Clark shook his head, a clump of hair flopping into his eyes. He shoved it back in frustration. “This is huge, Michaela. This is wings. This is, like, divine.”
“I know,” Michaela whispered.
She hated herself for it, but she pictured herself flying again. The feel of the wind gusting through her feathers was a memory she couldn’t tamp down with time. Gabriel could be beside her, holding her hand instead of holding her.
Clark didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what she was thinking. Swearing, he dropped his head to the table, burying it in his arms.
“What was that?”
The sharpness in Zarachiel’s voice turned Michaela’s spine to ice. She didn’t look back at him as she stiffened in her chair, all thoughts of flying lost. Clark looked up, opening his mouth. Michaela held up her hand to silence him.
Another squeak came from the porch, like weight shifting across a loose board.
Slowly, Michaela turned her head to the window. Through the grimy lace curtains, a shadow slinked by. There was no mistaking the shape of wings, hanging contorted and useless.
“Hybrids.”
25
Michaela and Clark slowly stood from the table. Zarachiel was up and watching the handle of the front door. Michaela pulled her knife from its sheath on her thigh.
Clark pointed outside and dragged his finger across his throat. He motioned for her to stay exactly where she was.
Michaela shook her head, making Clark roll his eyes. “You’re weak!” he whispered in a hiss. “Stay here. I’m going to go out the back. Rattle the doorknob to distract them.”
“No. I’m coming with you.” Michaela stepped away from the table, making a floorboard squeak.
“You’re staying here because I’m going to kill them, and I don’t want to fry you, too.”
Michaela recognized the stubborn look on Clark’s face. “Fine!” she hissed back. “But be careful.”
“Whatever. Just give me a minute, and then rattle the knob.”
Clark crept toward the bedroom door. He slipped inside and disappeared. Michaela hoped the back window wouldn’t stick or make too much noise. She took a deep breath and inched closer to the door. Iris emerged from the bedroom a moment later, her eyes looking tired but wide with renewed fear.
Zarachiel hadn’t moved. His eyes trained on the door. “I hear at least twelve, maybe fifteen.”
“Shit,” Michaela whispered, stifling a groan. Zarachiel’s lips twitched at her swear word, but now wasn’t the time to laugh at her bad habits.
She wrapped her hand around the cold, metal knob. She could hear something breathing on the other side. The breaths were a wheeze, a moist hitch. The floorboard squeaked again. The creature’s heat seeped through the door. Zarachiel nodded.
She rattled the knob with one hand and beat on the door with her other. “Hey!” she shouted through the door. “Hey, you ugly pieces of shit. Come in here and get me!”
Footsteps pounded across the porch. The door knob twisted violently in Michaela’s hand. Wide-eyed, Michaela looked at Zarachiel. Her heart hammered in her chest as she let go and backed away.
“Down here!” Clark yelled from outside.
The footsteps stopped. The door stayed closed. Michaela rushed to the window and looked out, feeling Zarachiel leaning over her shoulder. Iris pressed in beside Michaela’s shoulder.
“Oh, no,” Iris whispered.
Clark stood in the grass, holding up his hands toward the hybrids lining the porch. It took Michaela a moment to understand the wet, golden paint on his hands. It wasn’t paint.
“He’s crazy!” Michaela gasped. She was about to run to the door when Zarachiel’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.
“He’s right. You shouldn’t be out there,” Zarachiel said without removing his eyes from the window. Michaela looked back outside.
Gold blood covered Clark’s arms up to his elbows. The hybrids caught the scent, their bodies leaning toward the enticing pull of angel’s blood. They moved off the porch, their movements lithe and deadly. These weren’t the blundering hybrids Michaela easily killed when she was in Charleston. These were hybrids that still possessed enough of their brains to hunt prey.
Some descended the stairs, while others flipped over the railing and landed silently on the frozen ground. Clark backed away, dripping blood on the grass in front of him. The hybrids converged, sweeping around the yard and flanking Clark. Unless more were hidden, it looked as though he’d drawn them all to him.
Clark crouched, looking ready to pounce and attack every hybrid one-on-one. For a tense, fearful moment, Michaela thought he was angry enough to do it. Instead, he lowered his hand to the ground and spoke.
Through the glass, Michaela couldn’t hear his words, but she didn’t need to. Immediately, the frozen ground caught fire. The flames blasted outward, hot and sizzling blue. In a second, the fire reached the hybrids.
The licking heat worked up their legs, engulfing their bodies until they looked like screaming, fiery teardrops. Clark was hidden behind the flames. Michaela flung open the door and raced onto the porch with Iris and Zarachiel right behind her. He pulled her to a stop at the top of the stairs, his grip much stronger than Michaela anticipated.
The flaming bodies dropped to the ground. After a minute of solid fire, Clark stood up, his hand leaving the ground. Like he’d turned off a switch, the fire died, leaving behind smoking husks of fried meat and bones.
The smell, like burnt garbage, hit Michaela hard. She gagged as Clark stepped through the bodies, his feet crunching on the charred ash of the ground. No more was the yard just a frozen expanse of dead grass. Now it was a sizzling, smoking sea of black soot.
“Clark,” Michaela started as he slowly climbed the stairs. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and worn from the use of his magic. It always took its toll on him, exhausting him or depleting his strength. After the fire, he looked completely spent.
“That’s why I wanted you to stay inside.”
He brushed by her and went back into the cabin. Iris followed him inside, and Michaela turned to Zarachiel. “Do you think there are more? Can you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“I can keep watch until the others come back,” Zarachiel offered.
“I’ll stay out here with you.” Michaela hunched deeper into her jacket, her eyes scanning the tree line. Her heart finally slowed, but she didn’t look away from the woods.
* * *
Clark closed the front door behind him and slumped against it. He didn’t think his body could bear his weight one more second. His tired, aching eyes found Camille standing beside the kitchen window.
She cradled her only attached wing in her arms to keep it from dragging the ground. She watched him, and for once he couldn’t read the emotion in her feline eyes. She wore one of his rock concert shirts that fell just above her knees and nothing else. Clark looked away.
“I’m going to lie down, and you should be resting, too,” he said, his voice gruff and raspy.
Clark started toward the bedroom. Now that Camille had run off Zarachiel and Michaela, there was a free cot. Its uncomfortable narrowness sounded wonderful to Clark right then. Camille followed and closed the door behind them.
Clark kicked off his boots as he crossed the room, leaving them were they fell. He tore his shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest before he flopped face-first onto the cot. The metal rods squawked beneath him. From the corner of his cracked eye, he saw Camille take a seat on her cot.
“I didn’t think you could really do it,” Camille said, sounding slightly shocked.
“Surprise.” Clark’s words were muffled in the cot, his sarcasm lost in his exhaustion.
“When you rushed in here and rubbed my old bandages over your skin, I thought you were an idiot. I didn’t think there was any way you could kill those things.”
“Thanks.” He was so close to falling asleep. So close….
“But you did it,” Camille said, making Clark groan. “You really killed those creatures using your power.” Clark didn’t answer. He turned his head the other way and tried to ignore her. “I honestly didn’t think you could fix my wings, either. I’d hoped, but I didn’t believe. I think I do now.”
Clark opened his eyes and stared at the wall, feeling very awake all of a sudden. “Good for you,” he said, forcing himself to sound nonchalant and sleepy.
“I heard you talking to the traitors. You told them you didn’t know if you could do it, but I think you can.” Clark rolled his eyes at Camille’s words. She really didn’t like Michaela. “Maybe you just haven’t really tried because you’ve doubted yourself.”
“I’ve tried.”
“But maybe not really.”
Clark twisted his head back around and glared at Camille. “I’ve tried. Now go to sleep. When we wake up, I’ll try again.”
Clark closed his eyes to make his point. He couldn’t see her anymore, but for some reason, Clark felt like she smiled at him. He didn’t know for sure, but he could have sworn the room got a little brighter.
26
Michaela and Zarachiel sat outside for hours as the day drew closer to twilight. They didn’t talk as they kept their watch, but Michaela was comforted by his presence. Today, Zarachiel had come out of his shell a little more, and Michaela was glad to have him back. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed his steady quietness, his considerate nature.
They’d arranged the still-hot bodies of the hybrids into an indelicate pile in the corner of the clearing. They couldn’t do much about the scorched yard or the bits of bone littering the charred ground. It still reeked.
When they finally heard the sound of wings overhead, Zarachiel and Michaela relaxed with relief. Michaela didn’t notice anything wrong at first as the group landed closely bunched together. Her eyes found Gabriel right away, scanning his body for injuries. Once she was certain he was okay, she looked at the others.
Simiel and Raphael supported Ophaniel between them. She was pale, her eyes fluttering open and closed. Michaela stood, her hand clutching the rail. Zarachiel’s eyes were on Uriel as they communicated in their silent exchange of glances. They brought Ophaniel closer, and Michaela saw the large amount of blood covering the front of the angel’s limp body.
“What happened?” Michaela’s voice was a lot stronger than she felt, her normal warrior instincts kicking in. Injuries were a part of war, but Ophaniel looked seriously wounded. She followed the group up the stairs and onto the porch, where the Archangels worked to shed their armor. They were careful with Ophaniel as they eased her breastplate off.
“She was stabbed in her shoulder,” Gabriel said, his eyes finding Michaela’s. She saw the apprehension and burning anger in his black depths. His reaction scared her more than the gaping wound in Ophaniel’s shoulder and the large quantities of blood that still poured out. A shoulder injury shouldn’t be a big deal.
“Why does it look like that?” Michaela questioned. “Why hasn’t she healed?”
“It was a bone sword,” Gabriel said, his words quiet with steady, icy anger. Michaela noticed he didn’t come close to her. His fury heated the air around him until particles sparked.
“How did the holy angels get those swords?” Michaela was horrified. She’d chosen not to use their fatal weapons because the holy angels didn’t have any. It was a brutal, cruel kind of advantage the fallen would have had if they’d used them, but if the holy angels had found some…that changed everything.
“I have my suspicions,” Gabriel said. His jaw clenched. “I need to get back to Hell.”
Michaela knew what he meant. He thought some of the fallen angels who hadn’t aligned with his rule were sabotaging the Archangels’ quest to save Heaven. From the beginning, he’d known he couldn’t win over all of the fallen. Most were repentant angels who just wanted a kind, fair leader, but some were truly deviant, truly lost. Gabriel would punish those tonight.
Ophaniel was carried inside, where Iris was already boiling water with Clark’s help. From the porch, Michaela saw Iris talking with Raphael and Simiel as they settled Ophaniel onto the pallet. The Archangels rushed back outside with instructions from Iris.
“Iris needs us to find antibiotics,” Raphael said, breathless. “And something she can use to close the wound.”
“Is her body not healing?” Michaela asked, her fear growing.
“Not fast enough. We’re going to scout some nearby towns,” Simiel said. The group swept down the stairs. Uriel didn’t even let her feet hit the ground before she was in the air, flying away.
“We’ll be back within the hour,” Raphael shouted over his shoulder. He paused.
Simiel and Raphael stared at the ground. They both looked back at Michaela. “What happened here?” Simiel asked, mystified.
“Nothing. Just go!” At Michaela’s command, the angels flung themselves into the sky, racing off in different directions.
When she looked back at Gabriel, he frowned at the destroyed yard. “What did happen?” he asked, just now realizing what he’d missed when they’d landed.
“Hybrids,” Michaela said, making Gabriel’s eyes widen. “But it’s no big deal. Clark took care of them. Will Ophaniel be okay? Could she,” Michaela lowered her voice, “die?”
Gabriel looked lost for a moment. “I don’t know. The wound itself isn’t fatal if there’s not an infection. But we can’t be sure if your wing bones alone are enough to kill her just by cutting her.”
Michaela’s face fell and Gabriel grabbed her hand. “I didn’t mean that. It came out wrong,” he said, searching her eyes.
She nodded. “I know. It’s just…how can my bones do this? What if that sword kills her? That’s basically like I’ve murdered her.”
“No,” Gabriel said, his voice snapping. “That’s not true at all. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know,” Michaela whispered. “But it feels like it.”
Gabriel’s expression softened. “Please don’t say that. It breaks my heart.”
“If the holy angels have bone swords, we can’t fight them,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t make Gabriel happy.
“We use our own. Most of the f
allen have them,” Gabriel said, his anger returning and hardening his words.
Michaela shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We can’t do that. It would be a massacre. I don’t want any holy angel to die.”
“Michaela,” Gabriel said, exasperated. “That angel would have killed Ophaniel if he could have.”
Michaela looked away, forcing her tears not to fall. She blinked a few times. “I know. But they don’t know what they’re fighting for. They’re lost, confused. Abel has them so twisted around. I know we have to fight for Heaven, but we don’t have to kill.”
Gabriel raked his hands over his head. “We need to talk more about this,” he said. Michaela heard the frustration in his voice. “But I have to get to Hell and figure out who is selling bone swords.”
“Do you really think the Aethere would buy swords from fallen angels?”
Gabriel laughed, the sound bitter. “Abel has already made one deal with the devil. I doubt he’d get a conscious now.”
Gabriel started down the stairs. Michaela followed at a slower pace. She felt better, but she still felt the remnants of the sickness in her body.
“I’m sorry about not telling you, Gabe,” Michaela said before Gabriel could fly away. “I didn’t want you to find out that way.”
He turned back to her, and she saw the war in his eyes. He wanted to touch her, kiss her. She saw the desire in the way his body leaned toward her, the way he had to fist his hands to keep from touching her, but he held back as she knew he would. He was furious and ragged, raw and torn by Ophaniel’s injury. He wanted to punish and kill. He wanted a war with a death count and she didn’t. He couldn’t find a safe ground to stand on right then to touch her.
Michaela understood the impact of war. She kept her distance.
“I’m not talking about this with you,” Gabriel said. “I won’t even entertain it. It’s not happening.”
“I understand—”
“But you don’t. If you did understand, you would see how ridiculous this vision is. You’d do everything in your power to change it. You’d see that the only way to take Heaven is to use bone swords and kill any angel that stands in our way.”
