by Lou Morgan
And Castor rolled over just in time to see the first lightning bolt smash into Zadkiel’s unarmoured chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lux Aeterna
TO CASTOR, ZADKIEL appeared frozen. Unblinking, unmoving. Unwavering, even as the lightning crawled across his skin and one bolt after another slammed into his body with a force that would have knocked a lesser man off his feet. But Zadkiel wasn’t a man. He was an Archangel, and even as white sparks swarmed around his eyes, burrowing into his skin, he stood firm.
As Zadkiel died, he stood firm and he opened his wings.
And all Castor could do was watch.
Watch as the final blast of white lightning drove into Zak’s chest.
Watch as his strength finally gave out and he fell to his knees.
Watch as he blinked once, just once, at Castor – lying useless on the stone walkway – before the life went out of his eyes and he slumped to the floor.
And now it was Castor who was frozen; frozen as Gabriel strode along the top of the wall towards them, white sparks still flying from his fingers and a smile on his face. He dropped into a crouch beside Zadkiel’s hollow body, his hands skimming his clothing... and then stopped.
His eyes travelled along Zak’s limbs, where he had fallen, and over Castor, who could do little except tremble in fear and in rage and in utter disbelief.
“Tell him, Earthbound. Tell him who did this, and why. And tell him that he will be next.”
Gabriel slid his hand into one of Zadkiel’s pockets and – with a look of triumph –pulled out a small bundle of dirty cloth. He closed his fingers tightly around it.
“Tell him, Castor. Tell Michael. I want him to know. I want him to know that finally, the war is over. The war is over, and he... has... lost.”
Gabriel straightened, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. The sun glinted off the feathers of his wings as he opened them, stretched them wide.
He stepped onto the parapet, and with a single beat of his wings, he was gone... leaving Castor cowed and weeping as he cradled the body of the dead Archangel on the walls of Mont Saint-Michel.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Price We Pay
MALLORY RUBBED AT the sore patch on his wrist where the manacle dug into his flesh. He was getting desperate. The boy was fading. And he was little more than a boy, Mallory had come to realise. Maybe twenty, thirty at most, and he had no idea what had happened to him, no idea what he had got involved in. None. Which begged the question of what the Fallen actually wanted with him. As far as Mallory had been able to work out, he hadn’t even done anything particularly interesting – certainly nothing that would catch their attention.
At least it gave him something to think about. Mallory was bored. Worried and bored. It wasn’t a pleasant combination. There was no way of measuring the time here: it was always dark, always damp. There was food, from time to time, shoved through a slot in the base of the door, but it seemed to arrive whenever their captors remembered (or could be bothered) rather than at regular intervals.
Toby slept much of the time. Mallory – who had never needed much by way of sleep – listened to the rise and fall of his breath as he slept, wondering whether Alice was safe. Hoping that Alice was safe. And wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this.
He had healed. He knew that much. His wings were sore – and would be for some time, he thought grimly – but more than anything, they ached to be stretched. They ached from the damp and the dark. He ached from the damp and the dark, and the simple fact that he was a prisoner. The manacle, he had discovered, was attached to a length of chain and, in turn, to a bolt on the floor. Testing it had occupied his mind for a little while, but it was pointless. Neither was going to give in a hurry, and it was a waste of strength fighting them. As an extra bonus, the manacle felt as though it had letters carved or cast into it – and while the light wasn’t quite enough to make them out, Mallory would gladly put money on them being Enochian, and on their being put there to keep him in his place. So he could heal, but he certainly hadn’t been able to leave. And that meant there was someone smarter than Rimmon behind this. It had to be Xaphan. And if it was Xaphan, then it absolutely confirmed everything he had feared. The whole of the trip to Mont Saint-Michel had been a set-up. But for what? Too many questions... and none of the possible answers were comforting.
Mallory rested his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to Toby’s breathing from across the cell. He was sleeping again. Just as well, though Mallory. Whatever he’s dreaming about, it has to be better than being awake.
TOBY DID NOT get to sleep for long.
A QUIET BUZZING sound made Mallory open an eye. Not that it made much difference in the dark. But the buzz... it sounded like...
Bright light exploded across Mallory’s field of vision, making him wince and turn his head away. The sound dimmed, faded... and so did the flare of light.
A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling in the middle of their little cell. It swung gently back and forth, throwing rapidly shifting shadows on the dingy walls. Mallory’s eyes, accustomed to the dark, protested as he took in the room.
It was longer than he had imagined, and there was a steel door: patched and welded, but solid enough. Toby was curled into a small ball on a trestle bed at the end of the room. The walls were concrete, chipped and scuffed and generally the worse for wear. Something was smeared along one of them, dark fingermarks distinct on the grubby surface. There were bolts set into the walls at several points, and more in the floor, but only the bolt closest to Mallory was being used. It certainly explained how Toby was able to come across the room to him: he wasn’t restrained. What would be the point, looking at him? It wasn’t like he was going to give them any trouble. Had he, Mallory wondered, before he had given up and turned in on himself? He doubted it. He didn’t look like a fighter.
There was a scrape outside the door, followed by the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the rattle of a key in a lock. The hinges squealed as the door opened inwards, grating against the concrete floor.
And who should walk through the door with a smile on his face but Rimmon?
Mallory was on his feet and lunging for him in a heartbeat... but the chain was too short, and abruptly wrenched him back by his wrist. Rimmon beamed at him.
“How’s life on a leash, Mallory?”
“How about you come a little closer and I’ll fucking show you?”
“Temper, temper.” Rimmon’s smile stretched a little wider and he disappeared back through the door, leaving it open. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a chair; the wooden seat and back splintered, and one of the metal legs so thoroughly rusted through that it very nearly fell off when Rimmon banged it down on the floor, his eyes never leaving Mallory. “I thought you boys could do with a little company.”
“Brilliant. When do they get here?”
“Why does it always have to be like this with you, Mal?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because after all this time, you’re still a little shit?”
“You’re going to regret that.” Rimmon wagged his finger at him, and spun the chair so that it faced Mallory, before sitting down on it – still just out of reach. He rested his elbows on his knees and examined his fingernails.
Mallory sighed. “The only thing I regret is not having killed you when I had the chance.”
“Well, you won’t get another one,” Rimmon said, not looking up from his nails. “Not now. I tried to help you, remember. I gave you a chance.”
“And I gave you an answer.”
“You tied me to a fucking tree, Mallory. You tied me to a tree, and you shot me. And then you had that little bitch burn me.”
“And yet you still don’t seem to get the message...” Mallory’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, don’t you worry. I got the message alright. You’ve chosen your side, and now you can rot there. I just wanted to say... you know, no hard feelings.”
“If I were the vindictive type,” he began, the knife scraping at his nails, “I might use this opportunity to level the scores. To repay some of the kindnesses you’ve shown me.” He snapped the knife shut, and with one hand pulled up his shirt, exposing the side of his ribs and his abdomen. Scars rippled across his flesh; some long and jagged, some like a starburst.
Like a bullet hole.
He lowered his shirt and smiled at Mallory. “But I’m not the vindictive type. You made me what I am, after all.”
“You made yourself what you are. You made your own choices.” Mallory held his gaze. He had enough scars of his own.
“Well, that’s where we’re going to have to agree to disagree, I’m afraid. Still, this has been fun!” Rimmon tapped his hands on his knees and winked at Mallory, standing up and laying his hand on the back of the chair. Seeing Mallory frown, he made a show of looking surprised. “Oh, wait... you thought I was here for you?” He lifted a hand to his chest. “Mallory. That ego!” Another grin. “I’m here for him.”
He pointed to the crumpled heap of Toby at the far end of the room, and his smile twisted into something much uglier. His fingers closed around the back of the chair, and he tipped it onto its front legs and dragged it across the concrete. The noise was awful, driving into Mallory’s skull like a spike... and again, Mallory was straining against the chain, pulling at it – tearing at it now – because he knew exactly what Rimmon was about to do.
“WAKEY-WAKEY!”
A wave of freezing cold water hit Toby in the face, snapping him back to consciousness.
“There you go. Can’t have you sleeping through and missing the best part of the day, now can we?”
Toby realised he was sitting in a chair. His hands were tied behind his back.
“Well. I say ‘best part of the day.’ Best part of my day, I mean. Yours? Not so much.”
A hood was pulled roughly over Toby’s face, plunging him into darkness, and he heard Mallory shouting. Even through the hood, Toby could hear the anger...
And all Toby could do was wonder what it was he had done to make anyone hate him so very much.
MALLORY DID NOT stop wrenching at the chain that held him back – even though he knew it was pointless; even though the manacle bit into his flesh, scoring it almost to the bone. He would heal. He got it. He would heal, whatever they did to him, and Rimmon would make him watch as he worked on the boy. He couldn’t reach him, couldn’t help him.
Rimmon had finally been able to do what the rest of the Fallen never could. He’d found the perfect torture for Mallory.
RIMMON STOOD BACK and admired his handiwork. He was sweating, pale in the light of the single bulb that still swung back and forth above them. Careless, he clipped the rim of the bucket he had dropped with the edge of his foot and it rolled away from him across the floor, its handle flopping over and over. It didn’t matter. It was empty now.
He picked up the rope at his feet and wound it around his shoulder. The heavy knot at one end hung down to his waist, brushing against Toby’s arm as he leaned forward to rip the soaked hood up and away. Toby flinched at the touch and whimpered. His eyes were screwed shut, and as soon as the hood came off he turned his head away; down... anywhere except towards Rimmon. He was shaking so hard that the chair rocked on the floor. The legs juddering against the concrete made a sound like teeth chattering.
Rimmon took in the boy’s terror; the bruises rising on his cheeks, the water dripping from his chin and his hair... and he smiled.
He turned around, and walked straight into the bucket Mallory had flung at him. It smashed into his nose, breaking it. Blood dripped into his mouth, but he was still smiling.
They stood there: Rimmon laughing, his teeth painted red and a coil of stained rope hanging from his shoulder... Mallory, his arm almost pulled from its socket, his weight on his back foot and pure rage in his eyes.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” Rimmon rubbed the swelling bridge of his nose. “We can restore Lucifer, and we will. Soon. He’ll wipe the floor with the lot of you: angels, half-borns, humans. It won’t matter. He’s like a tidal wave. Like a storm. Unstoppable. We will bring hell to this world you fought so hard to protect, Mallory, and there will be no end to the suffering we create.” Rimmon wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. “But you could stop it. All you have to do is agree to join us. Things could go back to the way they were.”
“We’ve already had this conversation. And my answer’s still the same. Go fuck yourself. Lucifer too.”
“There’s that ego again. Still, it’s all very well when it’s just you at stake, but what about when it’s someone else who has to take the fall – so to speak?” He looked pointedly at Toby, still tied to his chair and shivering. “I’ve got some things to do. You know how it is: people to see... busy, busy, busy. But I’ll be back. And then we’ll see if I can interest you in changing your mind.”
Rimmon winked at Mallory, laughing as he went through the door. It slammed behind him, and a moment later, the light snapped off.
Mallory sank to the floor, his head pounding and his heart breaking in the darkness.
VIN HEARD THE footsteps pass his door, and pressed himself back against the wall. Like it would do any good. But the footsteps did not stop: they carried on – almost jauntily – down the corridor outside.
He wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or not.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he turned his attention back to the hinges of the cell door.
At first, he hadn’t been sure it would work: after all, other than the gate the Fallen had built across the mouth of hell – which was its own special case, all things considered – he hadn’t exactly tried to use his gift on much beyond the Fallen themselves. But if it had worked on the Bone-Built Gate... and considering the way the last Fallen he faced had not just turned to stone, but imploded in a shower of dust, he liked the odds.
The first hinge had taken what felt like months. It could only have been hours, but with no way to gauge the passing of time, he couldn’t be sure. It was rusted and half-seized, and that gave him hope. If he couldn’t destroy the hinges, perhaps he could still damage them.
One way or another, he was getting out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Mercy Seat
ALICE WAS STILL searching for an answer when Michael’s head snapped up, eyes alight once more, as though he had heard a sudden sound.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Really.”
“Stay here...” And just like that, he was gone in a swirl of flame.
“So I’ll just wait then, yeah?” Alice shouted at the empty air. There wasn’t a door: the only way in or out seemed to be by angel-express. “Bloody angels,” she sighed. It was something she was saying far too often, and she was getting tired of it. Michael’s little speech had caught her off-guard, and she still wasn’t sure what it had meant. It was either a profession of undying love – doubtful, admittedly – or a confession he needed her help. He wasn’t ordering her; he was asking her. Which was new.
Without the Archangel, the library was even quieter. He obviously had a thing about giving her lectures in libraries, she thought, remembering the first time they had met. Perhaps he thought it lent him some kind of gravitas. Like he needed that. But there was something special about the place... and surrounded by the books and the scrolls and the piles of paper, she was aware of the sound of her breathing, of the sound of her heart. Above her and around her, the scroll of names wheeled and the war went on... and something was very, very wrong in Michael’s fortress.
She could feel it now: it wasn’t an ache, exactly. More like a dull pressure behind her eyes. It was like nothing
she had ever felt before – either before or after she had realised she could feel the pain of others. It didn’t stab, didn’t scratch. It was a fist, clad in iron and steel and pressing up against the inside of her skull, pushing to be let out. She frowned and rubbed at her temple, and stared up at the list of names on the wall.
Each symbol was a name. There had to be tens, hundreds of thousands. Each one an angel. A death.
A death for which Mallory still blamed himself.
“You always have to make it about you, don’t you?” she muttered, and would have said more if she hadn’t been distracted by a small trickle of dust falling from the ceiling high above...
“What...” said Alice, holding her hand out. Tiny white flecks began to collect in the curve of her palm, and she looked up. As she looked, squinting against the ache in her head, there was a grinding sound, and the whole room shook. It was almost enough to knock her off her feet, and she threw out an arm to catch herself, knocking a pile of books off a table as she did. The shower of dust became a torrent, white, sparkling flecks pouring down around her, and the names carved into the wall above her began to burn. One by one, the symbols flared into life, the lines carved into the stone filling with fire and glowing a hot orange; each symbol shining in turn until the circle was complete. A band of fire with no end and no beginning. The shaking stopped, and Alice pulled herself up, away from the table she’d been clinging to, and stepped into the middle of the library.
No wonder the room had shaken: running across the dome, from one side to another, was a huge crack. The shadows cast by the flames on the walls danced across it like clouds, transforming it into a break in the sky.
