by Larissa_Ion
“Is that why everything outside is destroyed?”
He gazed out at the field of debris and the scorched, scarred land. His realm really did reflect what was going on in his life, didn’t it?
“I tried to get out.”
“Oh, darling,” she whispered, turning into him. She settled her head against his chest, and he felt wetness drip down his skin. She was crying, and he felt so damned helpless. All he could do was hold her.
And feel like an utter failure.
How he wished he could go back in time, to the very beginning, to the day Gabriel had come to him with the opportunity to do something for the sake of all the realms.
He’d still have done it, but he’d have made some substantial changes to the contract. Although, in truth, it wasn’t the original contract that was the problem. The issue was that Heaven kept changing the rules. They’d left things hazy enough in the contract that they always found ways to change shit.
Initially, there had been an escape clause, a way for Azagoth to retire if he ever wanted to. And then he’d pissed off the wrong archangel dickhead, and the asshole had successfully petitioned to have the clause struck from the contract, and a containment stone installed to keep him from breaking out.
It had been a betrayal that’d put an end to Azagoth’s cooperation with Heaven.
Fuckers.
Lilliana sniffed. “Oh, hey,” she mumbled against his chest. “This is a dream. I don’t need tissue!” She looked up at him, smiling, no watery eyes or red-splotched cheeks. “And, check it out. No shapeless tunic that I think might be made from stinging nettles and hornets.”
She stepped back, and despite all the shit running through his head, he got an instant erection.
She was as naked as he was, an exquisite example of the female form. He’d been with a lot of females, from succubi to angels who sat on the high councils, but none of them could compare to Lilliana. He loved her curves, her full, heavy breasts with their dusky nipples that pebbled beautifully under his tongue. Her narrow waist that flared into softly rounded hips made for his hands to grip as he licked between her thighs and made her whimper for more.
Holy hell, he wanted to do so many things to her right now, things he hadn’t been able to do since she’d gotten back. Pregnancy and all that.
But in dreams, they could do anything.
Anything.
Abruptly, there was terror etched on her face, and the nettle tunic was hanging limply from her shoulders.
“I…shit, I think I’m waking—”
“Lilliana?” He reached for her as if holding her would keep her with him. “Lilliana!”
His hands closed on empty air.
Wretched, miserable grief heaved out of his chest in a massive sob as he came awake, alone in his chair. The impact of her loss hit him harder than before, like a kick into a bruise, and he lurched to his feet.
It felt so real. Her presence. Her scent. His pain.
It was real.
He could prove it.
Desperate to confirm that he’d been with Lilliana, that she was just a dream away, he yanked open her lingerie drawer and pawed through the neatly folded layers of panties and camisoles. In the very back, beneath a pair of lacy purple underwear he’d bought her to replace the ones he’d torn with his fangs, was a little red velvet box.
Exactly as she’d said.
Holding his breath, he opened it.
Inside was a pendant shaped like a scythe. His hand shook as he took it out of the box. It was exquisite, a gold blade with an emerald staff. Very carefully, he turned it over, and his eyes stung at the inscription.
Father of Souls.
Father of Angels.
Father.
It was real. The dream had been real.
Closing his eyes, Azagoth clutched the pendant to his chest.
He knew for a fact that the universe used signs to warn and to guide. He’d created one himself. Every angel had to weave a sign of some sort into a human’s life as part of their final non-Order-specific training. But universal signs were bigger than that, woven into the fabric of existence at the moment of creation, their patterns constantly being reworked with the fluidity of time and history-altering events.
Lilliana’s visit had been a sign. His hope hadn’t been for nothing.
He was going to get her back.
Chapter 15
“You look like you went a dozen rounds with a hellhound. And lost.”
If that was the case, then Reaver felt like he looked, but he still gave Metatron a weary glare as he approached the highest-ranking angel in Heaven. “We’ve got trouble, Uncle.”
Reaver had once thought the ebony-haired archangel was his father, but a memory restoration had changed that. It had changed a lot of things. Fortunately, most of those things had been for the better.
Dressed in jeans and a crisp white, untucked dress shirt, Metatron stood on his palace’s spacious deck and looked out over the Sea of Tranquility, a Heavenly body of crystalline water where every sea animal to have ever existed in the human realm swam in peace and harmony with all others.
“I feel it,” he said. “A disturbance.”
Reaver couldn’t resist saying something Wraith would say. Seemed appropriate right now. “In the Force?”
“No. What?” Metatron shook his head in that exasperated way he always did when Reaver baffled him with human pop culture references. Which was a lot, and something Reaver had only become aware of since he’d gotten his memory back. “In the underworld. I thought we were finally past this. I thought we had a thousand years of peace ahead of us.”
That had been the general assumption when Reaver and Revenant had trapped Satan and ended a decade of near-apocalypses and instability in the realms.
Reaver should have known it was too good to be true.
“It’s Azagoth. Moloch abducted Lilliana and killed two of Azagoth’s sons.” Reaver moved to the very edge of the clear deck and looked down at the pink dolphins playing just beneath the surface of the water. As awful as the news was that his friend Lilliana had been kidnapped by a sadistic monster, it got worse, and he had to take a deep breath to say the rest. “And Wraith is dead.”
Metatron swore, an indication of how stunned he was by the news. Met rarely cursed. “I’m sorry, my son. I know you cared for the demon. He was one of the few decent ones. A legend even among angels.” A muscle in Metatron’s strong jawline twitched as he clapped Reaver on the shoulder with a firm, reassuring grip. “Tell me everything.”
It took a minute for Reaver to gain his composure, and a few more to fill Metatron in on all the upheaval. His uncle listened, his expression as neutral as a stone. After Reaver had finished, Metatron considered the news in silence for a little while.
“Do you believe Moloch will kill Lilliana if Azagoth doesn’t release Satan?” Metatron finally asked. “Is he truly that stupid?”
“I wondered that, as well,” Reaver said. “I asked Harvester. She knew Bael and Moloc better than anyone.” As Satan’s daughter and a former fallen angel, Reaver’s mate was a gold mine of information and sure to be one of Heaven’s greatest weapons against him in the Final Battle. “She said Bael was an unpredictable, reckless moron, but Moloc was smart and shrewd. Now that the two are merged as one, it’s hard to say how stable Moloch is, but she thinks he won’t hesitate to kill Lilliana. Azagoth will assume the same thing.”
“Even so,” Metatron said, “Azagoth swore he wouldn’t release Satan.”
“He did,” Reaver acknowledged. “And Azagoth has always abided by the spirit of the agreement, if not the letter.” Kind of like Reaver. No, not even close. Reaver didn’t even abide by the spirit. “But this is his mate and child.”
“It’s Satan,” Metatron snapped, wheeling around to Reaver. “I’d sacrifice anyone to stop his release from happening.”
Reaver cocked an eyebrow. “Aunt Caila?”
“She’d understand,” Metatron said bluntly, and yeah, any
angel would. According to prophecy, Satan’s release from prison would trigger a cascading series of events leading Reaver to break the seals of the Four Horsemen and usher in Armageddon. But no one knew why he’d do it, and it wasn’t supposed to happen for almost a thousand years. “Have you talked to Azagoth?”
That was the first thing Reaver had tried after he got off the phone with Hawkyn. “He’s not taking my calls, and he’s sealed off Sheoul-gra.”
Metatron swore again. “What’s he up to?”
“Apparently, he’s trying to break out.”
Metatron paled. “We can’t let that happen.” A communication portal the size of a dinner plate opened out of thin air in front of him. “We need to assign a legion of battle angels to guard the containment stone.”
Reaver waved the portal away. This needed to stay between him and Metatron. “I’ve already done that.” Covertly. “Azagoth’s not going to escape by breaking the spell that contains him. But he won’t stop looking for a way out. And in the meantime, he has a lot of weapons at his disposal.”
Hawkyn hadn’t said what weapons, exactly, but he didn’t have to. Azagoth could blackmail anyone he wanted, simply by threatening their eternal soul. If that didn’t work, he had other kinds of blackmail material on an alarming number of powerful humans and almost every demon alive—provided by the souls he interrogated when they arrived in Sheoul-gra.
Metatron stared at Reaver. “Where’s Revenant in all this? How could he let Moloch take over?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t responded to my summons.” Reaver jammed a frustrated hand through his shoulder-length, blond hair. “He’s got his own shit to deal with. Everyone is plotting against him. Someone tried to abduct Blaspheme a few months ago, and just last month, some of Satan’s whelps got together and tried to bring Revenant down. They got closer than he liked while doing it.”
“What happened to those who attacked him?”
“Ah, yeah, fun story. After torturing and killing them, he preserved their bodies, sewed them together, and mounted them on the bridge to Satan’s castle. He ordered them to remain for a thousand years so they’d be on display for Satan to see.” Revenant had a vengeful streak. “The weird thing is, he didn’t keep their souls.”
“That’s the weird part?” At Reaver’s shrug, Metatron sighed. “Did he send the souls of Satan’s bastards to Azagoth?”
“Yep.”
“A message? A gift?”
“No idea.” Reaver shook his head. “I’m worried, though. Blaspheme hasn’t shown up to work in days, and Revenant is missing in action. At best, I don’t think we can count on his help. At worst, he’s involved somehow.”
Metatron had been intermittently gazing out at the sea, but now his eyes cut sharply to Reaver. “Involved?”
“It can’t be a coincidence that he’s missing as this is happening,” Reaver pointed out. “And not long ago, I altered Wraith’s invincibility ward to include protection from fallen angels.” The demon had proven to be a loyal friend and an invaluable asset for Team Good, and Reaver had wanted to keep him safe. “Wraith was killed by a fallen angel, but just before he died, he said he’d seen Revenant, who is one of the few people who could remove the protection I gave Wraith.”
“Any principality or archangel could do it. Why would he do that?”
And that was the million-dollar question. Revenant had grown up in Sheoul, tortured and believing that he was something he wasn’t. Some in Heaven didn’t think he could possibly be anything but pure evil, but Reaver knew better. There had been a lot of hate between them for a long time, but that was over. Reaver trusted his brother.
“I’m sure he had a good reason.”
Metatron leveled Reaver with a grave look. “We have to inform the Archangel Council. Maybe even the Angelic Council or the Council of Orders.”
“No!” Reaver barked and then tempered his voice. He might, technically, be Metatron’s equal in many ways, but Uncle Met commanded—and deserved—respect, not only because of his station as the Creator’s mouthpiece and right-hand man but also because he was the most decent angel Reaver knew. “Not yet. We can fix this.”
“Before Azagoth releases Satan?”
“He’s not going to do that.”
“Why?” Metatron’s voice was edged with doubt. “Because he told you he wouldn’t?”
“No. Because he hates Satan.”
Metatron’s gaze shifted to his palace and the balcony above, where Caila was entertaining a giggling group of friends. “More than he loves his mate?”
“I have no doubt Azagoth will stop at nothing to save Lilliana,” Reaver admitted. “But he knows that if he releases Satan, Satan will kill Lilliana. He can’t risk it.”
“What do you suggest we do then?”
“I can talk to him,” Reaver said. “Hawkyn requested information about a fallen angel named Flail. I’ll use that as an excuse to get to Azagoth.”
A flock of gulls squawked as the birds circled the palace, looking for handouts from Caila’s guests, and Metatron had to raise his voice to be heard. “You said he sealed off Sheoul-gra.”
“Hawkyn will open it to me if I can convince him that I’m not there to destroy his father.”
It shouldn’t be a problem; Hawkyn wouldn’t have contacted Reaver at all if he weren’t sure Reaver could handle the situation without killing anyone.
“And if Azagoth is out of control?” Metatron asked. “Will you destroy him?”
“Isn’t it a little early to be discussing that?”
Metatron rolled his shoulders, probably not even aware he’d done it, but Reaver knew he was testing his wings and his powers, feeling them out at the thought that shit might get really fucking biblical real soon.
“He can’t be allowed to release Satan,” he said, fire in his tone. “And he can’t be allowed to escape Sheoul-gra.”
“Would escaping be such a bad thing?”
Reaver wasn’t Azagoth’s biggest fan, but the guy had been trapped for thousands of years. He’d proven that he was capable of wrangling souls and navigating the politics of both Sheoul and Heaven. He’d chilled out a lot since getting mated, too. Seemed like it wouldn’t be a big deal if he lived where he wanted and commuted to work.
Metatron appeared troubled that Reaver would even ask such an apparently insane question. “Yes, it could be bad.”
“Why?” Reaver asked. “I mean, I get that he’s an asshole, but a lot bigger assholes are running around loose.”
Like the fallen angels who had killed Wraith. He clenched his fists, wishing he was out hunting them right now.
“Azagoth signed contracts,” Metatron said. “Contracts sealed with the powers of Heaven and Sheoul. We don’t know what kind of damage we’d take if he made that big of a breach.”
Sounded kind of minor to Reaver, but he knew well how seriously Heaven took broken rules and breaches of contract. They also weren’t fond of Heaven being damaged, which was why Revenant, while technically welcome here, wasn’t…welcome. His presence destroyed everything around him.
“Okay,” Reaver said. “Let me grab the info on Flail and give Hawkyn a call. I’ll let you know what happens. And, Uncle?”
Metatron inclined his head.
“I want this to stay between us for now.”
Silence stretched. Not even the gulls called out, and Reaver started to sweat. Metatron had always been fair and by-the-book, which was probably part of why Reaver had been such a rule breaker as a youth. And beyond. Hell, he still was, he just wasn’t as reckless about it now.
Responsibility was a bitch.
“For now,” Metatron finally said. “But be ready to be called to testify before any number of high councils. This isn’t going to stay quiet for long, and there are a lot of people who would love to see Azagoth gone.”
That made no sense. “What did he do to make anyone want him gone so badly? As Asrael, he was a hero. If not for him, Satan and his acolytes could have destroyed everythin
g.”
“People have short memories,” Metatron said, his mouth quirking in the first smile Reaver had seen from him all day. “Especially the mates of the females Azagoth bred Memitim with.”
Reaver laughed. Yeah, he could see how jealous mates might not want reminders that their lovers had, before mating them, been bedded by the Grim Reaper.
Reaver sprang his wings, and gold glitter floated through the air. “Thank you, Uncle.”
“Just…” Metatron gripped Reaver’s shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
“For the worst.” Metatron’s voice lowered into what some called his God Voice, a resonant tone that vibrated the air when he brought proclamations or messages from the Creator. “Satan cannot be freed. If that means Azagoth must die, so be it.”
Yeah, Reaver got the message.
He’d have to be the one to do it.
Chapter 16
Hope isn’t for fools.
Hope isn’t for fools.
Azagoth told himself that over and over but, not unexpectedly, it didn’t help him feel better any more than getting fucked in the ass by a quill troll would make him feel better.
An hour ago, he’d been confident of victory. Moloch had, according to Azagoth’s sources, an army of millions, but his supporters were spread all throughout Sheoul-gra. Only a fraction was guarding his castle. Ares’ battle plan had looked solid, if not foolproof.
Until they started getting credible reports that Moloch had taken Satan’s palace from Revenant.
If that were true, Lilliana could be held in either stronghold, and the odds of victory had taken a dive. They’d been forced to pursue Plan B, splitting Azagoth’s army in two, and giving Ares’ brother Reseph command of one of them. They’d attack both fortresses simultaneously and hope like hell they had enough soldiers to do it.
Fuck. This was not how Azagoth wanted to do this. Both Horsemen were legendary warriors, their skill in battle unequaled in all of history. But looking at the campaign, all laid out on a giant map that covered every inch of the hundred-seat command center table, wasn’t the most inspiring thing ever.
