by Cate Corvin
He shook his head, and tapped his chest, right over his heart.
“Having a portion of a soul made me colder. More careless. Now that I feel whole again, there’s guilt over what I’m doing.”
Dismay rose in me, bubbling in my stomach. I’d never considered a situation in which I might feel guilty for having pieced Azazel back together again. “Then don’t ask them. They don’t have to sacrifice themselves for us.”
A voice cleared near the door, and I nearly jumped away from Azazel. Typhon stood there, his scythe upright and resting against his shoulder.
“You don’t order us,” he said. He had a surprisingly gravelly voice for such a young face. “We follow you, Lord Watcher. The sacrifice is for the good of all.”
Azazel gave him a dry look, seemingly totally unabashed at being caught in his confession. “Not everyone is as honorbound as you, Typhon.”
The Watcher just inclined his head. “It’s not a crime to have regrets. All who enter Blackchapel know their lives are in service to Hell.”
To my surprise, a faint smile was on his face when he looked up. “Welcome back, Lord Watcher. It’s good to have the old you again.”
All of the Grigori had known Azazel for far longer than I had. I’d always thought this new, warmer side of Azazel was brand new.
I realized it wasn’t. It was the way he’d been before he’d sacrificed himself for Vyra; they’d known him like this for centuries before he became a cold, heartless being.
Azazel stood up, pulling me with him. “I have her to thank for it.”
I stood tall- well, maybe not tall, but straight- when Typhon looked at me. At least he hadn’t been trying to actively block my entrance to Blackchapel. I doubted Druzila would be very happy to thank me for being in any way responsible for Azazel’s soul being repaired.
“It’s what anyone would’ve done,” I mumbled, and Typhon took pity on me, clearly reading that I didn’t want any sort of recognition for it.
“The Reapers have been briefed,” he said, swiftly diverting the conversation. “We’re prepared to go over battle plans, Lord Watcher.”
Azazel and I followed him to the cathedral. I remained close to Azazel’s side, all too aware of the numerous scythes floating around, and the fact that some of the Grigori who carried them probably wouldn’t be too careful of where they swung them while I was around, with or without Azazel present.
The loosely-grouped Grigori had divided into neat ranks. All of the scythe-carrying Reapers were together now. Another group possessed what looked like balls of string looped on their belts, but the fibers were glowing silver. Yet another group carried thick leather leashes and collars.
Before he walked into the cathedral, Azazel bent down to speak in my ear. “You remain as long as you want,” he said. “You’re welcome in every part of Blackchapel. Don’t let them make you feel like you don’t belong.”
I didn’t want to point out that I most definitely did not belong. I was the smallest one there, with feathered wings instead of leathery ones, and I was wearing a glittering dress instead of dark robes. I stood out like a sheep among wolves.
Then I caught sight of Druzila, standing with the Reapers. Her gaze was on me, eyes still glacial, mouth turned down at the corners.
Like Hell I was going anywhere. I was Azazel’s, and he was mine, and an angry Reaper wasn’t going to drive me out.
I looped my arm in Azazel’s, resting my hand on his forearm. “I’d like to know what the plans are. They could be necessary to my Circle’s strategy.”
That ghostly smile of his drifted across his lips, and he clasped his other hand over mine. If any of the Grigori had thought there was a mistake, there was no doubt now that Azazel was not only perfectly fine with me being here, but in fact expected it.
“Then we’ll begin with the Reapers. This will be your first crash course on the ranks of the Grigori and how we function.”
I steeled myself as we walked over to the scythe-wielding group. Azazel kept me close to his side as Typhon followed and took a place at their head.
“These are the Watchers who herd the souls of the dead,” he said. His gaze slid over them, coming back to me. Druzila blinked and looked down.
I was going to have to keep a close eye on her every time I was in Blackchapel.
“They are also one of the first lines of defense,” Azazel continued. “Much like your Chainlings, which are in fact a distant branch of the Grigori themselves.”
I raised an eyebrow as I looked up at him.
“There were some differences in opinion, hence the split,” he said. “But when we make cohesive plans with the Seventh Circle, my Reapers will be on the front lines, alongside the Handlers.”
“And who are they?” I asked. Smoke drifted around us, and I felt myself become incorporeal as Azazel floated us towards the group with leashes and collars.
“The Handlers of the hellhounds,” he said, with another smile. “The trackers and hunters of the underworld. I’ll likely station about half of their ranks in your Circle when the time comes.”
I eyed one of the Grigori with the shimmering silver ball of string. “And the strings?”
“The Fates,” he said. “Their weaving will hopefully be enough to influence the tides of battle against Satan, although there’s a chance that the Dragon will be too much to influence, even with magic.”
One of the Fates, a pale-haired woman, looked me up and down, though not with the same coldness as Druzila. “The Dragon is a force unto himself,” she said. She stood with her feet planted and her arms crossed. “We’d be best served attempting to influence the other Circles’ success, rather than trying to bind Satan.”
Azazel nodded. “Well said, Miriam. You’ll need to join Typhon for the macroscale plans, as you’ll know where best to plant your people.”
I ran it all through my head as I pondered. Reapers, Fates, and Handlers… I’d had no idea the Grigori had a divided system, but I already knew I wanted a Fate nearby when I proposed my idea that everyone would hate. Perhaps one of them could influence everyone’s reactions to it.
I doubted it’d really help, but it was better than nothing, given how resistant they were to the concept of me wielding the Sword of Light.
“We should have Lucifer and Belial for this,” I muttered under my breath, but of course Azazel heard me.
He stroked my hair. “Naturally. Typhon, Miriam, and Marduk will speak for their respective factions when we meet. I wanted you to understand the Watchers before we begin our planning.”
I smiled up at him, feeling his satisfaction in the mark on the back of my neck. It poured into my chest, filling me from the inside. “Thank you,” I said quietly. He would know what I meant; he’d feel it. Not just for teaching me about his kind, but for keeping me at his side instead of hiding the fallen angel behind him like a shameful secret.
But I didn’t miss Druzila’s glare when Azazel wasn’t looking, or the hate written on her features.
I wasn’t the only one in Blackchapel who’d ever loved Azazel.
And now I had yet another enemy for it.
14
Melisande
Hours later, we found ourselves arrayed in a tense standoff in the middle of Belial’s arena.
Lucifer and Tascius stood at my shoulders, while Belial lounged on his throne above me, making it clear who ruled the meeting place. Azazel had his arms crossed as he looked over the three Grigori he’d brought with him, the leaders of his Watchers: Miriam, Marduk, and Typhon.
On the other side, Vyra and Haru watched uneasily. Two of the demons chosen to become the generals for the Nightside were looking over the new Grigori, seemingly unimpressed by what they saw.
My lizard demon general leaned over and whispered something to Lady Savage, who smirked without taking her eyes off Typhon.
In response, Typhon gave her a glacial stare that I could feel from the other side of the arena floor. Miriam just shook her head.
It was
a mess. And we hadn’t even requested the pleasure of the Princes’ presence yet.
“Lord Watcher, I don’t see why we should risk ourselves for… demons of their kind,” Typhon said, careful not to look at me as he said it. “Let the Dragon have Dis for himself. There’s no need to waste the Reapers.”
Miriam and Marduk exchanged a look behind his back. I breathed a little easier knowing they seemed to be on our side.
“That’s not how this works.” Miriam played with her ball of glowing string, twisting one of the strands between her fingers like a cobweb. “He’s eternally hungry. Give him Dis, and he’ll eventually consume all of Hell.”
Typhon’s dark gaze found me, and I raised my chin. This was his home just as much as it was my home now. Was he really going to sit back and let Satan devour everything?
“This is your home. It’s your responsibility, too.” All four Grigori looked at me when I spoke, but I kept my stone-faced mask on. “We need to cut off the Dragon’s heads and end this.”
“To what end?” Typhon asked, clearly swallowing the ruder things he wanted to say.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “Giving everyone a fighting chance to exist? Allowing the Princes to rule their own Circles without having to give up their own people and loved ones as sacrifices? Where could we possibly run that he wouldn’t follow us in the end? Even the Visionary of the City of Sight was on our side, because what she saw… she said it was the only way. Or we might as well all lay down and die.”
Typhon’s lip curled in a sneer. “‘We’? You belonged to Heaven not so long ago, and now you think you truly belong with us?”
And just like that, the fragile peace shattered.
“You forget your place, Typhon.” Azazel took on the dangerous soft tones that preceded the true storm. “Half of my Watchers were lowly demons once. If Melisande calls Hell her home, then she is one of us.”
Miriam flicked her fingers, and the glowing strings between her fingers wove into a new geometric pattern.
“It’s not your place to say a damn thing about another demon’s worthiness,” Vyra spat, striding across the arena floor and bracing her hands on her hips. She glared up at Typhon, her wings rustling. It would’ve been comical to see such a small demon facing off against an eight-foot Reaper, but her anger was genuine, and she had a lot of knives on her person. “Are my sisters not worthy of a fight? They’re the ones who suffer the most because of what they are. I would’ve suffered if it hadn’t been for Azazel. Thank the Fates he didn’t have his head shoved up his own ass, unlike you.”
I watched from the corner of my eye as Miriam eyed her cat’s cradle configuration, frowned, and ran a sharp pinky nail over a string. It split neatly and the string faded into mist.
Typhon’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the tiny succubus. His nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
“We lesser demons are the ones who pay the price.” Vyra shook her head in disgust. “We can’t just run and hope for the best. This is our home, and we’re not giving it up.”
Fingers brushed my shoulder, and I looked up to find Belial descending his dais.
“The Reapers aren’t the only ones who are risking their lives,” he said, that half-mad smile on his face. “My Circle is honored to lead this fight and spill their blood.”
Lucifer stepped forward, alongside Tascius. “I risk everything I have to destroy my adoptive father. The Nephilim risks what freedom he has now. No one is going into this without risking something.”
“Marduk?” Typhon looked to his friend, clearly seeking some solid ground.
Marduk sighed, his eyes skipping over me, and gave the most cowardly input I’d ever heard. “We need to consider if what’s left of Dis is worth fighting for. Are several sacrifices really worth the loss of what could be over half our ranks?”
“Several sacrifices?” Vyra asked, agape at the audacity of it. “Try hundreds!”
I looked up at the ceiling, praying to whoever was out there for patience as they all descended into bickering.
Cowards and idiots. They held swords and chains, but none of them had the hearts of warriors. They were content to sit back and take the easy prey.
When I looked back at them, Miriam was watching me. She gave me a sly wink, and flipped the strings with a twist of her fingers.
There was a way to unite everyone. A surefire way to bring down the Dragon, if only I had everyone behind me.
And the only man who’d ever possessed it was right here, in this very arena.
I glanced at Typhon, whose face was turning red as Vyra spat invective at him, and quietly slipped around the dais and into the dark corridor that led into the heart of Belial’s domain.
Nobody followed me. Their arguing voices faded away, and soon I was surrounded by nothing but pressing silence and the sound of my own footsteps.
My stomach knotted for a moment, and I pressed my hand over my belly, calming Belial’s child. “You feel it too, don’t you?” I whispered. “You’re going to be like us, and we’re doing this for you.”
I touched the cold obsidian and envisioned the chamber I wanted. A moment later, the stones swirled apart, and I stepped into the icy prison cell.
Gabriel hung from his chains, head still bowed. For a minute I just looked at him, remembering what he’d looked like when he descended from Heaven to raise my shade from the dead.
He’d been a second chance, a glorious hope for revenge. I’d loved him for a time before I realized his Heavenly glow was just a cover for the rot beneath.
I’d wanted to kill him so badly. Hell, I still did, but my pure wrath had twisted into something more complicated.
After all, if it wasn’t for Gabriel being a shit-eating little bitch, I would never have found my true place in the world.
That was the only reason my hand didn’t go straight to my dagger when I looked him over.
I stepped forward, feeling confident in the strength of Belial’s Nephilim-binding chains, and flipped his right hand to examine his palm.
“Not even a hello before you touch me?” he asked raspily. “You wound me, Melisande.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I replied absently, twisting his hand towards what little light there was. “I’m not here to stroke your ego.”
Just as I’d suspected, his palm was devoid of the usual lines. It was a patchwork of scars, diamonds overlaid on diamonds, some silver-white with age and others still a fading pink.
I dropped his hand like it was something dirty. “You’ve been in here for over two weeks, and neither Barachiel nor Raguel have come for you. Why is that? Have your best friends forgotten you?”
Pity rose under the anger. If I’d been taken, I had no doubt my men would’ve scoured Hell to find me again. Gabriel was mutilated and alone.
And no one cared.
He let out a forced laugh. “Forgotten me? No. Just biding their time.”
Looking over this pathetic creature, it was hard to imagine he’d killed God for his own selfish ends. That someone so corrupt inside could have destroyed something so pure.
“Biding their time for what, exactly?” I glanced at his hand again, unable to keep my eyes away. If he’d been scarred every time he held the Sword of Light, then my scars weren’t just an anomaly. Perhaps pain was the price for wielding the Sword. “No one’s heard from Michael or Raphael in ages. They’re not coming for you. Selaphiel is only interested in how many angels he can fuck. Did you consider that maybe you’ve been left here to rot because no one wants you?”
It was impossible to hold back the venom I felt for him. It washed through me, poisoning my sudden pity towards him. I wanted to see him dead for everything he’d done.
Gabriel raised his head, his golden eyes the only bright thing in the dim light. “What about you? I made you what you are. You owe me, little one.”
“I owe you nothing.” I spoke through numb lips.
He had made me into a sword, but I was the one who’d honed that sw
ord into what it was today. And it’d all been for the sake of avoiding him, of not wanting to lean on Gabriel for eternity.
Gabriel’s head dropped, and he raised it again. He was weakening, here in the lightless pit, without his wings.
“You owe me better than this.” He coughed, and flecks of blood dotted his lips.
My lip curled at the sight. “Do I? What about all the times you locked me in a room and-” I cut myself off, taking a deep breath. It wasn’t time to vent about all the terrible things he’d done. I had much more important needs. “I’m not here to talk about the past, and what we are and aren’t owed. When you held the Sword of Light, it scarred you.”
He nodded once, watching me from under his lashes.
“And it scarred me, too.” I held up my own hand, revealing the identical pattern. “The Sword never really chose you, did it? The pain is just a byproduct of possessing the willpower to use it.”
Gabriel said nothing. The hate in his eyes was clear.
“So theoretically, anyone could possess the Sword,” I mused, curling my fingers into a fist to hide the fading scars. “You just have to believe you’re worthy of it.”
It was so simple. We’d never needed the Sword of Mourning; the answer had always been in Gabriel’s hand.
“Besides, you never were worthy of it. Or you would’ve used it for what it’d been made for.” I scrubbed my hand against my skirt, wanting to erase the feel of Gabriel’s skin against mine.
He spat blood at my feet. I stepped back from the mess, moving my skirt aside.
“Look at you,” he sneered. “So sure in your convictions even when they’re wrong. You’re going to lose everything, little one. Your soul is as corrupt as mine- and no, don’t deny it. The fact that you found a home here so quickly is a testament to how weak your dedication to Heaven was.”
