by Joy Nash
Dusek uttered a foul cry. He grabbed at the baby. The little creature was too swift. He evaded the Nephil’s fingers. Zigzagging wildly, he ricocheted off the cave walls like a demented ping pong ball. At one point he buzzed past Dusek’s nose. The Nephil swatted at him with one hand, but couldn’t quite catch him.
The Alchemist’s other hand, unfortunately, remained gripped around Cybele’s upper arm. Again she twisted and kicked, with little to show for it. Until the cherub—that had to be what the winged baby was—flung himself at Dusek’s chest.
Grabbing hold of the silver chain with one hand, the angel pounded on the part of the mirror still attached to it. “Maweth? Maweth? You in there? Are you all right?”
Dusek swiped at the angel. This time, his grip on Cybele slackened. She wrenched free. Without so much as a single backward glance, she took off down the tunnel.
Running was treacherous. Dusek’s hellfire kept her arms lashed to her sides, making it difficult to keep her balance. She navigated crumbling ground, dodging fire and fiends. It took all her concentration to remain upright as she stumbled back toward the cave’s main chamber.
Something caught her from behind. Her head snapped back. “Not so fast, my love.”
Dusek. He yanked her head around, his fingers digging painfully into her scalp. Damn it all to Oblivion. She should’ve hacked off her hair when she’d had the chance.
Incredibly, the little angel was still clinging to Dusek’s silver chain. “Maweth? Maweth?” His voice hitched up an octave. “Answer me!”
Dusek, ignoring the angel, gave Cybele’s head a vicious shake. “You will learn obedience. Starting now.”
“Fuck you.” She spat in his face.
A fist connected with her jaw. Pain exploded. Her head whipped to one side. Using her hair as a tether, Dusek gave her another shake. He slapped her across the cheek. Her head snapped back the other way.
“You may look forward to more of that,” he said harshly. “I know I will.”
“You think you can make me obey you?” Cybele snarled. “Forget it. I’ll kill you. I’ll gut you while you sleep. I’ll poison your food. I’ll cut off your—”
“Maaaaawethhhhhh!” The angel, apparently oblivious to his surroundings, pounded on the mirror.
Dusek looked down. “As for you—enough.” The Nephil tore the angel off his chest and threw him to one side. The angel ricocheted off a falling rock, swayed dizzily for a second, and then seemed to regain his bearings. He looked at Dusek. His expression darkened.
“You!” A missile of incandescent light slammed into Dusek’s face. The Nephil staggered backward. His grip went slack. Cybele fell, her knees hitting the ground with a painful jolt. A falling rock hit her on the shoulder. Looking up, she saw a boulder tumbling toward her. She rolled swiftly toward the cave wall. The massive stone crashed down, barely missing her.
Dusek, cursing, clawed at the angel. Pudgy infant legs locked tightly around his throat. One chubby little hand grabbed a fistful of his hair. The other rained choppy blows on the Nephil’s nose.
“Take that!” the angel cried. Punch! “And that!” Smack! “You!” Slap! “Bad!” Thump! “NEPHIL!”
Dusek fought his tiny assailant absurdly. Hellfire was no use. The little angel seemed immune to it. And each time the Nephil managed to pry a chubby arm or leg off his face or neck, it slipped through his fingers and splatted back into place.
“You hurt!” Smack! “My friend!” Punch! “Bad. Bad! BAD!”
The sulfurous fog was thickening. Cybele could barely see through it. Her lungs burned. The world was falling rock, leaping flame, beating wings, and unholy shrieking. The ground was cracking beneath her. The entire hill was collapsing into the abyss. If she couldn’t find Arthur and get out of here, they’d both fall into whatever corner of Hell the fiends had escaped.
Maybe Arthur’s already gone. Her heart pounded furiously. No. Don’t even think it. She tried again to free her arms from Dusek’s hellfire. Finally, giving up, she scrambled to her feet and threw herself down the tunnel.
With all the dust and billowing brimstone, she might as well have been blind. She slammed into an obstacle she hadn’t even seen coming. She would have fallen, if a firm grip, just above her right elbow, hadn’t kept her on her feet.
“Cybele.”
Her head jerked up. He was tall, she thought inanely. Even taller than Arthur. His wing feathers were like glowing bronze velvet. His expression was hard, but somehow his grimness did nothing to detract from his beauty. Slashing cheekbones, angular jaw, aristocratic nose. His hair was dark and soaked with sweat, plastered across his forehead. And his eyes? Even through the murk, she could tell they were the softest brown she’d ever seen. Or had ever even imagined.
He was the dark archangel. Michael. A chill raced down her spin. Had he come to kill her?
“No.” She tried to break his grip. He only held her tighter. “No.” She struck out. She couldn’t reach him. She kicked. Hit his knee. He didn’t flinch.
“Calm down.” His voice was deep and smooth. “Stop struggling. I’m not here to hurt you.”
With a start, she realized Dusek’s hellfire lashes were gone. They’d dissolved the instant Michael had touched her. Surely, if he’d meant to kill her, she’d be dead by now. The cave shuddered. A large chunk of rock fell, struck his head, and bounced away. His only reaction was a frown, and she was pretty sure the falling rock had nothing to do with that. He was frowning at her.
“I’m taking you out of here,” he said.
“No. No way.” Her chest heaved with the effort of breathing. “I’m going back to the big cave. I’ve got to get to Arthur.”
“Arthur’s going to have to take care of himself, I’m afraid.” Michael turned her around and hustled her in the opposite direction. His wings came up to shelter her from the falling rock as easily as an umbrella dispelled a drizzle.
“Or not,” he added under his breath as another violent tremor struck. “As the case may be.”
“What do you mean by that? Is he d—” Cybele couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Michael supplied it. “Dead? No, he’s not. At least, he wasn’t the last time I saw him. Can’t say how long that’ll last, though.”
“No! I’ve got to—”
“Get yourself killed?” He slipped an arm around her waist and hauled her along the passage. “Forget it. Arthur’s a big boy. Let him sink or swim on his own. This is all his fault.”
“It is not!”
“No? Who pulled that staff from the stone? Who opened a portal to Hell and released a horde of hellfiends from the deep?”
“He didn’t know—”
“Not an excuse.” Michael’s tone was grim. “There’s no telling what will happen now that those things are free.”
“Merlin’s staff—it was keeping those things underground?”
“The staff, yes, and Raphael’s seal. Arthur’s unleashed what’s been contained for over a millennium.”
“Not Arthur. Dusek. He’s the one who broke that seal. I saw him.”
Michael stopped and peered at her with an arrested expression. “You did? How did he do it?”
“He used this little golden ball. It had wings made from two glowing feathers. Angel feathers, I think they were. The ball slammed into the ceiling and the light just...shattered.”
Michael uttered a word Cybele was pretty sure angels weren’t in the habit of saying. She tried to tug free of his grasp. “Listen. Just let me go. I have to get back to Ar—”
“Maaaaaawethhhhhhh! Are you in there? Are you all right? Answer meeeee.”
Michael swung around. He’d stopped before a bend in the tunnel. The voice high and melodious, like a bell, and came from just ahead.
“Blessed Heaven,” he muttered. “That sounds like—”
A golden blur of light wobbled around the corner, caught sight of Michael and Cybele, and drew up short. The little angel who’d attacked Dusek earlier hovered in the air, wi
ngs whirring. In his chubby hands was the Alchemist’s mirror. Its broken chain dangled in the air.
The angel blinked, the sparkling blue of his eyes looking terribly out of place in the yellow murk. “Michael?”
The archangel appeared stunned. “Fortunato?”
“You know him?” Cybele asked.
Michael blinked down at her. “Know him? Of course I know him. He’s a cherub, isn’t he? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.” He looked back to the angel. “Fortunato, what in Heaven’s holy name are you doing here?”
The angel sniffled. “Michael! It’s really you.” He threw himself at the archangel, wrapping one pudgy arm around his neck. “Michael. Michael. Michael.” He thrust the mirror under the larger angel’s nose. “Help.”
“Help with wh—” Michael cut off as the rock under their feet disintegrated.
Cybele scrambled for footing. There wasn’t any. A chasm had opened up beneath her. She shrieked. Michael’s grip tightened. She found herself suspended, her legs dangling in thin air. Michael held her easily, with one arm, her back pressed against his chest, much as Dusek had done.
The sensation was as different as night to day. Michael’s touch was firm, but not at all threatening. His bronze wings fluttered gently. “Don’t worry.” His lips brushed her temple. “I won’t let you fall.”
Fortunato swung back and forth like a pendulum, his gossamer wings moving so fast Cybele could hardly see them. “Michael. Michael.” He held out the disc. “You’ve got to help my friend.”
Cybele could hear the confusion in the archangel’s voice. “Who’s your friend?”
“He’s—” The cherub’s reply was lost in an unholy shriek. A pair of hellfiends, careening up from the deep, smashed into Cybele. One tore at her pant leg, the other tangled in her hair.
“Ugh.” The things smelled like vomit. If Dusek hadn’t taken her knife, she’d slice up the potato bodies and send each piece back where it came from. She swatted at the one in her hair. Her hands came away slimy.
“Disgusting,” she spat.
“Stay still.” Michael’s left arm tightened around her. The switchblade she’d seen earlier appeared again in his right hand. He skewered the creature, lifting it on his knife and flinging it away with one smooth movement. It let out a yelp and exploded into ash.
He dispatched the second one with lethal efficiency. Another explosion struck. Rock and stone crashed down from above. Michael spread his wings over Cybele, shielding her from the worst of the deluge. “Fortunato!” he barked. “To me.”
The cherub didn’t hesitate. Clutching the mirror to his chest, he leaped onto Michael’s shoulder and hooked a chubby arm around his neck. Michael’s blade folded and disappeared up his sleeve. He shifted his grip on Cybele.
“Hang on,” he told her.
They shot skyward, exploding into the night amid rock, fire, and ash. Michael set a spiraling path through the hellfiend horde. The ground spun in circles beneath them. A low rumble vibrated the air. The peak of Merlin’s Hill cracked wide open, releasing a writhing mass of what looked like ash and fire. Cybele knew better. The hellfiend horde had broken free.
Clods of dirt, splintered tree branches, chunks of rock—even a few sheep—rained down. As Michael flew over the Spencers’ farm, Cybele caught a glimpse of the couple, rushing into the yard in their nightclothes. For one frozen moment, they clung to each other. Then Mrs. Spencer staggered forward, arms outstretched. “Jack!”
A wave of grief broke over Cybele. Innocent, trusting Jack. There wasn’t a chance in Hell that he’d escape alive. At least the boy would have a place in Heaven. Cybele hoped the knowledge would be a comfort to his grandparents.
If they survived, that was. A boulder hurtled into the side of the barn. With a shudder, the entire structure collapsed. As Michael changed course, Cybele caught a last glimpse of Mr. Spencer hauling his wife toward their truck.
Michael flew over the road and the field beyond. He landed perhaps a mile from Merlin’s Hill, in the lee of a crumbling stone barn. He set Cybele’s feet on the ground. Her legs folded like spaghetti. She found herself sprawled in the dirt, staring up at her unlikely defender.
He frowned down at her. How, she thought dazedly, could this dark, forbidding man be an angel? The notion was impossible to wrap her head around. His face, with its Middle Eastern complexion, and his body, all lean muscle encased in black human garb, was as far from Cybele’s understanding of angels as it was possible to get. Michael wasn’t pale, noble, or holy. His angelic aura was simply one of power. Raw, elemental power.
His bronze wings appeared almost black against the dawn sky. They might have belonged to one of her own kind—a Nephil. Until they folded down to nothing and disappeared into his back. Through his clothes. That, more than anything else, convinced her of Michael’s angel status. No Nephil could melt wings through fabric.
She shoved herself into a sitting position, watching him warily. The little cherub was still perched on his shoulder, one chubby arm clutching the mirror, the other looped around Michael’s neck. The archangel didn’t seem to remember the cherub’s presence until Fortunato leaped from his perch to the ground and kissed Michael’s boots.
“Oh thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.”
Amusement flitted across Michael’s face as he looked down at the cherub. “You’re very welcome.”
Fortunato hopped away. Gently, he laid the mirror on the ground. The surface slithered and swirled. Looking up briefly at Michael, the cherub said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He jumped and, with a pop, disappeared into the mirror.
“That’s odd.” Michael frowned at the piece.
Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Cybele climbed to her feet and backed slowly away.
The archangel’s head whipped around. “No. Don’t go.”
Cybele froze, her heart pounding. “Why? What are you going to do with me?”
“Do with you?”
“Are you going to—” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “—to kill me?”
His brows shot up. “What? No! Is that what you think?”
“The thought occurred to me.”
“It shouldn’t have,” he said. “If I’d meant for you to die, I’d have left you under that hill.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“That,” he said, “is a fucking good question.”
She blinked. “I didn’t think angels cursed.”
His expression turned sheepish. “We don’t, normally.”
She glanced toward Merlin’s Hill. The smoke and flame showed no signs of abating. Even this far away, she could feel the ground trembling. “I guess there’s nothing normal about this.” She drew a breath. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I suppose so.”
“Arthur,” she said. “Do you think he’s alive?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
How could her chest feel tight and like it was cracking open all at once? “But—I need to know.”
“Well. As I’ve said, he was alive when I saw him last. Raphael was trying his best to remedy that, but your lover is a wily fighter. He was giving almost as good as he got.”
“So he could still be alive.”
“Might be, yes. Though it’s not likely.”
Cybele didn’t give a shit what was likely. She clutched at the shred of hope he’d offered. “You have to go back.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You have to go back.”
He regarded her with patent disbelief. “Into that mess? To rescue the Nephil who caused it? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m dead serious. Go back and get Arthur. You can do it. I know you can.” She closed the distance between them and grasped his arm.
He flinched. For a long moment he stared down at her hand, as if it were a viper, preparing to strike.
“If Arthur’s alive,” he said slowly, “he’ll find his own way out.”
“Not
if he’s unconscious.” Cybele’s grip tightened. “Please. You have to look for him.”
“I have to do no such thing.” Michael shook his head slightly as if trying to dislodge something from his brain. “Honestly, I shouldn’t even have done this much. I stepped way outside my boundaries when I rescued you.”
“Why did you?”
He took a step back. Her hand fell to her side. Their eyes locked. Several long moments spun out.
“I couldn’t let Dusek take you,” he said at last.
“But—why would you care?”
“I—I don’t know, exactly.”
She cocked her head to one side, trying—and failing—to understand. But some unreadable emotion in his brown eyes prompted her to go on. “Please,” she said softly. “Please go look for Arthur. If not for his sake, for mine.”
His lips pressed together, and he looked away. “He’s probably dead by now.”
Her heart clenched. “Then bring me his body. So I can be sure.”
His expression didn’t change, but she sensed a subtle shift in his resolve. She held her breath through a long moment of silence.
“Please,” she said at last when he didn’t speak. “I’m begging you.”
He looked at her. “You love him.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
The question surprised her. “Because...because he’s Arthur. He’s—oh, it’s hard to describe. I loved him—I knew him—from the very first moment I saw him. He was twelve. I was thirteen. He was...so much more than anyone I’d ever met. His ideals, his beliefs—before I met Arthur, I didn’t know...I didn’t realize...that there could be a life outside Mab’s dirty little world. Arthur made me dream of a different future. Of a life built on free will.”
She paused for breath. Michael remained silent, his expression inscrutable.
She eyed him. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” He looked away. “I have not.”
“I suppose love isn’t...isn’t something angels need. You can’t really understand. But it’s true. I love Arthur and he loves me. He...if it were me in that mess, he wouldn’t even think about whether or not to look for me. He’d just do it. He went rogue and faced his Ordeal alone for me. He was in that cave, looking for Merlin’s staff for me.”