by Joy Nash
Michael examined the quicksilver, frowning. “This thing needs more study,” he said, slipping it into his jeans pocket.
Fortunato hovered anxiously over his fallen friend. “Maweth!” he called. “Maweth! Can you hear me?”
Michael looked up sharply. “Did you say Maweth?”
The cherub nodded vigorously. “Yes. Maweth.”
“Who—or what—is he?” Cybele peered down at the unconscious figure and experienced an overwhelming surge of panic. She wanted to run, to put as much distance between herself and the creature as she could, as quickly as possible. And she wanted, desperately, to kick it away from Arthur.
“Maweth is the Demon of Death,” Michael said. “He came into being after Adam and Eve ate the apple. He’s the personification of sin and hopelessness.” He glanced at Fortunato. “And you say he’s your friend?”
“Yes. He’s so much fun. We play games together.”
“That,” Michael said, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Angels and demons can’t be friends.”
Fortunato’s bottom lip pushed out in a pout. “That’s not true. I’m friends with Maweth.” The cherub jabbed a finger at Cybele. “And you’re friends with her.”
Michael’s cheeks resumed their crimson flush. Fortunato, however, had turned back to the unconscious demon. “Wake him up. Please, Michael, wake him up. Or at least heal him like you did with that Nephil over there.”
Michael muttered something distinctly un-angelic under his breath. He shook his head and sighed. Bending down, he touched his forefinger to Maweth’s pale forehead.
The demon’s eyes snapped open.
“Maweth!” Fortunato threw himself on his friend, and covered his face with kisses.
“What the—” The demon sat up and swatted him away. “Lucky, cut it out! You know I hate—” He caught sight of Michael and Cybele. “Hell. Who’re they?”
“This is Michael,” Fortunato cried joyously. “The archangel. He saved you!”
“And that one?” Maweth asked, eyeing Cybele warily.
Fortunato sobered. “Oh. She’s Cybele. She’s a Nephil.”
Maweth scrambled to his feet. “A Nephil!”
“But not a full-grown one. She can’t hurt—”
A blast of sulfurous wind snatched the words from the cherub’s mouth. A stream of soot hit Cybele square in the face. She gagged and dissolved into a fit of coughing.
Fortunato beat his wings, trying to shake the soot out of the gossamer feathers. “Yuk. I want a bath.”
Michael held out his hand. “I’ll take you back to Heaven, and you can get one.”
“Can Maweth come too?”
“To Heaven? Of course not.”
The cherub crossed his arms. “Then forget it.” He grimaced. “I don’t think it’s smart for me to go back there anyway. Raphael’s going to be reeeally mad at me. I helped a bunch of Nephilim get through his celestial seal.”
“And then your feathers destroyed the seal entirely,” Cybele informed him, ignoring Michael’s glare. “That’s what let the demon horde escape.”
“What!?” Fortunato blanched.
Maweth groaned. “So that’s what Dusek did with those feathers. I told you, Lucky, that you weren’t going to like it.”
“That settles it then. No way am I going back to Heaven. Not for a long, long time.” The cherub blinked beseechingly up at Michael. “Take me and Maweth somewhere else? Pleeeeease?”
Michael sighed. “Oh, all right. Come on.”
Fortunato flew up to perch on the archangel’s right shoulder. Maweth, after a brief hesitation, stretched his wings and joined him. Michael bent and, without any apparent effort at all, hoisted Arthur’s limp body over his left shoulder. He anchored the back of Arthur’s legs with one arm and held his free hand out to Cybele.
Their eyes met. After a brief hesitation, she placed her hand in his. “Where are we going?”
He tugged her close and wrapped his arm around her waist. His lips brushed her temple.
“Someplace safe,” he said.
***
Cybele, I’m sorry.
Luc couldn’t have said how many hours he drove. Miles and miles of back road rolled past the pickup. He was aware of turmoil, both his own and his sister’s. She was in trouble, he sensed, and there was nothing he could do about it. Another shortcoming to add to his long list of failures.
His gas tank was just about empty. The night was oppressive. A storm was brewing, angry clouds rolling in from the bay. He abandoned the truck on a stretch of industrial highway near a lagoon fed from the gulf. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire separated the road from a field of massive oil tanks.
Lightning flashed. A rumble of thunder followed. The electric-charged atmosphere lifted the fine hairs of Luc’s nape. Sultry wind gusted, heavy with particulates discharged from the refinery. Each breath intensified the acrid taste at the back of his throat.
No humans in sight at this time of night. Even so, Luc kept a watchful eye out as he approached the fence. He couldn’t afford mistakes. He was done being Mab’s slave. If he had to die for his freedom, well then, what the fuck? He’d die.
Suicide didn’t come easily to a Nephil adept. With no afterlife awaiting, his race had developed an incredibly strong instinct for survival. Luc had to do this right the first time. He wouldn’t have the strength for a second attempt.
The wounds inflicted by Mab’s whip still burned though not as intensely as they had in the cellar. He was aware, as always, of the wooden collar constricting his neck. His thrallstone throbbed painfully. The discomfort was manageable. He was sure he could shift through it. And call at least some magic. Would it be enough? It had to be.
Up until this point in his escape, he hadn’t used any magic. As soon as he did, Mab would feel the power surging through his thrallstone. It would take a while, however, for her to locate him. By the time she did, it would be too late. He’d be gone.
He closed his eyes and willed his demon form to the fore. His vision took on a red cast. His wings erupted from his back. He unfurled them slowly and flew to the top of the nearest oil tank. Its roof bulged, sloping upward from the perimeter to the center where a pipe protruded. Luc landed next it and studied its ventilator valve.
As a child, he’d been taught to fear Oblivion above all else. Facing it now should have terrified him. Strangely, he could only view the prospect of eternal annihilation with mild curiosity. Death existed on the other side of his pain. It represented peace. Peace and...nothingness.
The storm was passing to the south. Luc placed his hand on the valve and imagined it open. Imagination became reality. Some miles away, lightning flashed. Luc looked inward, his mind sifting through the talents of his Druid magic. Water. Of the three elements of Druid magic—stone, wood, and water—water was the most difficult element to control. But it was the one he needed.
Come to me.
The clouds obeyed his command, shifting course, streaming north toward Luc’s call. Fat raindrops, propelled by driving wind, stung his face and torso. Lightning cracked like a whip, brilliant in Luc’s vision. With an angry hiss, the open valve sucked in oxygen and electricity. A brief, silent moment followed.
The stillness gave way to a roar like a freight train hurtling off its track. The noise whipped into a fury under Luc’s feet. The oil tank’s steel roof heated. Black smoke burst from the vent pipe, blasting into Luc’s face.
Bare seconds of his life remained. A wild urge to spread his wings and fly came upon him. It took all his strength to resist.
A faint emotion stirred in the deepest part of his instinct. Whatever trouble his sister had been in, she’d come through it. She was safe, at least for now. Relief flooded his body. The profound release of tension made it easier, somehow, to face his own end.
He spread his arms. Cybele, I’m sorry.
TWENTY-ONE
“Someplace safe” turned out to be a dingy apartment.
She wasn’t s
ure how they’d gotten here. She’d expected Michael to fly. She’d wondered how he was going to cut a path through a sky thick with hellfiends while carrying two Nephilim, a cherub, and a demon.
He didn’t even bother to try. The field in which they stood simply vanished. An instant later an off-white wall fronted by a threadbare green couch materialized. It was accompanied by a stained carpet, a table surrounded by mismatched chairs, and a pair of dirty windows with crooked shades. An old television sat at an angle in one corner. Glancing out one of the windows, Cybele saw they were five or six stories above the street in a densely urban setting.
Michael’s arm slid from her waist. She stumbled a bit before she found her balance. The cherub and his unlikely friend leaped from the archangel’s shoulder, hands joined, to land on the couch. Michael turned and, with Arthur’s limp form still slung over his shoulder, strode down a short hallway.
Cybele hurried in his wake. “Where are we, exactly?”
He shouldered open a door. “Southwark.”
“Where’s that?”
“London.”
London was his idea of a safe location? “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not exactly off the beaten path. Mab’s looking for us. She’s the Druid alpha and—”
“I know who Mab is.” He shot her a look. “And I know what she is.”
“Then you know why we can’t let her find us. We need to hide.”
He lowered Arthur onto a sagging double bed. “The best place to hide is in plain sight.”
“What kind of stupid logic is that?”
He turned, eyeing her frankly. “A simple thank you would be sufficient.”
“I thanked you already.” She went to the side of the bed. Arthur lay sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, face gray. He looked like death itself. Her chest squeezed so tightly she could hardly breathe.
“You’re welcome,” Michael said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move toward the door.
She turned. “Where are you going?”
“To find Raphael. I’ve been gone too long. He’s got to have noticed by now.” He disappeared into the hallway.
She smoothed a lock of hair off Arthur’s forehead. She kissed the spot where it’d been. Then she turned away and followed Michael into the flat’s living room, where the archangel stood conversing with Fortunato and Maweth.
“You really should let me take you to Heaven,” he was telling the cherub. “I swear Raphael won’t punish you. There would be no point to it. The damage is done.”
“Maybe I’d go home,” Fortunato said slowly. “But only if Maweth can come too.”
Maweth snorted. “Forget that. They’d never let me in.”
“Sure they would.” The cherub’s blue eyes blinked. “Michael, tell him it’s okay.”
Michael ran a hand over his head. “Um...I’m going to have to agree with Maweth on this one, Fortunato. Heaven is not going to welcome the Demon of Death with open arms.”
“See? I told you.” Maweth shook his head. “Honestly, Lucky, do you have even half a brain? Look. Just go to Heaven without me. I’ll be fine here on Earth.”
“No.” The cherub crossed his arms over his chubby chest. “If Heaven won’t have you, it won’t get me either. I’m staying here. With you.”
“Not a good idea,” Michael said. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a hellfiend invasion. Earth’s not the best place for you to be right now.”
“I don’t care.” The little angel pouted. “I’m staying. Unless—” He eyed his unlikely friend uncertainly. “Unless...Maweth doesn’t want me here?”
Maweth looked discomfited. “Of course I want you here,” he mumbled.
Michael looked from cherub to demon, clearly nonplussed. “This...friendship,” he said, “is highly irregular.”
“No more irregular than archangels consorting with Nephilim,” Maweth pointed out.
Michael’s expression shuttered. “All right, all right. Fine. But please. Stay in this flat until the sky clears.”
“When’s that going to be?” Fortunato asked.
Michael shrugged. “No clue.”
“And when whoever lives here shows up?” Cybele asked. “What then?”
“No one lives here. The flat’s yours for as long as you want it. You’ll find the keys and a copy of the lease on the desk in the second bedroom. There’s food in the kitchen. There’s no need to go out, so don’t. Mab can’t find you as long as you stay inside.”
“What? How did you manage all that?”
He shrugged. “I have a few talents. Now I’ve really got to get—” His brows snapped together. “Cybele? Are you okay?”
No. She felt as though a boulder had slammed into her head. Her ears were ringing. Her chest was tight. She couldn’t breathe, and her hands had gone clammy. Cold sweat dripped down her brow. Her legs shook.
“I’m going to throw up...”
She was only dimly aware of Michael guiding her to the couch. His hand, warm and large, came down on the back of her neck, urging her to drop her head between her knees.
She tasted bile. Luc, she thought. Luc.
Michael knelt in front of her. After a moment, when she thought she wouldn’t vomit in his face, she looked up.
“Cybele, what’s wrong?”
“Luc,” she choked out. “He’s...” Cybele, I’m sorry. Her twin’s plea made itself known, not in words but in a raw feeling deep in her bones.
“Luc?” Michael’s brows drew in. “Who’s Luc?”
“My twin brother. He’s...Mab’s thrall. Luc and I, we’re...oh, I don’t know how to describe it. Linked, I guess you’d say. Emotionally.”
“And you feel something about him? Something bad?”
She looked up at the archangel, into his beautiful, concerned eyes. “He’s going to kill himself.”
***
Luc lay face down on a slick surface amid an overwhelming stink of urine. There was a disgusting taste on his tongue and a painful ringing inside his skull. And behind the ringing... He strained his ears at the noise, which seemed to echo down a long, oppressive tunnel. Behind the ringing...the sound of...
Traffic?
There was no traffic in Oblivion. In Oblivion, there was no sound at all. No sickening odors. No horrible tastes. No slimy surfaces.
A car horn blared.
This makes no sense. No sense at all. He was dead. Wasn’t he?
Maybe not.
He cracked open one eyelid. He was sprawled on his stomach in a dank alley beside an overflowing garbage bin. A door set in a brick wall lay less than ten feet in front of him. A vent above it spewed a greasy odor. It blended nauseatingly with the urine smell. A window, its glass painted black, was cracked open an inch. Luc heard the clank of pots and voices speaking a language he didn’t understand.
He set his palms on the ground. A rank substance oozed between his fingers. His head was pounding. He squinted upward. The buildings on either side of the alley were several stories high. The slice of sky above them was gray, spitting a half-hearted drizzle down on his head.
One end of the alley died into a brick wall. In the opposite direction, about thirty feet away, he could see a street. Traffic passed in a steady stream. A pair of pedestrians—two young women—hurried along the sidewalk. They quickly passed out of view.
Where the hell was he? Houston? Dallas? The last thing he remembered was the oil tank exploding beneath him. He’d made sure escape was impossible. Or so he’d thought.
He was in human form. And his back no longer burned. He peered down at his shoulder, where Mab’s whip had left a particularly nasty gash. All that was left of the wound was a faint red line. The other marks she’d made on him, what he could see of them at least, were completely gone. His thrall collar remained fastened around his neck. But the ruby had ceased to throb, and the wood felt looser.
Strange and stranger. His mind balked at the effort it requir
ed to make sense of it. His wounds might be healed, but his human body remained a long way from full strength. It took supreme effort to push himself into a sitting position. Once he managed it, he sagged against the brick wall, panting. The movement startled a rat that had been busily picking at a rotten rind. The creature froze. It scurried away without its prize.
Well. A least Luc was still able to scare something.
It took another few minutes before he felt ready to stand. He rose unsteadily, grasping at the wall, his breath uneven. Long moments passed before his head stopped spinning. Experimentally, he stood straight. His legs, surprisingly, supported his weight.
He glanced down the alley, toward the dead end. The passage was deserted. Luc had no wish to bang on the door of the greasy spoon or on the only other door he could see, about twenty feet down on the other side of the alley. He turned and took a step toward the street.
“Luc.”
A man’s voice, low and smooth. Behind him. Where just two seconds before no one had been. He spun around.
A man of Middle Eastern descent—the kind of guy who wouldn’t last two seconds in a Texas biker bar—stood not five feet away. He was young and lean, dressed all in black, except for the unfastened silver frogs on his vintage military jacket. The costume should have made him look ridiculous. Somehow, it didn’t. The harsh angles of his face, his unshaven jaw, his lean build, and—most of all—the expression in his dark eyes, shouted danger.
Luc tensed. Green sparks crackled on his fingertips. Shifting onto the balls of his feet, he prepared for a fight. One threatening move and he’d blast the guy. But the dark man didn’t react. After about a minute, Luc’s fighting stance began to feel foolish. He dropped his hands and let the hellfire fade.
“It was a very near thing,” the stranger said. “I barely got you out in time.”
Luc blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“That oil tank. It’s still burning. It’s going to take them days to put it out.”