Stark yellow light flickered, glowing from the lit candles set at intervals along the walls and up on the raised dais at the forefront of the room. The demons shifted excitedly. Some were in corporeal form, others preferred to remain in their natural mist-like state, only a cloud of darkness and glowing eyes to indicate their presence.
Azazel stood arrow-straight in his suit, adjusting his tie and tie clip to perfection. He thought it appropriate, if not hilariously ironic, to dress as formally as the important humans of this world. He believed it conveyed authority. Well, not that that stopped him from eating people in suits, but still. He stepped up onto the raised platform, looking out onto the rest of the room. Azazel gave a chilling smile, raised his hands, then waved them down, indicating that the demons should sit, quietly. ‘Bonum tenebris,’ Azazel’s deep voice carried through the cave, bouncing and echoing. The demons all chanted back to him, as if repeating the lyrics of a hymn. ‘Bonum tenebris.’ Good Darkness. An ode to their demonic history, the words they shared every night, and on every occasion their leader rose to speak with them. An omen, a prayer, a voice to the darkness, and a promise to their evil intentions.
‘I know you are all anxious,’ Azazel began diplomatically as the demons all quietened. ‘I know you are hungry. It is nearly our time again, my brothers and sisters. This time, however, is not like any other meal for us, no. This time, I hear chatter about our foe, the angels. My kin, I have a feeling that their time upon our Earth is about to change. While they are distracted with their little foes, perhaps we shall see what they can really do to stop us.’
The demons roared their approval.
‘How many centuries have we taken only small bites of our dinner, the humans, for fear the angels will smite us? Well, no longer. This year, my kin, we feast!’ Azazel’s eyes glowed a burning yellow, embers hot and hungry. He watched as thousands of his kin roared their battle cry, their hunger, and their defiance. Azazel would bite the heads off the angels who tried to stop him. He wondered briefly what an angel might taste like, and he began to drool.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Hella
Hella knew she was being held captive at The Force, but she had no idea where that was. Her one door, despite the slit of a window, to the outside world was made of strong, thick metal with no windows or a peep-hole. She had banged on it so often and so loudly that, if there was anyone else in the entire building, they must have heard her by now. Heard her, and ignored her cries.
Hella paced her room anxiously. There was a thin slot with a flap at the bottom of the thick door, through which had been slid several meals, by a person, obviously. So there were people here, feeding her, keeping her alive, but refusing to speak with her.
She spent her first day as a prisoner being very, very angry. And a little bit afraid. Hella found white hand wraps in a drawer by the bed and wrapped the soft cotton around her hands and over her knuckles. She swung at the heavy bag in the centre of her room for hours, until she was almost sure she’d nearly broken a finger or two. She was exhausted, though. Still. From using what had felt like every drop of magic available on the planet when she had astralled to Meele and the faeries, and then healed Harrow from the shard of ice that had sliced into him.
Hella sat down on the bed, her knuckles, hands and wrists excruciating. The white cotton was now spotted red. For the tenth time, she tried to summon her magic. Any magic. To set fire to the room in anger. To burn the door down, or set something alight, creating a drift of smoke so that her captors would release her in fear for her safety. Hella tried her astralling power, her telekinesis and even her conjuring. But nothing worked. Small, miniscule red sparks danced on her fingertips, but otherwise, her magic was entirely depleted.
In some ways, she knew she should be happy to be alive. But as a captive, it was difficult to see that silver lining. She supposed it was also good that the angels didn’t have her, and she wasn’t chained up. But she was still a prisoner, held against her will, and stuck in this room.
Three days passed agonisingly slow. Hella had still received no visitors, no one to explain why she was being held here, or for how long she would remain. Every day she showered, brushed her hair and teeth, ate the sloppy scrambled eggs they slid under her door, and got dressed in fresh clothes they brought her the previous night. She spent hours punching at the bag, working out her fear and anger. But punching a bag could only be cathartic for so long. On her third day, Hella’s patience finally broke.
She had been constantly testing her magic, desperately reaching for it, when she finally realised that perhaps she didn’t need it. Her hands wrapped in red-and-white cotton, she went into her tiny bathroom and put her fist through the glass wall of the shower, and it shattered with a loud tingling of falling glass. Hella picked up a shard and dabbed a few drops of her own blood onto the edge from her already-bloodied knuckles. It was almost time for lunch. Someone would be coming soon.
Hella tip-toed around the shards of glass on her floor and went to sit at the foot of the metal door which held her from freedom. She sat still for about ten minutes, listening. Then she heard it. The faintest tap-tapping of footfalls as someone approached. The flap of the slot opened only from the outside, she knew. She stayed still and ready, the shard of glass held tightly in her hand. Then the flap opened, and she thrust the glass out and heard a satisfying gasp of surprise from the person just a few centimetres away from her. She could see nothing, but heard a voice curse.
Hella heard a static squeak, like a radio, or a walkie talkie. The latter was confirmed when she heard someone speak into it. ‘Henry, yeah we’ve got a problem. I think she’s hurt. Do you want me to go in and check on her?’ Hella tensed as the person on the other side, a man, paused, waiting for an answer. The response came through, but it was too faint and garbled for her to hear. ‘Okay, I’ll wait here,’ he said.
Someone was coming, she thought excitedly. She went and fetched another shard of broken glass. She would be ready for them.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Tommy
Tommy spent three days in a ball of stress and worry over Hella’s containment at The Force. When they came, he had yelled at Remy until he had no more breath while Harrow had tried to attack the agents and paid for it with a bloody, possibly-broken nose. Tommy had tried to reach his fellow warlock, there had always been a sense of comradery between same-Houses, but Harrow had dislodged himself from the agents and glared murderously over at Remy, his tail swishing dangerously, then he had left.
Tommy stayed, unsure what to do with himself. For a time, Remy was still and quiet and that was enough to ruffle Tommy. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he yelled at her, his usual calm composure breaking.
‘It’s for the best,’ Remy insisted.
Tommy was about to leave in a huff, when Harrow came bolting back into the store, his eyes wild and his dark hair ruffled. To Tommy’s shock, he was holding a very large, white, glowing feather. Tommy stepped back reflexively. ‘Is that from an angel?’ he demanded.
He was relieved to see Harrow unhurt, apart from his nose.
Harrow nodded. ‘That angel who took the halo off me? The blonde one? Well, that would be Nerretti. He just paid me a visit, and said to give you this.’ He looked pointedly at Remy, whose eyes were wide with interest.
Harrow shimmered, his vertical eyes dark. His tail swished. ‘Come and get it, witch.’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Harrow
Unfortunately, Tommy had made him give the feather up to the traitor of an old lady, then had convinced him to return to the warlock house with him three days ago.
They returned in a fury. Cambions took deep reproach at anyone’s abduction; a fear they had for themselves, which had been so long fanned by the angels. At the Warlock House, Tommy paced before his aunt Tahlia, angrily ranting about how awful and unjust—not to mention unnecessary—it was, and that Hella was their ally, and they needed to go and rescue her.
&
nbsp; Harrow sat quietly in the corner, hoping that his parents were not here, and that Tommy’s aunt would not mention his presence to them. He knew Tahlia, at least a little, from when he had grown up here. She had always been level-headed and kind, but now, her pale face hardened, and she stopped Tommy’s pacing.
‘We can’t,’ she said. Surprise rippled through them both.
Now, Harrow shimmered. ‘You can, and you will!’ he shouted, all effort attempting to blend into the shadows was forgotten.
Tahlia took it as a personal challenge, shimmering in threat. Her Terra-green Marks shone in the twilight filtering in through the high windows. ‘Nympha, don’t try me,’ she warned, then softened. ‘Harrow, I am glad to see you again—but under these circumstances, I’m afraid we cannot help Hella.’
‘They abducted her. She’s there against her will.’ Harrow growled through his teeth. ‘You’re going to let a bunch of humans stand between you and one of your allies?’
‘I understand how you feel,’ Tahlia said diplomatically. ‘I can see you both care for Hella, and yes, of course she is our ally, but she is in no danger. The Force are just holding her for safekeeping until her powers are controlled, and the time for battle is upon us. There’s no reason to worry.’ And with that, she shimmered back, cool and calm. ‘Why don’t you two head downstairs? I hear there’s a party going on in the bar. There are faeries here tonight. Why don’t you go mingle? Take your mind off this.’
Harrow growled, low and deep in his throat. Tommy caught him by the arm and dragged him away. ‘You disappoint me, Aunty,’ Tommy said as they took their leave. Her face was almost impassive, but Harrow thought he saw her eyes pinch together, just a fraction, as if in pain.
Harrow and Tommy made their way downstairs into the Nightlife bar in the basement of the House.
‘Are you sure you’re okay to be here?’ Tommy asked.
‘Is your aunt going to mention it to anybody?’
Tommy thought for a moment. ‘Not if she doesn’t have to.’
‘Then I’m fine. Do you know if Heather and Noah are here?’
There was a flash of sympathy in Tommy’s grass-green eyes. ‘As far as I know, your parents keep to themselves in their quarters. They’re unlikely to be here.’ Tommy led the way into the bar. Tahlia had been right, faeries danced downstairs, mingling with warlocks. They often partied at each other’s Houses. Tonight, perhaps, was a good night for a distraction. Harrow stuck his hands gloomily into his jeans pockets. They trod downstairs together in silence.
Harrow’s eyes were assaulted with the brightness of the strobe lights as he walked in the door of the basement, pink and green and blue flashing lights mixing through the room. It was already half-full, packed with the better half of the Cambions. They both pulled up a stool at the bar, music thumping in their ears.
The bartender, Leo, smiled down at Tommy. ‘Heya there, kiddo.’ He was a warlock, older and with black hair, greying at the temples. ‘What can I get you boys—’ He broke off as he saw Harrow. ‘You, there. You’re Heather’s boy, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you for years.’
Harrow flinched at the mention of his mother. ‘I’m not here to stay. I came to try to help a friend. Whiskey, neat.’
Leo the bartender shimmered, his Mettalum-black Marks shining in the white lights surrounding the bar; he had longer, smoother scales than his other Houses. It looked like there were smooth swaths of obsidian painted on his body. The backs of his hands looked like globs of sleek tar, pointed to sharp claws. He paused, then dropped a polite nod. ‘Okay, then.’ He used his powers to pour Harrow’s drink—a thin metal wiring encased each bottle and glass—and they seemed to pick themselves up out of thin air, the bottle tipped, pouring into the floating glass. The glass slid itself over to Harrow on the polished metal bar, and he nodded his thanks.
Leo looked curiously around the bar, noting the mixture of warlocks and faeries, both devorats—demon children, and integros—angel children. They got along surprisingly well. ‘For you?’ he asked Tommy.
Tommy shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘Rum, please.’
Harrow snorted derisively. ‘Seriously?’
Leo smiled fondly down at them and poured Tommy’s drink, sliding it over to him. Leo was an old acquaintance, but Harrow hadn’t seen him in years. Not since he had left the House. From what Harrow remembered, he was a good man. ‘What’s the trouble, fellas?’ he asked, as Tommy shot Harrow a withering look.
‘Have you heard of the promised witch?’ Tommy asked, taking a sip.
Leo poured himself a drink of golden-brown liquid, glass and bottle both floating. He chuckled. ‘Yes, of course. The most powerful on the planet, born to be our ally in the final battle of the angels, or something. Right? Of course.’
‘Well, she’s here. She was activated just a week ago,’ Tommy said. Harrow let him do all the talking. He was well-suited to be the nephew of a council member; he was patient, polite and diplomatic. The qualities Harrow liked least of the other boy. Though he had other, better traits too.
Leo’s glimmering obsidian eyes bulged. ‘Are you serious? Oh, thank the stars. It’s about time. My cousin got snatched up just last week, poor bastard, my uncle found him dead and carved up.’ There was anger in his voice. ‘You bet your Marks, if I ever find the angel who did it—’ He broke off, an empty threat—the only kind a Cambion could make of an angel. ‘Poor John,’ he whispered. ‘Now, who’s this promised witch then? Where is she? Is she really that powerful?’
‘Her name is Hellora Corvime,’ Harrow said, downing his drink. ‘She really is extraordinarily powerful, and she’s currently being held captive, and your council—who has declared our promised witch a valuable ally—won’t do a damned thing to help her.’ Harrow’s voice trembled with anger. ‘Another,’ he said, raising his empty glass.
Along the stretch of metal bar, Harrow could see a shining silver material, and in the right light you could see it; the hundreds of silver stars carved into the bar—Harrow suspected Leo had done it himself with his powers—and the inscription, many times over, astra inclinant, sed non obligant. The stars incline us, they do not bind us. Leo thumped a fist down onto the bar with his powers and created a hand-sized dent. Harrow’s eyes widened.
‘Are you kidding me? The best hope we’ve ever had to fight off the angels, and she’s locked up? Where? Wait, do the angels have her?’ The obsidian Marks rippled along his skin, moving like a wave in anger.
‘No, it’s not them. Her powers were a little bit’—Harrow paused—‘unstable. So, her witch guardian called in The Force, and they took her away. We need to get her back, but Tahlia Terra said no.’ As if by name-association it was Tommy’s fault, Harrow glared at him over the rim of his empty glass.
‘I want her back just as much as you do,’ Tommy assured him.
Harrow’s tail flicked, sharp and wicked. ‘I doubt that.’
Leo pounded the bar again, creating another dent. ‘Stop fighting over the girl for a minute. Where exactly is she?’
Tommy frowned. ‘Their building isn’t easy to find, but Tahlia has been there before, overseeing the memory wipe of a human. I can find out. But how would we get past their defences without exposing our powers and getting locked up ourselves?’
Leo smiled. ‘There’s a reason my family is feared.’ He winked, correcting the large dents he had pounded into the metal bar. ‘If this witch is our ticket to getting rid of the angels, then I say we go get her, damn the council. They’ve always been cowards.’
‘A squadron of angels did just blast away an entire coven with whom the council are supposed to be allies. They didn’t do a thing, or even send condolences, as far as I know,’ Tommy mused sadly.
‘Then it’s settled. We go get her,’ Harrow said, for the first time in a while, he smiled in relief. Then he raised his glass to Leo. ‘Another.’
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Nerretti
&
nbsp; Nerretti sat silently in a room with blackened windows, wishing he could look out onto the horizon. From this vantage point in the tall building, the view would have been lovely. Though the scorch from the sunlight would certainly dampen the serenity he may have felt. Instead he leaned back in his chair and picked up the book he was reading, opening the worn pages to finish the ancient text. Malachai sat beside him, silent and brooding. He held one of his feathers, swiping it back and forth on his uniform, sharpening it.
The room was empty but for the two of them. They were waiting on their brethren. Ramiel had called a meeting. Net’s stomach roiled, worried about the witches. It had been decades since a whole coven had been hit, there was rarely a need for such drastic action, but Ramiel had decided to send a message. As the door opened, and angels started filing inside in an orderly fashion, as they were taught, Net put his feet down, closing the book. Ramiel stood at the forefront of the crowd of angels, taller than most. His auburn hair spilled over his dark eyes, he was a picture of autumn in the shade. Net had always disliked him, but he was family. He should love all of his brethren.
Ramiel took his seat at the head of the table as the others flowed in around him, utterly silent as they settled into their chairs. Every eye was on Ramiel.
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