For a moment, all was quiet as feathers settled to the ground and the three of them looked up into the sky, watching as every angel on earth was forcibly recalled to Heaven, where they would have to stay. The ones already in Heaven, Net had told them, would be locked there too.
The humans would have to fend for themselves now, Hella knew, but she could help them, and the Cambions.
‘Train harder?’ Tommy asked.
‘We are all soldiers,’ Net explained. ‘In this, and every life. It’s what we say to our fallen brethren.’
Tommy nodded, looking away. Then, amongst the debris, he picked up Hella’s amulet. ‘Hey, maybe this will help you. It must’ve fallen in the fight.’ He clasped it around her neck and she smiled, feeling a boost of energy.
‘Thanks.’ She looked over to Nerretti who looked more shocked and traumatised than she would have thought possible for an angel. ‘Net, I’m sorry you had to do that. It was for the best—’ But before she could finish, the last angel on earth began to scream wildly. He jumped up, and Hella and Tommy scrambled back, out of his way.
‘Net, what is it?’ Tommy asked, terrified, but then they could see, as he turned.
The wings on Nerretti’s back were melting in bloody drops of silver-white fire. Net screamed and screamed. ‘What’s happening?’ he yelled, clawing at his back, his halo flashing in distress.
Hella looked desperately down at the spellbook for answers. This was not part of the plan. ‘I don’t know!’ she yelled. ‘This is Remy’s book, I don’t know!’
Tommy took it from her, reading every single word. ‘I don’t see anything about this.’
Net’s friendly face twisted in horrified agony. Above his head, his halo flashed furiously, golden and glowing, then to dullness, and back again.
Hella looked over to Tommy desperately. ‘What do we do?’ she demanded.
Tommy looked all around the store, looking for an answer. Then he saw Harrow, cold and still on the ground. ‘Could you heal him?’ He had to shout over the screams.
Hella frowned up at the angel. ‘I have no idea if I can heal angels,’ she called, getting up, ‘but I can try.’ Exhaustion gripped her like a vice, clamping down on her heart. Her ribs ached where the angel had kicked her, but she managed to get her hands on the writhing and panicked angel and tried to focus. She tried to hold him still, afraid for him, as a soft purple glow lit her hands. She could see what looked like small bones and tendons in the remains of his wings. It was hard to believe they had nerves in their wings, but Net’s screaming made her believe. It almost looked as if they had been ripped away, like some collectable Cambion Mark. He was shaking, almost convulsing.
Hella didn’t know if it would work, or if their ally was about to burst into a pillowy puff of feathers like a bloody exploding pillow just as the others had. But after a moment, Net’s breathing began to steady, though he was still whimpering. But his wings had entirely melted away. The fire had started to lick his back, too, but that she could heal. A long minute later, and Net was almost as good as new. He reached backward for his wings, to feel the soft, healed feathers. But they were not there. Tommy’s eyes grew wide with sadness.
‘They’re gone,’ Hella said gently. ‘But you’re alive.’
Net flinched, as if someone had punched him in the stomach, then blinked back tears. After a quiet moment, he nodded to her slightly. ‘Thank you, Hella,’ he said formally, his voice choked. Then his pale brow furrowed. ‘Why am I still here?’ He looked up into the night sky. It was still dotted with stars, and the shining moon. But there were no more streaks of light. All the angels were locked up safely. ‘I’m still on Earth,’ he said, dumbfounded.
Hella looked from Tommy to Net. ‘Why didn’t the spell take you, too?’
Tommy got to his feet, putting the spellbook down carefully on the remains of the broken counter. ‘Because the spell recalled all angels. And it would seem that Net is no longer an angel.’
Chapter Eighty
Hella
Hella sat on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. She took a steadying breath as she looked around at the ruins of the bookstore. Witches’ Wares had been beaten up and dishevelled before, but never like this. Never permanently and completely destroyed. Remy had never taught her how to put it all back together. And now she never would.
On her left lay Harrow, his eyes closed, his skin cold and pale. He died as a Cambion, she noted, but he had shimmered back to human. He looked pale, younger and finally, for the first time, he did not look bitter or angry. He had often looked at her gently, and with kindness, but the other emotions were still there, she could see, roiling in his eyes. He was sitting up against the glass-front counter by the register. If his middle were not slashed, and his skin so deathly pale, she might have convinced herself that he could be sleeping. But even sleeping Harrow, she suspected, could not look so peaceful. Hella wanted to reach out to him. To say that she was so very, very sorry.
On her other side, Tommy sat quietly. She could feel his unease. She knew he wanted to help her, but didn’t know how. Hella’s insides were churned to dust, as well as probably her ribs, and maybe an organ or two. She could feel her abdomen beginning to swell with the bleeding inside. Her healing magic, apparently, did not mean she could heal herself like Amara. She couldn’t take her eyes off Harrow.
‘I should have saved him,’ she breathed.
‘You couldn’t, he made his choice.’ Tommy’s voice was soft, kind. There was no bitterness in him. Meele sat, stunned, leaning against a wall, a feather still sticking painfully out of her leg. She slipped in and out of consciousness. Net had rushed to Amara, and was glad to find a pulse, but she was not waking up.
Hella wanted to heal them, but she could barely breathe. Could not move. ‘He died for me. Even after what I did to hurt him.’ Tears streaked her cheeks.
‘It was a mistake, Hella. He would have understood. And’—he paused—‘we won. That’s why he came here, we both did. To fight them. Thanks to you, we won.’ Tommy put an arm across her shoulders, and she leaned into him; both because she could not sit up any longer and because she was grateful to be tucked into his warmth. She could drift off then, she knew, into peaceful oblivion. Hella didn’t know how badly she was injured; if she would sleep, or slip into a coma. Right now, she would not have minded either way.
The open ceiling let in the cool night breeze, making her shiver. Hella reached out to Harrow with blood-stained, trembling fingers, wanting to say sorry, or goodbye, or come back. The blood on the floor was drier now, less slippery, but the knees of her jeans stuck in it like mud when she shuffled closer. ‘If only he hadn’t died so fast,’ she said, ‘then I could have healed him.’ The words were barely out of her mouth, when, without her volition, the amulet in her hand began to spark blue. That was not the colour of her magic. It was Remy’s, the sparks flying from the amulet Hella had taken from the witch, who lay still upstairs. Hella leaned forward, putting a soft hand on Harrow’s cool arm. Then the sparks grew from her palms, blue and bright. ‘I don’t understand, this is Remy’s colour.’ She glanced down at the amulet closely. Was she somehow using whatever magic remained in it?
Net had been trying to help Meele, but now he looked over. ‘What’s happening?’
Before either of them could answer, Hella felt her powers surge and pour into Harrow. Hella thought, for a moment, that the blue sparks were nothing but a soothing wind, perhaps something to calm her after Harrow and Remy’s passing. She looked up into the open night air and indeed, her loose red hair rustled around her shoulders with the breeze, red-purple sparks dancing in her hair, but now, there were blue sparks too. It was nice to smell something other than blood and smoke.
Then Harrow gasped a breath of fresh air, the breeze rattling in his throat. He choked on it.
Hella and Tommy both jumped away from the once-dead body, their eyes wide.
Tommy shimmered, and was the one who swore first. �
��What the hell?’ He shrieked.
In any other circumstance, Hella might have found it funny. She scrambled up too, away from Harrow’s clawing grasp. He was still pale. He shimmered restlessly and quickly from human to warlock and back again, like an old television on the fritz. The gash that had caught him across the middle was still there, gaping and dark blue. He reached out for her, for either of them, his eyes blue and slit, unable to speak.
Net came over, despite the events of the day, his brows were raised in surprise.
‘You brought him back,’ the ex-angel gasped. ‘But you didn’t heal him. Hella,’ he asked measuredly, ‘have you ever done that before?’
Harrow’s throat seemed to constrict, caught in a long moment of breathlessness, his vertical-blue eyes wide and mortified. He could not breathe. The young witch sat frozen, her mouth agape. ‘No,’ she said, stunned.
Tommy pushed her forward. ‘Hella! Heal him!’
‘But—’ Hella’s voice shook, uncertainty ripping through her. ‘He’s dead.’
Net knelt down to the others urgently. ‘He’s undead, now. Hella, you should heal him. He’s still hurt.’ The angel’s voice was level and clear. He took her hand and brought her back to Harrow. ‘He’s in pain, Hella. I know you’re exhausted, but you need to heal him.’
‘What happens if she uses too much magic?’ Tommy interjected.
‘There’s no time for thinking on that,’ Hella murmured, reaching out. If she burned, for what she’s done, she would deserve it now. She let Remy and Harrow die.
How much magic is too much? she wondered as she leaned forward to lay a healing hand on Harrow. There was nothing to think about. She healed him. She couldn’t let him suffer like this. Her chakras felt as if they were gnawing at her, biting and scratching her skin from the inside. Too much, she thought, afraid. She ignored it.
Harrow slumped to the ground, his eyes closed once again. She watched as colour spread through his skin. His wound dissolved into a stitched up and then invisible line. Harrow lay still, then began to breathe again, slowly. Hella reached out and, in her tired state, shoved him—a little harder than she’d meant to.
‘Ow,’ he murmured, sitting up. He rubbed his shoulder, massaging his blood-flow back to normal, then checked the rest of himself. ‘Don’t hit me, I died.’
Tommy smirked, and then, for the first time in what felt like years, there was a charming smile on his face. ‘Only you would use that as a defence.’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’ Harrow sat up, brushing glass and wooden dust out of his hair and clothes. ‘I was dead.’
Hella remained silent. She had never learned anything about bringing people back to life. Never thought, or knew, that it was possible. She leaned forward, a tentative hand on Harrow’s arm, her eyes begging, pleading with him to forgive her.
Tommy shuffled back and went to check on Amara, giving them space. Net took a step back too. Harrow’s eyes softened. ‘I died for you?’ he asked, only a spark of surprise in his voice.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Hella said, fresh tears in her eyes.
Harrow’s brow furrowed, remembering. ‘Even so,’ he said. ‘I would do it again.’ He took her hand in his, and she sobbed and hugged him.
‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t what it looked like with Tom—’
He shushed her, hugging her close. ‘It’s okay. I do have to tell you though, I’m very curious as to how the hell you did that.’ He seemed calm, if not exhausted, but there, in his ocean-blue eyes, she could see it again. Anger, bitter and dark. She wondered how long it had been there.
‘So am I.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh, my god. Wait, Remy.’ Hella climbed to her feet and stumbled up the few steps, skidding to Remy’s side on her knees. She held her hands out again, trying to copy the involuntary healing, or reanimating. ‘Come on,’ she pleaded, holding Remy’s amulet out again.
Net got up and calmly followed the little witch. ‘Hella, be careful. You’ve used so much magic already—’
‘I have to try,’ she snapped.
Tommy and Harrow followed. She caught a glimpse of Tommy clapping Harrow on the shoulder, as if in welcome. Welcoming him home. Harrow flinched, either from his touch, or still in pain, she did not know.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ Hella said. She waved her hands, frustrated. ‘Why isn’t it working? I brought you back, why not Remy?’
Net took a step closer. He was still in his angel-white uniform, covered in an array of blood. He knelt beside Hella. ‘Hella, look at me.’ He looked into her eyes, the streaks of coloured flames still dancing in her hair. Hella did. Net took her by the cheek and examined her eyes. She frowned, leaning away. ‘Let me look at you. I’ve spent centuries reading, little one, I know some things about witches. Let me see your eyes, please.’ His voice was soft, concerned.
She allowed it. He peered into her eyes, a hand touching her hair. ‘You’re not depleted. You won’t burn yet,’ he diagnosed. ‘Try.’ He nodded at Remy.
Hella attempted to recreate what she had done with Harrow, but it would not work. Frustrated, she cried out. Net put a hand on her shoulder. He noted the amulet around Hella’s neck, then saw Remy’s blue one in her hand. ‘Hella, her amulet. May I?’
Hella frowned, but handed it over. ‘It sparked blue when I healed Harrow. But when I heal… my magic is purple.’ She was crying, sniffling.
They were all gathered around Remy’s body, and each one of them tried not to look at the gory wooden shaft sticking through her flesh, coated in her blood.
Tommy bent down beside Net. ‘You used her magic. Maybe it coupled with yours.’
The ex-angel nodded. ‘Perhaps, yes. Somehow there was a remnant of her magic left in the amulet and, when combined with your powers, it gave you a necromancy spell. But, it would seem’—he paused sadly—‘just the one, I’m afraid.’
Hella looked down at her old guardian. Her eyes were shut, thankfully. Hella imagined she would bark angrily if she knew Hella had chosen Harrow over her.
Harrow had turned pale, looking down at the old witch. ‘I’m sorry, Hella.’ As if it were his fault for being brought back, or for dying.
Hella had been warned again and again by her friends that she should rest. Indeed, she was exhausted, but she could not bear to face going back to her home right now. In fact, she wasn’t really sure where ‘home’ was, or if she even had one. Where her mother lived, now alone with her brother, felt far away—and stung of betrayal.
Meele and Amara had been taken home by Faerie emissaries who had come to collect them. They were both alive, and would be cared for, she was assured. And her boys, Harrow, Tommy and Nerretti slept in the cramped space of the training room. Net, being the tallest, spread out on the couch, and each warlock took an armchair by the now crackling fire.
Hella looked over them each in turn. Net didn’t seem nearly as foreboding as when she had first met him. Only his wings were gone, and they had not always been spread out, but somehow now he looked so much softer. More human. His pale-blond hair seemed to glimmer in the pre-dawn light streaming in through the windows. Hella felt so sorry for him, he had sacrificed so much and now he was here, alone.
They had all fallen asleep in the quiet hours after the bloody fight. Hella worried about Harrow. She had brought him back to life, but if there was one thing she knew about magic now, it was that everything came with a cost. Not that she had voiced her concern, it would only worry him. It was the same reason why, she thought, Net’s wings had burned; it was the price of his sacrificing one of his brothers, the magic had to have a fallback somewhere, and it was onto Nerretti. She wondered if he had thought about it yet, his new life here on earth.
Tommy had fought bravely. His leg was still injured. He kept wincing in his sleep. He insisted she not try to heal his leg without resting first and had roughly tied a bandage around it. She could not have finished the battle without him, and she was grateful they had survived toge
ther. She noted with some interest that both warlocks were shimmered while they slept.
Hella tried to sweep up quietly. The store was a ruin, and she would try a few spells later to repair it, but for now she could clean up a little by hand. There was so much blood and shattered glass. Wooden splinters from broken shelves and cabinets, and the sheer volume of books ruined, on top of everything else, made her bookworm-heart ache. Her mind was too sharp right now to rest. But there would be time for that later. Hella spent almost an hour sweeping up the debris as quietly as possible, then she found a bucket in the back room and began scrubbing up the blood. There was silver, blue, green, gold, her own red, and Remy’s. But she hadn’t gone to her guardian yet. She couldn’t bring herself to go upstairs, face to face with Remy’s body. She had failed the old witch, twice now. Hella felt a sharp twist of guilt. Looking over at Harrow as he slept soundly, what made her feel worse was that she would still have chosen to bring him back. Instead of Remy. The woman who had often betrayed her.
Hella didn’t know what to do with a witch’s body. Didn’t know how Remy would have wanted her funeral; cremated, or buried. Hella didn’t know the woman well enough to say the right words over her, or what to have marked into her headstone. For inspiration, Hella put the bucket away, wiping wet drops of water mixed with blood onto her already stained jeans, and went to find Remy’s spellbook. The store was still a mess, but oddly, the last hour had felt cathartic. Especially sweeping up all the silvery feathers. She tossed the dulled halos unceremoniously into the trash with a contemptuous smirk. There had been a cost, but they had won. In that moment, she was glad that Hunter and Lola had not stayed to fight. She could not imagine having to tell that little faerie Tessa that she had lost a piece of her family.
As Hella flipped through the pages of the spellbook, trying to discern any details of the old witch’s life, something caught her attention. There was a single page devoted to astral projection, without anything she didn’t already know, but underneath that, she saw a single note on ‘Necromancy’.
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