Feathers, Tails & Broomsticks

  The note read, ‘Any witch worth her salt knows not to attempt any form of necromancy; magic comes with a price, but returning a life already gone must be paid with the debt of a soul. The Earth will be repaid.’

  Hella set the book down numbly, her heart fluttered in her chest. Her breath came out ragged. Hella’s eyes found Harrow, still asleep. Whose soul? She wondered, mine, or his?

  Hella spent a good twenty minutes trying not to hyperventilate before she decided on the simplest course of action. Ask for help. Gently, she stirred Nerretti from his sleep, ignoring the pang of guilt that arose. It had been over two hours, that would have to do for now.

  ‘Hella?’ he murmured. It was odd to see an angel so sleepy and confused.

  Hella held a finger over her lips, glancing at the warlocks still sound asleep. Then she waved him after her urgently. Net nodded, then got up and followed, to his credit, silently, out of the room.

  ‘What is it? You should be resting,’ he whispered. He was so odd, she thought. Caring.

  Hella shook her head impatiently, her red braid a sticky mess. For the briefest of moments, she wondered how terrible she looked. ‘I just found this. I didn’t know.’ She shoved the book into Net’s hands. ‘What does this mean?’ she hissed.

  The angel took a moment to read the inscription, and then seemed to reread it a few times. His face was impassive. His hair was askew, pointing in all directions. Then he sighed. ‘Hella, this is serious.’

  ‘Why do you think I woke you?’ she snapped, leaning over the broken glass counter.

  He read the note again, for good measure. ‘Normally, I would be inclined to think that this may be subjective. Human witches have a myriad of abilities and access to great power, especially within covens. But this…’ He paused, maddeningly. ‘I’ve never seen this before. Because I’ve never heard of a witch, or even a Cambion, ever successfully achieving a necromancy spell. I believe the Old Witches used to dabble with it, eons ago, and I suppose it ended badly. But in the last millennia, it has not been done. I suppose witches teach their students not to, but it’s certainly not something that has ever happened accidently.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Hella demanded, pointing at the book. ‘What’s going to happen?’

  Net took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid I do not know. Perhaps that the spell you’ve cast simply won’t hold, and Harrow may die. Or his soul, or yours, will be the price for this magic. I can’t say. Magic works in its own way. We have no way to know what this means.’ Before Hella could open her mouth, Net took her by the shoulder and steered her toward the front door. ‘Come. I’ll walk you home. You need to rest and wash up. There’s nothing to be done about it. Not now.’ He took the spellbook and tucked it into his pocket. ‘And I suggest we don’t concern Harrow with this information. It would be an unkind burden. One I wish you, too, did not have to carry.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘What’s done is done, little witch.’

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Harrow

  Harrow woke up with a painful neck cramp, sitting awkwardly in an armchair as pale sunshine crept through the gaps in the curtains. Truthfully, he was surprised to have woken up at all. He remembered the fight, but then he was slashed across his stomach and felt the blood coat the floor, felt his skin part. He’d jumped in front of Hella, without a second thought, and with no regrets. Then he’d died.

  Harrow thought what had then followed was a dream. An awful, choking dream, where he could not breathe, and could not scream. Then Hella healed him. She had looked like hell, bloody and pale, scared and exhausted, with tears on her cheeks. And Net was still with them, instead of in Heaven. Everything felt surreal. He thought he might have become a ghost, but Cambions didn’t really believe in ghosts.

  He was still here. But something felt very strange. As if somehow, when he’d died, and then returned, he had left a piece of himself behind wherever he had gone in the darkness. He opened his eyes and looked deep into the fire, warming his hands. He was glad to be here, to be back and have had Hella in his arms again. But there something in his heart, he could feel, which had changed. Something within him grew darker.

  He glanced over at Tommy in the opposite armchair. He sat peacefully, despite his injured leg. Then he realised what it was. He was angry, he realised. He looked around. He did not belong here.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Hella

  Net had found Remy’s back room and had started poking around curiously. After about ten minutes, he emerged with what looked like a potion, and told Hella to drink it. ‘We’ve no healers on hand, and I doubt you want to go to a hospital. This will help, and your own healing magic should do the rest.’

  Obediently, she drank the potion. ‘I didn’t know angels could make potions.’

  ‘Well, we can’t, usually. But I’ve read so much about them that I know some basics, and the store is well stocked,’ he said a little sheepishly.

  She took that to mean it was something an angel shouldn’t know about and did not ask about it. The liquid felt both cool and warm inside her, pleasant. She could feel it helping her internal bleeding, and thanked him.

  A little after dawn, the sun was shining brilliantly, a golden orb in the sky. Hella watched as Nerretti sceptically crept out of the store’s busted down door and onto the pavement. He stared suspiciously up at the sun, squinting in the light. ‘Now that’s a change,’ he breathed, taking in the cool morning air.

  It took Hella a moment. ‘You’re standing in sunlight.’ She smiled. ‘How does it feel?’

  Net closed his eyes, letting the soft rays of light warm his pale face. ‘It feels nice,’ he admitted, flinching a little, expecting a burn. After a moment, when the sunlight proved simply pleasant, he added, ‘And final. I’m definitely not an angel anymore. Hella, I think I might be human.’

  Hella nodded wearily, and they began to walk together. ‘I think you are too.’

  ‘I don’t know how to be human,’ Net said, sticking his hands in the pocket of his once-pristine white uniform.

  Hella felt bone-weary. She looked up at him. ‘Don’t worry, Nerretti. None of us do.’

  For a little while they walked together in silence as Net escorted Hella home, or, at least, to a place where she still had a bedroom. Home seemed a very subjective term now.

  ‘You know, I have to admit something,’ Net murmured. ‘I didn’t actually think our side would win.’

  Hella looked down at herself in the early hours of the morning. Against the backdrop of the quiet suburban street, she and the tall blond once-angel looked very out of place. She shook her head. ‘Neither did I.’ Tears welled in her eyes, and she pushed them away. Absently, she twisted her braid, and then realised how gross her hair was, and in fact how disgusting her clothes and skin were, covered in blood and ash.

  Net smiled painfully. ‘I can’t believe they’re all gone.’ He looked up into the sky, but all he found was clouds rolling through, perhaps a storm was coming. ‘I wonder if they can see me.’

  ‘I’m really not the expert on that,’ Hella said.

  ‘When I used to live in Heaven, it wasn’t in our nature to look down. How often would you, as a human, look up to see angels?’ Nerretti asked curiously.

  Hella blinked. ‘Never.’

  They strolled through an alley on their short walk. Hella was trying to decide if she had the energy to stand in the shower long enough to get clean, or if she should sleep first. She would like to do both, but worried about falling asleep. Hunger was also a competing necessity. She hoped Meele and Amara would be okay, and felt bad for not being able to heal them. She had passed that onto the emissary, who promised to convey her message and concern.

  Net frowned at the sudden gloom that seemed to fall over the alleyway. He looked up again, this time to discern the sunlight, or lack thereof. ‘Hella, does this seem strange to you?’

  She looked around, almost too tired to notice anything was amiss. Then t
he shadows gathered, too close, too dense to be ordinary shadows. Nerretti rolled his shoulders, as if to spread his wings, then his face fell as he remembered. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I used to be able to sense evil. Demons,’ he explained.

  ‘And?’ Hella pressed, unnerved by the darkness.

  ‘Now I can’t. But I sure recognise evil when I see it. We should go.’ He reached out for her, to protect her, she realised with a touch of surprise. But before they could run out the other side of the alleyway, a figure coalesced from the gathering shadows. The fatigue in Hella’s bones seemed to melt away. Her chakras began to burn. She wondered if Net would be any help in a fight. The darkness filled up the end of the alley, the sunshine behind it.

  ‘You know, little witch, I should thank you,’ a voice in the darkness rumbled. The figure’s eyes suddenly glowed to life, burning a bright yellow.

  ‘Azazel,’ Hella breathed. In all of the chaos of the angels, she had almost forgotten about the demons. Azazel took one fleeting glance at Nerretti. Azazel seemed to step closer to her, taking on more of a human-shape. Between blinks, he emerged as a normal-looking man in a sharp black power suit, shining and perfect. Only his eyes remained yellow. He held a hand up at Net who was then blasted backward into the brick wall, colliding with a sickening crack.

  ‘No!’ Hella yelled as he slid to the floor, leaving a trickle of dark silver behind.

  ‘Don’t fret, little witch. We’re not after you. My kin are hungry. We’ve been waiting a long time to be able to step into this world, to call it home. And now that the angels are gone—thanks to you’—he gave a grateful little bow—‘there’s nothing and no one to stop us from feasting.’

  ‘Feasting?’ Hella’s voice shook. ‘On what?’

  The demon smiled. ‘You mean, “on whom”? On all the humans, of course. Now we can devour the world.’

  Epilogue, Part One

  Little Malachai

  Heaven: a long, long time ago

  Malachai sat cross-legged on a small white cloud. During his first lesson of the day, the young warriors were required to meditate in order to charge their angelic powers, powers still growing in the young fighters. Instructor D’Horen strolled amongst the class, the little warriors trying to keep calm. They each fought their natural restlessness. Mal’s halo glowed bright gold over his black head.

  ‘Malachai,’ D’Horen barked, ‘control yourself. I should not be seeing your halo.’ He crouched down to the little angel. ‘Control your emotions, warrior.’ D’Horen thwacked Mal on the back of his head as he passed him by.

  Mal frowned, concentrating, until his halo slowly vanished. The little warrior sat up a bit straighter, his glowing emerald eyes staring up at his instructor for praise.

  ‘About time you caught up,’ D’Horen muttered.

  Mal pouted, looking out across the rest of his class. In a sea of young warriors, he could not see a single visible halo amongst the hundreds of his fellow angels training to be forces of angelic strength. Small for his age, Mal knelt up on his knees, searching through the crowd. Surely he wasn’t so far behind the others? They were all aged between ten and twelve years old, practically babies, their Father told them, but they would all one day be a host of Heavenly warriors.

  Mal sat back down. Looking over at the others, all calm and controlled, made him want to hit something. He plunged a pale little fist through the cloud he was sitting on, the white cloud popping like a bubble. Mal had punched a hole through the fluff. He looked down, through his cloud, to the Earth that lay so far away. D’Horen came up behind him again, startling him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Mal stuttered. ‘I was, um, practicing?’

  D’Horen looked down, through the small hole in the cloud which was already re-forming itself, through to their small view of Earth. ‘You know, Malachai, I think you’ll be a great soldier one day, but you must focus. Don’t worry about Earth right now. It will still be there when you’re assigned your missions down on the ground. For now, you must get up with us and train, for the demons that plague the Earth are strong. And you need to be stronger, for you are so small. Right now, you would be no match for even a baby werewolf cub.’

  Mal’s dark brows furrowed together. I would too, he thought, but didn’t dare say it.

  ‘Come on, now it’s time to fight,’ D’Horen barked.

  The angels broke up into hundreds of pairs, lined up in neat rows, all facing D’Horen. Mal was paired with a boy about his age he didn’t know. His hair was blond, his eyes the colour of the Earth water; teal. From up ahead, they watched as D’Horen showed them what to do. Mal turned to face his partner, and they began.

  The other boy was at least a head taller than Mal, so when he swung, Mal didn’t move in time to dodge the blow to his cheek. The other boy’s hands glowed white, angelic power bubbling to the surface. Mal wobbled, losing his balance, as the boy came at him again, with another harsh blow, this time to his stomach. Mal lurched, feeling as if he might be sick. The boy took another approach, delivering a swift and brutal kick to the back of his legs, taking his feet out from under him.

  Laying on a bed of soft cloud, Mal gagged, unable to get up. The blond boy looked over him, disgust on his pale face. ‘You’re so small and weak,’ he said, derision dripping from his words. ‘Are you sure you’re an angel? I bet you’ll grow up soft.’

  Epilogue, Part Two

  Malachai

  For a moment, the world twisted and turned inside out. Malachai’s hand went to his chest and came back sticky with dark silver blood. He couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think. Everything felt wrong. His chest was in agony, bleeding profusely as Net stood over him with his heart in his hands, his arm gloved in Malachai’s blood. Mal thundered to his knees, his mind roiling with pain.

  Cool night air spilled in from the open ceiling, and he could feel his brothers and sisters being pulled up into Heaven. He could hardly hear the chanting as the human and warlock huddled together. Net’s pathetic apology for betraying him echoed in his ears, like he was speaking through a tunnel. His own brother, who had taught him how to fight, who had once kicked his butt when they were children, had sided with the demonic beasts. Mal looked up into his partner’s teal eyes, betrayal tearing at his heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Malachai wondered if Nerretti would be cast out too, or if he would die as the price for this human magic.

  He hoped Net would burn.

  Mal saw the flashing, waning light of his halo above his head as his life ebbed away. His wings seemed to crumple in on themselves and a shower of his own feathers rained down upon him as the last shred of his consciousness began to fade. He collapsed to the ground, his body twitching, writhing in detached pain. He had never thought he would die. Angels were strong, almost invincible, or so they were taught. The gods of the Earth. Rightful rulers of the humans, Cambions and demons.

  Net’s teal eyes bore into his. ‘Train harder, brother.’

  Mal nearly choked. It was the words all angels were taught when they were young, the words they were supposed to hail their fallen brethren with should they ever perish in battle. For if they are weak enough to fall, in the afterlife, they would have to train harder, become better warriors. Malachai was better than any warrior he had ever known. He had never thought to hear those words, let alone from his traitorous brother. He wished he could swipe out at Net, to burn him and bring him with him to the afterlife, where it would be he who should train harder. Mal closed his eyes, picturing his next journey. For angels don’t really die, exactly. They are soldiers, and their mission is not yet finished.

  All at once, he heard Nerretti’s familiar voice, ‘I’m sorry, Mal,’ and then Malachai himself was gone. He felt a twisted pain—as if his Father had reached down inside him and pulled his guts out through his mouth and then torn his heart into a thousand tiny pieces—but, of course, he hadn’t. Father would be watching, as He always is. But
He would never do anything. That’s Dad’s motto, of course.

  Mal’s eyes were closed, but he felt himself being pulled away. From Earth. Downwards, upwards, sideways or through oblivion, he could not say. But he knew his next destination.

  It was like the first time he had descended upon Earth, he thought, hurtling through darkness and shifting lights, his body still in pain but also numb. When finally he landed, he met the dirt with such impact that he made a crater the size of what the humans called trucks. Mal coughed, spitting dirt out of his mouth, feeling the grit of it roll around between his teeth, on his tongue. He blinked it out of his eyes as they began to water. He got shakily to his feet. Then frowned. He did not remember the last time he had done anything shakily.

  Then he looked up, and a tall blonde woman was standing over him as he tried to find his balance. In her hand, she carried a long staff, with a sharp, pointed tip. She was clad in leather armour, and had her long hair tied in an intricate braid down her back. ‘Valkyrie,’ he breathed.

  ‘Queen,’ she corrected with a sneer, ‘of the Valkyries. I expect you’ll be the last of your kind to arrive for a while,’ she commented, watching Malachai struggle.

  ‘I expect you’re probably right, My Queen.’ He need not bow. Before anything else, this queen was a warrior.

  She paid no mind at his respectful title, nor at how he was still struggling to stand. Instead, she took her pointed staff and held it to his throat. ‘Get up,’ she said. Her voice was soft, but firm. It was not a request.

  With great difficulty, Mal staggered to his feet, and she slowly lowered the staff. He watched her curiously. He had never known what the Queen looked like, but she was more beautiful than he could have imagined. Not in a filthy Cambion or human way, either, in a purely warrior type way. She was all strength and grace. Malachai could hardly rip his gaze from her, but his surroundings finally pulled his attention to the vast greenery of a deeply mossed forest.