End of Days (Penryn & the End of Days Series Book 3)

by Susan Ee

  Beliel catches it.

  Another dives in while Beliel is occupied snapping the neck of the first hellion.

  I shift and slice through it.

  Two more come at us.

  Then four.

  Then six.

  I swing my blade as fast as I can and am surprised at how fast that is. Pooky Bear is working overtime. She’s almost a blur. She’s wielding me, not the other way around. My job is to keep a steady stance and point her in the right direction.

  If even one of them gets past the sword, it’s game over.

  That thought puts a little zest in my swing, slicing three of them in one completion of a figure eight. One across the throat, another across the chest, the third across the belly. The best part is that two of the injured are thrashing in midair, blocking the others from getting too close.

  My back prickles with vulnerability, but I just have to trust that Beliel is holding up his end of the fight. Our biggest advantage right now is that the hellions are getting in each other’s way. There’s not enough room for all of them to rush us.

  Since I have a weapon and Beliel does not, I take more than half our circle. I swing from side to side, taking on as many hellions as I can. But I can’t cover my back. If Beliel goes down, I’ll be following him soon thereafter.

  He holds his own, though, even without a weapon. His strength is fierce, his fury fiercer as he snaps, kicks, and punches at the hellions.

  Beliel and I kill off the last two local hellions while the two from the Pit hover and watch. We deliver our final blows at the same time—I slice through one, and he snaps the neck of the other.

  Beliel then backs off, stepping away from me, leaving a clear opening for the remaining two hellions from the Pit.

  But there are only two of them left, and although they’re clever, they can’t surround me. They don’t even try. Instead, they fly to Beliel—slow and unthreatening. They chirp at him. They point their monkey fingers at me, look at Beliel, and nod.

  They’re offering to ally with him to take me out.

  I take a couple of steps back with my sword raised. I want as much time to react to whatever is about to go down.

  Beliel may have been my fighting partner for a few minutes, but these hellions freed him from our chains on Angel Island.

  He nods to the hellions. There’s no glee in it, just a grim determination to survive. At least I can take some pride in knowing that he assessed me as the greater threat over these Pit hellions.

  The two bat-faced uglies circle around—one above me and one to the side—while Beliel walks forward to stand just out of reach. Perfect position to charge me head-on as soon as I’m distracted.

  If both the hellions had stayed at my level, I could have swung in a circle and kept all three of them at bay. But with one above, I can only cover two directions and be vulnerable to the third.

  Before I can work out a strategy, teeth and claws come at me from above and to my right. Beliel holds back, forcing my move.

  I swing my blade up first at the one diving on me, then circle it around for the one attacking me from my side. At the same time, I’m sure that Beliel will leap on me.

  But he doesn’t.

  He feints as if he’s going to dive on me, but he holds back.

  At the same time, the hellions pull back just as they get into my cutting range. I still manage to slice one across the torso and the other across the face, but neither is a killing blow.

  Beliel chuckles as I go back to my ready stance. They all had tried to double-cross each other.

  If they all had dived on me, I would be dead. But if one had betrayed the others by feinting an attack, then I would have probably killed one and maybe injured the other. The one who betrayed the others would have had the best chance of being the only survivor.

  But now they all know that no one can be trusted. Their alliance is over.

  The two Pit hellions fly up in opposite directions as far as the angel dome will let them. They’ve figured out that if they stay up there, Beliel and I will have to fight it out on the ground. One of us will die, and the other will be tired and easier to kill.

  Beliel curls his lip in distaste. “Outmaneuvered by hellions and threatened by a scrawny Daughter of Man. Insult upon insult.”

  We get ready to face off, Beliel and I.

  “STOP!”

  Everyone turns to see who shouted that command. The tone is almost irresistible.

  I keep one eye on Beliel while trying to see what’s going on. Blood drips down into my eye, and I have to blink several times before I see what everyone else sees.

  There’s now a gap in the dome letting the light in. A pair of large snowy wings glides through, blocking out the sun.

  Raffe’s perfect form comes into view.

  He is both the Raffe I know and a terrifying stranger. He looks like a pissed-off demigod. I’ve only glimpsed him once in this perfect angel form.

  His wings are magnificent as they sweep the air behind him—white against blue.

  The angels all stare at Raffe. They hover, silent and still except for the slow beating of wings. A whisper echoes through the winged crowd: Archangel Raphael.

  “I hear there’s an unsanctioned election going on,” says Raffe.

  “There’s nothing unsanctioned about it,” says Uriel. “And if you had been here, you’d know that. In fact, you are one of the candidates.”

  “Really? And how am I doing?”

  A couple of angels yell out in support of Raffe.

  “You’ve been away too long, Raphael.” Uriel raises his voice to address the rest of the angels. “He’s too out of touch to lead the greatest battle in history. Does he even know that the legendary apocalypse is about to begin?”

  “You mean the one you artificially created out of your lies and parlor tricks?” Raffe addresses the angels too. “He’s been lying to you all. Fabricating monsters and manufacturing events to pressure you into a quick and dirty election.”

  “He’s the one lying,” says Uriel. “I can prove that I was meant to be the chosen archangel.” He raises his arms to the crowd. “God spoke to me.”

  The crowd bursts into a low roar as everyone begins talking at once.

  “That’s right,” says Uriel. “I am already the Messenger in His eyes. God spoke to me and told me He has chosen me to lead the great apocalypse. I waited to tell you because I know that it’s shocking. But I have no choice now that Raphael has come back, trying to challenge God’s will.

  “How many signs do we need before you’re convinced that the End of Days is happening without us? How much of it are you willing to miss because we don’t have an elected Messenger to lead you into battle? Do not allow Raphael to keep you from the glory that is rightfully yours!”

  The angels closest to Uriel open their mouths wide and begin what I can only call singing. But it’s not a song with words, just a melody. It’s a gorgeous, holy sound that’s so unexpected from these bloodthirsty warriors.

  The beautiful sound ripples through parts of the crowd as a dozen heavenly voices join the chorus throughout the dome. Then a group of angels shifts out of the way, letting in a beam of sunlight.

  The light hits a spot just beside Uriel. He subtly shifts into it so that he glows. His face splits into a genuine grin. If nothing else, Uriel is certainly a good showman.

  Then he lowers his arms and bows humbly. There’s something about the ray of light shining off his head and shoulders, the way he bows, the way he quietly holds himself that implies that he’s communing with God. It makes me hold my breath. Everyone else must feel it too, because there’s a hushed expectancy.

  When he lifts his head, he says, “God just spoke to me. He says the End of Days begins now.”

  He sweeps his arms like a conductor.

  A crash hits the cliff at
the end of the golf course. I assume it’s a huge wave, but I can’t see it with all the angels blocking my way. Then they all turn to look, and I can see the beach through the spaces between their bodies.

  The water is boiling near the shore. Something is rising up out of the sea. At first, I think it’s a cluster of animals, but as the heads clear the water, I see that it’s a single monstrosity. The waves crash around it as if the ocean itself were raging against this unnatural thing.

  The beast shakes off the water with a scream, and races toward us.

  It’s shockingly fast. In almost no time, it’s close enough for me to get a good look at it.

  Laylah has outdone herself on this one. It has seven heads clustered around the shoulders, but one of the heads appears dead. The one that looks dead is the head of a man. The face is split and trickling blood, as though he was recently killed with an ax.

  The rest of the heads are alive with each one looking like a mix of human and animal—a leopard, an eel, a hyena, a lion, a giant fly, and a dead-eyed shark. The torso of the beast looks vaguely bearlike.

  “And a beast shall rise up out of the sea,” says Uriel in a prophetic tone. “And upon his heads is the name of blasphemy. Let us count the number of the beast, for it is the number of man. And his number is six hundred threescore and six.”

  Each of the monster’s heads has numbers tattooed in a puckering scar on its forehead.

  666.

  THEY’RE JUST NUMBERS, I tell myself.

  Just numbers.

  I know the beast was concocted by Laylah according to Uriel’s instructions. I know that Uriel copied his monsters from descriptions out of the apocalyptic prophesies. I know this is a fake—a fake.

  Then why is my skin prickling with goose bumps?

  The numbers are not subtle, and it’ll scare the bejesus out of anyone who sees it. I’m guessing that tattooing the number on the foreheads was Uriel’s idea.

  The dripping beast roars and screams and yelps through all its faces except the dead one. It pauses near us before racing by and disappearing into the broken landscape.

  Uriel raises his arms again, as if in a trance.

  The ground shifts and puckers beneath my feet. It’s like worms frantically boiling in the ground.

  Fingers burst out of the soil.

  A hand reaches for the sky like a newborn zombie.

  A head pushes its way through the dirt.

  All over the old golf course, dirt-covered bodies claw their way out of the ground and climb onto the lawn. Thousands of them.

  The angels on the ground spread their wings and take to the air. Raffe looks at me, but I understand that he can’t lift me up without betraying weakness. A hand claws the air near my leg, grasping. I jump, trying to get away from the hands, wishing I could fly too.

  When the bodies climb out of the soil, they’re so dirty that I can only tell they’re human by their shapes. That and their gasping sobs.

  “And the dead shall rise,” says Uriel, his voice carrying over the wind.

  Some of the bodies lie on the lawn, gasping for breath. Others scramble away from the hole they crawled from, clearly afraid something will drag them back in. Still others just huddle on the churned-up lawn, sobbing.

  What I thought at first was all dirt turns out to be dirt on dried, shriveled flesh. These are locust victims. They look traumatized and terrified, staring down at their arms and legs as though seeing their jerkylike flesh for the first time. Maybe they are.

  Uriel must have had them buried alive while they were paralyzed. He was prepared to impress the gathering even before Raffe came. If anyone could have timed something like this, it was him. His team knew just how much venom to use to keep the victims paralyzed until showtime.

  I wonder if the locust stung know what happened to them. I wonder if they think that they are the rising dead.

  “Resurrected!” Uriel looks eerie. His bowed head and his open wings glow in the beam of light. “I am the Messenger of God.”

  Many of the angels glance uneasily at each other when Uriel declares himself the Messenger.

  “You have been chosen to share the glory of the apocalypse. Punish the blasphemy that is mankind, and you will be received in heaven. Shirk your duties, and you will be dragged back into hell where you came from.” He points east. “Go. Find the humans and kill them all. Cleanse the earth, and make it righteous once again.”

  The locust stung stare at him, stunned. Then they gaze around at each other, looking frightened and disoriented.

  One person turns to move east.

  Someone follows him. Then another. And another, until the entire group is migrating.

  Wave after wave of resurrected claw their way out of the dirt. As soon as they can stand on their feet, they follow the crowd heading east.

  East, toward the Resistance camp.

  “THAT WAS AN impressive show,” says Raffe, hovering in the air among the angels. He doesn’t look at all impressed at the army of resurrected or the multiheaded monster. “But you’d all be making a huge mistake to believe him. Anyone who follows Uriel will fall when the truth comes out.”

  “Your scare tactics won’t work here,” says Uriel.

  “If Uriel is lying, then he alone should fall,” says a warrior. “The rest of us are just following orders.”

  “You think Lucifer’s angels got leniency just because they were following orders when they revolted against heaven?” asks Raffe. “You think they understood the archangel politics behind the revolt and knew what was really happening? They were just wing soldiers, like you. Many of them probably thought they were doing the right thing. Some of them even thought that they were fighting to defend the Messenger. But that didn’t help them when the smoke cleared. Every one of them fell.”

  The angels look at each other. A low mutter rumbles through the crowd. Their wings flutter in agitation.

  “If Gabriel is still alive and out there somewhere,” says Raffe, “he won’t have any mercy for the angels who lost faith in him. If Michael comes back and realizes what happened, he might not have a choice but to declare you all fallen to nullify the election. And if the angels back home catch wind of what’s been happening down here . . . my brothers, this could be the start of a bloody civil war. The angels here won’t have a choice but to stand behind Uriel as your chosen Messenger.”

  “How are we supposed to know who to believe?” asks an angel.

  “There is no way to know,” says another.

  “Trial by contest,” declares one.

  “Trial by contest,” says another. Others murmur in agreement.

  I don’t like it when angels murmur in agreement. Nothing good ever comes of that.

  “God has spoken to me. I am your Messenger, and I have given you a command.” Uriel’s voice is thunderous and filled with the promise of retribution.

  “So you claim,” says Raffe. “But the election isn’t complete.” He turns to the angels. “It’s quite a string of coincidences, isn’t it? Messenger Gabriel being killed without telling anyone why we’re here. Uriel being the only archangel available for the election. Every time there’s any doubt, another apocalyptic monster appears as a sign.”

  Raffe looks at Uriel. “How convenient for you, Uri. Yes. I agree to a trial by contest.”

  Angels nod and echo. “Trial by contest.”

  As in winner takes all and is declared to be telling the truth? What are we, living in the Middle Ages?

  Uriel sweeps his gaze over the crowd.

  “Fine,” says Uriel. “So be it. I call Sacriel as my second.”

  Everyone looks to the largest angel in the group and his enormous wings. “I accept,” he says.

  Raffe looks at the angels, gauging them. Who is loyal enough to back him as his second? There were angels who voted for him, but voting for him and
dying for him are two very different things.

  “I’m flattered that you need the biggest, meanest warrior on your side to best me, Uri. Let’s see, how big a warrior do I need as a second to beat you and Sacriel? Hmm . . . I’ll take . . . the Daughter of Man. She should even out the odds.”

  Angels laugh.

  I stand on the churned-up ground, stunned.

  Uriel’s lips purse. “You still think everything is a joke, don’t you?” Uriel spits out his words. He definitely doesn’t like being laughed at. “Have your fun now, Raphael, because she’ll be the only one to follow you when you fall. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you don’t have your Watchers anymore.”

  Uriel gives me a knowing look. I can tell that he knows Raffe didn’t just pick me as a joke. “You have until sunrise to collect your team before we meet to decide on the contest.”

  He flies out of the crowd with his usual entourage following in a burst of fluttering wings. The angels buzz with excitement as the crowd dissolves toward the main building of the aerie.

  A few of Uriel’s guards corral the two remaining hellions and stuff them back into their cage. They also lock Beliel in with them.

  But they leave me alone on the field. It must be because I’m Raffe’s second, whatever that means. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension.

  Raffe glides down to me. His snowy wings are wide and frame his statuesque body perfectly. The edges of his feathers are downy, giving him a soft glow in the light.

  I still can’t believe he has his wings back. They look amazing on him. Perfect in every way, except for the notch that I cut out of his wing when I first met him. I assume the feathers will grow back in over time, and all traces of me will disappear off him.

  I want to say something about his wings and thank him for keeping me alive, but I don’t want to be overheard. I can tell that he sees it all in my eyes anyway, just as I can see him wondering how the heck I got here. I suppose I have a special talent for showing up where I shouldn’t be.

  As the last of the angels fly away, Josiah lands beside Raffe. His unnaturally white skin matches Raffe’s feathers.