by Meg Collett
“Know what?”
“The Descendants and Nephilim are talking about you and Camille. They don’t think it’s right.”
Clark gritted his teeth, fists clenching. “What are you saying?”
“That you should think twice before you sleep with an angel in these times.”
Chapter Seven
Clark was still fuming mad when he kicked a bush, rustling its fragile, dead branches. His little penlight cast a narrow beam in front of him, but it was enough light to see that there wasn’t a feather or clue or even a letter saying, “I’m back, bitches! Love, Lucifer.” Clark gave a frustrated sigh and swung his beam around, flicking the light across the ground in front of him.
“Did he tell you exactly why people are so upset?” Zarachiel asked. He was more careful with his search, methodically scanning every inch of dirt where they were looking beyond the fields and greenhouses. They’d spent hours out here already, searching the grounds in a methodical, gridlike pattern. They’d talked endlessly about Camille and Lucifer and everything in between as they looked around. They were to the point where they were just rehashing the same thing over and over again. It made Clark want to pull his hair out. At least that would solve his problem of constantly having to re-dye it pink.
“He just said that it wasn’t right. That these weren’t the times or whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
“The Descendants are just rattled. They thought they understood the angels, but now the humans are just scared of them,” Zarachiel said for the millionth time.
“It’s racism, and I don’t care how they package it. Assholes.” Clark spit onto the ground, cursing. His relationship with Camille was rocky, sure enough. And half the time, she scared him shitless. The other half, she pissed him off so badly that he couldn’t speak. But no matter her rough exterior, she was good. In her own way, she did what was best for everyone. She was the best kind of holy angel: tough, relentless, and brave even in the roughest of storms.
Like Michaela.
Only bitchier.
“The Nephilim,” Zarachiel continued, sorting things out in his logical manner, “probably think it’s sinful. The Watchers were holy angels who slept with human women. The product of that union was the Nephilim, and they were once considered unholy.”
“So they really shouldn’t be judging, should they?”
Zarachiel shrugged. They’d come to the Descendants’ graveyard, the tombstones poking up from the ground like hunched figures waiting to wake. Clark felt the pull of his father’s grave, knew it was exactly ten long paces to his right. He’d come out here often since the war had ended, just to sit with Isaac. They’d had an up-and-down relationship before everything had gone down with Michaela. Clark had never been good enough, never been Descendant enough. There had been so much tension and anger between him and his father that it had driven a wedge deep between Clark and the Descendants’ purpose. It was only because of the war that he and his father had come together and finally understood each other. Clark had finally proven himself to be a man, to be worthy, when he’d saved Michaela and fought alongside her. In the end, Isaac had died respecting and loving his son. And Clark still mourned for the father he’d only just learned to respect and love too.
“They’re probably just scared too,” Zarachiel said, meaning the Nephilim, pulling Clark’s attention back to the present.
“No, they think they’re holier than everyone else.”
“Who does?”
Clark spun around, swinging his penlight like a mini strobe light in the dark. “What the hell, Camille?”
Camille’s eyes reflected like a cat’s, glowing bright white for a moment in the glare from Clark’s penlight. Someone moved behind her. Clark tried to peer past to see who it was.
“Good evening, Maya,” Zarachiel said warmly, answering Clark’s unspoken question.
“What’s she doing here?”
Maya opened her mouth to say, but Camille answered, “She was looking for you. Isn’t that so sweet?”
“I wanted to talk,” Maya added. A baggy gray sweater swallowed her slight form, making her look almost haggard next to Camille. But if you looked at their faces side by side, Maya could hold her own. She was magical, just like Sophia. Clark realized he was staring a bit too long. He didn’t understand Maya’s pull over him. Maybe it was something that ran in their blood, something that would always pull Clark to them in particular. He seriously hoped that they didn’t have another sister hidden away somewhere.
“We’re a little busy right now,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Camille asked.
Clark grimaced. Liam had told him not to say anything, but he knew that tone in Camille’s voice. She wasn’t letting this go, and she never walked away. “You can’t tell anyone, okay?” he said to Maya, looking her deep in the eyes. “I mean it. No one.”
She nodded once. “I get it.”
“Liam wants us to search the grounds for any sign of Lucifer.”
Maya gasped, making Camille roll her eyes. “Easy, little birdy,” she said. “I’m sure the big bad devil means you no harm.”
“He means us all harm,” Zarachiel said rather unhelpfully.
“But he’s dead!” Maya whispered, as if Lucifer was listening to them right then.
“I’m starting to have my doubts,” Clark said.
“That’s bad. If Ezekiel finds out…” Maya trailed off, seeming to think better of her words.
“What do you mean?” Clark asked sharply.
“He’s been talking to the other Nephilim. He hates you, Clark. He’s saying that you’ve gone crazy. That the power,” Maya said, her voice shaking as she nodded toward his arms, “is too much for you to handle. He’s looking for any reason to bring you down. And he got a pretty good one today when everyone found out about you and her.” Clark didn’t have to look hard to see the judgment in Maya’s eyes.
“That Nephil is trouble,” Zarachiel said.
“No shit. I don’t understand why my mom would send him down to help me. She had to have known that he was a flaming asshole.”
“You need to talk to her then. Maybe she did it on purpose,” Maya said, nodding as she considered it. “That would make sense. She’s a smart woman. She might have seen something in your future.”
“Fan-freaking-tastic,” Clark grumbled.
“If we’re supposed to be looking for something, why the hell are we still standing around talking? I’ll fly around and look from above. Get your asses in gear and get to it.” With that, Camille lifted off the ground, her wings silent and powerful, sweeping her up into the sky and out of sight in a moment.
Maya pushed her hair out of her face where it had been gusted by Camille’s liftoff. “She’s a bit rude.”
“She’s a Throne angel,” Clark snapped, like that was a defense, but he couldn’t take anyone else on Camille’s case tonight. “She’s a warrior.”
“She’s also right. We need to get back to searching. Do you want me to walk you back inside, Maya?” Zarachiel asked. The night’s darkness played across his back like a second shadow, shifting over him like wings. It hid the distorted shape of the angel so that he actually looked normal.
“Can I help?”
“You should probably go back inside,” Clark said.
“And tell everyone what you’re doing?” The slant to Maya’s eyes narrowed, her lips set in defiance.
“Fine,” Clark grunted. It was his lot in life to be surrounded by stubborn women. “Do whatever the hell you want. Don’t mind me.”
“I won’t,” she snapped back, her tone flooding Clark with memories of Sophia.
Just then, Camille landed beside them. She was so silent through the air that Clark hadn’t even heard her approach. He and Maya jumped in surprise, but Zarachiel merely looked to the Throne angel and said, “That was fast.”
“I found something,” she said, flicking her gaze to Clark.
His shoulders slumped; he saw he
r unspoken words play across the tightness of her jaw and how she tilted her head so that her eyes met only his. “That figures,” he said aloud to her.
“We should’ve known,” Zarachiel said with a heavy sigh; he’d understood too.
“What?” Maya asked, looking between the three of them. “Where?”
“His father’s grave,” Camille answered.
Maya’s mouth formed a little ‘o’ in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Why would you?” Camille bit off. “You’re not one of us.”
“What is your problem?” Maya squared off against the angel. Clark gave her points for bravery, but he didn’t give a shit right then. He left them standing there bickering and walked over to his father’s grave. Zarachiel was beside him, moving quietly through the tall grass. The trees leaned and whispered around them, dancing in a breeze Clark hadn’t noticed earlier. No night creatures moved about. Nothing breathed around them. Clark’s footsteps seemed muffled and worlds away.
He came to the grave quick enough—too quick maybe. He wasn’t prepared to see what was lying there, placed carefully before the tombstone. Two rib bones were arranged to form a heart above the scruff of grass atop of the newer grave. The ends of the bones were filed dangerously sharply. The outer curves were supplemented with shining metal blades that laced around the bone, curving almost sexually through the ivory to end in delicately sculpted handles to the two matching knives. The daggers would be lethal to human and angel alike.
“Michaela’s bones,” Camille said, coming up behind Clark and Zarachiel.
“How do you know?” Maya asked. She peered down at the knives, hands on her hips like she was frustrated with her lack of information.
“What does he mean by this?” Clark asked the two angels, ignoring Maya for the moment. He crouched down and peered closer at the weapons, nudging one with his finger.
“He knows how much she means to you. He saw your connection to her,” Zarachiel offered.
“Likely, he just wants to be a dick by rubbing it in your face that he took her wings.” Camille pursed her lips, regarding the bones at her feet. Clark noticed the slight shudder that spread down her back. She understood the pain of a broken wing.
“It has to mean more than that,” Clark mused. “Maybe he’s going after Michaela?”
“The Angel of Death is immortal though,” Maya said.
“Everyone used to think angels were immortal too. Then Michaela figured out that her bones could kill one.”
“Maybe he just wants to remind you that he has power over you,” Maya said. She shrugged when everyone just stared blankly at her. “I mean, he can sneak in and kill a Descendant right under your nose. And he can make you have illusions. That sounds pretty powerful to me.”
“So he left you weapons,” Camille started, staring at Clark with worry in her green eyes.
“Because he wants me to know that I’ll be needing them soon,” Clark finished, knowing in his heart that it was true.
His battle with Lucifer had only just begun.
* * *
By default, Clark was left to walk Maya back to her apartment. Zarachiel and Camille were bent over old, dusty books written long ago about Lucifer. Too long ago, Clark thought, because they were dealing with something entirely new now.
“I’m sorry,” Maya said abruptly when they were outside her door.
“For what?” Clark asked, confused. He looked down the halls, noting all the closed doors and sleeping silence in the east wing. The Nephilim slept like the dead.
“For intruding tonight.”
Clark sighed. His connection with Zarachiel and Camille ran deep because of the war and everything they’d gone through. Anyone outside their group would likely feel like an outsider. “No, don’t think that. You didn’t intrude.”
“Right. Well, thanks for walking me back.” She turned to unlock her door.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“What?” Maya glanced back over her shoulder, her hand falling away from the lock.
“Earlier, Camille said that you were looking for me.”
“Oh…” Maya’s eyes fell to the floor, the breath leaving her in one rush. “It’s pretty silly. But I…well, I wanted to know about her. About Sophia.”
Clark smiled a little. “Our situation was tense, to say the least. I didn’t know her that well myself.”
Shoulders slumping in defeat, Maya said, “I guess I didn’t think I would miss her this much. I barely knew her too.”
Knowing he shouldn’t, Clark reached out and tilted her chin up so that he could look her in the eye. His fingers tingled where he touched her skin, like her body was electric underneath his touch. “You remind me a lot of her. Too much maybe. It’s hard for me to separate the two of you.”
“I look like her?”
“Extremely.” Clark closed his eyes and easily pictured that it was Sophia standing in front of him.
“I was mad at her, you know. For leaving me. For putting me in this position. That’s awful, isn’t it? How can I hate my dead sister?”
Clark opened his eyes. Without thinking, he tucked a piece of wayward hair behind Maya’s ear before dropping his arm. She took a step closer to him, making him wonder if she was drawn to him as he was to her. “I get it. Sometimes I hate Michaela.”
Maya frowned. “But she’s not dead.”
“She was, very briefly. And I was mad at her then too, as if she was quitting on me and leaving me alone. But then she came back, and she’s never been further away. I loved her so much—she was my best friend—that I think I’m allowed to hate her every so often. It’s only fair.”
“That’s pretty twisted.”
Clark lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t say it was normal. I just said I understood how you feel.”
Maya smiled at that, her sweet, porcelain features smoothing out. She was so delicate, so special, that Clark couldn’t bear to picture her with Ezekiel. It surprised him to realize how much he hated the thought of the Nephil’s yellow eyes on her. He hated it so much that he knew he couldn’t allow it to happen.
“I appreciate it,” she said. “And I promise I won’t tell anyone about you-know-what.”
“Thanks.”
Neither spoke. The silence was so heavy that Maya looked away, her eyes falling to the floor. Clark tried to tell himself to walk away, to leave her be, but then she glanced back up at him, almost shyly—just like her sister. It was wrong, so wrong, because when Clark leaned forward to kiss Maya, he was kissing Sophia in his mind.
His lips touched hers, and he was transported to the night he’d first used the magic on his arms. Sophia had been with him then; she’d built him up, fortified him enough to accept his Nephil heritage and the horrible magic on him. Through her, he’d found his strength. And then they’d come together. She’d fit just right against his chest, like Maya did now. She seemed too surprised to hold him as Sophia had, but she opened her mouth to him, letting him in, even though she shouldn’t have.
Maya made a small sound in the back of her throat, and Clark’s heart flared with pain and longing. He pushed against her and took a staggering step back. “I’m sorry,” he whispered fiercely, his eyes raking across her mouth.
“I didn’t mind.”
“I…I just can’t. It’s not right.”
“Because you want her?”
Clark felt tortured when he looked back at Maya and saw her understanding eyes. His life seemed like one endless test, one endless trial of pain and endurance. He needed a break. Just to catch his breath for a moment. “Yes,” he said simply, feeling like the weakest man in the world.
“But you have Camille.”
“Camille has me.”
Maya smiled at that, and the spell was broken. Clark sighed, raking his hand through his disheveled hair. The tension between them eased, and Maya unlocked her door, slipping inside.
“Maybe you need to be ‘had’ until you’ve healed some,” s
he said.
“That’s pretty twisted,” he said, laughing.
Maya mimicked his shrug from earlier. “I didn’t say it was normal.”
She’d made him feel better, even slightly. Before he left, he hugged her tight. When he stepped back, she was smiling, and he found that he was too. “Thanks,” he said.
Grinning, she said, “Anytime.” Then she closed the door in his face, sliding the lock into place from the other side.
* * *
Camille was waiting inside the apartment when he got home, sitting with her arms crossed on his bed. She didn’t look up when he walked in, her eyes on the frayed rug. “What were you and Zarachiel talking about earlier?” she asked, directing her words to the floor.
Clark sat down beside her and fell back onto the bed. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, wanting to fall asleep for a few years. “People are talking about us.”
“They don’t like it.”
“Apparently not.”
Camille was quiet for so long that Clark cracked an eye and looked over at her. Her spine was ramrod straight with tension, the finer pieces of her hair dancing with electricity around her face. Her rage sent waves of heat roiling off her body. If an angel’s emotion was strong enough, it would affect the air around them. Camille was making the air so hot that Clark shifted away.
She surged to her feet, pivoting around to face him. Only then did he notice her face was clean of kohl, her warrior facade temporarily set aside, even though she looked ready for war right that moment. The only chinks in her armor were her puffy, red eyes. “How can they say that? After all we—”
“Cami,” Clark said softly, leaning up on his elbows to look at her. He rarely used the shortened name with her, and only he got away with calling her that. But the effect was immediate on her; her face crumpled, her eyes going wide. Her chin trembled and her fists fell loosely to her side. “It doesn’t matter,” Clark added. “Does being with me make you happy?”