by Meg Collett
Clark had never seen a demon up close before. Or ever. And he was glad. The thing was repulsive. Its body was bulbous and too round, shapeless, with the considerable appearance that it would be squishy upon touch. Little arms and legs with toes as long as its fingers gripped the windowsill like a monkey. It was naked, slightly wet and oozing. Beady eyes rested on a bloated, purple face. It laughed at them, the sound high-pitched enough to ring in Clark’s ears. He knew it was a laugh only because the creature was smiling, its mouth as wide as it’s entire face, twisting into a drooling, lopsided grimace of mirth.
Camille hissed and Zarachiel lunged forward. Clark was too grossed out to move, bile rising up the back of his throat. There was an awful smell in the room, like sulfur and sweaty underwear.
The demon tumbled out of the window to the ground below. Clark thought it was surely dead until, through the window, he saw it rise up again. Tiny bat wings worked furiously, moving the creature far faster than Clark could’ve imagined.
Zarachiel pulled back, unable to follow. “Camille!” he shouted.
“On it!” And she was. She was in the window and out of it faster than Clark could blink. She leapt, her wings stretching out, beating once to keep her aloft before she surged forward to catch the demon, her white wings flashing in the morning light.
“Wait!” Clark shouted suddenly, stumbling after her. But when he got to the window, she was out of sight. He’d remembered the dream too late, recalled how Lucifer had apparently captured her. Captured and tortured her. Clark cursed, kicking at the wall.
“Don’t worry,” Zarachiel said, “she’ll catch it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Clark mumbled.
Just then, he noticed Maya standing in the room. She was clearly shaking, panting breaths coming out of her gaping mouth. “W-was that a demon?”
“I really hope so. Otherwise, it was a new breed of bird. Are they all that ugly?” Clark asked Zarachiel.
“None of them would win any beauty contests, but that creature was clearly lowborn.”
Clark snorted. “A caste system for demons. Oddly appropriate.”
Maya walked over to the bed, her attention caught by her sister’s bonnet. She picked it up and fingered the delicate trim. “Was this hers?” When Clark nodded in response, she said, “You know, I made fun of her for having to go to the Pennsylvania clan. I told her she would hate the Amish lifestyle. And then I ended up in a convent.” She looked up, a hysterical giggle bubbling out of her mouth. “And now I’m here. Seeing demons.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Zarachiel said, pacing away from the window. “That demon is our only connection to Lucifer. We need to talk to Michaela.”
Maya gasped. “The Angel of Death? How are you going to talk to her?”
“Dead bodies equal souls,” Clark clarified. Maya finally understood, and she started to sway slightly on her feet.
“We have to go. Now.” Even as he said the words, Zarachiel was already leaving the room, his back straighter with the urgency.
“I’m coming with you,” Maya said, dropping the bonnet and going after Clark, who was right behind Zarachiel.
“Fine. Just hurry.”
There were guards from Bailey’s squad stationed at the main doors, but Zarachiel knew of an old door leading from one of the kitchens. He took it most often because it was the best shortcut to the greenhouses. Silently, they threaded down to the first floor and to the kitchens, pausing only when guards passed by. Within a couple of minutes they were outside.
They arrived just in time to see a figure dressed in simple jeans and a white top wrapped around her body to give her golden wings room to be free. The feathers shifted and glowed, creating a halo around the Angel of Death. Long black hair lifted in the wind. Her shape was growing fainter by the second, turning nearly transparent.
“Michaela!” Clark called out, careful to not shout too loud.
Like a light turning on in a dark room, her hazy figure snapped back to solid. She looked around, striking Clark down with her powerful, dark blue eyes. A smile, slow and assured, spread across her face.
Clark thought he might be mad at her when he finally saw her again. She had, after all, abandoned him. He didn’t care if she was resurrected to perform a duty for the rest of eternity. Dammit, couldn’t she take like one day off to see him? He knew for a fact that she took a moment every now and then to canoodle with Gabriel.
But he smiled back instead, feeling only a wild joy upon seeing her whole and healthy and very, very alive. He hurried to her, closing the distance between them easily. Zarachiel and Maya stayed back, which Clark appreciated.
“Michaela,” he said softer now. He opened his arms and enveloped her in a tight hug. He squeezed her for a long moment, and she held him, swaying as he swayed, lost in the moment.
When they finally leaned back, she said, “I’m glad you kept the hair.”
“Seriously?” Clark gaped, feigning indignation. In truth, he’d kept his pink Mohawk for her. “That’s what you say to me after all this time?”
But Clark sensed an odd air about Michaela now. Before, she’d been a battered, broken angel, but she’d still had the aura of a powerful warrior. Now she seemed effervescent and far more ethereal than she’d ever been before. There were even times when they’d been together that Clark had forgotten she was an angel. He knew there would be no mistaking her now.
Michaela cocked her head, smiling at him. “What did you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something a little more heartwarming?”
Michaela laughed, the sound like church bells. It was easy and effortless, something that Clark had never heard from her. Their friendship had been true and deep, but it was set in a time of war and death. Laughter didn’t come easy or quick back then. It didn’t really now either, but hearing Michaela laugh reminded Clark that things could be worse. She could be gone forever.
“We’re not the heartwarming type. I have missed you though. A lot.” She grinned.
“Where were you the other day? When Jenna died?” Clark asked. The hurt feeling he’d had when Michaela hadn’t come to see him after Jenna had felt selfish and awful, but he had to ask now.
“Clark…” Her smile faltered. “When a human is burned like that, the holy fire takes the soul. She’s lost. There was nothing I could do.”
Slowly, Clark understood. Jenna’s soul was gone, lost, burned beyond existence. Michaela hadn’t come because there hadn’t been anything to come for. “That’s awful,” Clark said quietly.
“I’m sorry.” Michaela squeezed his hand. “Do you know who used the holy fire on her?”
“Hell, yeah.” Clark took a deep breath to prepare himself. “It’s the same person that sent a demon to my room. And killed Wyatt with a Watcher’s sword. It’s Lucifer. I think he’s haunting me, for lack of a better word.”
“Lucifer is doing what?”
“He’s alive, Michaela. I know it. Somehow, he didn’t die that night in Hell. He’s alive, and he’s coming after me.”
She cursed colorfully, impressing Clark. She’d picked up a few things from him too, it would seem. “This isn’t good.”
“That’s an understatement. Is it possible that he lived through that? Where’s his soul? Can you sense if he’s alive?”
Michaela held up her hand to ward off his rapid-fire questions. “An angel’s soul goes with them. There’s no second chances for them.” Clark cringed at the way she said ‘them,’ as if she wasn’t an angel herself anymore, but she didn’t notice. “I have no clue if he’s alive. I thought after that fire, he was surely done for. I don’t know how someone could survive something like that.”
“Is it possible he reformed somehow?”
“Maybe…”
“He’s out there,” Clark said. “I know it.”
“I believe you.”
Three words. Three simple words—that’s all Clark needed to feel comforted. His and Michaela’s friend
ship was built on faith and trust. He’d believed her when she told him that she’d been framed, that she wasn’t the traitor everyone said she was. She’d believed him when he’d explained his odd Nephilim powers when it came to dreams and seeing bits of the future. They believed in each other. That’s what they did.
“You need to talk to Gabriel. Let him know about this. If Lucifer is out there, he’s going to be rallying an army of fallen angels and apparently demons that are still loyal to him,” Clark said.
“I’ll tell him. But Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“The angels are busy with their own mess in Heaven. I don’t know how big of a force they can spare for you. You need to keep it together down here. Is Camille still with you?”
“Damn straight.” The angel in question landed beside Clark, rattling the ground at their feet and buffeting Clark with a swell of wind that rocked him onto his heels.
He pushed his hair out of his eyes and huffed a breath. “Couldn’t shake her if I tried.”
“That’s good.” Michaela nodded at the Throne angel, but Camille held her ground beside Clark, her jaw locked tight. “Stay close. I’ll go see Gabriel.” She reached forward and hugged Clark before she stepped back. Camille’s emotions sweltered in the air around them; Clark heard her teeth grinding together. “Bye, Zarachiel!” Michaela called over Clark’s shoulder.
And then she was gone. Disappeared and transported somewhere else on Earth, or maybe even Hell. Time didn’t exist for an Angel of Death. She could be everywhere at any moment. Eternity was like a level plane of glass that she traveled along.
“Getting reacquainted?” Camille asked with a damning sneer.
“I can’t even handle your issues right now,” Clark said.
Zarachiel and Maya came over then. “What’s happening?” the Archangel asked.
“She’s going to talk to Gabriel. But she thinks it’s possible that Lucifer is alive. She believed me.”
“We all believe you,” Maya added, reaching out to take Clark’s hand, which won her a smoldering glare from Camille. The air between them turned up twenty more degrees. Clark pulled his hand free.
“While Michaela goes around to gossip, we have bigger issues,” Camille said roughly, her feline voice like a growl.
“Like what?”
“Like a whole clutch of angels and demons gathered in an abandoned church barely a mile away.”
Chapter Nine
“Give me one good reason why you’re not in your quarters,” Liam growled when Clark burst into his office without knocking.
Camille, Zarachiel, and Maya followed him, spanning out the width of the office. Dylan stood off to the side, having been in the office before Clark entered. It was clear he’d interrupted something between the Keeper and Dylan, and from the look on Dylan’s face, it hadn’t been pleasant.
Clark couldn’t say he felt sorry for the asshole, either.
“There’s a church full of demons and fallen angels hiding out about a mile from here. Is that good enough?” Clark snapped back.
Liam jerked up from his chair, knocking over a glass of water. The liquid spilled out across his papers, blurring the ink and ruining the pages. But he didn’t notice or care. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. There was a demon in my room. It flew away, but Camille followed it to the church. We need to go there. Figure out how many are there, and if we can take them.”
Liam cursed, staring down at the small pond on his desk. Dylan might have been a grade-A douchebag, but he understood a fight when he saw one. He was already checking his weapons, loading extra clips, and strapping them to his body. Clark had nothing but the pair of knives Lucifer had left for him on his father’s grave. They’d been strapped to his thighs ever since. He hoped they wouldn’t need them.
Deciding quickly on a course of action, Liam nodded, making Clark like him even more. “We move fast and quiet out there. Figure out what’s going on and how many we’re up against. Then we come straight back. I don’t want anything going down out there until we have ourselves completely prepared.”
“Do you want to bring Bailey’s squad?” Dylan asked.
“No. Just us. I don’t want too many people moving in those woods and possibly drawing attention to us. We go now. Except you.” Liam pointed at Maya.
“She goes. I don’t trust Ezekiel,” Clark said. “Camille will stay back with her in case something happens.”
“Excuse me?” Camille regarded him like he’d grown two heads.
“You’re the only one that can get her out of there the fastest. With your wings,” Clark said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zarachiel go still, the angel’s eyes too carefully neutral. But it was the truth. Clark couldn’t risk something happening to Maya. Or Camille.
“Fine. Move out,” Liam said, heading out the door first, his heavy boots nearly silent on the floor.
He had his own guns strapped into a shoulder holster. When Gabriel had taken control of Hell, he’d allocated some of Michaela’s precious wing bones to the Descendants and Nephilim. It was horrible to think that Clark’s knives and likely Liam’s bullets were laced with pieces of his friend’s body, but it was a fact of their world. It was the only way they could kill angels. At least the bad ones. Maybe even some of the good ones that deserved it; Clark’s eyes sidled over to Camille as they hurried from the compound, keeping to the back halls so they didn’t draw attention to themselves. The place was eerily quiet; so quiet, in fact, that it felt as though everyone had vanished, leaving behind the empty estate, like a hulking shipwreck on some lost beach. Clark shivered.
“Watch her closely,” Clark whispered, indicating Maya with a tilt of his chin.
Camille told him what he could do to himself.
“That’s rude,” Clark said. “You’re supposed to be holy.”
“Camille,” Liam interrupted. “Move up here. Lead the way. Quickly.”
They were outside the compound when Liam spoke. With an easy flick of her wings, Camille lifted over the group’s heads, landing silently in front. She pointed toward the west wall and the foreboding dark woods beyond. Clark didn’t miss the fact that Dylan’s eyes hovered on the angel’s tight ass for a long moment.
“Eyes forward, asshole,” Clark whispered.
“Fu—”
“Shut up, you two,” Liam said, hissing the words over his shoulder with a tight glare.
The gibbous moon cast silver light over the compound’s perimeter. The wall loomed ahead, its stone purple under the night sky. Their steps swished through the taller grass like ghostly whispers. Something fluttered overhead, like wings, bringing everyone to an abrupt stop, their faces to the sky. Camille lifted off the ground to inspect, slipping silently through the reaches of the bare tree limbs and disappearing from view.
Clark felt sick. She kept doing that: disappearing. He really needed to tell her about the dream, though he doubted she would be more careful.
A moment later, she reappeared above their heads. Her white wings, glowing warmly in the night, fanned out to soften her landing beside them. “An owl,” she said quietly. “But keep a lookout for demons.”
She pulled out her own sword to illustrate her point. The metal was dinged and chipped in places; the gleam long worn off. It was nothing like the magnificent swords the Archangels carried. Throne angels weren’t meant to be glorious in battle; they were the front lines, the brutal, ruthless ones. And Camille’s sword was nothing less than its severe intent.
Even though the church was merely a mile from the outer reaches of the compound, they moved slowly and quietly through the woods. The trees were so dense, their dead limbs thick all around them, that the group could barely see a few feet in front of them. The only ones who could—Zarachiel and Camille—kept a sharp eye out, their heads tilting toward every sound.
A group of bats fluttered past above the trees, their inky bodies lost to the sky. Maya reached out and took Clark’s hand. He didn’t spare a glance to
confirm it, but he felt her fear in the tremors radiating down from her arm.
They crested a slight ridge, and Clark knew they were close to the church because Camille slowed even more, moving along at a crouch, with her sword tight in both hands and eyes roving across the landscape. With merely a nod between the two angels, Zarachiel fell back to bring up the rear, his own curving machete drawn. Before they reached the lip of the ridge, Camille eased onto her belly, crawling forward with her wings tucked brutally flat against her back. Clark eased onto his knees, his hands sinking into the damp leaves. He lowered himself onto his stomach and smelled the earth thick in his nose. Dirt and sticks stuck to his hands and ruined his good shirt, but he focused on Camille. She looked over her shoulder to the others and pointed forward before drawing the finger across her throat in a slashing motion.
Clark didn’t know exactly what she meant by it, but he got the general concept: be quiet or die.
They fanned out to get better views. Zarachiel and Maya stayed crouched behind them, watching their backs. Clark eased up beside Camille, his eyes going to the gully below.
The abandoned church sat in an overgrown clearing. Its steeple, complete with a cross affixed atop, was knocked askew, as if it had been blasted apart. The roof of the building was caving in at spots; the walls bowed out dangerously beneath the tilted load. The landscaping was badly overgrown, twining along the walls like a green spider web encasing the building. Inside, all was dark, the moon the only light over the clearing. Nothing moved. No one spoke.
Liam tapped Clark’s shoulder, making a fall back gesture. Clark did the same to Camille, who in turn tapped Dylan. They slinked back to Zarachiel’s position. Staying low, Liam pointed to Clark and himself. He signaled Zarachiel and Dylan to go around the ridge to the far side and check things quickly and meet back at the bottom of the ridge. With a quick flick of his fingers, he sent Camille and Maya farther back down the ridge to a presumably safe distance. Everyone disbanded, moving without a word. Camille met Clark’s eyes briefly before she took Maya’s arm and turned her away.