Shattered Walls (Seven Archangels Book 3)

by Jane Lebak

  Michael braced himself and flashed into the chamber.

  Hastle had destroyed everything. Now, finally now, he’d acted like the demon he was and torched the entire interior. The decor he’d so condescendingly judged before was in ashes, and smoke filled the windowless chamber because it couldn’t leave. Between the darkness and the smoke, Michael could sense Hastle in the corner but couldn’t see him.

  He gathered the smoke off to the sides but didn’t light the room. There was nothing to see anyhow, other than the destruction wrought by flame.

  Michael backed against the wall. It was gritty.

  He imagined feeling Danel’s palm pressed against the wall on the other side. An ally. Comfort. Someone who wasn’t pressuring him to do anything.

  The interrogation team listened in his mind, but so far they’d given no advice. Good. Let them ponder for a while. Maybe he’d even take some of their advice when they dared to offer any.

  Michael kept his voice low. “They told me you asked for me.”

  Gabriel himself wouldn’t have been able to make that great an under-statement. Hastle hadn’t asked for him. No, Hastle had battered the Guards and torched the room and screamed for him. He’d opened a sinkhole beneath the foundation and shattered the windows on nearby buildings. He’d rained lightning strikes over the land around him, and when he’d finally spent himself inside these unbroken walls, he’d begged for anyone to come in, anyone at all.

  The interrogation team had then located Michael kneeling in the Sanctuary, at the back clothed in white just as the Sanctuary angels were at the front. He’d been absorbed so fully in God that he hadn’t been aware of their presence until the Liturgy of the Hour had ended and he was trying to decide whether to stay for a fourth one. He’d been angered by their presence at first—just a flash of anger, but there nevertheless—and that flash was just enough for Danel to come to him. The interrogators had asked for his help, and when he’d accompanied them to the holding cells, Danel had followed.

  The buildings were reinforced to hold Guards, but Hastle had cracked the stone. The angels would need to research stronger structures. Or maybe desperation could do that to a demon.

  So with Danel at his back and his advisors quiet in his mind, Michael waited for Hastle to speak, and Hastle didn’t make him wait. “You don’t know what you did.” Hastle sounded broken, and he pushed to his feet in the far corner. He wobbled, as if he’d expended all his strength and had nothing left. “I needed that. That was mine. I wasn’t doing Belior’s work. It was my work, and you took it all, and I need it back.”

  Whether or not this was an act, Hastle wanted him to feel pity, so Michael decided not to feel it. “Tell me what you want to do with it.”

  “I need to save myself.” Hastle’s voice cracked. “You don’t understand what it’s like. I needed it. I saw the opportunity, and I took it because that’s what it was going to get for me. I don’t care what Belior does. I don’t care if they’re in charge of the army or if Asmodeus is Satan’s advisor. Satrinah never hurt me, but I don’t care about her either. Give her a lab and she does her own stuff and I don’t care. But when they recruited me, I realized immediately what I could do, and I wanted to make sure I got in on it.”

  Behind him, Danel’s presence would be warm against the outer wall. It wasn’t going to penetrate the Guard, but Michael didn’t need it to. He didn’t even need Danel in his head because he knew Danel was holding Michael in his prayers. It was good, and Michael steadied himself. This wasn’t Hastiel. Their friend was flushed into time.

  “You’re not making sense.” Michael steeled himself. “I need you to speak clearly if I’m going to understand what you’re talking about. I have two angels in need of the answers you’re not giving me, and you seem to need the shards we took out of you.”

  My shards. Michael shivered. They were shards you took out of me first.

  Hastle sagged against the wall. “I was Belior’s collector. Belior and Asmodeus prepped me to harvest the bits of Sheol they were going to use to make their weapon, and I made sure I was the best at it. It’s boring work and stupid, to be honest, so none of the other demons ever got good at it. I made myself the best one. It takes a while, which is why Belior couldn’t do it himself. He’d be missed. Asmodeus couldn’t do it because he’s a Seraph and they’re too impatient. Satrinah couldn’t do it because her presence in these odd places would have called Satan’s attention to what they were trying.”

  Hastle couldn’t see him, so Michael projected the prompt: Go on.

  Hastle slid to the ground, making crumbling sounds as if he’d left a trail of soot in his wake. “They’d send me out into the Void, just to the edge where Sheol used to be. If I combed the outer layer of Hell, I could locate those little bits. I learned to call them, and they’d gather. It took weeks at a time to get just a pinpoint. But then I’d bring the fragments back, and Asmodeus would berate me for not locating more. So I’d venture out again and find another batch.”

  Michael brought up a low light in the room and squatted so he was closer to eye-level with Hastle. “You’ve been doing this for years.”

  “Years.” Hastle projected emphasis. “Right after the Word destroyed Sheol, almost, Belior wanted whatever leftovers your guys had missed. Your Cherubim were thorough. I cursed them for combing it all out like that, but I was able to find some, and once I caught on to where the pieces usually got missed, I became the best harvester.” He trembled, and his distress went through the air.

  Michael pressed back against the wall toward Danel’s unreachable presence.

  “It was so quiet. Michael, you have no idea.” Hastle looked up, eyes liquid. “No other demons. No one. I couldn’t feel them. They were on the other side of everything, and I was alone, and I could work without thinking, work and just hunt for this stuff, and I didn’t have to deal with them.”

  Was he crying? Did it matter if he was? Michael said, “Go on.”

  “I want that.” Hastle swallowed hard. “That’s what I want.”

  “You had it,” Michael said.

  “Not forever. I had to keep going back. Sometimes they’d flash out and harass me, right on the edge of nothing. They’d seize what I’d already found and tell me to find more because it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. You know that, and they know it.”

  Michael’s head lowered. God, this is awful. Strengthen me.

  Hastle waited a long time.

  Michael said, “But being so good at collecting it, you started collecting it off me once you realized I’d been sprayed.”

  “I need it,” Hastle said. “I wasn’t going to use it on you.”

  That would have been a lovely turn of events, wouldn’t it? Bring the demon who held the angel-crippling weapon right into the heart of Heaven and then give him unfettered access to the head of Heaven’s army and one of the Seven Archangels of the Presence. This was a brilliant idea Michael had come up with. Saraquael had been right to scold him. He’d only been wrong in not scolding more.

  Michael said, “Then what were you going to use it for?”

  Hastle didn’t reply.

  Michael said, “You want something. You’ve been straightforward about that all along, that the only person whose agenda you care to advance is your own.”

  Hastle still said nothing.

  “You wanted me to come back here. I’m sure by now you’ve verified that there’s no more on me, and that’s fine.” Michael drummed his fingers against his arm. “So let’s just get on with it: what do you want?”

  Hastle shifted in his huddle against the burnt wall. Probably Hastle was also shifting around in his head: playing various scenarios against one another, trying to work out which way he could manipulate the situation in order to get something he wanted, or at least get within striking distance of it. Michael had dealt with that mentality all too often in his vocation, and he’d accepted it always as the price of doing business for God. Dealing with God’s enemies, you had to deal with cr
eatures that wanted what they wanted and not what pleased God, helped anyone else, or forwarded communal goals. No, for Hastle it would be Hastle on the throne of his intentions, and no one would unseat him.

  But at the same time, they might be able to get facts. Gabriel had a list of things a wingspan long that he wanted more information on. If Hastle was that good at gathering this substance, could they convince him to share those techniques? What had he done to keep it stable during transport? What had Belior done to weaponize it?

  Michael’s list of questions was nowhere near as long. He wanted to know Hastle’s long-term goal, because that would tell him what Hastle wanted in the short-term, and knowing those would give him options for leverage. Secondarily, he wanted to know Belior’s goals, or rather what his goals had been. (Right now his goal was escape, for which Michael couldn’t blame him really, considering the intel he had about the state of that magician’s soul).

  Hastle picked up his head. “Why are you still here? What do you want from me?”

  It was an opening. But before Michael answered, he felt the Principality suggest he ask about Belior, since that was not something Hastle felt sensitive about. It made sense to go for the less emotionally-charged material first, so Michael said, “I want to know what Belior wanted that weapon to do.”

  Hastle’s wings crossed over his body. “Would you be surprised to learn it didn’t do it?”

  Michael said, “Not really. It wasn’t mature.” Gabriel had used that term, as though Sheol material were a fetal animal that needed to grow hair and bones before birthing itself into the world. “But the reaction your weapon had on my officers and with Belior isn’t giving us much of a hint as to what it was supposed to do.”

  Hastle sounded surprised. “You found Belior?” And then disappointment. “It figures.”

  Michael said, “Did you think we wouldn’t find him because Asmodeus would find him first and carry him away?”

  Hastle said, “It doesn’t matter now.” He sounded defeated in a way Michael didn’t understand but which made him press back against the wall where he knew Danel waited.

  He’s manipulating you, sent the Angel.

  “Since it doesn’t matter,” Michael said, “there’s no harm in telling me. What was the weapon supposed to do?”

  Hastle’s voice emerged softly from beneath his wing. “It would disappear its target. It would incapacitate and then it would hide the target. You shouldn’t have been able to find any of them, and then…”

  He cut himself off. “But it didn’t work. You said it was immature? That sounds like something a Cherub would say. Oh, the poor little weapon, needing its mommy’s milk a little longer.” He snorted. “It was a pipe dream.”

  Michael didn’t wait for a prompt. “But the incapacitating part: how?”

  “Paralysis,” said Hastle. “I’m not sure if the victim would still be able to think. The three of them kept all their little conferences to themselves, but I overheard enough to know it would end up with the victim stuck and motionless, and the secondary effect would be to wrap around them and make them disappear.”

  Gabriel had said that about Sheol material back when it had detonated: that you could hide something inside it and it wouldn’t be detectable. That was why they’d gathered all of it up (well, thought they’d gathered all of it up). Gabriel had said it almost as an afterthought back then, but Belior must have seized on the same thought with jaws like a pit bull.

  Paralysis, though. That must be the effect of the weaponization. And that might be what was keeping Remiel and Zadkiel pinned in human forms, actively resisting angelic energy.

  Michael said, “How long would the effect last?”

  “Ideally? Forever. They were playing a long game.” Hastle sighed. “God’s playing a long game, too. He knew this was going on. He never stopped me on my little harvesting trips. He never made it so Belior got caught.”

  “Of course he did.” Michael chuckled. “We’re here having this conversation, aren’t we? Who was the intended target of the weapon?”

  Hastle projected a shrug. “I figured it was you, but they didn’t share that information with their little peons, only frustration that they didn’t have more of the stuff to work with. Because it’s my fault Sheol didn’t have bigger walls or that you didn’t miss more in your cleanup.”

  Michael drew his wings around himself and reminded himself this wasn’t Hastiel. The demon was cooperative for the moment, but it was just manipulation. The triage team should have reminded him of that, so he did it himself: this wasn’t Hastiel. Hastiel was gone.

  Michael said, “Belior and Asmodeus didn’t treat you well, but you were with them for your own reasons. What did you want to accomplish?”

  Hastle shook his head. “It’s not going to work. Go away.” He wrapped his wings tighter around himself and suppressed his signature until Michael couldn’t feel him anymore. “It’s useless. Just go.”

  The Principality urged him to stay and ask more about Hastle’s goal. Michael thought of Danel at his back, and instead he left.

  NINETEEN

  As Remiel worked in the kitchen, her thoughts still jangled from what Gabriel had learned, she tensed at the sound of footsteps.

  So many people shared this house that one more person moving about shouldn’t have surprised her, but the hair stood up on her neck, and she didn’t know why. Her mind flew through the house: Mary was resting in her room; Zadkiel was in the front with the girls and her net-making equipment.

  Remiel went to the doorway and found herself facing Belior.

  Remiel shouted an alarm, but Belior looked just as startled to see her. He jumped backward and then ran toward the front room.

  “Zadkiel!” Remiel called. “Watch out!”

  Oh, dumb—now he knew who they were. She raced after him, hanging onto the kitchen knife in case she needed to defend Zadkiel or the girls.

  Belior ran past the other women and into the courtyard—and then stopped in place as a demonic fire erupted before him.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Get back in there!”

  Remiel wouldn’t have been more surprised if…actually, Remiel couldn’t have been more surprised. Because that was Satrinah, no doubt about it, and she blasted Belior right out of the courtyard and back into the front room.

  He crash-landed with a cry, tucked tight, arm to his ribs. Battling vertigo from the demonic energy, Remiel stumbled to the entrance. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s to stay in the house! He knows that.” Satrinah brandished a sword engulfed in flame, leaving Remiel terribly conscious of how small and dull was the knife in her own. “His only job is to get out of that body, and he’s not going to accomplish that if he leaves.”

  Remiel exclaimed, “He’s not going to accomplish it if he stays, either.” She tucked the knife into her belt and crouched beside Belior. His hands were swollen, and one dangled at a bad angle. He must have broken his own wrists to untie himself. She touched his flank, but he shoved her away, so she left him on the floor. “What’s your deal? I thought you wanted him in the courtyard so you could examine him.”

  “You’re so ignorant. Listen to what people actually say rather than what you assume.” Satrinah called her sword back into her soul and put her hands on her hips. “I said I wanted him there, in the entrance. I’ll position myself in the courtyard and examine him from here. That keeps your little hide-bound rule-following self happy, and it gets me what I want.”

  Remiel said, “Well, I’m about to drag his should-be-bound, should-have-been-following-the-rules self all the way back into the recesses of the house, so say goodbye to your buddy.”

  Satrinah straightened her wings. “Look, I find it repulsive dealing with you too. It’s like looking at what Camael would have been if he’d enslaved his intellect and whored out his will to the Creator. But I’m willing to do it if I must.”

  Remiel’s eyes narrowed. “You’re so generous. Will it break your heart when I refu
se?”

  “You’re trapped too,” said Satrinah. “Don’t you slaves pride yourselves on your compassion?”

  A sudden lurch of her stomach informed Remiel that Michael had arrived. He planted himself between her and Satrinah, and next she felt Saraquael’s presence.

  Satrinah’s eyes glimmered. “Oh, lovely, your superiors have arrived. They’ll have authority to parlay.”

  Michael glanced at Remiel. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Our guest tried to escape, and now he has a broken wrist and I think a couple of broken ribs.”

  “Not nice,” Saraquael murmured, moving toward Belior. “There’s a human involved here too.”

  Remiel’s eyes flared. “I didn’t do that!”

  Satrinah tilted her head forward. “If you’re done coddling him, I have a perfectly reasonable request.”

  “Of course you do.” Michael didn’t have his sword drawn, but as someone who’d served under him since the Winnowing, Remiel could tell he was on high alert. “After experimenting for decades with weaponized Sheol material, and getting one of your own caught in the backlash, you’re a paragon diplomat.”

  Satrinah’s eyes widened. “Oh, so Gabriel deciphered it for you? That’s a relief. It saves me the rigors of using small words to explain a concept I figured well beyond your ability to understand.”

  With a tight smile, Michael said, “We’re all consideration. You can leave now.”

  Satrinah sighed. “You let Gabriel study him. I can feel Gabriel’s power all over him. What are you doing?”

  Remiel turned to see Saraquael bent over Belior, who was squirming to get away. “I’m patching him up. We don’t actually want him to die.”

  “I don’t either. But I need him to stay put, and a couple of broken ribs seemed like the most efficient way to keep him in place. A compound femoral fracture is too likely to get infected.” She drummed her fingers against her leg. “If you keep doing that, he’s going to be able to leave.”