Then the singing nearly brought her to her knees.
Every person’s reaction was instantaneous. Those in a blind panic paused to listen, rapt with amazement. Many of the novices’ eyes widened large as saucers, and they picked themselves out of the mayhem, stepping closer to hear. The priests froze like deer sighted by wolves, staring in shocked reverence.
Stephanie looked like her face had been dipped in bleach.
Naamah trembled, her unfurled wings spasming with either rage or wretched fear. More skin than bloody feathers, her wings were riddled with patches of tendon and bone. Metal had been ribbed through them, as if to keep the ragged mess together.
Sophia squeezed Angela’s hand, shivering.
Brendan looked ecstatic as Israfel appeared, gliding from the shadows that veiled the altar’s side entrance, a white, graceful, lovely perfection that broke apart the darkness, the bloody light, the hell that the cathedral had become. His wings were all white feathers and elegance, trailing behind him like a prince’s robe, and his embroidered coat shimmered like a newborn star. Platinum chains, sewn to the fabric, jingled musically whenever he took a step. There was a sudden flowering of scent, like musk and lilies and salt water.
Israfel was so beautiful, he was more an apparition than a reality.
And he’s mine.
The second Israfel stopped singing, Stephanie screeched at Naamah, wild-eyed, red in the face.
“You said HE WAS DEAD.”
The demon wasn’t listening. She stared at Israfel like he’d risen from a grave right in front of her, her fingerblades clenching and unclenching with indecision.
“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? JUST KILL HIM.”
The storm raged over Naamah’s first sentence, and barely revealed the next. “. . . a Supernal. If you take one more step closer, I’ll cut his throat.”
She meant Brendan, of course. He was laughing loudly again, but so close to Naamah that she merely grabbed him by the shoulders and put her fingers to his neck, snapping out her demands.
“Stay back, angel.”
Now it all made sense. Israfel’s plaything was Brendan, Angela’s own brother. She’d probably never know how they’d met—whether it had been coincidence, an honest mistake, or deliberate seduction—but Brendan’s nasty comments in the cafeteria suddenly meant so much more. Whatever kind of activities he’d been participating in the last few weeks, they’d either changed his personality, or brought out a darkness inside of it that he’d managed to hide for quite a while.
Stephanie had ironically met her match—she had her demon and Brendan had his angel. Now, they were on frighteningly equal footing.
They never loved each other to begin with. Love can’t turn to a hatred this strong.
Then she recalled Tileaf’s memories of Lucifel, and that certainty took wings and flew from her, never to return.
“He’s mine, crow.” Troy’s voice echoed from far away, its anger burning the soul like living fire.
A piercing howl tortured Kim’s ears.
The Throne’s cruel fingers unclenched from around his neck, Angela’s ghost disappeared, and he crashed onto the drenched cobblestones, sweet oxygen burning into each lung, his body gasping and boneless with pain. The female angel writhed beside him like a worm on a hook, blood streaming from a wounded wing, the other flapping maniacally, scraping his coat. Troy lunged again from the shadows, snapping her teeth, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. Then she connected with the angel—and both of them tumbled to the ground in a flurry of nails and feathers, holding nothing back.
Fury circled overhead, a black silhouette croaking in alarm.
It was another warning, one that Kim would be wise to pay attention to again. He could have been beaten by a club, his muscles felt so sore. But he was also a half-Jinn, and fueled by the blood and the sound of Troy’s wrath, he was back on his feet with surprising speed. The rain continued to fall in buckets, and in an instant, his cousin and the angel disappeared, lost to Luz’s gray waters.
Wings rolled a thunder greater than the storm’s. The male angel was returning.
The knife. He needed the goddamned knife. Kim had lost it while the female had him by the neck.
He dropped to the ground, pawing the stones, barely missing outstretched fingers ready to wrap around his throat again. Kim swore, hissing more curses, finally feeling the familiar curve of the handle settled inside his palm.
He turned, swinging his arm in a wild arc, desperate to fend off the latest shadow.
Troy swooped out of the rain and down to the ground, the female following close behind. The angel was a picture of white rage, almost as frightful as the Jinn who’d torn a gash in her wing. Her cheeks flared with red stripes, like elegant, terrifying war paint.
These angels fought like rabid dogs.
Troy galloped on her hands and feet, closing in on Kim. When they met, she pressed against his back, spreading her wings in a threatening display, gnashing her teeth furiously at the white angel who leaned over them both, tall and furious. Troy’s pinions rubbed Kim’s shoulders and arms, the feathers on each stiff and unforgiving as razor blades. “Do it,” she shrieked. “Before the male returns.”
Too late. He was heading straight for them.
Troy fended the female off, spitting like some nightmarish cat.
“Just don’t whine that it hurts.” Kim tore the buttons from his coat sleeve, rolling it upward.
He set the knife to his skin.
God—the cut felt like a streak of fire.
A long red line appeared, followed by more crimson dripping slowly down his hand. Kim’s fingers slipped against each other, soaked with redness despite the rain. He began tracing the pentagram in the air shakily, hurried by panic.
“I said do it,” Troy shrieked again, hissing so loudly at the angel Kim’s ears throbbed in pain. She lunged, the bones in her hair rattling like a snake’s tail. “Throne,” she spit at the female. “Abomination. Back to your cage and leash, bastard crow. Better that you’d rotted in the depths of the Underworld, a chick without a hope.”
The female screamed wordlessly, but Troy’s insults kept her close and vulnerable. She flapped her wings, face-to-face with his cousin, both of them continuing their threat displays.
Troy bit for the angel’s throat, her teeth smashing together.
A Throne.
No wonder these angels fought like berserkers. For once, Troy had a challenge on her hands. When it came to fury and relentless murder, they were probably a closer match than even she felt comfortable with. But there was no doubt now that Israfel was nearby, probably right inside St. Mary’s, wreaking all kinds of havoc. These were his guardians, and most likely, some of the best that Heaven had ever produced. Thrones were the privilege of the high angels, the powerful personalities. And they were also—unfortunately—the first set of opponents if anyone dared infringe on their master’s interests.
Most never survived to tell about it—but Kim was hardly ready to settle for death.
The smile spreading across his face had the joy of hurting more than the angels behind it. “Defende nos in proelio!”
Troy stiffened against him, hardly able to bear his voice.
Kim’s blood remained in the air, the droplets holding fast to the invisible pentagram. His arm shook, and he glared directly into the male angel’s eyes. In a few seconds, they would be on top of each other. Behind him, the female moaned, her wings slowing as Troy’s also relaxed, both of them stricken. His cousin’s breath was like a ragged whisper.
“Contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium!”
The pentagram blazed, its light like a red star.
Troy collapsed to the ground, panting, her nails scraping the stone.
“Libera nos a malo! A malo!”
The red light exploded, expanding in a circle of brilliance to the fringes of the courtyard, all the rain seeming to turn into blood. Within it, the Thrones shrieked with a chilling kind of rage, and then th
eir own silver light flashed in front of the church, lightning that mixed with more lightning.
In an instant, they escaped into the next dimension and were gone, wounds still streaming, wings thundering faintly.
Troy’s gasps came slower, but the pain on her face was something Kim rarely witnessed.
Her ears flicked water away from her cheeks, and her glowing eyes hid under half-mast lids, dimmed by the spiritual oppression. Gradually, she folded her wings tightly against her back and clambered onto hands and feet, rising to sit on her haunches. Her face was uncharacteristically expressionless. Kim knew better than to talk. He knew better than to listen for a thank you. Instead, he watched the water roll along the white curves of her face.
If only the prayer had the power to kill her.
But Troy was a Jinn, and one of the toughest. His exorcisms could ward her off, temporarily weaken her, even send her back to Hell for a short time. But he’d never be able to kill her. It would take a demon, an angel, or something unimaginable to accomplish that.
“Do you want me to thank you?” she said, snarling coldly.
Fury spiraled down and landed on her shoulder, pecking at the earring near her neck, its metal crow’s foot scratching into her skin. Troy batted her away, and even in the wetness, her nails looked lacquered with bright red.
Angel blood.
She licked them clean and spat onto the cobblestones. Her entire body shook. “If—you—ever even think of using that ward on me—”
“Consider us even. A life for a life.” He stepped around her, eager to get inside the church and keep Angela from killing herself prematurely.
Whump.
Troy landed in front of him, blocking off his escape. She was very close, her yellow eyes almost hypnotizing him with their inner fire, and her breath blew back in his face, pushing the wet hairs from his cheeks. “For now,” she said, through lips tinted with the blood from her nails, “you live and speak your mind. But remember that your miracle won’t happen more than once. I could have let them kill you, Sariel.” She smiled cruelly. “But my pride couldn’t stand seeing anyone else’s teeth in your spine.”
“And if Israfel beats you to it? He is a Supernal.”
Troy paused, her ears perking. She’d either heard something he could not, or Israfel’s name had a unique way of disgusting her.
Then she regarded him again and laughed. She was beating her wings, ready to enter the cathedral at the moment when she’d be least expected or wanted, which seemed to be every other second of the day. “I’d worry more about your mates tearing each other apart. It will be entertaining, at least.”
He gripped his knife, heading for the doors of St. Mary’s. It was going to be very entertaining when she saw how mercilessly he could clip a bird’s wings.
Kim licked his blade clean, relishing the blood in spite of himself.
Especially a bird of God.
Twenty-six
Most beautiful of all creatures, was the Star of the Morning. And the eye that gazed upon him already grasped its heart’s desire.
—UNKNOWN AUTHOR, A Collection of Angelic Lore
Israfel was staring at Brendan like they’d never met before.
His eyes were so large and beguiling, Angela clenched Sophia’s hand in a death grip, afraid she would abandon her soul for the sake of another kiss.
Sophia must have sensed the conflict. Breathing heavily, she yanked Angela closer, like they’d belonged to each other for years.
The angel regarded them both with a quick glance, a lovely smile.
Then, for Brendan, his face became unexpectedly apologetic. Thunder and rain erupted through the broken windows, merely highlighting the soft strength of his voice.
“I’m sorry, Brendan.”
Angela’s brother stopped laughing, and he became so still, Naamah could have killed him already. The demon, too, was in shock, as if Israfel had just told her he was ready to kneel at Lucifel’s feet and kiss them.
“What do you mean?” Brendan said, his voice cracking. He was sweating, almost writhing in between words, like Israfel’s mere presence was enough to make him lose control. There was an unnerving wantonness to it all. “Israfel—my angel—”
Israfel didn’t react.
“Kill her. Do it. Burn her.” Brendan pointed at Stephanie. “The witch! Burn her!”
Stephanie stood still, blank in the face and silent. Israfel could snap her neck with a blink of his eyes, and yet he was turning on the person who’d brought him there in the first place. Then, a silvery light circled the angel’s head in a halo of energy. His ears changed, their upper rims growing, slipping between his hair and lengthening into delicate but feathery sickles. Wings. These were another pair of wings, and he tested their muscles, fanning air through the white tendrils near his cheeks.
When he spoke again, his voice was resigned. “Are you ready to go?”
“You promised.” Brendan sank to his knees, but Naamah kept a grip on his hair. She seemed as disturbed as everyone else, her hard eyes never leaving Israfel. “I gave you MY SOUL. MY SOUL.”
The echo could have lasted forever.
His soul? Kim had warned Angela about that kind of idiocy.
Now she was witnessing it firsthand.
Israfel’s loveliness seemed to grow, like he’d calculated it the best way to torture Brendan even further. Angela could see it with a detail that struck her painfully inside. She had envisioned those eyes for so long, the slightest change in them stood out like ink on snow.
“You shouldn’t be afraid,” Israfel said with a measured gentleness. “Of course, I can always bring you back in a new body, whenever I feel like it. And then another. And another.” His pink lips mouthed the words too softly. “So why fear death? You’re going to be happy now, Brendan. An eternity of slavery to me, just as you wished. And you’ll have a million bodies with which to enjoy it.”
Sophia shuddered next to Angela, like her own execution had been pronounced.
Brendan will be just like her. Dying over and over, only to wake up in a new body—all to wait for a different kind of death.
Somehow, Brendan had pissed Israfel off. Now he was going to pay for it dearly. For eternity. “Why?” her brother gasped, almost lunging out of Naamah’s lethal grip.
Israfel looked to Angela.
Brendan followed his gaze, horrified.
“No need for two in my confidence,” the angel whispered. “It simply wouldn’t be fair.”
Angela’s brother was suddenly a mess, his hair tangled in front of his eyes, his face contorted with anger. “You,” he said to Angela. “You!” He pointed at her, shrieking at the top of his lungs. “It wasn’t enough to ruin the family? To ruin my life? And here I scraped and slaved my way into this seminary, and yet you enter Luz simply because you’re a blood head—”
He was raving. Israfel had pushed him completely over the edge.
Angela lunged to grab him, to rescue him from the danger that loomed more menacingly every second. But Sophia yanked her back just as swiftly, her fingers like an unbreakable vise.
“—but you can’t have HIM, Angela. He’s MINE. MINE—”
“Brendan,” she said, trying to say more with her expression than her words—
Shut up. Shut up before it’s too late.
“You sound like a crazy person. You sound like—”
Sophia held on tighter. Painfully, impossibly tight.
“You’re crazy! You’re going to be the ruin of us all! Why didn’t they just kill you that night—when we were born—LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME—”
Sophia turned away, her eyes squeezed shut.
As if this was her cue, Naamah gave a slight flick of her wrist.
Brendan’s throat slit open like a ripe fruit. He gurgled, slipping in the mess of his own blood, flailing out of her reach and onto the floor, clutching at his wound. Angela didn’t even realize she was screaming until Sophia twisted her arm, shocking her back into a dreamlike, semiawa
re state. But no one could save her brother. And Stephanie, his former lover, simply watched, her mouth set in a line and her expression stony. Brendan crawled for the angel, spitting more blood as he tried to talk.
Israfel stood over Brendan, judging him like a god but not saying a word. Her brother grasped the angel’s foot, his skin paling to chalky white, his eyes round with shock. An exchange of thoughts seemed to pass between him and Israfel, ones that brought shivers to Brendan’s body.
He collapsed a second later. Dead.
Naamah breathed heavily, wiping her dirtied blades in a fold of coat fabric. “He was uncommonly loud for a priest,” she said, muttering. Then she laughed at Israfel, certainly overjoyed to see him distressed by her violence. “I wouldn’t be too upset. He also wasn’t a fitting toy, am I right?”
“Angela,” Sophia was saying, as if from very far away. “Angela . . .”
But she was becoming one with the audience trapped inside the church, dazed and overwhelmed. That raving mockery of humanity hadn’t been her brother. Yes, he and Angela might have been estranged for years, but even so, the thought was the only support that was keeping her from losing her last precious thread of self-control and collapsing inside for good.
Her reaction, though, was a universal one.
Everyone else who’d been left alive to watch her brother die stood in the same dull kind of silence, as if the bloodshed no longer meant anything. Some of the novices had huddled in the darkest corners they could find, and out past the dim light of the candles there were the reflections of hundreds of eyes, the ragged breaths from hundreds of mouths, the prayers whispered half in fear and half in the hope of escape.
I can’t just curl up and cry. It won’t change anything.
Despite her resolve, the tears trickled down her face.
No. Angela knew she had to help. She was one of the only people who could.
But how? And without killing herself?
You should have never Bound her to you . . .
Troy. Angela could actually use that terrifying creature and she was nowhere to be found.
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