by Meg Collett
“This could never have been fixed quietly. The Aethere saw to that. They thought,” her eyes narrowed, and she pointed a finger at Gabriel, “and you thought, that I would just give up because I was too beat down and too broken to fight back. Do you think because of this,” Michaela turned her finger to the dark scars on her arm, “that I wasn’t worthy to fight for Heaven anymore?”
Gabriel’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her, his expression stricken. He opened his mouth like he might beg her to take the words back. Michaela stepped away from him, shaking her head.
“I am. I am worthy. I was the only one to stand up for what was right. Just like every time before when I was the General, I made the hard decisions. I shielded everyone from the pain and took it on myself. And now I will be the one to save this world, and apparently I will do it alone. Do you want to know something else?” she asked, mocking him like he had mocked her. She turned so she could see everyone. “The Aethere accused me of organizing an attack on Heaven. They said I wanted to start a war. Well, you know what?”
Her glare leveled on Gabriel. In that moment, she hated him. She hated everyone. They had made her this way, and then they had the nerve to judge her for what she had become. It was time for a change.
“I do.”
The Lost One
Book Two
End of Days
They say some things must be broken before they can be fixed. But when Michaela hoped to cast doubt on the Aethere, she never thought things would fall apart like they did. Now the Aethere have turned their attention to the End of Days, and they won’t rest until they obtain the tools of Earth's final destruction: the Seven Seals.
The world is falling apart at the seams, and Michaela finds herself clutching the threads. She alone understands what will happen if the Aethere ever get the seals, and it’s the one thing she will fight to the death to prevent if she has to.
Even amidst the devastation on Earth, Michaela struggles to restore her faith in Gabriel. Together, they'll need to decide if their love is strong enough to erase the line she had fought so hard to draw between holy and fallen.
Michaela said she wanted a war, but when the End is looming, what will she fight for?
Contents: The Lost One
The Lost One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
1
June 30, 1976
The diner smelled of percolating coffee, slightly burnt, and served only black. The linoleum was cracked, and the counter tops were a perpetual sticky no amount of scrubbing could clean. The waitresses wore lumpy, blue uniforms and thick, white-soled shoes. Summer sunlight streamed through the slightly murky windows, warming the restaurant beyond the scant cooling capabilities of the sputtering air conditioner. The tiny bell above the door jingled cheerfully.
I looked up, ignoring Evelyn, the older waitress who was trying to teach me how to wrap the forks and spoons into a tight napkin cocoon. I smiled, because I already knew who was walking through the door and exactly what he would look like even though I had never met him.
I tended to know a lot of things were going to happen long before they actually did.
Isaac St. James strutted in with a James Dean swagger and the hair to match, making my heart catch at the sight of him. His jeans were tight and stylish. A plain white shirt hugged his slender chest, outlining the rivets of his muscles. Grease stained his hands from the motorcycle he drove. His boots’ shoelaces slapped the floor as he walked in.
I already knew of Isaac, because I was different, unique, a true blooded Nephil. Most Nephilim didn’t have such powerful abilities, because their lineage contained too much human blood from generations of intermarriages between Nephilim and humans. But my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, and so on were all Nephilim, which meant my visions were extremely powerful. I saw the future long before it happened, and mine had just walked in the door.
His friends crashed through behind Isaac. They laughed too loudly at something he said as he led them to their normal table. A red haired girl, who must have poured herself into her jeans that morning, took Isaac’s arm. He smirked at me, the mousy new girl, as they walked past.
I wasn’t foolish. I knew what he saw when he looked at me. My body tended toward awkward, undeveloped, and un-developing, with my flat chest and lack of soft, squeezable curves. This morning, in an attempt to look pretty, I’d pulled my long blond locks back with a faded ribbon, but after my first full day working in the diner, it felt dirty. My nametag read Iris because I had no last name. Yet.
I returned Isaac’s smirk with a bright, overeager smile, but he was already ignoring me. My eyes followed him as he and his friends flopped into a ripped red booth in a tangle of limbs and the sort of obnoxious teenaged chatter I’d always found annoying even though I was around the same age.
“Iris?” I jerked, looking back at a slightly annoyed Evelyn.
“Yes?”
“Did you hear what I just said?” She leaned back, pressing her stubby hand into her round, cocked hip. She popped her gum. Over my shoulder, a bell shrilled in the kitchen.
“You told me to reuse the napkins if they look clean enough,” I said. So gross. Evelyn frowned, sure I hadn’t been paying attention. “Can I take a table now?” I pointed where Isaac sat.
Evelyn snorted. “Sure. Take that table. Those kids tip like shit.”
She turned and left me with a bundle of poorly wrapped utensils. I hurriedly grabbed my notepad and pen. After a deep breath, I turned around and tried to saunter over to Isaac’s table, but I tripped across a sticky spot on the floor and stumbled, dropping my notepad. A deep red blush spread across my cheeks even before I looked up to them laughing. The red haired girl pointed, snickering as I bent to pick up my pad. The girl whispered in Isaac’s ear, making him laugh.
I reached their table where I waited patiently, pen poised above paper. My smile faltered only slightly as I waited for them to acknowledge me. They didn’t.
“What can I get for you today?” I asked, speaking over his friends. I meant the whole group, but I looked at Isaac, who was sprawled across the booth, his armed draped across the girl’s shoulders. A small bead of sweat rolled down the side of his tanned neck.
“How ‘bout a beer?” Isaac looked at me but didn’t really see me. His foot jigged incessantly against the floor.
“You’re too young,” I said quickly, too quickly. My voice squeaked.
“How do you know?” Isaac narrowed his eyes, challenging me.
“Because she, like, probably stalks you or something,” the girl answered. Isaac pulled her tight against his lean chest and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her puckered lips.
Watching him kiss another girl was a slug to the gut, because I knew exactly how his lips would feel against mine. He would never kiss me that sloppily, like he didn’t care. I forced myself not to look away from the
disgusting spectacle. He didn’t know about me yet, but when he did, the red haired ditz would be the last thing on his mind. My smile barely slipped, though I struggled to keep it in place.
I was in this small town for a reason. I knew about Isaac St. James and his careless, reckless ways. I was prepared for how he’d ignore me and make jokes about my lanky, clumsy body, but it wouldn’t be like this for long.
One day soon he would see how my hair was a blond of silver and gold when I stood in the sun. He would wonder why he had never noticed the cerulean blue of my eyes. When he falls in love with me, he would hold me tighter than he had ever held any girl before. I could picture how Isaac would rub my swelling belly, looking at me with wonder watering in his eyes. I had seen our baby, felt his precious weight in my arms. I had even seen how Isaac would die.
But now one of Isaac’s friends was speaking to me.
“Why aren’t you in school?” he asked, his voice taunting.
The group stared at me, waiting for me to be a normal teenager. But I wasn’t. My stomach rolled like I might be sick.
“I’ll give you all a minute to think about what you want.” My voice was tight.
I turned and hurried to the kitchen. Thankfully the cook was outside smoking a cigarette beside the Dumpster. The kitchen’s quiet was a nice reprieve from the clanging of pots, swear words, and Waylon Jennings that normally blared from the worn boom box in the window.
I leaned onto the counter and fanned my clammy face. The pollen-laden air from the open window was the sort of muggy unique to Kentucky’s summer. A tiny trickle of sweat ran between my shoulder blades. My lower back already ached. I rubbed my fist across the sore muscles.
“You’re fine,” I told myself, although my voice trembled slightly. “You can handle this.”
When I came to this forgotten, one red-light town in Kentucky, I knew what I was getting myself into. This town was built for the Descendants of Enoch, the keeper of the angels, and was flooded with Descendants both old and young, including Isaac and his friends. And I was a Nephil, half human and half angel. Nephilim were hunted and killed by the angels and the Descendants, which meant I was on enemy ground. If I gave myself away, I would be imprisoned, tortured for information, and then killed. My soul would never return home and my grave would be shallow and unmarked.
But my future was here with Isaac no matter the danger. It was a risk I would have to take, because I had seen what would happen if I didn’t come here and find Isaac.
I straightened off the counter, smoothing my itchy mothball skirt. It was too long to be fashionable and too tight in all the wrong places to be comfortable. I needed a moment to settle my newfound nerves. I didn’t get one.
“Hey, can we get some service out here?” The voice was annoyed and clipped.
I turned. Isaac stood in the doorway, arms crossed impatiently. His brows rose as he waited for me to react. The sight of him made my palms sweet. I already loved him.
“Hello,” Isaac said. He waved my hand in front of my face. “Anyone in there?”
I smiled, nodding. “Sure thing.”
I brushed past him, making certain my bare arm brushed his as I went. My skin hummed from the contact, sparking like a live wire against his. I heard Isaac’s sharp intake of breath as I walked away, a bright smile on my face.
2
Clark stared into his mother’s blue eyes, which were perfect replicas of his. He should be overcome with joy, weeping with relief. He should want to hear about the first time she met his father. Seeing her face and knowing she wasn’t dead should’ve brought him endless happiness.
Apparently he’d gone crazy.
Because he looked into her eyes and remembered the last twelve years of his life. Her death and absence had tortured him, scarred him. He questioned his entire existence and purpose in life because of her murder. But it was all a lie. The anguish he’d felt was a waste, because she wasn’t dead; she’d abandoned him and his father. Now he saw her, and the rage grew. He tried not to yell at her as he shifted in bed, struggling against the sheets forming traps around his legs.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the first time you met Isaac.” Clark used his father’s name on purpose. It felt wrong calling him dad in front of…in front of her.
Iris’s face fell marginally. She sat on the edge of the bed next to him. Maybe that’s why he had the strong desire to escape from the sheets and run. He wished he could’ve run. Three days after the attack in the woods, and he was only able to roll around in a wheelchair for a few hours a day.
“I thought you might like to hear about your father and me.” Iris’s voice was warm and comforting, but Clark didn’t care about being comforted.
“I’ve always hated fairytales, which you’d know if you hadn’t been murdered by fallen angels who forced your car off a road and down a ravine. Oh wait, just kidding!” Clark waved his hands in the air until the wound to his stomach hurt. “Surprise! You’re alive. It was all pretend.” Clark rolled his eyes at his mother. “So just drop it. I want to know what happened when Gabriel was here earlier.” Even from the porch, he’d seen Michaela’s reaction to Gabriel. From the looks of the storm their anger had conjured, Clark suspected the meeting wasn’t all warm and fuzzy.
“That’s probably something Michaela should tell you.” Iris smoothed the sheets, her face impassive. She wore the traditional Amish dress. Her bonnet was black and orderly as was her apron.
Clark knew the Nephilim needed to stay hidden. Perhaps hiding on an Amish farm was the best option. He had tried to understand for the first few days. Now he just wanted a television to drown out the silence. And a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Well, Michaela isn’t here to tell me. So why don’t you?”
Iris’s eyes were unwavering on Clark’s face, making him uncomfortable. “The Aethere didn’t eliminate the hybrids like she thought. They’re still loose and killing a lot of humans.”
He wasn’t surprised. Michaela had hoped the Aethere would take care of the hybrids before their deal with Lucifer was uncovered. But she’d put too much faith in the holy angels. Again.
“Why the crap did Gabriel have to tell her this? We’ve been here for, like, three days. Why didn’t you tell her since you like telling stories so much?” He thought about Michaela standing out in the field an hour ago. Gabriel had blindsided her with that information. No wonder she’d looked devastated.
“We thought the Aethere might still come, and Michaela was healing from her injuries. We didn’t understand the gravity of the situation,” Iris said. “Michaela told us the hybrids can only be killed a certain way. She killed one using the Watcher’s language for fire.”
Clark knew the words she meant. Michaela had spoken them to Cassie to kill her in the research facility. He’d used them to burn the Seraphim on the road in Charleston. But the hybrids were an unnatural blend of human and angel—manufactured Nephilim—and weren’t susceptible to angel bone or water.
“That’s the only way they can be killed?”
Iris nodded. “It’s caused problems obviously. Only she knew. The Descendants are trying to help, but no one is much good without Michaela.”
Clark sighed heavily. “No doubt she’ll be in here bitching about leaving soon then. I mean, I was like, just stabbed by a freaking Watcher with a freaking sword, but she won’t care. It’ll be all Heaven must not fall and blah, blah, blah.” He struggled to straighten farther up in bed. He glanced around the sparse room, his eyes settling on his few belongings. “I’ll need to get ready cause she’ll be in a hurry.”
Iris was frowning. Clark caught a certain look in her eye and grew cold. “What?” he asked.
“Clark,” Iris began, “Michaela’s gone.”
“Yeah. We’ll be leaving.” Clark motioned between him and Iris. “We can do this family reunion shit later. I help her. It’s what we do.”
Iris didn’t answer or look away or help him gather her things. She sat very still at the edge of
his bed.
“Why aren’t you moving?”
“She’s gone,” Iris said carefully. “She left hours ago. We talked, and she took some Nephilim with her to help fight. She’s gone.”
Gone.
Left hours ago.
Clark was in a fog, but the words slowly made their way to him. And when they did, they leveled him, crushed him. His head swam as he realized Michaela had left for Charleston without him. She’d left him behind. She’d abandoned him.
His heart hammered. The small room’s walls closed in. Pressure built in his throat until he almost choked.
“Why? Why did she leave me?” he asked, sounding desperate.
“She has a responsibility, Clark,” Iris said. She reached for his hand, but he jerked it back. He shook his head.
“No. She would’ve taken me.” The stab wound from the Watcher’s sword pulsed. The pain radiated out like a sun, making him dizzy and feverish. But with the pain was anger. “What did he say to her?”
“Who?”
“Gabriel! What did he say to her that made her so upset?” He pictured the way Michaela had looked in the field with her shoulders slumped and her arms wound tightly around her body. Michaela wouldn’t have left him here if she didn’t have a good reason. Gabriel must have told her something.
For a long moment he didn’t think Iris was going to tell him, but he was too tired and shaky to demand her to. So he glared his best “tell me. I’m stubborn” glare. Finally, she said, “He’d signed his soul over to Lucifer.”
Clark blinked in surprise. “Uh, excuse me? What did you say?”
“He gave his soul to Lucifer so that he could leave Hell and go to her. He didn’t know we were already there. He thought she was going to die.”
Clark thought about that as the pain wove through his body. Gabriel felt like he needed to save Michaela. So he gave his soul to Lucifer. To anyone else that was probably poetic and romantic. But to Clark, that was so…so…annoying.