End of Days: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Meg Collett

  “He was pissed though,” Clark said. He’d seen Gabriel’s face. The way he’d grabbed Michaela and shook her like she was some human rag doll.

  “He was,” Iris said. She watched him closely. “Are you in pain?” She reached for him again, but again, Clark pulled away. He didn’t want her magic or her whispered words to bring relief to the growing pain in his stomach.

  Many generations separated the current Nephilim from their forefathers, the Watchers, but the Nephilim’s bloodline was still strong enough to lend them a form of the Watchers’ magic. It wasn’t nearly as powerful. Nephilim couldn’t control the weather or elements the way the Watchers could. Clark had seen the destruction of a Watcher’s magic; he knew first hand. The Nephilim’s magic had grown weaker throughout generations. It was only a feeble reflection of what the Watchers were capable of.

  “She loved him,” Clark said almost to himself. He looked up at Iris. “She loved him. And he was pissed at her? What a stupid dick.”

  “Clark.” Iris frowned at his language. “Don’t blaspheme the angels.”

  Clark was about to tell her what the angels could do to themselves when someone knocked and entered the room. It was the Nephil from the research facility. Clark recognized her beautiful hair.

  “Clark, you remember Sophia. You saved her life.” Iris gestured to Sophia. The Nephil was petite and looked like a porcelain doll in her dress and bonnet. She curtsied a little, but Clark ignored her.

  “Why was he mad at her?”

  Iris and Sophia exchanged a glance before Iris said, “He was upset because she’d let the hybrids go.”

  Clark sucked in a breath. Clearly, Gabriel had broken her heart when Michaela needed him most. His fists clenched around the sheets. He’d most likely broken her heart and made her feel ashamed for letting the hybrids go. That pious prick probably made her cry because she was wrong about the Aethere taking care of the hybrids. Of course, Michaela would blame herself for the humans dying. She already did. But Gabriel had shamed her.

  She was hurt, and Clark wasn’t with her to make her feel better.

  He released his hold on the sheets and put his hands in his lap. He stared at them as the heaving in his chest subsided. The pain in his stomach made his eyes water. A dull throb started in the back of his head. Tears crawled up his throat. If he gave in to the desperation, he would be reduced to sobs in seconds.

  Instead, Clark settled back into bed with a grimace. She was gone. And she wouldn’t be back until she’d killed every last one of the hybrids. But she’d be back. Clark knew that with certainty. She wouldn’t leave him. By not saying goodbye, she was telling him she’d come for him. They were friends. Best friends. She wouldn’t hurt him like this.

  Although it did hurt. It hurt not having her there with him. Her absence hurt him worse than the pain in his stomach. He turned his head away and started at the wall.

  Iris and Sophia whispered, weaving a healing magic over him as their hands skimmed his side. The hairs on his arm stood on end, and he remembered the dark trees and lightning in the sky from that night of the Watchers’ attack. But their magic was the good kind, and it took away his fever and pains. They left the room after a moment, closing the door quietly behind them.

  Clark stared unblinking at the wall. His faith in Michaela had never been a waste. Not like his faith in his mother.

  “She’ll be back,” he said to no one. “She’ll be back.”

  He repeated the words until he fell asleep.

  3

  Michaela drove far faster than Clark would’ve ever considered. It surprised her that her thoughts kept returning to him. She pictured him lying in bed, his stomach wrapped in bandages. Her hands tightened around the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

  The Watcher should’ve stabbed her. Not Clark.

  Thankfully, Iris didn’t blame her for Clark’s injury. But the three days she’d spent on the farm had still been uncomfortable amongst the Nephilim. They were a race of creatures she’d worked hard to exterminate. And yet they let her sleep in a room as they tended to her wounds even if their politeness was forced and slightly aloof.

  When Gabriel had come earlier today, she’d been relieved. Excited. Tremblingly hopeful. She’d wanted a break from the quiet steadiness of the Amish Nephilim.

  She hadn’t gotten it.

  The SUV she’d borrowed from Iris flew down the road, her foot pressing the accelerator farther as her anger grew. She was sorry about the humans dying. She really was. But she wouldn’t overestimate the Aethere ever again. They were no better than the fallen. They gave holy angels a bad name.

  The snake tightened around Michaela’s spine. She needed to hurt something. She would arrive in Charleston soon, and when she killed the first hybrid, she was going to picture Abel’s face as she whispered the words in the Watchers’ language.

  She was close enough to the city that it was time to call Isaac. Her eyes drifted over the cell phone Iris had given her. Michaela had spent the last few hours on the road trying to work up her courage to call, but it wasn’t coming anytime soon. With a grimace, she reached over and picked up the phone.

  Isaac’s number was the only one in the cell. She pushed send, her eyes finding their way back to the road. It would be dark soon. The sun was dull and drained of color as it descended. She focused when the phone started to ring. She held her breath.

  “Iris.”

  Michaela felt a chill at the way Isaac said Iris’s name. Gabriel had spoken her name like that before their fight. “No,” she said. “It’s me. It’s Michaela.”

  Isaac paused on the other end. “Is everything okay?”

  Before Michaela had left the farm in Pennsylvania, Iris had told her Isaac already knew Iris was alive and a Nephil. He’d known all along. Her death twelve years ago had been set up to facilitate her exit from the Descendants’ society. Like Clark had said, it was an order of blood, whether you were born or married into it. Only death allowed departure.

  “Everyone’s fine,” Michaela said. “Iris gave me her phone. But I’m coming to you. Are you in Charleston?”

  Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. It crackled through the phone. “That’s good. That’s really good. Yes, we’re here.”

  “Isaac, I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t know.” Michaela was growing tired of apologies, but she only had one more to make after this. “I know it was a mistake to let the hybrids go, but I’ll help you kill every last one. We can fix this.”

  “We understand, Michaela,” Isaac said. He lowered his voice. “Anyone would’ve done what you did in that situation.”

  “I don’t think so.” Michaela’s thoughts went to Gabriel and all he’d said. Her eyes narrowed on the road.

  “Yes. They would’ve.” Isaac emphasized every word. “It was a hard decision to make, but we know why you did it. Are you bringing some Nephilim with you?” Isaac’s voice softened. “Is she with you?”

  “No,” Michaela said. “But she did send some Nephilim. They are traveling separately in case I’m caught.”

  “Okay. That’s good. There’s not much angel activity down here though. I haven’t seen one holy angel since the outbreak. I’ll text you our location. And one more thing…”

  “What?” Michaela asked.

  “Hurry.”

  The phone died in Michaela’s ear. Isaac had hung up on her. She stared at the sleek phone in her hand for a moment. Its glowing screen went black before she tucked it away in the console.

  She reached for the radio and found a thumping rock station. She turned it up to levels that would’ve impressed Clark. She thought of his pink hair and sarcastic remarks with a smile. He would be healed by the time she got back. She would take care of the hybrids and go back to Clark, to her friend. Together, they’d decide what to do next.

  Gabriel had broken her heart, but she was strong now and she knew what needed to be done. She pictured Abel’s blood on her hands and accelerated even faster as the sun folded in
to the horizon, her smile dripping vengeance.

  4

  Like every night since the terrifying one in the woods with Michaela, Clark was having another nightmare. He couldn’t surface from the dream’s inky depths no matter how many times he said it wasn’t real. But it felt real, and that was all that mattered. When the Watcher’s sword pierced his stomach for the countless time, the pain ripping through him was just as tangible as that night.

  In his dream, the Watcher yanked the sword back, letting Clark slump to the ground. He lay there, blinking up at the treetops as the soil soaked up his blood. The pain burned inside his body like a furnace turned to its highest setting, frying him from the inside out. A wail built in his throat, pushing its way into his mouth. He was about to scream when he heard laughter.

  It came from over his shoulder. He pried his aching body off the ground enough for him to crane his head around and see. The arm he was propped on trembled from the effort and pain, but he didn’t move.

  His mother and father stood in the woods behind him holding hands. They were young as they’d been in 1976. His father was dressed in a white muscle shirt, black jeans, and motorcycle boots. Iris was as tall as Isaac, her long hair sweeping over her shoulder in a blond cascade. Her blue eyes danced with happiness as Clark’s father raised her hand and kissed the soft skin.

  Clark lay back against the earth, his eyes settling on the limbs above him. Angels flew like dark shadows circling beyond the pointing, twisting branches. The trees blurred as Clark’s eyes closed.

  Together, his parents watched, laughing, as he died.

  Clark woke with a sharp gasp of air and clutching lungs. He must’ve been holding his breath. He sputtered and choked, sucking in as much air as possible. When he could breathe again, he lowered his head back to the pillow.

  Before he’d met Michaela, dreams of his mother dying in a stream had haunted him. Now a completely different sort of dream stole his sleep and ruined his peace of mind. It seemed he was destined to be an insomniac. Clark snorted and shifted in bed before he noticed he wasn’t alone.

  Sophia stretched out beside him, her eyes closed, and her chest rising and falling with small, slight breaths. Her strawberry blond hair was tucked beneath a bonnet sitting slightly crooked on her head. A calf-length plain gray skirt and white apron covered most of her thin legs. She’d kicked off the leather, hand-made boots, leaving her feet bare on top of his sheets.

  Clark and Sophia were only friends, but he was relieved to have her there with him. Since Michaela had left, Sophia spent most days with him, taking care of his wounds or just talking. He appreciated the effort; he hadn’t realized how much he’d miss Michaela. He spent most of his time in bed, napping or moping. Without Sophia, he probably would’ve gone crazy waiting for Michaela to come back.

  But now she stirred, opening her eyes and looking at him. She was gorgeous in a dainty, doll-like way. Clark also thought Michaela was pretty, but in every opposite way of Sophia. Michaela was the kind of beautiful that when she killed you, you would still think she was pretty.

  “Good morning,” Clark murmured. He rubbed the crusty corners of his eyes. A fire popped and cracked in the fireplace in front of his bed.

  “It’s the afternoon,” Sophia said just as groggily.

  “Then shouldn’t you be milking a cow or something?”

  Sophia sighed, settling deeper into the feather pillow. “No. The cows are milked first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. You would know this if you ever got out of bed.”

  “Why would I get out of bed when all these pretty, young women come visit me all the time?” Clark asked. He hadn’t left his room since Michaela left; his energy to face the crumbling world went with her.

  Sophia looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed. “I’m the only one that comes to see you.”

  “I know,” Clark said. Even his jokes were falling flat these days. He couldn’t find the urge to flirt anymore. Michaela needed to get back soon. “You need to get up.” Sophia sat up beside him, legs crossed beneath her skirt. She looked at him pointedly.

  “No.”

  “You have to help out,” Sophia returned. “You can’t just lay around in bed anymore. I know you miss her, but you need to get up and help out.”

  “Does it look like I know anything about farming?” Clark asked, pointing to his lopsided, fading Mohawk. “Plus, I’m still healing.”

  “Everyone pulls their weight around here,” Sophia said.

  Clark rolled his eyes and turned away to face the opposite wall. Sophia had drawn back the curtain. Outside looked gray and cold. Condensation formed on the window, because the house was warmer than the outside air. Clark frowned, recalling the fire burning in his room. It was May.

  “Is it cold outside?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Sophia spoke slowly, like it unnerved her to say the words. “It gets colder every day. We had to start lighting the fires last night to keep the house pipes from freezing.”

  Surprised, Clark looked back at her. Interest sparked inside him. “What? Why?”

  “The Aethere aren’t judging the souls waiting in Purgatory. They accumulate and spill over into the skies. They block the sun from reaching us. As more people die, it’ll only get worse because there’s nowhere for the souls to go.”

  “How can they do that? Why don’t the other holy angels do something?” Clark raked his hands through his hair, frustrated and powerless. Of course something else was wrong. He wondered if Michaela knew. If she were here, he might’ve been able to make a joke about soul air pollution. But he couldn’t find the energy to say it to Sophia.

  “I don’t know,” Sophia said quietly, brokenly, like her faith was wavering. She cleared her throat. “But even with the sun out in the afternoon, you can barely see it. The clouds are gray and listless. And guess what?” Sophia didn’t wait for Clark to respond. “If you look close enough, I think you can see the souls moving. Do you want to see it?”

  Clark frowned. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  She was baiting him. But the little window in his room didn’t offer a view of the sky, and to see what Sophia was talking about was definitely interesting. His curiosity won out against his better judgment. “Okay, but this better be really cool, or I’m gonna be pissed.”

  Carefully and very slowly, Clark pushed up in bed. His legs were like thick tree trunks as he eased them to the floor. “Help me with my wheelchair?” He nodded toward the antique rolling chair in the corner of the room.

  “You don’t need it. Hurry up.”

  Clark was about to snap at her when she left the room. He heard her petite feet pad across the worn, wooden floors of the farmhouse and down the stairs. Clark sighed heavily and stood.

  Sophia was right. His wounds were basically healed. Clark was a little stiff and sore, but that was more likely from the Nephilim’s healing magic than his injury. Yet his steps were still small. He reached the hall and headed toward the stairs. Sophia waited halfway down. She hadn’t left him like he’d thought. She smiled when she saw him coming.

  “Come on, Gramps.” She went the rest of the way down the stairs and turned the corner, disappearing.

  Clark grumbled, taking the stairs one step at a time. When he finally turned the corner, Sophia stood in the kitchen amidst an assortment of pots, strainers, cans of all sizes, and many baskets heaped full of blueberries, blackberries, and strawberries.

  “You tricked me,” he accused. “You just want help cooking.”

  Sophia adjusted her bonnet, tucking loose wisps of hair into its folds. “I’m canning. Not cooking,” she clarified. Then she pointed. “Look.”

  Clark turned. There was a large window in the dining room. He crossed the creaky floor. Peering through the recently cleaned glass, he looked to the sky.

  Sophia was right. The sun was a dim orb of faded orange. Everything looked as though the color had been bled from it, like staring into a sepia image. The effect was wrong, because it was
the middle of a summer day.

  A large shadow pressed in from behind the somber, dull clouds. Clark looked closer. He sensed movement from the shadow just like Sophia had said. It was unnatural, the look of it. He left the window with a shiver and went back to the kitchen.

  Sophia was boiling water over a wood-burning stove. She looked over her shoulder when Clark came in. “Did you see it?”

  Clark nodded. “How cold is it outside?”

  “Too cold. Start mashing up those berries, will you? Use the strainer,” Sophia said.

  “Where is everyone?” Clark forced Michaela out of his thoughts, picking up the strainer and positioning it over a large metal pot.

  “It’s upside down.” Sophia pointed to the strainer. “They’re all outside, harvesting what they can and slaughtering the fattest animals to store the meat.”

  Clark turned the strainer over. He picked up a handful of strawberries and dumped them into the mesh netting. Then he picked up a wooden grinder and began mashing the berries. They turned messy and red, like spilled guts. Clark blinked and saw the flash of the Watcher’s sword above his head.

  “Where are they storing it?” he asked quickly, looking away from the ground-up berries and his flashback.

  “Underground. We have a fallout shelter down there.”

  “Like those doomsday people?”

  Sophia looked back at him, face grim. “If it keeps getting colder, it will be doomsday.”

  “Oh.” Clark’s sarcasm fell away. The mood in the kitchen was heavy as he added more strawberries to the strainer. If there was no sun, not only would it get unlivable with the cold, but all the plants would die. If there were no plants, there would be no food to feed the animals—or the humans.

  “Do you think it will get that bad?” Clark asked. “Is that why you all are preparing so much?”

  “We know it will get that bad,” Sophia murmured so quietly that Clark had to strain to hear.