by Meg Collett
“I never thought I’d hear that,” Simiel said, rubbing his forehead.
“Uriel,” Michaela said, looking back at the Archangel by the window. “What do you think?”
Uriel didn’t look away from the window. “About what?” Her voice wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t especially warm.
“About the plan.”
Michaela started to think Uriel wasn’t going to answer when she finally said, “I think no one deserves Heaven anymore. Fighting for it is a waste of time.” She glanced away from the window, locking eyes with Michaela. “We should take those seals and break every single one of them. We should just end it all.”
Ophaniel gasped. “You don’t mean that.” Her forgotten braid unraveled.
Michaela realized what Uriel meant. She wanted to take the Seven Seals and the end of the Earth, but Uriel didn’t know that by breaking the seals not only would Earth end, but so would Heaven and Hell. Michaela had seen the outcome in a vision, and she’d told only a few people. She opened her mouth, wondering how she would explain without sounding like she was completely crazy. Gabriel hadn’t even believed her when she’d told him.
But Uriel jerked back to the window, her focus razor sharp. Just then, Michaela heard the sound of footsteps outside. Something smashed against the door, making it rattle and splinter. Everyone was on their feet at once.
“We have company,” Uriel said from the window.
“Come on out and you won’t get hurt!” Someone shouted from outside the cabin. Another person snickered, like he didn’t believe the part about not hurting anyone. Michaela instantly knew they were human. Only humans could be stupid enough to issue threats without knowing who was on the other side of the wall.
Raphael crossed to the door, his hand hovering above the handle before he looked back at Michaela. She gave him a slight nod. Everyone pulled out their weapons, which consisted mostly of bone daggers and swords. Uriel had a long, gleaming Samurai sword, which she’d had since her creation. She left it in its sheath on her back for the moment.
Raphael opened the door. Through the space, Michaela saw burly, dirty men standing outside with lit torches in their hands and guns in the other. She counted ten from where she stood. She relaxed. Looters weren’t a problem for them.
“I’ll take care of them,” Uriel said, already moving to the door.
Before she went out, Raphael touched her arm lightly. She paused, her stare icy. “Behave,” he said.
Uriel didn’t respond. She slipped out onto the porch and descended the stairs. Michaela and the others gathered in the doorway, watching. Everyone was ready to pull Uriel off the humans before she hurt them—or worse.
She stepped onto the ground and into the midst of the looters, her shadow slithering across the frozen ground. The men took in the sight of her, their eyes looking up and down her lean body that was covered in tight jeans and an even tighter long-sleeve shirt. Their faces lit up in a way that made Michaela wish she’d been the first one out the door so she could have been the one to wipe it off.
“Hello, sexy!” one of the men heckled. Another one howled.
Uriel pulled out her sword. The gleaming, razor-sharp metal glinted in the light of the torches. With a smirk, she unfurled her wings. They cast their own luminance in the night. The glow of the torches made her feathers look sizzling red.
It took only a second for the looters to comprehend what they’d stumbled across. In the next moment, they were scampering backward and running as fast as they could into the woods. One dropped his torch, the fire extinguishing with a hiss. Their fear left a palpable stink in the air. Before electricity and news broadcasts had gone out, humans had quickly learned that angels were responsible for the plagues and high death tolls. Michaela found it ironic that it had been their duty to protect the humans since the creation of the world, and now they were the bad guys.
Uriel put her sword back into its sheath before she turned around. She headed back toward the cabin, stopping in front of the Archangels. Her eyes settled on Michaela. “We won’t be able to scare away the Aethere, even with thousands of fallen. We’ll have to kill them. And we’ll have to kill thousands of holy angels. Are you prepared to do that?” She banged her shoulder into Michaela’s as she passed.
Uriel had made her point. Michaela wasn’t prepared.
7
Clark didn’t know how far north he’d driven until he hit the southern outskirts of Cincinnati, Ohio.
He pulled the Chevelle onto the side of a deserted overpass. The city was as dark as the sky above it. The people were long gone, driven farther north by fear and desperation. Inside the car, the silence permeated Clark’s ears and pounded inside his brain.
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He felt only the searing pain from the marks on his arm. But he was learning to like the burn. It masked the other kind of hurt he felt—the hurt on the inside.
Clark swore. “Get a grip,” he said under his breath. But Sophia’s laugh rang in his ears, and his grip was lost. He remembered how his father had shaken his hand barely a week ago, and the anger was back, screeching to the forefront of his mind. It filled his eyes and twisted his stomach.
The car needed gas. Clark focused on that task to avoid the memories of the people he’d just lost. He turned off the car and opened the trunk, where there was a large can of gasoline ready to pour into the tank.
As he filled up, a strange thumping, bumping sound caught his attention. He stopped pouring and looked around. Straining, he realized the sound was music. Frowning, Clark walked to the front of the car and pulled out a pair of binoculars he kept in the console.
It didn’t take him long to find the source of the music. A few miles away, buried in a row of warehouses, was a soft glow of light. It came from a single building amongst a handful of similar darker structures. Looking closer, Clark saw a warm glow streaming from multiple windows on the first level. It was the only place in the entire city operating on electricity.
Clark lowered the binoculars. “What the hell?”
The electricity had to come from huge generators. To light up an entire warehouse would take tons of fuel and resources, which was hard to come by in these times. Whoever was inside the building had to be stark mad. The light was a homing beacon for all of the angels and crazy people in the area.
“Like me,” Clark said to himself.
He was going to check out that building, so he guessed that made him crazy. He finished filling up the car and got back inside. After a tight U-turn, he headed off in the direction of the warehouse with his headlights off. He drove slowly, avoiding debris.
When he was a few blocks away, he parked the car in an alley behind some dumpsters. Hanging the binoculars around his neck, he strapped on his knives and guns before he opened the car’s door. Surveying the alley, Clark knew there was no way he could leave the car out in the open. Any looters in the area would take it or trash it, and Clark couldn’t handle something happening to his car on top of…. Clark couldn’t bring himself think of his father and Sophia anymore.
Peeking in the dumpsters, he found an old tarp, which he draped over the car. It smelled so bad no one would venture close enough to see what was underneath. He turned away from the car, crinkling his nose, and hoped the stench didn’t permeate into the leather.
Clark didn’t want to take the time to scope out a higher vantage point to spy on the warehouse. He went as close as he dared—about a block away—before he tucked himself into the shadows and raised his binoculars. The music was louder here, reverberating across the vacant streets. He saw no activity outside the warehouse, but more windows on the first level were filled with light than he’d seen from the overpass.
Glancing up and down the street, Clark stepped out from his hiding spot. Half-jogging, half-speed walking, Clark hurried down the street, sticking to the darkest shadows. He reached the warehouse quietly and quickly, positioning himself under a large window covered in dust and grime.
Cl
ark looked around to make sure he was alone before he pulled himself up by his fingertips. He was just able to see above the lip of the window. Right away, he noticed nearly fifty people milling about inside. The building was huge, and the light barely illuminated the vast space. Clark squinted to make out the details.
Clark finally realized that the building was a club. Long bars stretched along the warehouse, holding bottles of liquor and beer. Glasses and bottles littered the bar where people ordered drinks. Beyond the bars, scantily clad women danced on raised platforms. More people danced on the main floor, their bodies melding and gyrating into one seething mass.
The music was loud enough to vibrate the glass in front of Clark and make his head hurt even more. He was astounded to find a club full of partying people in the middle of a deserted city. He stared for a long moment as he tried to put things together.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed a better spying spot.
He found a new location around the corner of the building. Already he knew this side of the warehouse saw more activity. A group of humans hovered outside around a large loading bay. Some smoked and others drank. A burly looking human stood guard at the door, checking peoples’ hands before they entered the building.
Clark pulled out his binoculars and took a closer look. He was close enough to clearly see the symbol on the humans’ hands. All the people outside had an intricate, scripted “W” inked onto their skin. It was a complicated design, and one Clark wouldn’t be able to replicate tonight. He lowered the binoculars in frustration.
“Bro! Watcha doin’?”
Clark jumped in surprise and spun around, knocking into the rough stone of the building and scraping his arm. A young man dressed in red jeans and a leather shirt and jacket stood in front of Clark.
“Uh….” Clark glanced around but didn’t see anyone else. He looked over his shoulder. He hadn’t caught the attention of the door guard yet. The binoculars in his hand were awfully suspicious-looking. “Bird watching?”
“It looks like you’re creepin’.” The young man arched his eyebrow and put his hand on his cocked hip. His green eyes were extremely dilated, and his skin was clammy. He was high as a kite.
“Depends on your definition, bro. What’s going on in there?” Clark asked, stepping closer to the man and out of view of the loading bay.
The man’s eyes flickered to Clark’s hand, noting the absence of the tattoo. “Dude, you’re not a member. I can’t, like, divulge that information.”
“A member of what?”
“Uh, the club?” The man looked at Clark like he was stupid.
“How do you become a member?” Clark pressed.
The man snorted. “You don’t ‘become’ a member of the W Club, dude. You’re chosen.”
“Chosen for what?” Excitement flickered in Clark’s stomach. This felt big, like he’d stumbled across a hive of angel activity. The W Club.
The man paled slightly, swaying on his feet. “To survive.”
Clark grabbed the man’s thin arm. “What are you talking about?”
The man shook his head furiously, his slicked-back black hair not moving an inch. “I can’t tell you.”
“I need to know,” Clark said, leaning in even closer. He tried to stay calm. “Look. What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes shifted to the side before he looked back at Clark. “Dmitry,” he answered, his voice shaking.
“Come on, Dmitry. Tell me. Bro to bro. I want to survive, too.” Clark thought about torturing the information out of the druggie, but appealing for Dmitry’s help might be more effective.
“Man, I could get in trouble.”
“Please,” Clark begged, drawing out the word like a whiny child. “You’re my only hope.”
Dmitry chewed on his lip for a moment. “Well….” He looked at the binoculars in Clark’s hands. “I guess you would have figured it out anyway or something.”
“Well, no shit.”
Dmitry sighed. “They have, like, choosing parties here. Everyone who wants to be a member or whatever comes to them. And they…they, like, pick you out from the crowd if they want you.”
Clark’s heart was pounding. “Who picks you?”
“They do.” Dmitry’s eyes lifted to the sky.
“The Watchers,” Clark said, the words slipping from his mouth. Dmitry clapped his hand over his own mouth in shock, his eyes stretching as wide as possible as he slowly nodded.
“When is the next party? Do they all come?” Clark was sweating now, his excitement building with each breath. This was what he needed, wanted.
“This weekend, I think,” Dmitry whispered. He cleared his throat. “A lot of them come, but we don’t see them or nothing. They stay up in the lofts and, like, watch the party.”
Clark nodded feverishly. “What’s this, then? A smaller gathering?” Clark motioned to the building beside them and the handful of people inside.
“It’s a member’s meeting, but…but I shouldn’t be telling you all this!” Dmitry tried to pull away, but Clark held firm. “I’m gonna get in trouble,” he whimpered.
“Come on, Dmitry. I need help.”
Dmitry struggled with what to do; his thoughts slogged through his drugged-out brain. Clark was afraid he was losing him. Suddenly, Dmitry’s eyes lit up with a thought. “What if I showed you? That wouldn’t be as bad as just telling you, right? Like, I couldn’t really get in trouble for that, ‘cause, like, you would have seen anyway, right?”
Clark’s stomach flipped with excitement. “Yeah!” Dmitry grimaced at Clark’s tight hold on his arm. Clark loosened his grip. “Showing me would definitely be better than just telling me.”
A sloppy grin spread across Dmitry’s oily face. “Cool! Follow me.” Dmitry crouched down, looking around like a spy from a bad movie. Enjoying the game now, he tip-toed away from the loading bay. Clark followed, walking normally.
“How did you find out about this place?” Clark asked as they walked.
Dmitry’s eyes darted around like someone could hear them. He pressed himself up against the side of the warehouse and looked back at Clark, who stood waiting for his answer. “Rumors. Before everyone ditched the city, some spoke about a place where you could get food and water just for being a member. Some, like, even got paid.” Dmitry’s eyes darkened as he moved away from the wall. “But no one really understood what you had to do.”
They crossed around to the back of the building, where a large fire escape ladder stretched up from the ground to the third-story windows. It looked rickety and rusty, but the guy started climbing. Clark searched the dark shadows around the building for any movement before he followed Dmitry up the ladder.
The climb was achingly slow. Clark watched Dmitry above him in case the ladder gave out. As he went, the rungs bent and popped beneath Clark’s weight. He held his breath and continued on.
Finally, they reached the third floor landing. Dmitry sprawled out on his belly and wiggled underneath the window. Clark did the same, sidling up next to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dmitry hushed him, his eyes wide with fear. He pointed above their heads to the window.
Clark looked up, using his elbows to push himself up level with the window. He had to crawl a little closer, shuffling his body across the landing. When he was finally inside, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness.
The third floor was just empty darkness. A flickering light came from somewhere, causing wild shadows to flutter across the floors. Clark pressed closer to the glass, straining to hear or see something. He was about to ask Dmitry what the big deal was when he heard something.
It was scraping. Like rickety furniture sliding across a grooved wooden floor. Clark listened more closely and heard what could only be a human gasping with each repeated scrape. It sounded small and girlish, but not a noise of pleasure. Louder than her noises, a high-pitched clicking sounded, both animalistic and unnatural at the same time. Clark knew it had to be a Watcher making the e
erie sound. As he listened longer, he noticed a rhythm to the noise. Clark heard the quiet sounds of sobbing intermingled with the gasping.
A hulking darkness bent and moved over something smaller laid out beneath it. Wings like gnarled branches fanned out, twitching and convulsing. The shadow of the angel moved in sync with the noises, a consistent thumping and scraping. Its clicking turned into a high-pitched vibration that made Clark’s ears ache. He grimaced as the girl screamed. The sound stopped immediately as the shadow of the angel swatted the girl out from underneath it, sending her crashing to the floor.
Clark sank back to the landing and looked at Dmitry, who was sweating and shaking, his hands trembling against the metal beneath them. “What the hell was that?” Clark asked, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry over the deafening music inside.
Clark knew what that was. It was sex. But he didn’t understand why.
Dmitry took a deep breath. “The chosen members are called every now and then to come to meetings….” He looked even more nervous, like he might suddenly throw up.
“For what?” Clark hissed. “Why?”
“When they need to be, like, served.”
A chill crept down Clark’s spine at Dmitry’s lowered, hushed voice. He sounded terrified. “Served what?” Clark asked, just as quietly.
“Pleasure.”
8
Michaela woke the next morning to an almighty banging. She leapt from the floor of the cabin where she’d slept the night before and cringed at the shooting pains down the side of her neck. Raphael was at the door before she could blink. Rubbing his eyes, Simiel sat up, his bright red hair sticking up at all angles. Ophaniel yawned and tried to brush down Simiel’s hair.
“It’s just Clark,” Michaela said. His whiskey scent wafted through the door, which likely meant he was completely wasted.
Raphael opened the cabin’s door for the exhausted, disheveled human, who’d apparently raided a liquor store on the way back to Kentucky. He stepped inside carrying two large handles of Jack Daniels, his poison of choice. Michaela rolled her eyes, noting one was already half empty.