by Meg Collett
Iris patted Raphael’s arm as she walked past. “Good. Let us know if you see anyone from up there.”
Clark and Raphael shared a suffering look before Raphael took to the air. Clark, Simiel, and Ophaniel listened as Iris divided the gorge into sections for them to search. Gabriel had conducted a count to ensure all his soldiers had made it back from the battle before they’d left for the search. Clark wanted to ask why the holy angels weren’t looking for their wounded, but he thought better of it.
With an overly enthusiastic clap of her hands, Iris sent them on their way, repeating her instructions to thoroughly search their assigned grids and call to Raphael if they found anything. They all carried packs with basic medical supplies and precious bottles of water. Only Iris would conduct a search and rescue for the enemy.
Clark rolled his eyes as he waded into the underbrush. Thorns and briars caught his clothing and skin, and his jacket wasn’t thick enough to keep out the whip of the frosty wind. They needed flashlights in the night, but they couldn’t risk being seen. If an angel was wounded in the trees, the light from their wings should be luminance enough. At least that’s what Iris had said.
Clark made a quick search of his section, scanning the area for wing light, but found he was too distracted to properly search the woods. He contemplated sitting beside a tree and taking a nap when he stumbled over a log and fell down.
He grunted and pushed himself up. This night is full of too much déjà vu, he thought. First Michaela lying back in the cabin’s cot, injured. Plus the weird conversation he’d overheard. And now he was stumbling around in the woods. If only he had some whiskey….
Only then did he realize he hadn’t stumbled over a log.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, kicking his legs against the ground to scoot away.
The log breathed and moved. It was a body—a very much alive body. Clark saw the pale skin in the minimal moonlight and a tangle of limbs wrapped in a thick briar bush. The thorns tore into the flesh, revealing golden blood. The wounded angel moaned.
It took a long moment for Clark to calm down. The angel had been there for this long, so he didn’t feel bad when he took his time in gathering his wits again. He waited until his hands didn’t shake before he stood and hiked up his pants.
He ran a hand through his hair and took a step closer. He still couldn’t make out the extent of the angel’s injuries. Reluctantly, he took another step. His fear gave way to curiosity slowly, and he found the courage to go even closer, crouching beside the angel.
The hidden moon found its way through the clouds and into a thin spot of souls in the sky, because suddenly the woods were lit up like a normal night. And Clark saw every detail of the angel before him.
And she stared right at him, looking incredibly pissed off.
Their gazes locked, and Clark saw the angry, green, wide-set eyes that looked almost feline. Her face was square and stern, her lips drawn into a painful, pinched line. Slashing blonde eyebrows drew together in apparent suspicion and disdain.
The angel’s hair was platinum and long, braided into tight links that were ensnarled in briars, which pulled her face back at an uncomfortable angel. The expanse of her long neck was covered in scratches and dried blood. Her chest armor was just a single metal bra, which barely managed to cover her full breasts. Clark imagined the armor didn’t protect much, but he appreciated the aesthetic intention of scantily clad warriors.
The rest of her body was lost beneath the briar bush, and what pieces of skin he did see were covered in bloody gashes. Apparently she’d struggled and caught herself tighter. She didn’t move now, having learned her lesson.
Clark wasn’t ashamed to admit he considered leaving the angel exactly where she was caught, but he couldn’t imagine Iris’s scolding if she found it.
With a sigh, he rocked back onto his heals. “Okay. Look,” he said. The angel narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to help you, but I don’t want you to try and kill me when I do, okay?” He pushed back the sleeves of his jacket and shirt to show her the marks on his arms. She recognized the marks immediately; clearly the facts of his attack on the Seraphim had circulated Heaven. But if Clark wanted to intimidate her, it didn’t work. “I can zap you, like literally fry you up like yesterday’s chicken,” he warned. “So watch it.”
He stood up, looming above the angel, who followed him with her catlike eyes. Her body was curled against the ground, twisted in odd angles. Clark picked at the briars, cutting them at the source of their branch with his smallest knife and extracting them from her skin. He worked for a few minutes before the moon went back behind the clouds.
The darkness fell over them. The angel withdrew, rustling the briars Clark held. He swore. He couldn’t see a thing. He didn’t understand why her wings weren’t giving off any light.
Clark looked for the thick branch blocking the light. His hand skimmed across the angel’s shoulder, searching for the thorns. Her skin gleamed like silk beneath his hand, silk that electrocuted him at every touch. It was a good shock, one that thrummed through his body and sped up his heart.
His hand stopped moving. It felt like a betrayal to feel that longing in his heart again. Sophia’s face flashed through his mind.
He pulled his hand away and just looked, brushing aside the briar branches.
And saw.
Her wings produced no light, because they were twisted and broken. One hung off her back by a sliver of twisted, splintered bone. The other was mangled and smashed under her body, completely disconnected from her back, where a mass of snarled bones protruded from her skin.
It was too much on a night of too many similarities. Clark sagged to the ground in front of her. “Holy shit,” he said, bringing his hand to his mouth. His stomach heaved and threatened to spill its contents.
When Clark swallowed the bile rising up his throat, he groaned. “Ugh. I really hate blood.” Blood and ripped skin and bits of muscle and shards of bones. Clark gagged again. There was no way he could free her without the others’ assistance.
“Listen. I’m going to call for help,” Clark said when he was certain he wouldn’t throw up. “I can’t get you out of here myself.” He pulled out a flashlight and turned it on. Briefly, he flashed the light twice into the sky, where Raphael circled. Clark made sure the light was turned off completely before he tucked it away. Without electricity these days, batteries were precious.
“They’ll be here in a minute.”
The minute turned into a long one, leaving Clark to shift uncomfortably in the awkward silence. He tried not to look too closely at the angel caught in the briars, but he couldn’t help it. He noticed what he hadn’t before in his shock: the angel was beautiful.
Not Michaela’s powerful beauty. Or…or Sophia’s delicate, pretty kind of beauty. Or even Iris’s simple, motherly beauty. There were many types of beauty in the world, Clark knew. But the angel before him was the definition of beautiful. Even with her face twisted in pain and anger, she looked like a tigress ready to pounce. She caught Clark in her feline gaze and hypnotized him. He might have been drooling.
“What are you looking at?”
Even though her voice was weak and barely loud enough for Clark to hear, it was an angry purr, raspy like a cat’s tongue. Clark shook himself out of the trance and scowled. “You’re the one that got caught in a briar patch, so don’t look at me like that.”
Her green eyes flickered with surprise. Clark smirked at her, which won him another hateful glare. “Fine. Be that way.” Clark shrugged.
Just then Iris, Simiel, and Ophaniel emerged in the thicket where Clark sat with the angel. Raphael eased himself through the branches above them and landed softly on top of the blanket of twigs and dead leaves.
“What did you…oh.” Iris saw the angel just as everyone else did. The Archangels tensed, but didn’t come any closer.
The angel in front of Clark jerked back when she recognized the Archangels, the briars snagging deeper into her skin. With a sharp hiss
, she struggled again. Without thinking, Clark reached out and grasped the angel’s wrist.
“Chill out,” he said in his best reassuring voice. The angel quieted, her eyes settling on Clark’s hand, which he pulled away quickly before she bit it off. “Seriously, chill.” He rose and turned to the others. “She’s a little pissed, apparently. I’d be embarrassed, too, if I was a tough angel and got stuck in briars.”
“Clark,” Iris whispered, her voice hushed. “Her wings are broken off.”
Clark cringed. He didn’t need to be reminded. “Well, yeah. That, too.”
“She’s an angel from the Thrones choir,” Ophaniel said, her voice hushed. The Archangels exchanged glances.
“What does that mean?” Clark asked, looking between them.
“It means,” Raphael said, “that she’s in one of the highest, most powerful choirs aside from the Archangels. Thrones are known for their beauty and fire. They’re said to be the justice of Heaven.”
Clark’s mouth formed a little O when he looked back at the angel. She wasn’t moving, but she looked ready to spit the fire Raphael just spoke of. He sighed.
“Is she going to try to kill us if we let her go?” Clark asked.
“Possibly,” Simiel muttered.
“We have to help her. She’s in so much pain.” Iris walked closer and crouched in front of the angel. She shook her head, her expression sad. She glanced back at the others. “We have to try. Clark, do you think you could numb her or something?”
The angel recognized Iris immediately for what she was—a Nephil. Her nostrils flared, sucking in the sweet scent of Nephilim blood. She didn’t look disgusted, but she didn’t look thrilled either. The deep-seated hatred for Nephilim was readily apparent in the angel’s eyes. He put a hand on his mom’s shoulder.
“I’d need too much time to figure it out. She’s fine, but why don’t you stand back there?” Clark pointed to some trees a distance away from the angel. “In case you need to use your magic to control her.” Clark emphasized the word as he shot a warning stare at the angel.
“Clark, you know I can’t do that,” Iris said, making Clark roll his eyes. “We need to hurry. She’s losing a lot of blood.”
Iris moved away while the Archangels took up position in a circle around the Throne angel. Clark knelt in front of her again. “We are going to help you. But remember this.” Clark pointed to his arms. “And she can do damage, too—whether she admits it or not.” He jerked his head toward his mom. “So don’t be a bitch.”
Ophaniel and Iris both gasped. “Clark!” Iris snapped.
Clark pointed to the angel’s face. “I mean it. I may not know how to numb you, but I know how to kill you, and I’ll fry you if you so much as lift a finger.”
“Clark!” Iris said again. “She’s too weak.”
“I’ve seen Michaela do damage much worse off than this thing.”
At Michaela’s name the angel recoiled, her face disgusted. The flash of hate in her eyes was met with a hardened glare from Clark. He raised his brows and looked down at his exposed arms. “I mean it,” he said.
After a tense moment the angel gave a tight nod, which surprised Clark. She was an open book, her emotions vividly portrayed even in her fierceness. Just then, Clark saw desperation in the mossy depths of her eyes. Clark pulled down his sleeves.
“Okay,” he said, taking control of the situation. “If we all work on the briars at once, I think we can pull the thicket off of her.”
It was easier said than done once they got started. It took an agonizingly long time to figure out the maze of branches the angel had wrapped herself in during her struggle. She never cried out or expressed her pain, but Clark knew it had to be torture. At one point, he saw a silent tear rolling down her pale cheek.
Movement next to Clark drew his attention. Iris crouched beside him, inches from the angel. “Mom, get back!”
“I want to help,” Iris said, her voice strained. She reached for the angel’s hand and held tight. She stroked the angel’s wrist and murmured comforting words. The angel relaxed visibly. It wasn’t magic, but it would do for Clark.
Nearly an hour later, they pulled the last branch from the angel’s back, the briars ripping out of her skin. She was coated in both fresh and dried blood, and her hair was a tangled mess. Her body was limp from the pain and exhaustion.
“Let’s get her home,” Iris said, still holding the angel’s hand.
“Is that a good idea?” Raphael asked, his voice guarded. Iris was already protective of the angel.
“She could send a message telepathically to her other Throne angels,” Simiel said.
Iris’s head snapped up. “Do you really think she is strong enough to handle a communication that hard?”
“She couldn’t anyway,” Clark said quietly, his eyes meeting the angel’s. He saw raw devastation in her gaze. “Without her wings, she’s lost her connection to the holy angels. She’s alone.”
20
Iris huffed at Simiel. “See? Now, get over here and help lift her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Simiel said, looking sufficiently chastised.
Raphael and Simiel lifted the angel between them, cradling her body so that Clark could carry her broken wing behind her without wrenching the bone even more. Ophaniel carried the other wing, which was completely broken off. Iris hurried ahead to get the car ready and warm.
Clark’s backseat was small. They worked as carefully as possible to arrange the angel inside, but her wing twisted in Clark’s hands as he tried to set it on the floorboard. She whimpered.
“Sorry,” Clark said quickly. He got the wing settled before he looked at the angel lying in his car. She looked at him, pain etched across her face. “But really, though. Try not to bleed on my leather.”
He won himself another surprised look before she narrowed her eyes. Clark smiled a crooked grin at her before he closed the door, and Ophaniel handed him the angel’s other wing. It felt grotesque and lifeless in his hands, but he also felt the wing’s power and importance. This was the angel’s lifeline, her most important possession. It was wrong to think, but Clark thought this angel was pretty lucky. Michaela didn’t even have her wings to carry around. Hers had been ripped from her back and shorn into swords and knives used to kill her fellow angels.
Clark finally appreciated how awful and disturbing that must be for Michaela.
His brow furrowed as he studied the wing in his hand. An angel’s wings were an outward representation of their soul. Lucifer had said that the bones in Michaela's wings could kill angels—the only thing that could—because she’d been the first angel created, the purest and finest. Yet she got sick when Uriel had flown her too high in the sky. Clark felt a connection, felt the pull of information he couldn’t quite grasp. The marks on his arms tingled.
“We’re going to fly above and keep a lookout,” Raphael said, distracting Clark from his thoughts. “Move fast and quick. Keep your headlights off.”
Clark nodded. He handed the wing to Iris, who was already in the passenger seat. He circled the car and got inside, securing his seat belt.
Simiel tapped on the window and repeated, “Move fast.”
The Chevelle roared to life, the engine rumbling beneath them. He pulled back out onto the road and shifted through the gears, his feet working the clutch and gas like second nature. He was up to speed quickly, his eyes trained on the dark road. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the gas even more.
Clark hated driving fast, because he valued his life. His knuckles were already white from his tight grip. Now that he finally had a moment alone with his mother, he could ask her about what he’d overheard as they’d left the cabin.
“Mom, what were you and Michaela talking about before we left?”
Iris started in surprise. She looked at Clark, fumbling for words. “She really hasn’t told you anything?” she finally asked.
Clark frowned, his eyes never leaving the road. They rocketed through the dark. It was nearly i
mpossible to make out the lines on the road. “What would she tell me?”
Iris was silent for so long that Clark said, “Mom? What is it?”
Iris shifted in her seat, turning her face to the window. Clark quickly glanced over, noting the sadness in his mother’s reflection. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready, I guess.”
The ominous words sent a shudder down Clark’s spine. It wasn’t hard to figure out his mother had had a vision about Michaela. A vision Michaela apparently had chosen to keep to herself.
“Has she told Gabriel?” Clark asked.
“No.”
“And you won’t tell me anything?”
Iris’s grim expression made Clark’s stomach sink. The situation must be really bad if Michaela hadn’t even told Gabriel. Clark suddenly sensed the rift that had formed between him and Michaela. They didn’t need each other now like they’d needed each other before. He’d been her only ally back then, but now her fight had evolved beyond him. But he was still here, and he needed to know what was happening. His grip tightened on the wheel, and he pushed the car even faster.
The gorge was only an hour from the safe house. When they returned, Clark pulled off the road, hiding the car in some brush. He maneuvered carefully so he didn’t scratch the paint. The Archangels were already on the ground and opening the back doors when he turned off the car.
They walked the half-mile to the cabin with Ophaniel trailing behind to conceal their path as best she could in case any more looters were around. When they emerged into the clearing, Clark saw Gabriel and Michaela waiting on the porch. As the group approached, Gabriel helped Michaela stand. She looked better than when they’d left, but she still looked sick and weak.
Clark’s eyes narrowed on her. Even without speaking to her, he knew Iris’s vision had scared her. Her face was carefully arranged in a neutral expression, but she couldn’t hide her anxiety, which showed up in the tight press of her lips. She didn’t look too closely at him, he noticed, and he realized she was ashamed. He had to talk to her before he burst.
Michaela saw the wing Iris carried, and her face paled even more. Gabriel ran his hand down Michaela’s arm before he rushed down the stairs to help them carry the angel into the cabin. Michaela opened the door for them, leaning on the door frame for support.