by Meg Collett
The angel smirked. “And you’re not?”
Clark surged to his feet, anger vibrating through his bones. “I’m more than that. I’m her best friend, and I’ve been with her from the very beginning of this shit.”
“Oh, really?” The angel cocked one of her slashing, blonde eyebrows. She looked like a wild lynx crouching on the cot. “Does she keep you around for your powers? So you can hurt innocent holy angels?”
Clark snarled. “Those Seraphim were not innocent. They attacked us.”
“Whatever you say,” the angel spat. “You’re still a pawn. A pawn who can set fire to things.”
“I can do more than that,” Clark hissed. He had lost his temper long ago, but now he thought he was losing his mind. Staring into the angel’s vixen eyes, he wanted to either claw them out or blindfold her and kiss the hell out of her because that’s how beautiful she was. Clearly, he was insane.
“Like what? Pleasure Michaela when she gets bored with her little puppy dog, Gabriel?”
Clark surged forward until he was leaning over the cot with his face inches from the angel’s. She didn’t recoil or even look afraid. “I could heal your wings if I wanted to.” The words were cruel and vicious—he meant them as a threat, as a way to shut her up. “But I never will. We helped you, saved you, and brought you to safety, yet you lay there and spew your hate. I hope it hurts. I hope you never find your way home.”
His words crumpled the angel as if he’d pulled her very foundation out from under her. Her eyes were unbelievably huge on her face as her shock turned into fear and then desperation. Clark straightened and turned away from her, unable to bear the rawness of her gaze. He couldn’t believe the words he’d said. They were awful, ugly. They weren’t him. He raked his hand through his dirty hair. What was happening to him?
“Can you really?” the angel asked, her voice cracking through her despair. “Can you really fix me?”
Clark groaned into his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, the sound muffled.
“Please.” The angel tried to sit up on the cot. The metal squeaked and bent under her slight weight. “Please. I’m sorry.”
Clark turned back to the angel, shaking his head. She sat up on the cot, holding the baggy shirt Clark had given her against her chest. “You’re sorry now because you think I can help you.”
“I’m not sorry for the things I said about Michaela, but I’m sorry I’ve been so awful after all you and your mother have done for me. I’m only apologizing for that.” The angel clutched the edge of the cot, her arms trembling from the effort of holding herself up. “I’m Camille. I heard them call you Clark.”
“No. We’re not doing this.” Clark gestured between him and Camille. “This isn’t happening. I’ve got too much shit going on.”
“I don’t remember what happened in battle that made me fall out of the sky. All I know is one second I was fighting and the next…I was just falling. I was so out of it. I didn’t know what had happened until I hit the ground. I’d crushed my wings. I saw one of them lying next to me and I panicked. I wore myself out thrashing in those briars, and then I just gave up. But you came along….” Camille struggled here, but she managed to get the words out. “And saved me.”
“Oh, no,” Clark said, holding his hands up in front of him. Saving angels was turning out to be his day job, and Clark refused to admit that hearing Camille say it made him feel pretty good. “Oh, hell no. I didn’t save you. I just happened to find you. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t have even looked for injured fighters.”
“But you did.”
“Because my mom made me,” Clark emphasized, realizing he sounded like a ten-year-old.
Camille’s green eyes flashed brightly with an idea. “You could practice on me!”
Clark rolled his eyes at her. “Like I would ever help you.” He turned to leave.
“No, wait,” Camille called quickly. “You could make sure everything works before you fix Michaela. You could use me,” she said, her voice drowning in tears. “Please.”
Clark’s hand was on the door knob, but he stared at the cheap wood grain of the door. Michaela had said she was falling from Heaven when she died. If going to Heaven without her wings made her sick, she could possibly die from it. Any day the Archangels went to battle meant it was another day Michaela might get too close to Heaven for too long a time. He might be able to save her if he could fix her wings.
He turned back around to face Camille. Her expression changed when she saw his face. A smile like a second sun split across her face, changing her entire demeanor. Her harsh beauty morphed into something that staggered Clark and took his breath. He looked away, reminding himself of Sophia. He refused to look at anyone else and see what he’d seen in that precious, perfect Descendant. It felt like a betrayal. When he was ready, he faced Camille again.
“Just so you know, the guinea pigs normally die.”
22
The fallen flew quickly behind Gabriel, filling the morning sky with their sweeping dark wings and glinting swords. He didn’t understand what had happened between Michaela and Clark, but he knew it must be something important. Those two never fought, and their conversation gave Gabriel a bad feeling and put him in the mood to fight.
Maybe he was even mad enough to kill, like a true General of the fallen.
But even after the short battle with the holy angels yesterday, none of the fallen angels carried bone swords. Gabriel thought it was Michaela’s right to make the call since it was her bones lending the swords their power. The fallen had been less agreeable.
But they’d finally consented because Gabriel had asked.
Now they hovered unwavering over his shoulder, ready to fight for him because he’d asked. The Archangels lined up beside him, wearing borrowed fallen battle armor, which was uncomfortable and foreign, no matter how much tugging and readjusting the Archangels did.
The sound of trumpets filled the air, like blasts of birds descending from the sky. It could have been birds flying toward them, but as the descending swarm drew closer, there was no mistaking the shine of holy angel steel and the flash of their pure white wings in the air above the fallen.
A single trumpet sounded again from the holy angels, which was met by a return trumpet blast from the fallen ranks, signaling both sides were ready and the battle could start. It was how their battles had waged since the dawn of sin and Lucifer’s deceit. They fought from the opening trumpet sound to the closing one. Their armies attacked in lines, sectioned into waves. One wave from each side fought at a time, while the others rested. It was a style befit to immortal beings fighting in an unending war. Using the wave structure, the fight became about skill and strategy. It promoted order and consistency. The rules of war were prized and valued. If all the angels just went at each other with no division, it would be like two unmovable objects hounding one another for eternity. Gabriel wondered now if the ancient wave style of fighting was outdated in the wake of the bone swords.
Gabriel was to lead the first wave of fallen, but he would remain with every wave after that. He knew how much he was asking for his fallen to fight in a war not their own, so he stayed with them until the end. They hadn’t gained much sky yesterday, barely managing to push the holy angels a mile higher. That’s where they would start today.
It would be a long, hard day. For the millionth time, Gabriel wished Michaela was at his side. She was the General, and she’d fought in countless battles like this one when the fallen had attacked during Lucifer’s reign. She could have taken more sky yesterday than Gabriel had. With her warrior abilities, she might have even taken Heaven. There was a reason she’d been Heaven’s General. She understood the enemy, knew their weaknesses and strengths as if they were her own. She could be compassionate and ruthless, savage and noble. She was the best warrior Gabriel had ever known.
Keep her safe, Gabriel thought, wishing Uriel could hear him. But he was fallen now, and his telepathic link to the other Archangels was cut off.
That was his last thought, because the holy angels were close. Gabriel signaled for his wave to advance. They moved instantly behind him, their wings sweeping them up vertically in the sky.
The first wave of holy angels consisted mainly of Seraphim and Cherubim. They were the weakest fighters, but would serve to tire Gabriel and his army. The mightier holy angels would come later in the day.
Gabriel was the first to strike, his sword ringing against the sword of the seraph in front of him. The seraph appeared terrified to be the one to fight Gabriel. He felt the hesitation in the seraph’s strike, the fear in his trembling armor. From the slits in his helmet, Gabriel could make out wide silver eyes as their swords clashed together.
They fought on. Gabriel could have taken the seraph easily multiple times, and the seraph knew it. But those strikes would have been significant injuries, and Gabriel waited for a chance to end the fight without gravely hurting the seraph.
The seraph opened his shoulder, and Gabriel had his opportunity. Gabriel feigned right, twisted the sword out of the seraph’s hand, spun, and drove his blade into the seraph’s exposed shoulder. Gabriel was fast; it happened in a second. The seraph blinked as Gabriel withdrew his sword from the meat of the angel’s shoulder, the steel glinting with gold. The seraph drew back, fumbling deeper into the wave of holy angels.
They’d gained sky, Gabriel noticed, but they could lose it just as fast when the real warriors came forward.
The first wave was over quickly. The fallen made fast work of the Seraphim and Cherubim, because Gabriel chose to make his waves equal in ability, mixing great fighters with weaker soldiers. No one was the sacrificial wave in Gabriel’s army. The finished waves fell back, allowing room for the replacements. Raphael came forward with his wave of fallen, taking his spot next to Gabriel, who wiped the seraph’s blood off on his leg.
“Any word?” Gabriel asked Raphael, thinking of Michaela. Raphael shook his head, his eyes focused on the descending holy angels.
And so they fought, wave after wave, hour after hour. Gabriel stayed in front as rested fallen filled in behind him. Blood trickled from a gash on his thigh. His arms were cut in multiple places, allowing blood to trail onto his hands and slicken his grip. He’d shed his helmet early on to free his vision. Sweat beaded on his brow. His body was tired, slowing, and in his distraction another angel—a much better fighter than the seraph—landed a blow that grazed off his cheekbone, slicing the skin from the edge of his nose to the top of his ear.
The pain focused him and lifted the haze of exhaustion slowing both his body and mind. With an uncharacteristic yell, he swung the sword around in his grip and slammed the iron hilt into the angel’s helmet, denting the metal and connecting with skull. The angel immediately slumped unconscious and fell through the ranks fighting below them, crashing into bodies as he tumbled toward Earth.
From somewhere in the back, the trumpet sounded from the fallen side, which was quickly answered by the holy angel army. Everyone stopped, wearily moving away and keeping their eyes on one another’s blades. The current fighting waves disentangled themselves, and Gabriel flew to the Archangels as the sky darkened into evening.
Simiel, Raphael, and Ophaniel looked just as tired as Gabriel. Ophaniel was the only one without battle wounds. She was a sneaky fighter, cunning and quicker than the others. In all their fights, Gabriel couldn’t remember her ever getting so much as a scratch. Simiel always had said it was because the enemy thought she was too cute to maim, to which Ophaniel would always smack the back of his head.
“Progress?” Raphael asked as they hovered in the air.
“A few miles,” Gabriel answered. They all knew it wasn’t enough, and it was a defeat as sure as any.
“Descend!” Gabriel called to his fallen.
Gabriel’s sore muscles complained as he flew back to solid ground, every inch of him aching. Yesterday had been full of adrenaline and excitement of the first battle, but now the lack of sleep and long fighting hours resonated in every inch of his body.
The cut in his leg opened again when he landed in the cabin’s clearing. Iris already had the door open as they walked up the porch and shed their armor. Gabriel almost laughed out loud. He remembered returning to Heaven after battles and being met with Cherubim who took and cleaned his armor for him as Seraphim handed him wine. They would recline in the highest spires of Heaven as the Light repaired their battle-worn bodies.
Now they piled their armor in a corner on the porch and passed around warm bottles of a fruity sports drink Clark had kept in the trunk of his car. Iris handed them rags and alcohol swabs to clean their wounds once she made sure they were only superficial.
Gabriel hurried inside with a bandage wrapped around his leg and one pressed to the cut on his face. His eyes instantly found Michaela. She lay in the kitchen on a pallet next to Zarachiel with pillows propped under her head. She looked worse than yesterday. Her face was set in a constant cringe of pain, the fever causing her body to shake and her lips to tremble.
“Why are you out here?” Gabriel asked, his tone full of anger. “She should be in a cot,” he said to Iris.
“Because,” Uriel said. She sat next to Zarachiel. “That Throne angel is an insufferable bitch.”
Gabriel raised his brows and looked at Michaela, who tried to smile. “It’s true…she is…almost as bad…as Uriel was.” Michaela coughed when she tried to laugh.
Uriel scowled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Gabriel sat down next to Michaela as the others came in and settled at the table where Iris opened cans of food for dinner. Gabriel knew Michaela would ask, so he told her how the battle went before she wasted her energy speaking. After he talked about the battle, he planned to ask her about her argument with Clark.
His words were cut off by a tortured scream coming from the bedroom.
23
Clark cracked the bedroom door before the angels could rush in. He peered out. “What?”
Raphael raised his eyebrows at Clark’s nonchalant tone. Simiel asked, “What the hell was that?” Ophaniel swatted his arm. “What?” he asked, glancing back at the fair-haired Archangel.
“Don’t say ‘hell!’”
Simiel looked back at Clark and said dryly, “What in the hot underworld was that?”
Clark smirked. He liked the red-haired angel. “Someone saw your hair. Dude, you needed a comb, like, yesterday.”
“I was in battle, bro.”
“Clark, what was that?” Iris asked, cutting through the angels.
“Cam—the angel had a bad dream. She screamed. No biggie. Go away.” Clark started to close the door, but Raphael grabbed it before he could.
“Are you sure?” the dark angel asked. His massive shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but his eyes were narrowed and searching.
“Uh, yeah. I’m sure. Now go away before you wake her up again.”
This time Clark succeeded in closing the door in their faces. He shifted a wooden chair underneath the doorknob to keep it closed. He’d spent countless hours in that chair watching Michaela heal, and now she thought she could just die like it was no big deal. He shook out the tense muscles in his arms and walked back to the cot.
He took his spot beside the Throne angel. “Camille, you have to keep a lid on it, okay?”
The angel nodded, her cheek pressed into the cot. She was on her stomach with her shirt off. Her broken wing was positioned along her back in a manner to keep the pain down. Clark picked up her other wing.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I thought that might be it.”
“Just be more careful next time,” Camille said through gritted teeth. Her fists were already closed around the metal rods of the cot.
Clark glared. “I was being careful. Don’t be such a wimp next time.”
“I could kill you.” Camille glowered over her shoulder at Clark. Now that he was used to her, or as familiar as a day spent together trying to repair wings could make him, her nastiness didn’t
bother him. He actually kind of liked it. She looked hot when she glared. She’d done a great job of distracting him. Clark appreciated it more than Camille could know, so he welcomed her attitude. Between her general surliness and trying to figure out how to fix her wings, Clark almost forgot about the vision of Michaela’s death. Almost.
He focused his anger back at Camille, fingering a feather from the wing in his lap and positioning the soft plume between his fingers. “Don’t make me pluck this.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Then stop tempting me.” Clark let the feather go. He regarded the supplies in front of him with a frown.
Clark had spent the entire day locked inside the bedroom with Camille. Iris must have understood what he was trying, because she never once knocked on the door. Clark heard Uriel return with Michaela, but he didn’t rush outside to check on her. He could tell from the conversations happening outside the bedroom that she’d gotten sick once again, but clearly she hadn’t died. She’d fallen asleep out there, and Clark had quickly forced her from his mind.
His thoughts traveled in high-speed circles around his brain. He couldn’t ignore the tingle from the marks on his arms. What had Lucifer meant when he told Gabriel that Clark would help him return home? Did he mean the sickness? Did he think Clark could fix that by repairing Lucifer’s wings?
Clark was beginning to believe it just as Gabriel had. Clark thought best when he talked to himself, and Camille had interjected when she could. She was actually helpful, and Clark was surprised by her insight. They were teeter-tottering between outright rudeness and something that could resemble friendship to a stranger. But throughout the day, Clark had seen the desperation in her eyes. She wanted to be whole. She needed him to try, and it was just another pressure to stifle Clark’s breathing.
So he’d spent most of the day sitting next to her bed and focusing. He’d mediated for hours, waiting for the right words to present themselves. Nothing had come, but he knew he wasn’t really focusing. Too many emotions ran through his head. His anger at Michaela was the one that squashed any hope of concentration. Then Clark had another idea.