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

by Meg Collett

  The sadness was a like a fist in her gut. Gabriel was the one who didn’t understand. “So it can be your body they carry down? Or Simiel’s? Or Raphael’s? If we kill each other off, what’s left?”

  “That’s war, Michaela.”

  She shook her head. “Not this war.”

  Gabriel paced away, raking his hands over his head. “I’m done talking about this with you. I have to go to Hell, but I’ll be back soon.”

  Michaela’s eyes fell to the ground as she nodded. She didn’t hear Gabriel approach, but he lifted her chin with his finger and stared deep into her eyes. “Hey,” he said, softer this time. “I love you very much. We’ll get it figured out, okay? Just don’t do anything until I get back.”

  Michaela tried to smile. “I love you, too.”

  Gabriel stepped away and launched himself into the air. The air buffeted around Michaela, her hair twisting around her face. Finally, she took a deep breath.

  When she went back inside the house, everyone was huddled around Ophaniel. Even Zarachiel helped carry boiling water back and forth between the fireplace and the pallet. Clark handed Iris tools to clean the wound. Michaela crouched beside the wounded Archangel.

  Ophaniel looked up with her pretty, round eyes full of pain, but she smiled weakly. Michaela tucked some of her fine blonde hair behind her ear before she picked up Ophaniel’s hand. Her eyes closed as she passed out.

  Michaela looked at Iris. “How is she?”

  “She lost a lot of blood.” Iris didn’t look up from her work as she spoke. “I’m trying to irrigate the wound as much as possible to make sure there’s no pieces of bone lodged in there. I’m hoping to pack it and stitch it up when the others get back with supplies.”

  “They said they wouldn’t be long,” Michaela said. Zarachiel handed Michaela a cool rag from the freshly filtered creek water to put on Ophaniel’s forehead.

  “Did Gabriel leave?” Clark asked. Michaela looked at him and nodded. He pressed his lips into a thin line.

  “You don’t think this will kill her, do you?” Michaela asked Iris as quietly as she could.

  Iris paused, straightening, and stretched out her muscles. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s hard to tell,” she said, watching Ophaniel. “But it’s like your bone in another angel’s body completely annihilates their ability to heal. Her blood won’t clot around the wound. Her body isn’t capable of even basic human healing.”

  “How could Michaela’s bone be so toxic to other angels? It doesn’t make sense,” Clark said. He handed Iris more rags dipped in the boiling water Zarachiel supplied. Iris bent back over Ophaniel and kept working.

  “But why?” Michaela asked. She sounded like she was pleading. “It’s just bones from a wing.”

  Ophaniel stirred and whimpered in pain. Iris shook her head, “We need painkillers.”

  “But not just any wings,” Clark said. He’d stopped moving, his face scrunched up in deep thought. “It’s your wings and only yours. Is there something about you that’s so different from all the others?”

  Michaela shrugged, the action desperate. “I was created first. That’s it. Unless the components of my bones are different, there’s nothing else on the outside that would distinguish me.”

  “But Lucifer thought I could help somehow….” Clark sounded far away as he spoke. Michaela rose from Ophaniel’s side, Zarachiel taking her place to help Iris. “He had the Apocrypha long before I picked it up. Possibly long before the Aethere planned to overthrow you. So it would stand to reason that he was looking for something before he figured out how to make a hybrid.”

  “You think he was looking for a way to repair wings?” Michaela asked. Iris, Zarachiel, and Ophaniel were between them, but it felt like she and Clark were the only ones in the room.

  “I think he might’ve thought that was the only way to return to Heaven. Gabriel said it was the one thing he wanted more than anything else.”

  Iris stood up, rubbing the muscles in her back. “I understand what you two are trying to do,” she said. She wiped her sweaty forehead. “But Ophaniel may not make it unless we figure out something to help her. I’m not a powerful enough healer to help her, but you could be.” Iris fixed her gaze on Clark.

  It was a lot of pressure to put on Clark, but instead of looking worried, Clark nodded feverishly. “Come to the back with me,” he said, motioning to Michaela. “I think I might have something.”

  Michaela hurried after him, her mind spinning. Clark was on to something, she could tell. She closed the bedroom door behind her. Camille sat up in her cot and glared.

  “Now’s not the time, Camille,” Clark commanded before the Throne angel could open her mouth. She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t speak, which surprised Michaela.

  “What is it, Clark? What are you thinking?” Michaela watched Clark pace the room. Camille sat up a little straighter, her focus shifting away from Michaela to Clark.

  “I think I’m figuring out why Lucifer thought I could save him.” Clark stopped and ran his hand over his face.

  “And?” Camille prompted, sounding excited.

  Clark ignored her. “Why were the Watchers so deadly?” he asked Michaela.

  “Because they could kill us with their magic. They wouldn’t need bone swords,” Michaela answered automatically.

  “Right!” Clark’s pink hair was a disaster, his electric blue eyes wide with adrenaline. “So what are they doing to kill an angel like that?”

  Neither Michaela nor Camille seemed to understand. They locked their eyes on Clark. “Okay, how about this.” Clark started pacing again. “What makes you so special? Why your bones?”

  “Because I was created first.”

  “Right. But that’s the only thing that sets you apart. You’re not any stronger or faster or smarter than the other Archangels. Yet, something makes you special—your bones. Lucifer said you were the purest. We all thought he meant your faith or your intentions, but I think he meant it literally.” Clark stopped and spun around to face them again. “I think you are literally purer than any other angel. Your bones are more concentrated, and that’s why they can kill.”

  Michaela stayed quiet, her heart pounding in her chest. Only Camille spoke. “Why do you think this?”

  “Ophaniel,” Clark said like an answer. “She wasn’t fatally wounded, but she’s sick from the cut the bone sword made. Michaela, I said out there that I thought your bones were toxic. I didn’t know what I was saying, but I think I was right. Your bones are toxic for all other angels.”

  “So, how did the Watchers kill? What were they doing?” Michaela finally found her voice.

  “Angels can only die one way. I think the Watchers have the power to take any angel’s bones and concentrate their purity to toxic levels. I think the Watchers could turn an angel’s body against themselves using their own bones.”

  Michaela tensed. “Does it work the other way? Could you reduce toxicity?”

  Clark nodded, finally looking scared. “I think I could. It feels right.” He looked down at his arms and rubbed them like they were itching.

  “We have to try,” Michaela said, already moving back toward the door. “Now.”

  27

  Camille hovered by the bedroom door as Clark and Michaela rushed back over to Ophaniel’s pallet. The Archangel looked worse, like her fever had grown higher in the short time Michaela and Clark had been in the other room. Her shoulder with the injury was swelling, pulsing, and searing hot. Michaela took Ophaniel’s hand.

  “Do you have something?” Iris asked, her voice quiet and urgent.

  “Possibly.” Michaela kept her voice soft to keep from waking Ophaniel.

  Clark ignored them both. He sat on the other side of Ophaniel with her hand in his. He closed his eyes and focused on his breath. He’d tried meditation before with Camille, but he hadn’t known what to look for, and he’d let his emotions get the best of him.

  His surroundings fell away as he listened
to his breath move through his body. His heartbeat slowed drastically, and the edges of his reality blurred and shifted. A profound darkness settled like a blanket over his shoulders.

  He’d never gone this deep in a meditation before. His heartbeat was so slow that Clark could feel the wavelike surge of blood through his veins. The marks on his arms heated and burned. For one split second that felt infinite, Clark read every word of the Watchers’ language as they spelled out their ancient secrets.

  His thoughts of purity led him to the right spot. He saw the words before him, the magic to adjust angelic concentration within a living angel’s bones. Was this what Lucifer was looking for? Was this the big secret Clark was meant to find?

  The words drifted away, their meanings sinking farther into the black void. Clark withdrew himself from the mediation, but he didn’t open his eyes. With his other arm, he reached across Ophaniel and settled it on her swollen shoulder. She whimpered, but Clark was already speaking.

  The ancient magic worked. His palm itched and burned. A magnetic pull surged between Ophaniel’s shoulder and his palm. He saw the microscopic pieces of bone in her shoulder and the irritation the sword had caused. Her torn muscles were neon behind his eyelids. Through his closed lids, he could see where the injury burned with toxicity.

  His words pulled out the lethal overdose of concentration in Ophaniel’s shoulder. He watched with his eyelids closed until the bright, fevered red in her shoulder went down. It was like watching a film in reverse. Beneath his hand, the swelling reduced. When he was sure he’d gotten it all, he tried to pull his hand away. It was stuck, the magnetic connection too strong to release his hand. Clark tugged, yanking at his arm and trying to release the magic with his mind. His body still hadn’t moved. With a crazed yell, Clark ripped as hard as he could. The pull between his magic and Ophaniel’s shoulder released, and Clark toppled backwards.

  He cracked his head against the counter, but he heard Ophaniel moan. Michaela and Iris bent over the injured Archangel, checking her pulse and fever. Already Ophaniel looked healthier, the normal coloring of her cheeks returning and her breathing becoming less labored.

  Once Clark knew he hadn’t killed her, he staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the bedroom. He crashed onto his cot, groaning with exhaustion. He was instantly asleep, unconsciousness pulling him under its dark waters. Whatever magic he’d just used was powerful and had completely depleted his energy.

  Clark opened his eyes a little while later. It took him a moment to realize the tiny room was packed with angels and his mom. All the Archangels were back, including Gabriel and Ophaniel, which meant he’d fallen asleep for some time. He checked the windows; nighttime had fallen.

  “What?” he grumbled.

  “Clark,” Ophaniel whispered. “You really fixed me.”

  Clark pushed his legs over the side of the cot and buried his head in his hands. “No,” he mumbled. “I healed your shoulder. That’s all.”

  “But you could fix wings. Michaela said you’d figured out why her bones were so special,” Raphael said.

  “But I don’t know how that could repair wings.” Clark looked up, his eyes on Michaela. “Your wings will have to be regrown. I don’t know how to do that yet, and I have no clue where to start.”

  “Yet,” Uriel whispered. “You said, ‘yet.’ Do you really think you can?”

  Clark sighed. He stood from the cot and held his hands up at the excited angels. Their hope tightened like a choke hold around his neck. “Maybe. But I need time. I thought I understood it earlier, but it slipped away.”

  “Try again,” Uriel said, her voice a command that made Clark bristle.

  “It’s not that easy,” he snapped.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Uriel apologized, shocking them all. She quickly changed her demanding tone. “But when you do figure it out can Zarachiel go first?” Uriel’s eyes brimmed with tears. Clark had never seen the angel smile before, and a joyful, relieved grin threatened to split apart her face.

  “Uh, sure,” Clark said, fumbling for words. He glanced at Michaela again, who stood with her arm around Gabriel’s waist. His grip on her shoulder was possessive, like he was never letting her go again. “If that’s okay with Michaela.”

  “Of course it is,” Michaela paused. Her gaze landed on Zarachiel. Her voice sounded weird when she said, “If that’s what Zarachiel wants.”

  The bent Archangel looked up. Clark knew something important passed between Zarachiel and Michaela, because her hand fluttered to her mouth, her eyes huge with tears.

  “What? What is it?” Uriel sounded frantic. “Zarachiel?”

  But Zarachiel shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

  Some of the angels gasped. Uriel looked as though she’d been slapped, like the very foundation of her existence had just shattered beneath her. “What?”

  “I don’t want to be fixed.” Zarachiel still looked at Michaela, who withered beneath his gaze. “I think I’m okay.”

  “Okay?” Uriel sounded like she was about to start yelling. “Okay? Zarachiel, you’re not okay! He can fix your wings!”

  “But I don’t have wings to fix,” Zarachiel said.

  “I’m pretty sure they’d have to be remade,” Clark offered. “I believe I can mend Camille’s by matching the toxicity level between some powder of Michaela’s bones and the actual bone of Camille’s wings. This could be wild speculation, but if the toxicity is lowered, I feel like Michaela’s wings could heal a broken wing if it’s connected. But yours would be…different. I would need time to understand the process.”

  But Zarachiel shook his head like that wasn’t what he meant. “I don’t need to be fixed, because nothing’s broken.”

  Uriel lost it, her tears streaming down her face. Her sobs twisted into wild howls of laughter. She collapsed on the floor. Raphael and Simiel picked her up and carried her outside with Zarachiel following behind.

  “I want to talk to Clark alone,” Michaela said, looking at those who remained.

  Gabriel was the first to move. He kissed her forehead and whispered something in her ear before he left. Iris helped Ophaniel out. Clark glared at Camille until she stood from her cot.

  “Go away,” Clark said, flapping his hand toward the door.

  “No,” Michaela said. “She’s fine. I actually need her help.”

  Camille looked disgusted at the suggestion of helping Michaela, but she sat back down. Michaela took a seat on the floor at the end of the cots, her long legs folded beneath her. Clark couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “If I can figure it out, I could save you.”

  “But you need time,” Michaela said. “And it could be a long time.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Clark,” Michaela said, treading carefully. “But I don’t have the luxury of time. Angels could die tomorrow in these fights. Ophaniel came really close today. I can’t risk that again.”

  Clark shoved off the cot, his body swaying. He was still exhausted, but it didn’t keep him from kicking the cot away. The frustration he felt was almost too much to handle. He knew Michaela well enough to know where this conversation was going.

  “Would you even want me to fix them if I could do it right now?” Clark demanded.

  Michaela was quiet for a moment, her thoughts far away. Finally, she said, “I wanted you to. When you told me what you were working on, I knew I wanted this more than anything.”

  “But now you don’t,” Clark said flatly.

  “Clark, look at me.” When he did, Michaela said, “I want it so bad it hurts. Zarachiel is much braver than I could ever be, but I can see that he’s right. We don’t need to be fixed. Heaven would never be my home anymore, with or without wings. Even if I could live through all of this, I would want to be on Earth with Gabriel. That would be my decision.”

  “You can have wings and live on Earth,” Clark said, his palm sweating against Michaela’s hand.

  Michaela s
miled sadly. “I don’t think I could resist the temptation if I had wings. Every day I would be fighting with myself over returning home.”

  “If it would be that bad, maybe you belong in Heaven,” Clark said.

  Michaela looked at Camille when she answered. “I would never belong there again. And I don’t want to. So why would I need wings?”

  “So you wouldn’t die,” Clark said, his words angry and snapping, like the lash of a whip.

  Michaela took a deep breath, her face hardening. “I have an idea, but I can’t tell anyone else. It’ll be our last secret.”

  “Great,” Clark snarled. “These always turn out so well.”

  28

  After they’d finished talking and Michaela had convinced a reluctant Clark of her plan, she stood from the ground and wiped off her jeans. Clark still looked extremely pissed off at her, but she didn’t blame him. She’d asked a lot of him.

  “Fine. Whatever,” Clark said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll participate in your plan, but I will be complaining and bitching the entire time.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less.” Michaela smiled at him. “Do you want me to help you fix her wings?” she offered, motioning to Camille’s wings.

  “That’s okay,” Camille said with a scowl. She wasn’t happy about Michaela’s plan either, but it was the only way she’d get her wings fixed.

  Michaela shrugged, turning to hug Clark instead. He held up his hand to keep her back. “I can’t handle a hug right now. I’ll lose my shit.”

  “I get it,” Michaela said. She cleared her throat. “Can I borrow your car?”

  He cocked a brow at her and flatly said, “No.”

  “Clark, please. Please?” Michaela pleaded. Clark tried to hold out, but he caved almost instantly.

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “The keys are in my bag. No scratches! And no speeding!”

  “Thank you!” Michaela hurried to his bag before he changed his mind.