by Lou Morgan
“What would I want with the girl’s brother?” Michael asked. “Have you ever known me to be that petty?”
“So you don’t have him?”
“Oh, no. He’s here. But as my guest, not my prisoner.”
Hearing this, Vin brightened. “Where is he?”
“In his rooms, I imagine. As I say, he’s not a prisoner and he is free to come and go as he pleases. Zadkiel brought him in. He was helping me with something.”
“With what?” Alice asked with a sinking feeling.
“With you, obviously.” Michael replied, looking straight at her. “He was helping me find a way to convince you to come here. Which, apparently, he’s done. And which begs the question of what exactly Xaphan is up to. Tricky, tricky Xaph.” He glanced at Zadkiel. “They’re secure?”
“Brother Phillip has them.”
“Good. I don’t like the timing, but in that case I don’t think there’s too much to worry about. You doubled the guard?”
“Twice.”
“Mmmm.”
“I had a suggestion.” For the first time since she had met him, Alice thought Zadkiel sounded unsure of himself.
“I know what you’re going to say, Zak. The answer’s no.”
“But if you reinstate the Earthbounds...”
“I said no.”
“Tactically, it gives us the numbers.”
“Enough! I said no!” Fire erupted from the floor between Michael and Zadkiel, and everyone jumped back, apart from Zadkiel, who simply rolled his eyes.
“Why do you have to be so pigheaded, Michael? Always.”
“Because I make the rules. Not you.” Michael spat back. “And they’ve always served well enough before.”
“This isn’t like before though, is it? And you know it.” Zadkiel was shouting now, jabbing his finger angrily at Michael. “This isn’t like anything that’s come before.”
“And, given that it’s like nothing that’s come before, you’re basing your theory that sheer weight of numbers will save us on... what, exactly?” Michael snapped
“On nothing! On hope, alright? Is that what you want to hear?” Zadkiel snapped back, kicking out at the air in frustration.
The flames on the floor died down, and Michael sighed. “I understand, Zak. I do. But this is my responsibility.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Finally, Zadkiel said, “Don’t mistake responsibility for martyrdom, Michael,” and turned on his heel, leaving them. They heard his boots echoing down the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said to no-one in particular. “As you can see, things are a little... tense. Zak’s – Zadkiel’s – instincts are good, but he’s overlooking the most basic fact. Lucifer knows exactly how we think. He knows every move we will make before we make it. He knows that if I reinstate the Earthbounds, our numbers will outweigh his; why do you think he’s been so busy with the world? A nudge here, a whisper there... and he has the humans rushing towards their baser nature, tipping the balance in his favour.” He opened his arms as if to illustrate his point. “Everything I do, he can predict. But it cuts both ways. He knows us, but I know him. We know them. If he has set a trap, with the balance against us, it’s almost inevitable that sooner or later, it will work. Which is why we’re doing it the short way.”
“You wanted to see how it pans out.” Alice couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. It almost made sense, but not quite. But then, it was Michael saying it.
“Exactly. You bringing Xaphan here: it happened because Lucifer wanted it to happen. What I want to know is why.” He shrugged. “And the quickest way to find out is to let things follow their natural course.”
“What then?” asked Mallory. His face had settled into an expression Alice could only describe as ‘stony.’ “What if things don’t play out how you expected they would? What if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’m wrong. But tell me, Mallory: what choice do I have?” Michael paced the floor. “I have Lucifer’s body, but his mind is adrift. Any prison I build for him, he turns to his advantage: I locked him in hell, he made it a sanctuary; I lock him up here, he mocks me from the shoreline. He turns humanity against itself and gains power from the chaos while my army fights in vain. He openly walks in the world while we remain hidden, and he takes and he takes and he takes, and I... will... not... lose.”
“There’s always choices, Michael. You don’t need me to tell you that. Are you sure you’re making the right ones?”
“Ever the philosopher, Mallory.” Michael stared out of the window and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I can see why she listens to you.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“Mmm. We’ll see.” He brightened. “But all this is irrelevant. We think we’ve found it. The way to bind him.”
“And then what?”
“Then we destroy Lucifer... and every single one of the Fallen with him.” Michael turned away from the window and back to face them, and his eyes were white-hot with fire. “Lucifer wants absolute war. I’m only too happy to oblige.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Run, Brother
THE FIRST THE Quartermaster heard of it was the bell. Not the bells of the priory or the smaller church lower on the island, but a hand-bell, rung hard and fast, and then dropped with a clatter. Phillip looked up from his workbench and muttered something under his breath. That was the alarm bell. And it could mean only one thing.
He ran to the door of his workshop, tucked beneath the little chapel in the cemetery, and wrenched it open. The graveyard was as tranquil as ever; there was no sign of life. But he could hear running footsteps, shouting. Screams. Without thinking, he ducked back into his workshop and snatched up Mallory’s guns. He threw them into the middle of a cloth on the table and hastily wrapped them up, before throwing them into a green holdall, along with several boxes of bullets. Slinging the holdall onto his shoulder, he leaned over the table and took hold of one of the stones of the wall. Mortar crumbled under his fingernails as he tugged and worked at the edges of the stone. Something lay in the gloomy space behind: something slender, wrapped in a dirty rag. He hesitated, and then added it to his haul. Without another look back, he slammed the door behind him and raced through the graveyard; his feet crunched on the gravel, and he ran as though the devil was behind him.
As far as Phillip was concerned, he was.
THERE WAS SHOUTING, and the sound of more running feet; the howl of a wind that had sprung from nowhere, screaming through the streets and slamming into the ancient walls. Phillip wound his way through the buildings of Mont Saint-Michel, the first plumes of oily black smoke curling up from the island beneath him. And still he ran.
He had reached the bottom of a broad flight of steps, overarched by enormous granite buttresses, when he saw the first of the guards. Three of them lay strewn across the steps, their bodies broken, their wings torn and lifeless. Blood seeped out from beneath them, trickling into a pool almost at his feet. Phillip stared at them. “Forgive me,” he whispered, looking into the dead eyes below him, then stepped over them, lifting his habit clear of their blood. He clutched his bag and ran up the steps two at a time.
The steps climbed sharply, crowded between high walls, and then levelled out into a long, straight passageway. At the end of the passage was smoke. Smoke and fire. Scorch marks stained the granite blocks on either side, and deep sword cuts in the rock.
Bodies littered the ground ahead of him, and with mounting horror, he realised that he was going to have to go through them to reach the priory. Slowly, he picked his way between them: wings torn apart, littering the ground with feathers, and empty faces, their eyes open and unseeing. Something brushed against his ankle and he recoiled with a gasp: a hand. An angel he didn’t recognise, but the sigil on his wrist was Michael’s. His fingers were still clasped around the hilt of his sword.
The passageway rang with the sounds of fighting now, screams and howls bouncing off the high stone walls, and Phillip felt cold. So cold.
It occurred to him that he could turn back; he could run. And the more he thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. There was nothing to stop him – he knew the island better than anyone. He was sure he could make his way out without being seen, and he certainly knew his way across the sands to the mainland. All he had to do was wait until dark, and he could make a run for it. No-one would think any less of him. After all, he was only human.
Phillip’s head snapped up. The voice in his mind, the voice telling him to run... it wasn’t his. He looked down at his feet. He had, without quite realising, turned and taken several steps back the way he came. “I am myself,” he said to no-one. “And I choose my own end in peace.” The air around him cooled again, the wind swallowing his words. There was no-one there to hear them. It didn’t matter. Head held high, Phillip started forwards again.
The thick white smoke now spanned the end of the passageway, hiding everything behind it. There were shapes moving, and flashes of light – of fire – but everything was obscured. He stretched out his hand to touch it, watching it coil around his fingers... then snatched them back, suddenly feeling foolish. Someone on the other side of the veil screamed, and something heavy fell to the ground.
Phillip stepped through the smoke.
PHILLIP HAD NEVER considered hell. He had never claimed to be perfect, and had led a less sheltered life by far than most of the brothers in Michael’s service, but the chaos at the end of the passageway was like nothing he had ever seen, either waking or dreaming.
Five angels, fully armoured, surrounded the prisoners, their backs turned inwards. Florence and Xaphan, wrists still bound and tied to one another, cowered in the middle of the circle, while the Descendeds lunged outwards at a half-dozen Fallen. They hurled themselves at the angels in a fury, tearing, clawing, gouging, biting. And despite the fire the Descendeds threw at them, they kept coming. A heap of blackened bodies past the knot of angels suggested there had been more. Far more, judging by the number of dead angels Phillip had passed. He didn’t stop to wonder where they had come from; didn’t wait to ask. Instead, spotting a glint of silver beneath a pile of scorched feathers, he hurried towards it.
The sword was heavier than he had expected; while the angels swung theirs with one hand, it took both of his and all his strength just to lift it. The point shook wildly as he held it up, with fear and exertion.
He could see the doorway. The one he needed. Less than fifty yards ahead and the wrong side of the pitched battle going on in front of him. If he could get to that, he could get to Zadkiel and Michael.
One of the Descendeds looked up and saw him, frozen in the midst of the chaos. Phillip recognised A’albiel, one of Michael’s favourites. He was already wounded: one shoulder hung lower than the other and his face was covered in blood and ash. Flames blazed around him as his chest heaved in and out with the effort of breathing; his breastplate shone under a layer of battle-grime. He would know what to do.
Phillip met his gaze, and A’albiel seemed to understand. He nodded, and shouted something Phillip could not make out. The others must have understood it; they raised their swords as one and whirled – and in a blur of fire and feathers, they had spun around pinning the attacking Fallen back against one of the walls and leaving a narrow gap behind them. They had given up their defensive position, had laid themselves wide open, but they had given him a pathway to the door.
“Go!” A’albiel shouted at him. Phillip dropped the sword and ran for the door.
As he passed them, still running, he thought he saw Xaphan wink at him...
And then he was in the doorway, scrabbling for the handle and tumbling through, slamming the door shut behind him.
OUTSIDE, A’ALBIEL HEARD the door bang, heard the key turn in the lock. The Quartermaster was safe. He ducked as one of the Fallen threw... something at him. It passed by too quickly to see what it was, and Al didn’t really care. It had almost hit him, and he lunged forward with a flaming sword; smiling in satisfaction as his assailant took the blade in the face and dropped where he stood.
He was still smiling when the knife slipped into his back, finding its way between the links of the chainmail and down into the root of his wings. Stars bloomed in his eyes and the ground beneath him softened as the blade slid home. His sword dropped from his hand.
He twisted as he fell. He hit the ground, seeing Xaphan casually shaking off his restraints, smiling at him. As the remains of the guard, too, fell around him, Xaphan stepped over a heap that had once been an angel and dropped into a crouch, running his finger down A’albiel’s cheek. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he whispered. “Everywhere and anywhere. The world is ours.” He smiled again, and wiped the blood from his knife on A’albiel’s shoulder, before slipping the blade back into his pocket and holding his hand out to Florence. She took his hand, and they turned their backs on A’albiel, the three remaining Fallen following them, vanishing into the drifting smoke.
A’albiel rolled onto his back, feeling the chill spreading out from beneath his wings. His vision clouded, and he turned his eyes to the perfectly empty blue sky.
And inside the abbey, Phillip ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fire with Fire
THE PIECE OF paper Michael had been holding slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor. He strode towards the window, frowning. “Smoke,” he said, looking out over the roofs.
Alice looked out of the nearest window. He was right. A cloud of smoke hung over the island below them; it was thick and black, greasy. She had seen it before.
“Mallory...”
“I see it. Michael?”
“Hmm.” Michael looked thoughtful. “Not the approach I would have taken, but still...”
“Michael!”
“What?” Michael’s head snapped around to face Mallory.
“What do you want us to do?”
“To do?” Michael looked puzzled, his eyes moving from Mallory to the window and back again. “We fight, of course.”
“With what?” Mallory said pointedly. “I hate to point this out, but your Quartermaster relieved me of my guns.”
Michael raised a finger and cocked his head. Someone was coming up the stairs.
The door was thrown open as Zadkiel burst into the room. He was carrying a small roll of cloth, which he threw to Mallory. “Brother Phillip sends his regards, and his apologies. Almost got himself killed getting here.”
Mallory caught it and unwrapped his guns, dropping the cloth and checking the magazines on both Colts before stuffing them into his pockets. “He’s got good timing,” he muttered as Zadkiel dropped a green holdall on the floor with a brusque, “Ammo.” The Archangel then raced across the room, and whispered something into his commander’s ear. Michael’s frown deepened.
“Escaped? How did they manage that?”
“I don’t know.” Zadkiel raised his voice a little, enough for Alice to hear, at least. She pointed out of the window.
“Uhh... that tour bus. Down there. On the causeway. I don’t suppose that has anything to do with what you’re all panicking about, does it?”
“Tour bus?” Michael’s frown finally tipped over into a scowl. “What?”
“There. In the car park. There’s a bus. It wasn’t there earlier...”
“They came on a coach?” Michael’s voice was a mixture of bemusement and contempt, while Zadkiel shook his head.
“You’re not serious?”
“Look.” Alice pointed again. There it was, sitting in the car park at the end of the causeway. A bright red coach, the kind that took tourists on week-long holidays. Exactly the kind of coach Alice would have expected to see here. Which is why, apparently, no-one had noticed it. Until now.
“The sentries?” Michael snapped at Zadkiel.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.” He ran a hand back through his hair, pacing. “They’ve yet to breach the priory itself. Phillip made it in through the gate,
but they were right behind him. I say we concentrate on the most vulnerable points. Move to defend the scriptorium and the south corridor. If they get through there, we’re in trouble.”
“Agreed.” Michael was still staring out of the window. “Take the corridor. I’ll take the scriptorium.”
Zadkiel thought for a moment, then glanced at Mallory. “You’re with me. Think you can handle it?”
“Can I handle it...” Mallory snorted. Beside the door, Vin was already rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers. Alice knew what that meant.
“What about me?” she asked. No-one answered.
The voice which finally came from the corner of the room was chilly. It was Gabriel. “And the prisoners?” he asked, almost offhand.
“Gone too.” Zadkiel answered.
“Time to find out what Lucifer’s up to,” said Michael, fire flaring up around him. “Kill them all.” And with that, he vanished.
Only after he had gone did Alice notice that Gabriel had disappeared with him. Now, it was her, Mallory, Vin and Zadkiel. They seemed to know what they were doing and had already started towards the door.
“What about me?” she asked again. All three of them stopped and stared at her.
“You’re with us, of course,” said Zadkiel.
“With you. But you’re going to the... the south corridor.”
“That’s right. Are you always this slow?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Today, you do.” He ran through the doorway, down the stairs.
Mallory drew out one of his guns, turning it over in his hands.
“Time to let off a little steam, Alice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You remember how when Florence pitched up, you wanted to kill her?”
“Yes.” Alice gritted her teeth.
“Now’s your chance.” There was a loud ‘click’ from his gun as he flicked the safety off. “How fast can you run?”
AS IT HAPPENED, Alice could run faster than she thought. She ran down the stairs... all of them. She ran through the little cloister they had seen earlier – now deserted – and in through another door. Her feet hammered on the floor, almost in step with Mallory’s as they ran towards the south corridor of the priory. Wherever that might be. She assumed Mallory and Vin knew better than she did where they were going.