by Erica Crouch
Eli’s eyes move around under his lids, and he opens them after a minute or two, jerking awake. Kala is already bent down next to him, patching him up as best she can with what little supplies she thought to bring with her, tucked in her pockets and patched into her clothes like a thrifty medic. She pulls a needle from the hem of her shirt and unwinds thread from her jacket pocket, cutting it with her teeth.
We all watch Kala quietly work, doing whatever she needs when she asks for help. When she needs snow, we get her snow. When she needs heat, Michael steps forward. She sets a hand on Eli to keep him still as she sews him back together.
Ana shifts closer to Kala, crosses her arms. She looks at the sky and then back to Kala and Eli.
“You should have been fighting,” Kala says under her breath.
“I was fighting,” Eli says. “That’s kinda how this happened, in case you missed it.”
“Not you.” She sits back on her heels and pulls Eli’s shirt down, finished for now. She raises her chin to Ana. “You.”
Eli props himself up and gets to his feet with the help of two other demons. One of them—the one who looks the least tired, the least bruised up—takes the duffel bag Eli was carrying, not wanting to risk losing it again. The three of them get out of the line of fire between Ana and Kala as subtly as possible.
Ana studies her for a few measured beats before speaking, weighing her words in preparation for handing them over. She chooses them carefully, says them softly. “You know I don’t fight.”
Kala stands up, throws her arms in the air. “And it nearly got you killed!”
Michael and I back away toward one another, giving them a little room to vent. Everyone else tries to pretend they can’t hear, that they’re not paying attention to their lover’s quarrel. I want to step in and help Kala—because Ana’s walking into the middle of a battle without any kind of survival instinct is dangerous, and not just to herself. Eli was nearly killed because of her—if the demon who attacked him had moved her hand just a few inches over, his body would have been added to the list of the fallen, of those we had to leave behind.
Kala—and Eli, too—has the right to be upset at her stubbornness. Ana wants to be in the middle of it all, but she doesn’t realize the danger that puts everyone else in.
But there’s a part of me, a part of me I did not realize still existed, that admires Ana’s determination to not spill any blood. Her hands are still clean. She’ll never be haunted by the lives she takes. I will be forever envious of her. It’s too late for me to make such a choice.
“I will not fight, Kala, nor do I know how, so this argument is fruitless.” Ana stiffens a little, crossing her arms and closing herself off.
“You could learn how to fight,” Kala presses on. She moves close to her, her forehead barely coming up to Ana’s chin. Kala looks up at her desperately and says, “I could teach you. It doesn’t have to be hand-to-hand combat. You can learn to shoot a bow and arrow. Distance… It’s less personal.”
“There is nothing impersonal about taking a life, no matter the distance.”
Kala shakes her head and steps back, pacing in a tight circle. “You can either learn to handle yourself in battle or you can sit it out entirely. Having you on the field like that, useless to defend yourself or fight back, will get not only you killed, but those around you. Just look at Eli! And it could have been worse. Do you want to be responsible for that?” She raises an eyebrow. “How ironic that the angel invoked to cure stupidity would die from something so…so…so fucking stupid!”
There’s a scuffling sound across the road from where we all stand. Claws, maybe, or shifting branches scratching against a house. The wind, probably, but I’m paranoid, and I don’t trust any disturbance to not be another oncoming attack.
We’re out in the open, exposed and vulnerable and still recovering. I pull on Michael’s sleeve and turn around, surveying the area around us, looking for movement, listening for another noise. Michael has his sword out, mechanically sweeping his eyes across the empty houses. We stand side by side, our backs turned slightly in toward one another. It’s a habit we’ve formed over our time running. Don’t let anyone get behind you; don’t let anyone get a jump on you. Back to your partner, not your enemy. Weapons in hands, eyes alert, be ready to fight. Ready to kill.
We see nothing out of the ordinary, but there’s the noise again. Scratching. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, the way it reverberates off the ice. The snow here isn’t falling in gentle piles. It’s coming down mixed with frozen rain, making it even more difficult to pinpoint the direction of the scratching sounds. I push my heavy, wet hair out of my face and shield my eyes from the rain in an attempt to see better. It’s useless though, and I can barely see a few yards in front of us.
Eli notices our alertness and starts scanning the surroundings too. Everyone pulls a weapon out. Only Kala and Ana stand amongst us unaware, their fighting getting louder and more agitated.
“It’s selfish to ask me to watch you die because you won’t fight back!” Kala says.
“And it’s selfish to ask me to fight when I am morally against it!” Ana takes a step toward her, but Kala steps back and holds up her hands in warning. “If I die, then it’s a death that I chose,” she says, her breath fogging in front of her, her hair plastering itself to her head.
Kala laughs, a harsh sound, and I turn to glance at her, momentarily distracted from the possible threat. It’s so unlike the lightness I’ve associated her with now. She must be truly terrified of losing Ana; only that kind of fear could elicit such anger.
“You won’t be anywhere near the fighting when it breaks out if you won’t engage in the battle,” she says. “I’ll chain you up somewhere if I have to. You will not place yourself in front of danger you have no means—no intentions—of defending yourself against!”
“Kala—”
I interrupt them because I don’t see this argument ending any time soon. They’re going in circles now, neither willing to move off their position, and we don’t have the time for this. Not here, so close to Azael still.
“We have to get going,” I say.
Everyone else shifts on their feet, readjusts their weapons.
“If Azael hasn’t regrouped by now,” I say, “he will soon, and we need to be as far from here as possible as fast as possible.”
Kala and Ana hold one another’s stare for a tense moment before they let it drop. For now.
“Fine,” Kala says. Begrudgingly, she puts her arm back around Ana and they take off. It costs her a lot to allow such closeness in the middle of a disagreement like this, but she doesn’t have much choice.
For the first time since I’ve known her, I see the flicker of self-consciousness about her impairment. It never seemed like losing a wing was a problem for her, like she hated the fact that she needed to walk everywhere or have someone help her fly. She never considered it a burden until she felt like one to someone else.
We leave London behind us and fly out of the sleet, toward the downy snow of the west. Michael is at my side, his hand stretched over to mine, and we don’t let one another go. I have to stop myself from looking back at where we are flying from, to search for Azael’s wings on the horizon. I can’t help but feel like we’re being followed.
When we finally return to the compound, we are greeted by silence. There are no cheers, no chatter when we walk through the front gates. A quiet ripples through the place, eerie and somber. The guards close and lock the gates of the compound behind us, waiting expectantly for someone to say something. Kala leaves the open courtyard and the crowd without a word, slamming the door that leads in toward the dining hall behind her.
Whispers rise up, and someone from the crowd steps forward, his hands bunched together, his fingers knotted with worry. “And?”
There are some who are counting our numbers now. They know how many we left with, and we’ve returned with less. Nearly half of our group—gone. It doesn’t take a lot to guess
at what happened. We’re in rough enough shape that it’s obvious we put up a fight. Most are able to connect the dots; they’re waiting for the details.
Ana looks off after Kala for a few beats, tears in her eyes, but she shakes her head and wipes at her cheeks, collecting herself and addressing the crowd. “Azael had a small battalion of six other demons with him. When we made an attempt to infiltrate the location and retrieve the missing piece of Michael’s soul, one of them sent up an alarm. Five of us have fallen, but Azael lost two of his own as well.”
The demon who took the bag of weapons from Eli in London hands it off to someone at the edge of the crowd and tells him to unload it in the armory.
“And the soul?” comes a voice from the crowd.
I reach in my pocket, pick the vial out, and hold it up for everyone to see. There’s an audible sigh in the crowd. At least we managed to do something right. I’m glad I pushed Kala to delay the retreat; leaving empty-handed would have been a huge loss for us. Morale never would have recovered. At least we accomplished what we went there for, to honor those who died. They did not do so in vain.
After everyone has seen it, I hand the vial off to Michael, and he takes it from me reverently, staring seriously at the glass. Like he’s trying to feel the connection his soul has to the vial’s contents. His fist tightens around it, and he shoves it in his pocket, not removing his hand.
“Azael is still at large,” Ana says. “We should expect retaliation.”
She nods at me, and though we didn’t discuss it, I think she knows I let him go. There’s the accusation in her eyes, the suspicious way she regards me. Ana can see right through me, and I feel the need to hide behind Michael like some child, but I stand my ground. She can’t prove anything—and what I did wasn’t wrong. Killing him then… It wouldn’t have changed anything. Would it?
No. And she wouldn’t have done it, either, so I have nothing to apologize to her for. Besides, what would she have done in my position? Ana has made it quite clear where she stands on taking lives. She may know that it’s necessary to win a war, but when the time comes, she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger herself. Ana is a hypocrite with good intentions.
The road to Hell…
A wave of distress swells in the crowd at the mention of Azael.
Ana silences them again as she continues speaking. “Be prepared. It’s all we can do at this point. Go about your routines. Run your drills, continue training, proceed with supply schedules. But expect the call to go out eventually. Listen for the alarm, and be ready. We are in a war for our will, and we are here to win. Nothing less is acceptable.”
Everyone looks at me expectantly. They want me to say something. I don’t know what to tell them.
Michael squeezes my hand and lets it go, allowing me to move forward. Tell them what you needed to hear when you weren’t sure, he says.
I look out at the crowd of wings and weapons, searching the eyes that wait on me. Taking a steadying breath, I step away from Michael and toward the crowd. “We’ve never known choice,” I say, my voice shaky. “Not really. But you’ve taken the first step just by being here. By choosing something else to fight other than one another. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring, or the next day, or the one after that. Some of us won’t see the change we’re fighting for, but our sacrifice will not ever be forgotten.”
A few people look down or away from me. I’m not saying this right… I’m scaring them more. This is why I don’t give speeches, why I don’t lead rebellions. I tried to explain that to Kala when she came to persuade us to join New Genesis. I’m not what they’re looking for, but I’m all they have, so I try again.
“The way I see it,” I say, clearing my throat, “you have two choices: die in servitude or die fighting for your freedom. It’s the end of the world. What have we got to lose?”
Murmurs of agreement pass between the others, and I think I’ve said enough. I don’t want to go on and detract from what I just said—make it even worse. Short and simple. Effectively succinct. It’s all I have to offer them, the cold reality of where we are. It’s not exactly cheerful, and it’s nothing close to inspiring, but I think they appreciate my candor.
We could all die tomorrow. Lucifer could snap his fingers and decide the Earth needs to be wiped clean entirely. He could crack the world in half and have it swallow everyone whole. So, if it’s possible we might die anyway, why not fight for what we want? For the life we deserve to have?
Ana lets out a whistle and waves her hand, redirecting the groups as they disperse. “Those scheduled for the supply run, be prepared to go tonight. We need to get word out to those nearby to keep a watch for any signs of Azael or the others.”
A tall, handsome angel with a ring of tattoos around his neck steps up to Ana, Michael, and me and bows a little. “I have news from our spies.”
“Michael, Pen, this is Barman,” Ana says, introducing us.
He bows a little again.
“He’s head of our intelligence. We have spies placed throughout the world to keep an ear out for any information that may be of use.”
“Like Zophiel?” I ask.
Ana pauses, a cloud of sadness passing over her face, before she nods. I shouldn’t have brought her up. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut more.
Pulling on her calm countenance, she turns away from me and faces Barman again. “What have you heard?”
“Those who were making inroads with the higher ups of Hell, the demons—they may have heard something that Azael doesn’t even know of yet.”
Ana quirks an eyebrow, and I step closer.
“If it’s true…” He rubs his chin with his wide hand and shakes his head.
“What is it?” I ask.
“They believe that Lucifer is dead,” Barman says.
I laugh. I don’t mean to; it just pops out of me, a reflex of disbelief. “Okay,” I say, skepticism eating my voice away with sarcasm.
“We cannot verify anything, of course,” he says, and I roll my eyes. Of course. “That would take eyes in Heaven, and it’s too risky to attempt to infiltrate Heaven now. Whoever we send up there would be discovered quickly, and then they’d know we have a way in…”
He stops, watching Ana. Her face remains impassive, and I glance over at her. What aren’t they sharing?
Barman lifts a shoulder. “It was just Lucifer, Lilith, Gusion, Azael—who we know is now back on Earth. The only others permitted entrance are whoever is summoned, so any unexpected presences would be sensed almost immediately. Their diviner, Gusion, would most likely see it before they step a foot in Heaven anyway.”
“Understood,” Ana says.
Gus. I haven’t thought about him in so long. I wonder how he’s taking the whole transition with Azael. I’m surprised he wasn’t sent down to Earth with him to keep an eye on everything going on. He knows how careless Azael can be when he’s bent on revenge. His focus gets clouded; he’s rash, careless.
He lets his sister live when he has explicit orders to kill her.
“If Lucifer is not in charge,” Michael says slowly, turning over the information Barman’s reporting. He noticeably doesn’t use the word dead. Would he feel the death of his brother as I would feel the death of mine? Do they still share that connection, or has too much time passed, have too many things changed? “Then who is?”
I bite my lip to not interrupt and stop this line of thinking. It’s ridiculous, and Barman even said that they can’t confirm anything. It’s all speculation and rumors, and banking on anything other than fact is a dangerous road to take. I’m surprised Ana didn’t dismiss him entirely. She seems much more pragmatic than to allow hearsay.
Barman crosses his strong arms over his chest and rocks his head back and forth, considering. “From what we’ve heard, allegiances are shifting toward Lilith. Little by little, the demons are turning their attention to her. Their Dark Mother. The orders that are being handed down, we assumed on the word of Azael, all appear to be coming f
rom Lilith. No one’s heard from Lucifer.”
“So, because you haven’t heard directly from him, you just assume he’s dead?” I ask, my eyebrow arched. “You know how many people serve him. He gives orders to soldiers who give orders to soldiers who give orders to soldiers. There’s a chain of command.”
Ana watches me, her mouth in a thin line. Indecipherable.
“Besides, if Lucifer is no longer in charge—if he’s dead or tied up somewhere or whatever—then he isn’t the one pulling the strings. Which means Azael wouldn’t still be dead set on killing us. It’s Lucifer who wants us dead, not Lilith. She couldn’t care less.”
“You,” Michael says. “He wouldn’t be trying to kill you. But he’d still hunt us down to kill me and get to you.”
I hold his gaze for a few beats and hear the silent words he doesn’t say. He wants you back. And I know he does. His madness in the chapel, in London, told me all I needed to know about what he wants. There’s nothing in this world that will stop him from trying to get me back, convince me to join him by his side. Even if Lucifer weren’t in charge, he very well might continue on as he was anyway.
“I’m just relaying what we’ve heard,” Barman says, pulling our attention away from each other.
“Let me know if you hear something verifiable,” Ana says. “Thank you for keeping me up to date.”
Barman lowers his chin and leaves us.
Eli slides up next to me. “Our great, dark leader Lucifer is no longer in charge, huh?”
Ana turns to him. “That was not meant for you to hear.”
“Well, then, you should have spoken somewhere else. This is a public space. No assumptions of privacy.” He looks at me. “Think it’s true he’s dead?”
“No,” I say with a scoff. “We’d know if something huge like that happened. A shift in power would be felt all the way down the line.”
“We’re not part of that line anymore,” Eli says. “We’ve abandoned ship.”