Part 35 (1/2)

”Mika'el.”

He rounded on Raphael. ”What?”

”He made her immortal.”

The words hung in the air. Stark. Vast. Impossible. Raphael s.h.i.+fted his grip on his sword. No one else moved. Turning his head, Mika'el took in the wreckage that had once been an office. The fallen Aramael. The crumpled woman on the floor.

A dozen thoughts collided in his head, all clamoring for his attention. That Seth would dare to inflict immortality on a human was one thing, but that he could presented another problem altogether. When-and how-had he become so strong? He looked at the hand he had wrapped around the Appointed's throat.

And how long before Seth recovered from what he'd just done and became that strong again?

Triumph illuminated Seth's face, as if he knew exactly what the Archangel was thinking. ”I told you,” he said. ”She's mine.”

He seized Mika'el's wrist, tightening his fingers until bones ground together. Staring into the emptiness of his eyes, Mika'el shut out the pain, stilled his mind, and let clarity descend. Swiftly, surely, he sifted through to the core of what mattered. The only truth.

Seth should have died three weeks before.

He hadn't.

It was time to set things right.

Seth's windpipe rattled against Mika'el's fingers as the Appointed struggled to breathe. The bones in Mika'el's wrist began to splinter. He reached with his free hand for his sword, closed his fingers around the hilt, pulled the blade from its scabbard, stepped back, and swung.

Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.

”I think not, warrior,” said a new voice. ”He belongs to us now.”

There was an indrawn hiss beside Mika'el, and then a guttural roar, starting low and building to a bellow that shook dust from the shattered ceiling.

”Sam-a-el!”

Mika'el threw out an arm in time to stop Raphael from impaling himself on the half dozen blades suddenly ranged against them. The other Archangel fought his hold, subsiding only after Mika'el's harsh ”Stand down!”

Fallen Ones. But not just any Fallen Ones. Mika'el skimmed the lineup of faces, the hollowness of their eyes. He stared. Withered inside. Only one place could turn eyes that dead, that empty. They'd escaped from Limbo.

But there were only a dozen of them. Six with swords leveled at their throats, six others behind those with weapons also drawn. Thousands had been trapped there. Where were the rest? His eyes settled on the one in the center. Samael.

So. The brother of Raphael and the only Archangel to follow Lucifer was now laying claim to the Appointed, was he?

Still holding Raphael back, Mika'el scowled. ”Explain yourself, traitor.”

Samael raised an eyebrow. ”I thought it fairly self-explanatory. The Appointed isn't yours anymore. He's ours. Therefore, I object to you impaling him.”

”You want Seth to lead h.e.l.l.”

Samael shrugged. ”I think the idea has merit, yes.”

”No.”

Samael's eyes hardened. ”I don't think you understand, Mika'el. I'm not asking your permission.”

”In that case, you seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with. There are four of us”-Mika'el indicated the Archangels flanking him-”and only a dozen of you. How long do you think a fight will even last?”

Samael smiled grimly. ”Long enough,” he said, and lunged forward.

Chapter 84.

Alex jolted back to consciousness with a gasp. She lay without moving for an instant, trying to get her bearings. Then, just in time, she rolled clear of the many booted feet trampling near her head. The clang of metal on metal reverberated, mixing with shouts and grunts of pain, coming from what seemed to be every side. Instinctively, she sought cover as her brain scrabbled for a frame of reference, trying to piece together where she was, what was happening. Cool softness pressed against her cheek. She put out a hand-then recoiled when her fingers found the long, limp curve of a wing.

Remembrance flooded back.

Aramael. Dying. Seth. Murderer. Michael. Here.

Horror churned together with agony and emerged in a harsh gag.

Aramael was dying.

A rough hand hauled her to her feet. She struck out blindly, viciously, her training and experience forgotten in a vortex of pure terror. Her black-armor-clad captor shook her.

”Knock it off, Naphil. I'm trying to help,” the female Archangel growled. With no hint of effort, she hoisted Aramael's body upright with her other hand and towed both it and Alex unceremoniously through the fray. Surges of sparking blue power battered them, but the Archangel seemed oblivious, intent on her destination, shoving their heads down as a black wing, edged with razor-sharp feathers, whistled past.

By the time they reached the washroom corridor at the back of the office-the only area that had so far escaped devastation-Alex bled from at least ten wing-inflicted wounds and felt as if she'd gone twice that many rounds in a fight ring. The Archangel thrust her into the ladies' room and dumped Aramael on the cold tile floor.

Alex dropped onto her knees beside him, one hand searching for a pulse at the side of his throat, the other trying again to stem the trickle of blood from his chest. The blade of a sword came between them.

”Take it,” the Archangel said. ”You might need it.”

Alex recoiled from the blood-spattered blade. ”What do I look like, a G.o.dd.a.m.n ninja?” She tugged her sidearm from its holster, ignoring how it trembled in her grip. ”I have my own weapon.”

”That”-the Archangel plucked the gun from her and tossed it aside-”will have about as much effect against one of us as a peashooter against an incoming comet.”

She shoved the sword into Alex's hand and forcibly curled her fingers around it. ”This is Aramael's blade. It needs to be wielded by an Archangel to kill, but it contains enough power on its own to hold off a Fallen One until we can get to you. Stay here. If anything other than one of us comes through that door”-she pointed-”swing first. Then scream. Clear?”

Alex stared at the broadsword in her hand, its steel glinting dully. Aramael's blade, because Aramael can't use it himself. She tried to release it, but the Archangel's grip was unyielding. A shriek of agony rose above the clashes and clangs of battle, then cut off abruptly. The Archangel seized Alex's chin and forced it up. Sapphire blue eyes glared at her.

”Take it,” she snarled. ”Aramael protected you with his life. You owe him nothing less.”

Alex shrank from the words. Another hand, warm and familiar, closed over her fingers. Aramael, alive and awake.

”Do as Gabriel says,” he whispered. ”Take the sword.”

Meeting his pain-clouded gaze, Alex swallowed, nodded. She let her fingers curl over the hilt. Seeming satisfied, her rescuer whirled in a metallic whisper of feathers and, her own sword in hand, leapt for the door. The clashes and clangs of battle grew louder and then muted again as the door swung closed on its hydraulic hinge. Alex stared down at the figure on the floor, nested against his own black wings, deathly pale and unmoving. His eyes-his magnificent, fierce, stormy gray eyes-closed once more.