Page 93 of Endless Terrors
Then he heard a clash of swords.
Heilel’s head jerked up, and he saw that his sister Ananiel fought Michael now. Her armor flashed in the incandescent light that shone from the pearls, and her short, cropped hair gleamed blue-black. Ananiel was small in stature, but what she lacked in height she made up for in skill and strength. She was holding her own against the larger warrior, her amber eyes gleaming, teeth bared in silent ferocity. She drove the Archangel away from the broken, bleeding lovers on the steps.
Heilel had only been watching their battle for a moment before his attention shifted, noting movement nearby. The gates were opening. A host of angels came through, all of them holding weapons aloft, decked in complete, divine warrior regalia. Others were sifting onto the steps. Raphael. Suriel. Zadkiel. Sarathiel. Heilel’s gaze darted around, noting faces, determining who was fighting for him … and who had come in support of Michael. They’d taken one look at Ananiel and the Archangel and launched into a full-scale war. For centuries, the angels of Heaven had been tinder, and Heilel had just given them a spark.
He needed to help his comrades. He needed to join the soldiers finally taking a stand against the Archangels, the inner circle, the angels that had come first and never let them forget it. Heilel braced himself for pain and reached for his sword. It hurt far less than it should’ve. His wound had begun to close, Heilel realized. His gaze shot up from the gash in his side and met Gabriel’s.
The healer nodded at him, and Heilel nodded back. “I owe you a debt,” he said.
“Go. I will guard her,” Gabriel replied. His hands hadn’t left Persephone’s body.
Heilel picked up his sword, cast one last look toward the woman he loved, and then threw himself into the fray. He didn’t hesitate to cut down the angels he’d known for millennia. His kind weren’t the nostalgic sort, and time had hardened them even more. They weren’t like the humans. So Heilel faced the angels he’d fought beside for several lifetimes and snuffed them out like candles. They died in brief, blazing bursts of light. He could see Michael on the other side of the staircase, but there were dozens of angels between them. Something dark had entered Heilel’s heart, and he intended to cause Michael as much pain as he’d inflicted upon Persephone.
But that day would not be today, Heilel realized grimly. As he finished beheading an angel whose name he didn’t know, and the warrior’s body disintegrated in a radiant blast, he glanced around. Earlier, he’d gotten word that a small party had reached the throne room. That the rebellion might actually succeed in overthrowing their Maker.
But now the tide of battle was turning against them.
Everywhere Heilel looked, his comrades were dead or flagging, surrounded or cornered. Blood glowed on the steps, on swords and armor, on faces and pearls. Heilel knew many, many of those flashes he’d seen from the corner of his eye hadn’t just been angels fighting for the other side. He searched for Michael again. He might not live to see the sunset, but he’d live long enough to take the Archangel with him into the light.
Fingers bit into Heilel’s shoulder. He turned, weapon raised, but he stayed his hand when Heilel realized it was Olorel standing behind him. His friend almost rivaled Michael in size, but his hair was the color of an orange from the Garden, and his eyes were gray as a stormy sky.
“We must retreat,” Olorel said.
His voice was calm, but there was something in Olorel’s eyes that Heilel had never seen before. He didn’t try to argue or strategize. The time for that was past, and it was obvious that what remained of their rebellion couldn’t stay here. The Maker had ordered Heilel’s execution, and He wouldn’t forgive the angels that had fought for his sake. Heilel had unwittingly signed their death warrants when he’d brought Persephone to the gates.
Persephone.
Heilel whirled to the place where she and Gabriel had been. Ananiel was still defending them, but she was injured, and she wouldn’t last much longer against the onslaught. She was holding her side, and beams of light shone between her fingers.
Heilel turned back to Olorel, and his voice rang with command. “Bring Persephone back to Earth. The rest of us will follow.”
Olorel nodded and blinked out of sight, then materialized beside Gabriel. He said something in the healer’s ear. Gabriel’s gaze darted to Heilel, and he must’ve agreed, because Olorel straightened, stepped back, and began to move his arms as if he were stirring the air. While Olorel gathered his power, his eyes already flaring with gold light, Heilel plunged back into the chaos to spread the word. Others took up his call. Retreat. Retreat!
Everyone on the staircase knew the exact moment Olorel opened a rift between worlds. It felt like electricity filled the air, and the sounds of battle were drowned out by a sound like wind or a planet-shaking roar. The rebels began to sift, trying to reach the tear. Some died the instant they lowered their guard. More lights flashed.
Heilel spun just in time to see Olorel scoop Persephone up and leap into the swirling chasm. She was still alive—Heilel saw her mouth form the shape of his name. Their eyes locked for one breathless, agonizing moment.
Then the tear swallowed Persephone whole, and she was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The stillness felt as thick as smoke. When Lucifer set his fork down, the sound echoed off the high ceiling. Candles hissed and spat along the center of the table we sat at. Overhead, the chandelier flickered, and on both ends of the room, a fire crackled on beds of fresh heaptani. Its rich, sweet scent filled the room, making me think of floral perfume or vases of wildflowers.
We’d been only sitting here for a few minutes. After I had freed myself from Lucifer’s past, reeling from what I’d seen, he suggested we head downstairs for breakfast. There’s more to the story, he told me. I agreed only because I was curious. I’d come this far, might as well finish what I’d started.
We had parted ways briefly, so I could change, and now here we were. My food was half-eaten, rather than just being pushed around the plate. I’d switched out the sweaty tank top for a soft, long-sleeved shirt that was the color of Collith’s eyes.
Before I could urge Lucifer to continue, one of the doors opened. Roger slipped through, his weathered face serious as ever. He crossed the room and stopped next to Lucifer’s chair, and the devil turned his head. He listened to whatever the demon said. Roger’s voice was too low for me to hear.
“Reschedule it,” Lucifer replied instantly. He refocused on his plate and took another bite of food. “Reschedule all of it, actually. Clear my day.”
Roger bowed and retreated. He gave me a kind, fleeting smile.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I told Lucifer hurriedly, my eyes darting toward the demon’s retreating form. “I’m leaving right after we finish here.”
“As I said, the story isn’t done, Fortuna.”
“Then finish it,” I countered. But Lucifer just took another bite, the corners of his mouth curving in a faint smirk. I glared at him—I knew a stall tactic when I saw one. He thought he could keep me in this tower so long that I was stuck here until the next safe window. Tension crackled up and down the dining room table … but it wasn’t all anger. There was an underlying current beneath, one made of whispers and images of bare skin.
