The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(3)

“I don’t see why.”

Raphael gave a flap of his golden wings. Robes fluttering behind him, he glided a circle around his brother. Touching down once more, he crossed his arms. “Disgusting garments. Get rid of them.”

Like hell I will, Michael thought, and then flushed. Human obscenity concerning copulation and defecation were one thing. Invoking the underworld was perhaps going a bit too far.

“Forget my clothes,” he said. “Don’t you want to hear my field report?”

Raphael heaved a sigh. “Of course.” He waved a hand, swirling cloud mist into the form of a throne. His celestial buttocks settled upon it. “Proceed.”

Michael rose and bowed.

Raphael inclined his head in reply. “Have you located Cherub Fortunato?”

“Regrettably, no. And believe me, I’ve looked all over.”

“Odd.” Raphael’s shining brow creased. “I wonder where he might have gone. He’s definitely not up here.”

“He’s probably just floating around Earth, oblivious. You have to admit, the little guy isn’t exactly the most intelligent of angels.”

“Heaven knows that’s true. When the Almighty was giving out brains, Fortunato thought He said ‘pains,’ and made himself scarce.”

Michael chuckled. “He’s as lucky as his name, though. And very soft-hearted. He’ll be fine.”

Raphael contemplated a moment longer, then shook his head. “I suppose you’re right. Fortunato has always been a curious sort. He probably just got distracted. I expect he’ll turn up eventually.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Very well. Continue. What sin did you find rampant in the human realm?”

“The usual trouble in the Middle East—that’s a given. In other areas...let’s see. Your typical wars here and there, along with the expected number of refugees fleeing each conflict zone. Species extinction continues unabated. Greed and gluttony is on an upswing. Racism, sexism, and xenophobia holding steady. Murders and thefts are, surprisingly, slightly down. As for illicit sexual congress—”

Raphael held up a hand. “Please. No details.”

Michael shrugged. “In that case, I guess that’s about—oh wait. There was one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“It’s not really about sin, per se. It concerns the Nephilim.”

Raphael snorted. “If those abominable left-handed demons are involved, you can be sure it’s a sin. What evil are they up to now?”

“The Druid clan, descendants of the Watcher Samyaza, has a new adept. A male. He emerged from his Ordeal two days ago.”

“What do I care about that? Nephil dormants become adept with regrettable regularity.”

“Not like this, they don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“This particular Nephil went rogue,” Michael said. “Defied his alpha, abandoned his clan, and entered his Ordeal alone. No guide, no mentor, not one scrap of assistance. And yet he survived.”

Raphael waved a dismissive hand. “So he’s insane now. Nothing need be done about it. He won’t last long enough to become a problem.”

“Well, that’s just it. He’s not insane. At least, not fully. He emerged from his Ordeal with his mind mostly intact. His demon powers are rapidly escalating. He can’t quite control them yet, but—” Michael shook his head. “It’s amazing, really. Arthur Camulus is—”

Raphael’s chin jerked up. “What did you say?”

“I said, the new adept is sane. Mostly.”

“No, not that part. The other. His name. What is his name?”

Michael regarded his brother quizzically. “I told you. It’s Arthur Camulus, Nephil of the Druid clan. Descendant of Samyaza, leader of the fallen Watcher angels.”

Raphael jumped to his feet and paced, golden robes swirling about his ankles like a small tornado. What the—? Michael had never seen his brother so agitated. He shot a questioning look at Gabriel. Gabe raised a hand, palm up, and made a face.

“It cannot be,” Raphael muttered. “Cannot be, I tell you. Arthur Camulus is dead. He died as a boy of twelve. Seven years ago.”

“You are...misinformed,” Michael said carefully. “I assure you, Arthur is very much alive.”

Raphael whipped around to face him. “Even if he were alive, he’s not yet of age. He’d be only nineteen. A full year short of attempting his Ordeal with any hope of survival.”

“I’m not sure of Arthur’s age.” Michael’s eyes tracked his brother’s progress to the edge of the cloud and back again. “I only know he was living with the American branch of the Druid clan. In Texas, of all places. I gather he took exception to his clan’s alpha.” He gave a grunt of distaste. “Mab. A nasty piece of work. I can see why he rejected her as his guide—she enslaves every dormant she brings out of the Ordeal. Anyway, some two weeks ago Arthur snuck out of the Texas homestead and ingested a dose of cocaine that should’ve killed him. He got as close to death as possible without actually crossing over.”

Raphael resumed his chase to the end of the cloud. “Arthur survived his near-death-seeking only two weeks ago? It should have been months before his Ordeal came upon him.”