The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(72)

The being standing before her was no cherub or seraph. Wave after wave of celestial magic poured from his body. Righteous fury flared from his blade. This, she thought dazedly, was the third type of angel. The deadly type.

Archangel.

The word caused her body to go cold. Human children grew up hearing stories about bogeymen and monsters under their beds. Nephil young were weaned on tales of Heaven’s avengers. There were three. Arthur’s silver messenger, Gabriel. This golden one was Raphael, the warrior who once waged a war of genocide against the Nephilim. His righteous sword had sent countless Nephilim to Oblivion.

It looked as though Raphael sorely wanted to add Arthur to the body count. Arthur, who currently lay sprawled on his ass beside Merlin’s staff. Dusek stood nearby. The eyes of both adepts glowed a furious red.

“Arthur Camulus.” Golden flame leapt from Raphael’s sword, tangling with the sparks of Merlin’s crystal orb. “Do not move. Not one muscle.”

Arthur jumped to his feet.

The angel went white with fury. “Michael,” he barked. Almost instantly, a second figure appeared, heralded by a clap of thunder. Cybele blinked hard. Michael? Could this newcomer truly be the third archangel?

If so, he certainly didn’t look the part. For one thing, he wasn’t fair, but olive-skinned. Dark stubble covered his firm jaw. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, his body whipcord lean. Oddly, he wore human clothing rather than celestial robes. Cybele’s gaze took in black combat boots...black jeans...black shirt topped by a black vintage military jacket. The jacket’s silver frog fasteners, hanging undone, were the only light thing about him.

His wings—dark bronze and beautiful—rose above him. With smooth movement, he slid a switchblade from his right sleeve into his open palm. His fingers closed around the hilt. The blade snapped open. It was no righteous sword, but Cybele had no trouble believing that, in Michael’s hand, the blade was every bit as lethal as his golden brother’s fiery weapon.

She couldn’t take her eyes from him. As if he’d felt her scrutiny, his head whipped around. Their eyes locked. He didn’t look away. A wave of heat swept over her, starting at her feet, flowing up her legs, her torso, her breasts and shoulders. Her face flamed. Some vital emotion—she wasn’t exactly sure what—flared in his eyes.

The hellfire lashes on her wrists and ankles vanished.

What the—? She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her wrists. She had no time to wonder about her unexpected release, however. Her eyes darted toward Arthur, then back to the archangels. Raw fear sliced through her as Raphael leveled the point of his flaming sword at Arthur’s heart.

“Step away from that accursed implement of destruction, demon spawn.”

“Bollocks to that.” Arthur grabbed for the staff. A golden bolt shot from the sword, striking his wrist. He jerked back, spitting curses. His foot collided with something on the ground. A skull. It skittered across rock, splashed into the water, and sank out of view.

“Leave this place, Nephil. Never to return.”

“Merlin’s staff is my birthright,” Arthur shouted back. “No goddamned archangel is going to stop me from claiming it.”

“Make a move toward that staff and your next step will be into Oblivion.”

Arthur’s wings lifted. “Why wait? Kill me now.”

“He cannot.” The answer, surprisingly, came from Dusek. “Heaven’s punishment comes after sin. Not before.” The Alchemist turned mocking eyes on the archangel. “You can’t stop Arthur from claiming Merlin’s staff. You also know that once it is in his hands, it will be too late to prevent the consequence you fear.”

What consequence was that? Judging from Raphael’s reaction, it would be bad, at least as far as Heaven was concerned. The archangel’s expression went dark as a thundercloud. Was that a hint of panic in his golden eyes? Cybele’s gaze darted to Michael. Her head went back sharply when she found him looking not at Arthur, but at her. She blinked and his gaze shifted.

Raphael spoke. “Merlin, for all his nefarious doings, embedded his staff in that stone in protection of humanity. Remove it, Arthur, and you betray him.”

“He lies,” Dusek hissed. “He fears Merlin’s magic. He will do anything to prevent its reawakening. The staff is yours, Arthur. Take it. Claim it. Now.”

Arthur looked to the staff, then back at Raphael. His resolve seemed to waver. Cybele inched closer to the water’s edge—as if moving closer was going to help Arthur decide. How could it? She had no idea what he should do.

The moment drew out in silence, measured by the pounding beat of her heart.

Arthur stepped back.

Raphael lowered his sword.

Dusek spat a curse. His powerful dark wings, already raised, swept downward. Almost before Cybele understood that she was his destination, he was on her.

“Arthur!” She tried to fight. Dusek spun her around like a rag doll. He jerked her up against his chest. His forearm pressed her windpipe. His mouth opened on her left temple, his breath moist against her skin.

Nausea and panic churned. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. The pressure on her throat increased. Dark spots blotted the edge of her vision.

She clawed at his arm. Dusek swiped his tongue wetly across her cheek. “Do not struggle. You are mine now.”