The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(80)

The sensation was as different as night to day. Michael’s touch was firm, but not at all threatening. His bronze wings fluttered gently. “Don’t worry.” His lips brushed her temple. “I won’t let you fall.”

Fortunato swung back and forth like a pendulum, his gossamer wings moving so fast Cybele could hardly see them. “Michael. Michael.” He held out the disc. “You’ve got to help my friend.”

Cybele could hear the confusion in the archangel’s voice. “Who’s your friend?”

“He’s—” The cherub’s reply was lost in an unholy shriek. A pair of hellfiends, careening up from the deep, smashed into Cybele. One tore at her pant leg, the other tangled in her hair.

“Ugh.” The things smelled like vomit. If Dusek hadn’t taken her knife, she’d slice up the potato bodies and send each piece back where it came from. She swatted at the one in her hair. Her hands came away slimy.

“Disgusting,” she spat.

“Stay still.” Michael’s left arm tightened around her. The switchblade she’d seen earlier appeared again in his right hand. He skewered the creature, lifting it on his knife and flinging it away with one smooth movement. It let out a yelp and exploded into ash.

He dispatched the second one with lethal efficiency. Another explosion struck. Rock and stone crashed down from above. Michael spread his wings over Cybele, shielding her from the worst of the deluge. “Fortunato!” he barked. “To me.”

The cherub didn’t hesitate. Clutching the mirror to his chest, he leaped onto Michael’s shoulder and hooked a chubby arm around his neck. Michael’s blade folded and disappeared up his sleeve. He shifted his grip on Cybele.

“Hang on,” he told her.

They shot skyward, exploding into the night amid rock, fire, and ash. Michael set a spiraling path through the hellfiend horde. The ground spun in circles beneath them. A low rumble vibrated the air. The peak of Merlin’s Hill cracked wide open, releasing a writhing mass of what looked like ash and fire. Cybele knew better. The hellfiend horde had broken free.

Clods of dirt, splintered tree branches, chunks of rock—even a few sheep—rained down. As Michael flew over the Spencers’ farm, Cybele caught a glimpse of the couple, rushing into the yard in their nightclothes. For one frozen moment, they clung to each other. Then Mrs. Spencer staggered forward, arms outstretched. “Jack!”

A wave of grief broke over Cybele. Innocent, trusting Jack. There wasn’t a chance in Hell that he’d escape alive. At least the boy would have a place in Heaven. Cybele hoped the knowledge would be a comfort to his grandparents.

If they survived, that was. A boulder hurtled into the side of the barn. With a shudder, the entire structure collapsed. As Michael changed course, Cybele caught a last glimpse of Mr. Spencer hauling his wife toward their truck.

Michael flew over the road and the field beyond. He landed perhaps a mile from Merlin’s Hill, in the lee of a crumbling stone barn. He set Cybele’s feet on the ground. Her legs folded like spaghetti. She found herself sprawled in the dirt, staring up at her unlikely defender.

He frowned down at her. How, she thought dazedly, could this dark, forbidding man be an angel? The notion was impossible to wrap her head around. His face, with its Middle Eastern complexion, and his body, all lean muscle encased in black human garb, was as far from Cybele’s understanding of angels as it was possible to get. Michael wasn’t pale, noble, or holy. His angelic aura was simply one of power. Raw, elemental power.

His bronze wings appeared almost black against the dawn sky. They might have belonged to one of her own kind—a Nephil. Until they folded down to nothing and disappeared into his back. Through his clothes. That, more than anything else, convinced her of Michael’s angel status. No Nephil could melt wings through fabric.

She shoved herself into a sitting position, watching him warily. The little cherub was still perched on his shoulder, one chubby arm clutching the mirror, the other looped around Michael’s neck. The archangel didn’t seem to remember the cherub’s presence until Fortunato leaped from his perch to the ground and kissed Michael’s boots.

“Oh thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.”

Amusement flitted across Michael’s face as he looked down at the cherub. “You’re very welcome.”

Fortunato hopped away. Gently, he laid the mirror on the ground. The surface slithered and swirled. Looking up briefly at Michael, the cherub said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He jumped and, with a pop, disappeared into the mirror.

“That’s odd.” Michael frowned at the piece.

Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Cybele climbed to her feet and backed slowly away.

The archangel’s head whipped around. “No. Don’t go.”

Cybele froze, her heart pounding. “Why? What are you going to do with me?”

“Do with you?”

“Are you going to—” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “—to kill me?”

His brows shot up. “What? No! Is that what you think?”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“It shouldn’t have,” he said. “If I’d meant for you to die, I’d have left you under that hill.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“That,” he said, “is a fucking good question.”