The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(82)

A popping sound had her head turning sharply. The little cherub—Fortunato?—had emerged from the quicksilver. He looked to the left and right and then, fearfully, at Cybele. “Where is he? Where did he go?”

“Michael?” Cybele felt odd, saying the archangel’s name out loud.

“Yes. Michael.” The cherub backed slowly away, as if Cybele were a rabid dog or something. His bare foot slipped on a puddle. He fell on his baby bottom, splattering mud all over his swaddling clothes. “Where did Michael go?”

“Back to the cave. What’s left of it. To look for...” Her throat closed. She had to believe Michael would succeed. She had to. “For Arthur,” she finished.

The cherub’s brilliant eyes widened. “And he left me here with you?” His voice rose in a screech. “Help! Help!” His gossamer wings whirred, but he couldn’t quite lift himself out of the mud. “Save me!”

“Oh, for the love of—”

Fortunato flung his arms up over his head. “Mercy! Mercy!” His little body trembled.

His terror was real, but Cybele couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh.

Fortunato’s whimpers stopped. One eye peeped from beneath his chubby arm. “Um...what’s so funny?”

“You are,” Cybele said. “Geez. Get a hold of yourself. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re not?”

She sighed. “No.”

The cherub lowered his arms. “You could be lying,” he said doubtfully. “You’re a Nephil. I’ve recently discovered that Nephilim lie. A lot. And they’re not very nice.”

“If I’m so horrible, then why are you still here? It looks like your wings still work.” She made a shooing motion with her fingers. “Go. Fly away.”

“Into that?” Fortunato exclaimed, pointing skyward. “Are you crazy?”

Cybele rubbed her forehead. “I must be,” she said. “I’m standing in a field, in the dark, talking to a mud-covered cherub. Insanity is the only explanation.”

“And anyway,” Fortunato continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I can’t leave. I need Michael.” He pointed to the mirror. “My friend is hurt.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

“Maweth. He’s in the mirror, and he’s hurt.”

“Is Maweth another angel?”

Fortunato shouted with laughter. “Maweth? An angel?” He flopped onto his back in the mud, chortling. “That’s a good one. Maweth. An angel.” He dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Cybele wondered if all cherubs were as annoying as this one. It hardly seemed possible. Heaven was supposed to be a pleasant place.

Fortunato sat up, suddenly sober again. “I can’t get Maweth out of the quicksilver. The Alchemist trapped him in there.”

“How did you get out?” Cybele asked.

“Oh, I was never really trapped,” the cherub said. “I just didn’t feel right leaving my friend.”

“That’s very loyal of you.”

“You think so? I don’t know, I—hey, look!” Fortunato leaped up and jabbed a pudgy finger at the sky. “There he is. Michael. He’s coming back!”

Cybele’s stomach dropped to the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to look. “Does...does he have Arthur?”

The angel squinted. “Uh...maybe? He’s carrying somebody, anyway.”

Michael touched down. He was indeed carrying Arthur, who lay limp in his arms. Cybele rushed at him as he landed, her heart lurching. “Is he—?”

“No.” The archangel lowered Arthur to the ground. “Not yet, anyway.”

Cybele dropped to her knees. When she’d last seen Arthur, he’d been in demon form, blazing with power. Now his wings were gone, his body reverted to its human state. He was bruised and battered almost beyond recognition. If not for his mother’s touchstone, in its apple wood setting, hanging limply on its chain around his neck, she might not have even recognized him.

“Arthur...” She touched his forehead, her hand trembling. There was a nasty gash on the side of his head, and more cuts on his face. His shoulder bent at a strange angle—his collarbone had to be broken. A motley mosaic of red, purple, and black decorated his torso and arms. His jeans were covered in soot. A dark crimson trickle seeped from a cut on his left thigh, visible through a tear in the denim.

He lay as still as death. His skin was cold, his complexion gray under the bruises and dirt. Was he even breathing? Yes. His chest rose and fell, barely. Cybele pressed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was thready, but it was there.

He was alive. For how long, though? A furious rage blossomed in Cybele’s chest. “Raphael did this.”

Michael didn’t deny it.

“You goddamned angels.” She wanted, so badly, to look away, to forget she’d ever seen Arthur like this. Somehow, she couldn’t. Her eyes and her brain continued to scan his body, cataloguing every wound. Her fingers flexed and unflexed. She wanted to hit something. Or someone.

“What fucking self-righteous hypocrites you are,” she said.

“I’m not my brother,” Michael said quietly.

She glared up at him. “You might as well be. You’re all the same.”