The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(85)

An explosion rocked the ground. Cybele pitched forward, clutching the pieces of the staff against her chest. Michael’s arms came around her, steadying her and holding her close for the briefest of moments.

It was a very odd feeling, being in the arms of an angel.

He released her and stepped away. Cybele felt his gaze on her, but she didn’t—couldn’t—return it. She looked toward Merlin’s Hill instead. Staccato bursts of hellfire arced between billowing clouds of ash.

Fortunato sprang up between them, wings beating furiously. He held out the mirror to Michael. “Now can you do it, Michael? Please?”

Michael’s gaze shifted from Cybele to the cherub. “Do what?”

“Get my friend out of here.”

“Your friend?”

“Yes. My friend. That nasty Alchemist trapped him in here. Now he’s hurt and I can’t get him out. Pleeeeease?”

Michael took the mirror. He turned it over in his hands, frowning. “This is very odd.”

“I’ll say.” Cybele ducked around the cherub to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen a mirror like that. What’s it made of?”

“Quicksilver.” He frowned. “Salt...fire...and blood. Fused with Alchemical magic. It’s solid and liquid at the same time. It’s not possible. Or at least, it shouldn’t be possible.” His gaze found Fortunato. “You say your friend is trapped in here?”

“Yes. That nasty Nephil trapped him. Can you get him out?”

“Let’s see,” Michael said. He laid the mirror in his left palm and passed his right hand over it.

A wispy creature tumbled out, quickly expanding until it matched the cherub in size. Its body and its wings were dark and insubstantial, a mere shadow. Its pale, skull-like face sent a chill down Cybele’s spine. Fortunato caught the odd being in his chubby arms and eased it to the ground.

Michael examined the quicksilver, frowning. “This thing needs more study,” he said, slipping it into his jeans pocket.

Fortunato hovered anxiously over his fallen friend. “Maweth!” he called. “Maweth! Can you hear me?”

Michael looked up sharply. “Did you say Maweth?”

The cherub nodded vigorously. “Yes. Maweth.”

“Who—or what—is he?” Cybele peered down at the unconscious figure and experienced an overwhelming surge of panic. She wanted to run, to put as much distance between herself and the creature as she could, as quickly as possible. And she wanted, desperately, to kick it away from Arthur.

“Maweth is the Demon of Death,” Michael said. “He came into being after Adam and Eve ate the apple. He’s the personification of sin and hopelessness.” He glanced at Fortunato. “And you say he’s your friend?”

“Yes. He’s so much fun. We play games together.”

“That,” Michael said, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Angels and demons can’t be friends.”

Fortunato’s bottom lip pushed out in a pout. “That’s not true. I’m friends with Maweth.” The cherub jabbed a finger at Cybele. “And you’re friends with her.”

Michael’s cheeks resumed their crimson flush. Fortunato, however, had turned back to the unconscious demon. “Wake him up. Please, Michael, wake him up. Or at least heal him like you did with that Nephil over there.”

Michael muttered something distinctly un-angelic under his breath. He shook his head and sighed. Bending down, he touched his forefinger to Maweth’s pale forehead.

The demon’s eyes snapped open.

“Maweth!” Fortunato threw himself on his friend, and covered his face with kisses.

“What the—” The demon sat up and swatted him away. “Lucky, cut it out! You know I hate—” He caught sight of Michael and Cybele. “Hell. Who’re they?”

“This is Michael,” Fortunato cried joyously. “The archangel. He saved you!”

“And that one?” Maweth asked, eyeing Cybele warily.

Fortunato sobered. “Oh. She’s Cybele. She’s a Nephil.”

Maweth scrambled to his feet. “A Nephil!”

“But not a full-grown one. She can’t hurt—”

A blast of sulfurous wind snatched the words from the cherub’s mouth. A stream of soot hit Cybele square in the face. She gagged and dissolved into a fit of coughing.

Fortunato beat his wings, trying to shake the soot out of the gossamer feathers. “Yuk. I want a bath.”

Michael held out his hand. “I’ll take you back to Heaven, and you can get one.”

“Can Maweth come too?”

“To Heaven? Of course not.”

The cherub crossed his arms. “Then forget it.” He grimaced. “I don’t think it’s smart for me to go back there anyway. Raphael’s going to be reeeally mad at me. I helped a bunch of Nephilim get through his celestial seal.”

“And then your feathers destroyed the seal entirely,” Cybele informed him, ignoring Michael’s glare. “That’s what let the demon horde escape.”

“What!?” Fortunato blanched.

Maweth groaned. “So that’s what Dusek did with those feathers. I told you, Lucky, that you weren’t going to like it.”