The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(86)

“That settles it then. No way am I going back to Heaven. Not for a long, long time.” The cherub blinked beseechingly up at Michael. “Take me and Maweth somewhere else? Pleeeeease?”

Michael sighed. “Oh, all right. Come on.”

Fortunato flew up to perch on the archangel’s right shoulder. Maweth, after a brief hesitation, stretched his wings and joined him. Michael bent and, without any apparent effort at all, hoisted Arthur’s limp body over his left shoulder. He anchored the back of Arthur’s legs with one arm and held his free hand out to Cybele.

Their eyes met. After a brief hesitation, she placed her hand in his. “Where are we going?”

He tugged her close and wrapped his arm around her waist. His lips brushed her temple.

“Someplace safe,” he said.

***

Cybele, I’m sorry.

Luc couldn’t have said how many hours he drove. Miles and miles of back road rolled past the pickup. He was aware of turmoil, both his own and his sister’s. She was in trouble, he sensed, and there was nothing he could do about it. Another shortcoming to add to his long list of failures.

His gas tank was just about empty. The night was oppressive. A storm was brewing, angry clouds rolling in from the bay. He abandoned the truck on a stretch of industrial highway near a lagoon fed from the gulf. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire separated the road from a field of massive oil tanks.

Lightning flashed. A rumble of thunder followed. The electric-charged atmosphere lifted the fine hairs of Luc’s nape. Sultry wind gusted, heavy with particulates discharged from the refinery. Each breath intensified the acrid taste at the back of his throat.

No humans in sight at this time of night. Even so, Luc kept a watchful eye out as he approached the fence. He couldn’t afford mistakes. He was done being Mab’s slave. If he had to die for his freedom, well then, what the fuck? He’d die.

Suicide didn’t come easily to a Nephil adept. With no afterlife awaiting, his race had developed an incredibly strong instinct for survival. Luc had to do this right the first time. He wouldn’t have the strength for a second attempt.

The wounds inflicted by Mab’s whip still burned though not as intensely as they had in the cellar. He was aware, as always, of the wooden collar constricting his neck. His thrallstone throbbed painfully. The discomfort was manageable. He was sure he could shift through it. And call at least some magic. Would it be enough? It had to be.

Up until this point in his escape, he hadn’t used any magic. As soon as he did, Mab would feel the power surging through his thrallstone. It would take a while, however, for her to locate him. By the time she did, it would be too late. He’d be gone.

He closed his eyes and willed his demon form to the fore. His vision took on a red cast. His wings erupted from his back. He unfurled them slowly and flew to the top of the nearest oil tank. Its roof bulged, sloping upward from the perimeter to the center where a pipe protruded. Luc landed next it and studied its ventilator valve.

As a child, he’d been taught to fear Oblivion above all else. Facing it now should have terrified him. Strangely, he could only view the prospect of eternal annihilation with mild curiosity. Death existed on the other side of his pain. It represented peace. Peace and...nothingness.

The storm was passing to the south. Luc placed his hand on the valve and imagined it open. Imagination became reality. Some miles away, lightning flashed. Luc looked inward, his mind sifting through the talents of his Druid magic. Water. Of the three elements of Druid magic—stone, wood, and water—water was the most difficult element to control. But it was the one he needed.

Come to me.

The clouds obeyed his command, shifting course, streaming north toward Luc’s call. Fat raindrops, propelled by driving wind, stung his face and torso. Lightning cracked like a whip, brilliant in Luc’s vision. With an angry hiss, the open valve sucked in oxygen and electricity. A brief, silent moment followed.

The stillness gave way to a roar like a freight train hurtling off its track. The noise whipped into a fury under Luc’s feet. The oil tank’s steel roof heated. Black smoke burst from the vent pipe, blasting into Luc’s face.

Bare seconds of his life remained. A wild urge to spread his wings and fly came upon him. It took all his strength to resist.

A faint emotion stirred in the deepest part of his instinct. Whatever trouble his sister had been in, she’d come through it. She was safe, at least for now. Relief flooded his body. The profound release of tension made it easier, somehow, to face his own end.

He spread his arms. Cybele, I’m sorry.





TWENTY-ONE


“Someplace safe” turned out to be a dingy apartment.

She wasn’t sure how they’d gotten here. She’d expected Michael to fly. She’d wondered how he was going to cut a path through a sky thick with hellfiends while carrying two Nephilim, a cherub, and a demon.

He didn’t even bother to try. The field in which they stood simply vanished. An instant later an off-white wall fronted by a threadbare green couch materialized. It was accompanied by a stained carpet, a table surrounded by mismatched chairs, and a pair of dirty windows with crooked shades. An old television sat at an angle in one corner. Glancing out one of the windows, Cybele saw they were five or six stories above the street in a densely urban setting.

Michael’s arm slid from her waist. She stumbled a bit before she found her balance. The cherub and his unlikely friend leaped from the archangel’s shoulder, hands joined, to land on the couch. Michael turned and, with Arthur’s limp form still slung over his shoulder, strode down a short hallway.