The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(89)

What the—? Luc’s gaze followed the bus until it turned at the corner.

“Jesus, mate! Get out of the bloody middle of the walk.”

Luc stepped back to let the irritated pedestrian pass. Not Houston or Dallas. But...London? What was he doing in London?

He crossed the road. The apartment building wasn’t locked. He pushed the street door open and walked past a gauntlet of bicycles. No elevator. He took the stairs.

Number 622 was at the very end of the corridor. It was occupied. He could hear someone pacing behind the door. He paused, his apprehension growing. He tried looking through a peephole only to find it blocked on the other side. Finally, with a shake of his head, he knocked and braced himself.

The pacing halted. He heard a faint metallic scrape—someone had uncovered the peephole, he guessed. He stared a challenge at it.

The door flew open.

“Luc!” With a cry and a flurry of long limbs and blond hair, a woman threw herself into his arms. “You’re alive! He found you in time!”

He stumbled backward, his arms closing, his heart pounding so hard he thought his ribs might crack. It was only after a long moment that he grasped his sister by the shoulders and eased her back. Their eyes met. A beat of silence ensued.

“Cybele,” he said finally. “What the goddamn holy fuck is going on?”

***

Michael’s moral compass spun like a top.

A profound sense of shame pursued him as he glided over London, keeping to a higher elevation than the demon horde. What in Heaven’s name was he doing, aiding and abetting a cursed race? Lusting after one of their females? Ignoring Raphael’s orders just so he could save her? And he’d hadn’t stopped there. He’d let her talk him into snatching her Nephil lover from certain death. And then he’d saved her brother, a bare instant before he ended his own miserable life. Stars above. If Raphael ever discovered even half of Michael’s sins, Michael’s ass would be toast.

So why was it that he had only to picture Cybele’s green eyes, snapping with passion, to know he didn’t regret any of it?

For the first time in his millennia-long existence, Michael understood the temptations the original Watcher angels had faced when they lived on Earth. To make matters worse, Cybele was only half-human. Her other half had its origins in Heaven. It was hardly her fault that her Watcher ancestors had fallen.

Dear God Almighty, what was he saying? He couldn’t rationalize his behavior on such specious grounds, no matter how many loopholes the situation was riddled with. Cybele was a cursed being. A Nephil. A demon. Michael had been wrong to save her. The deed was done, however. He just wanted to put the whole sorry episode behind him.

He fished his cell phone from his back pocket. Raphael was right. The human device was an abomination. If Michael’s attention hadn’t been snared by all those videos of human copulation, each one more depraved and more compelling than the last... He jerked his mind back to the present.

Never. Again.

Before he could lose his nerve, he tossed the phone over his shoulder. The hellfiends and ash quickly consumed it. He felt a pang at its loss, but he hardened his heart against it. It was time to get back to the purpose for which he was created: righteous vengeance.

Where was Raphael? After a brief search, Michael found his brother occupying a spot over the English Channel, midway between Dover and Calais. Wings aloft, scything right and left with his golden sword, Raphael cut a wide swath through a field of fiends.

Unfortunately, the field was much, much wider than Raphael’s reach.

With a flick of his wrist, Michael’s switchblade snapped into his palm. He dove down and took up a position at his brother’s right side.

Raphael shot him a glance. “Where in Heaven’s name have you been?”

“I was unexpectedly detained,” Michael said. “But I’m here now.”

Hellfiends were dirty little creatures, formed by the eternal malice of damned souls. Grimly, Michael set to killing as many of the mindless demons as he could. It didn’t take long for him to realize the effort was futile. There were just too many of the things, with more arriving every second.

They smelled god-awful.

“This is crazy,” he told Raphael. “We’re never going to get rid of them this way.”

Raphael skewered three at once. He lowered his blade and the carcasses slid off. “You have a better idea?”

“Yes. Wake the Almighty.”

“No.” Raphael’s sword came up with a vicious slash. Five hellfiends died shrieking. “Not an option.”

“That’s your pride speaking.” Michael decided not to point out that pride was a deadly sin, just as much as lust was. Who was he to throw stones? Executing a half-lunge, half-dive, he skewered a red-potato body. Its lumpy head exploded. Fetid remains splattered his coat. Ugh.

“We’ll never kill all of them in hand-to-hand combat,” he said. “Even if we keep at it from now until the End of Days.”

“I know that,” Raphael conceded. He spun a circle, golden blade flashing. Demon heads went flying.

Michael slashed right and left. Six fiends tumbled earthward. They splashed into the channel far below.

“We need another plan,” Raphael said.

“Which is?” Michael inquired.

“I’m working on it.”