The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(91)

“I can’t believe the archangel is so na?ve as to trust Arthur to do it. With Merlin’s staff, Arthur could become the most powerful being on Earth. Hell, he could probably use it to enslave all humanity.”

“Yeah, well, Arthur has no interest in enslaving humanity.”

“No man knows what he’ll do,” Luc said quietly. “Not until he does it.”

His voice was flat, his eyes bleak. Cybele bit back her retort. Not for the first time, she wondered what crimes Mab had forced Luc to commit since he’d become her thrall.

Luc glanced at her. “Not even an archangel can predict what Arthur will do with the powers of Merlin.”

“Well, at this point,” Cybele said, “it’s all conjecture anyway. The staff’s broken.”

Luc fitted the pieces together, and then separated them again. “Maybe your archangel left it here to taunt us. Now that I could believe.”

“Well, I can’t. And I told you, he’s not my archangel.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up Arthur’s hand. Cold. Her heart constricted. “I just wish he would wake up. I love him, Luc.”

“Hardly a newsflash,” he said dryly.

“I know. But that’s not all. Arthur and I—we’ve pledged a life bond.”

His eyes widened. “Mab will never recognize it.”

“Arthur and I are rogue. Mab can rot in Oblivion.”

“I wish I could send her there for you,” he muttered.

“Arthur will get rid of her. With or without the staff. When he wakes up. If he wakes up.” She rubbed Arthur’s hand between both of hers. “His skin is so dry, Luc. And cold.” Her voice trembled. “It’s like he’s dead already.”

“He’s not,” Luc said sharply. He eyed her. “But you know, you hardly look any better. When was the last time you ate?”

She tried to remember. Since she’d arrived in London, she’d been too upset to eat. “I—a couple nights ago, I guess.” With the Spencers. It seemed like a year ago. She thought of Jack, and a deep sadness passed through her.

Luc was talking, asking something. Cybele looked at him blankly. “What did you say?”

“I said, is there food in this place?”

“I think so. At least, Michael said there was. I haven’t looked.”

“Let’s go see.”

“But— I don’t want to leave Arthur.”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t. You sitting here staring at him is not going to make a difference.”

Reluctantly, she released Arthur’s hand. “I guess.”

The flat’s kitchen was tiny. The refrigerator was crammed full of food. So were the cupboards. Luc had carried the broken pieces of the staff with him from the bedroom. He propped them against the wall by the door. He started coffee in an old electric coffeemaker and proceeded to assemble a couple large sandwiches.

“I couldn’t possibly eat that much,” Cybele protested as they entered the flat’s main room, where a round dining table stood in one corner.

He set the plate down. “Try.”

After the first reluctant bite, she realized just how hungry she was. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He consumed his own sandwich in large, efficient bites and washed it down with a swig of black coffee.

She concentrated on his face, on his hazel eyes. Not on the wooden thrall collar and its ruby. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You shouldn’t be. My presence is a danger to you.”

“I don’t care.” Cybele peered into her coffee cup. The liquid trembled. Her hand, she realized, was shaking. “I’m just so glad you’re away from Mab. And Luc—I’m sorry.”

His head went back. “Sorry? For what?”

She put down her cup, sloshing coffee over the edge. “For avoiding you, ever since...”

“Since my Ordeal.” His shoulders hunched. “I don’t blame you for that. You could hardly do anything else considering. Arthur warned me what it would be like. I refused to believe him. I was too much of a coward to go rogue.”

“You’re not a coward. If you were, you would’ve gone to Mab the instant I left Demon’s Hollow.”

“Didn’t you think I would?” he asked.

“No. Of course not. That’s the only reason I dared to run. But I knew she’d take it out on you. She did, didn’t she?” The sudden remoteness in his eyes was her answer. “I’m sorry, Luc.”

“Forget it.” He rose abruptly and crossed the room to the old television in the corner. The remote lay beside it on the stand. He picked it up. “I wonder if your angel got you a cable subscription, too.”

He’s not my angel. “Try it,” Cybele said.

He hit a button. The screen sputtered to life.

Every single channel had abandoned its regular programming to report on the situation in Wales. Cybele left the table and joined Luc in front of the set. A female reporter stood in a farm field, her sooty trench coat buffeted by a stiff wind. Billowing clouds, interspersed with jagged lightning, filled the sky.

“This is Brooke Markham, reporting from Swansea, Wales, approximately twenty-five miles from the site of the disaster. The previously unknown volcano came to life in the hour before dawn on Tuesday, rocking the countryside and sending a blast of ash into the sky. Two days later, the eruption continues unabated.”