Fallen Angel 4: Cold-Blooded Fate Read online

  “Leave me.”

  Remiel stalled until Michael cut him with glowering eyes. And then he was alone, trapped with the knowledge he could never not know and, as his moment of surprise passed, a growing confusion on why his brother had hidden this truth from him, a truth that, for now, didn’t affect his intended actions or how he felt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael admired his handiwork from the crossroads of a small village. The villagers—the ones still alive—had fled the moment the angels had touched down. Now the late afternoon surroundings, as beaming warm light created long, fading shadows from huts and surrounding trees, were almost silent. Almost. All around, his obedient angelic soldiers hovered or sat perched on the edges of farmhouse roofs—clinging to the ankles of the hybrids he had ordered them to catch but not kill. Faint hisses and groans traveled on the cooling air as mist drifted to everywhere the sunlight fled. But their fight had long since died off. Though each fanged hybrid was still very much alive, their ability to attack, retaliate, or scream had been taken from them. Following the step-by-step plan Michael had perfected, nicks scored their bodies through their clothing, which was a mixture of dark robing and animal skins. The only other sound that was clear and persistent was the dripping of their blood as it hit the individual pots beneath each dangling one of them.

  Blood.

  Since Remiel’s revelation, Michael’s actions to store blood had risen from preparatory to necessity. Nothing had changed. Certainly, his feelings had not, but something had started simmering inside of him, urging him to increase his efforts.

  With this score, Michael had enough to cloak himself and his finest for dozens of visits. Though the village was small, the danger that had descended upon its people had been great. Over thirty hybrids with enough blood each to cloak one of them ten times over.

  The creeping approach of someone on foot had Michael stiffening, his ears pricking and his eyes becoming laser sharp. “Who let their hybrid die too soon?” With his hand already on the hilt of the bloody angel sword, he spun, expecting to find the Angel of Death who would report his secret actions. But there was no angelic hum to announce his arrival. Michael’s free hand struck out to capture the throat of the intruder but caught air as the man became a blur to dodge his attack. Michael’s sword swung, flaring blue as it drove down with deadly precision; a kill shot to take off his head.

  “Wait!” The man ducked barely in time, popping up and holding his hands up in surrender. “It is me.”

  Michael’s sword halted on its deadly swing, freezing with the blade a hairsbreadth from the vampire’s side. The surrounding angels tensed but remained in place with their dangling hybrids. “Bathory?”

  The young vampire gingerly touched the blade as the blue glow receded and removed it from his side where it had been so ready to slice his body in two. An air of relief graced Bathory’s adolescent features at his narrow escape, but there was something else too. Panic. “I have news that you must hear. From below this Earth. What you gifted us with was so much more than the ability to grow our numbers.”

  Grabbing the vampire’s arm, Michael steered him back toward a farmhouse. Hanging upside down from the rafter by rope was the first hybrid he had cut and strung up. Still alive, he choked on his own blood, coughing and spluttering. The pot beneath his dangling body was overflowing now, a lingering drip falling from his pale hair every few seconds. “What do you speak of? What ability?”

  “Not ability. Abilities. That of the elementals. Earth, air, fire, water…and something else.”

  Michael had felt the power from God when it had resonated in him. It had been divine and infinite, like nothing he’d ever felt before. Tiny remnants still coursed through his veins now, a hint of what had once threatened to shatter him apart. And he had seen it in action. With only the direction of his hand, Remiel had split the earth open like an egg—and then reformed it at will. “Something else?”

  The young vampire looked to the hybrid that was coated in streams of crimson blood, a wary frown aging his youthful features. “I see things. Deep in the remote recesses of my mind. Events that have not yet come to pass.” Under his breath, he added, “I see her, the one that fell. She lives in Hell alongside Lucifer. She is his queen. His bedfellow…and she is carrying his child.”

  Michael shrugged. He felt nothing. “I do not care.”

  “I have seen beyond this child’s birth,” Bathory furthered with a rising aura of panic. “I have seen a future of raining blood and darkness. Light will fall like stars from the sky—because of this child’s existence.”

  A surge of emotion tightened Michael’s throat with a sharp intake of breath, but what he felt was not reserved for Gabriel. Whatever he had felt for her no longer existed. He was an archangel, a vessel of God’s divine hand. He had done his duty and created Heaven’s army. And now all they had done together, the normally forbidden act to grow their numbers, it was set to be challenged. “The prophecy. Hell on Earth and Above.” As the images Michael had glimpsed long ago of rising darkness, anarchy above, and angels falling from Heaven flooded back, it all made horrible sense. All along it had been Lucifer’s undoing that threatened to ruin Above. Now not only his actions would set this darkness and destruction, this annihilation, upon them all. Lucifer was not the main threat. His spawn was. “Light and dark combined. The spawn of Hell.”

  Flickering feelings sparked from Michael’s heart and grew into something in need of releasing. Coated in hybrid blood, he couldn’t get through to God with this dire revelation. His and his angel’s actions here in this village were concealed from His or any angel’s watching eyes. And that concealment served him well in this instant.

  The hybrid strung up a good six feet away groaned, stirring despite the blood loss that had turned his skin gray.

  Bathory touched a hand to Michael’s arm. “What will you do?”

  Giving in to the sudden fury in him and the need to protect all that was worth saving, Michael devised a plan. “You may leave. Now.” The young vampire seemed reluctant, but he still complied, turning away with a nod to disappear beyond the farmhouse Michael stood at. Looking around, Michael saw that most of the pots were close to full. The angels watching over each of the bleeding hybrids would be ready to end their lives soon.

  Flinging his wings out, Michael got air as he leaped up. The angel sword cut the hybrid down with a thump. As the man twitched on the dirt, barely able to move, Michael’s plan evolved. He needed… The angel sword caught the moonlight as the misty wind picked up to shift the darkening clouds above. “A weapon to snuff out eternal life.”

  Michael brought the blade up to eye level, staring at the deathly sharp edge that glinted.

  The hybrid shifted on the ground, groaning as he rolled from his front to his back.

  Michael drove the sword down, the point hitting a rock in the ground right beside the hybrid’s head. The man sucked air down his bloody throat and flinched as a ting sounded. Moving like the wind, Michael swooped up the tip of the sword that had snapped off. His sword returned to his scabbard and he held the metal fragment between his palms. Concentrating on the trace of God’s power that still existed in him, Michael willed the energy into the fragment. Luminescent blue grew, spearing out from his joined hands as that power in him traveled to the cool metal. A flash of lightning cobalt erupted, and, as it fled, an item revealed itself across Michael’s opening palm. A long wavy-edged dagger with a glistening hilt and shimmering blue blade.

  The hybrid’s eyes widened as the expectation of death flashed in his bloodshot eyes. He moved as fast as he could, scrambling up and back, hitting the front wall of the farmhouse. Michael was right before him in an instant, the dagger poised at the hybrid’s throat. “I have a task for you.”

  The hybrid’s eyebrows narrowed. He was young, but that fear in his red eyes paled with a flash of anger. “To die and go to Hell? Well, go on then.”

  “You will die. And you will go to Hell…” Michael twirled t
he angel blade he head created between his fingers, marveling at the dangerous power he felt radiating off the heavenly weapon.

  The hybrid saw his chance and scuttled sideways.

  With his body lagging from exsanguination, he barely made it a foot away before Michael caught his arm and tugged him back. The dagger met the hybrid’s throat and pressed down, the blade sizzling his skin and driving a hiss from his throat. But then Michael relented, removing the warm metal and flipping the weapon so that it was offered hilt first. “Take it.”

  Confused, the man sent weary looks from Michael to the other angels that were now cutting down his fellow hybrids. Which meant their monstrous victims were succumbing to death with or without further assistance. Wet slices and cracks of bone were heard as throats of the still living were cut and hearts were stabbed through protective ribs. His time to act was limited. Soon the Angel of Death would arrive.

  “Collect your pots and fly before Azrael comes.”

  The angel warriors did as ordered, their wings unfurling with a whoosh and brightening the darkening sky as they ascended with their collections.

  Michael clutched the hybrid’s face and squeezed, forcing his eyes to meet his own. “Take this dagger.” His voice lowered as his gaze demanded compliance. “And once you are in Hell, use it to kill the Prince’s unborn child. You will not remember me, but you will not forget my command. Now…” Curling the hybrid’s hand around the hilt, Michael rose up, never once releasing his eye’s angelic hold on his recruit. “Take that blade and stab yourself through your heart. Hell is waiting for you.”

  The man’s teeth gnashed, his features twisting as he tried to fight the order Michael had given him. But it was no use. The dagger was moving as if of its own accord, shifting and curving, the tip pointing back at the hybrid’s own chest. A strangled, “No,” escaped his mouth—before the sharp tip plunged in.

  Michael turned from the body as it fell in a heap, the angelic blade vanishing in a flash of white-blue as it tethered to the dead hybrid’s soul. The only weapon that could travel in death.

  Michael smiled wide. Now the prophecy would be halted—Heaven would be saved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucifer sneered down at Cyrus and then Darius in their kneeling positions. Deep down in the cells, they were each chained to one side of the rocky wall, facing each other but not at all close enough to touch. Since their public demonstration, Lucifer had them both returned here. Cyrus not only had to suffer the torture of having his flesh and muscles ripped from his body. Now he had the opportunity to watch his very own son suffer the same fate that he endured every single day. Unable to stay away from the spectator sport, the repeating spectacle fed the darkness inside of Lucifer to the point that it threatened to snuff out what little light he had left. But he knew he would be back for the next session. His hunger for pain grew with each passing day, despite his desperation not to drown in it. One of his fists tightened, failing to keep the latest findings he clutched and the reminder of Gabriel and all he had to lose clear in his mind.

  “One of these days,” Cyrus seethed. “I will kill you, Lucifer. I swear to you—”

  Lucifer’s wrist flicked out without even a thought to hesitate. One of the four hellhounds that now guarded these two leaped into action. Jaws clamped around Cyrus’s soft throat, his words choked back with a gargle as his jugular was ripped clean out. Darius snarled at the vicious attack, rough breath audible through his flared nostrils. Now stitched back together, he suffered as his father did at the jaws of hellhounds that knew tearing off one or two of his limbs would not anger, but rather delight, their prince.

  “No appreciation, even after returning you here over continuing your public display.” In all truth, bringing Cyrus back to the cells along with his son had not been for their benefit. Lucifer could care less if they suffered publicly each and every day. But he had let his guard down, allowing himself to feel despite the darkness that threatened to overrun his mind and body. Having the torture kept so public only pushed Gabriel even further away. She had barely been able to look at him that day. Now, she was even more withdrawn from him than ever.

  “One day you will die screaming. I—”

  Lucifer threw his hand out, shooting a small ball of fire into Darius’s mouth. He screamed and tried to spit it out, but the fire seared into his skin, melting his tongue and stealing any ability he had to speak as it rolled down his throat. Lucifer sighed—because despite the twinge of regret at how he had to act, not only here, but with every hellion and new arrival, he could not deny the fact. He enjoyed hurting them. He enjoyed their pain.

  And he hated himself for it.

  “Same time tomorrow…” This time it was Lucifer’s words that died off as a flash of light brightened the dead-end cave. “Damn you, Azrael,” he spat as the dark-winged Angel of Death materialized.

  Hovering and transparent to his victims, the archangel’s lips were tight. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Danger is coming.”

  Before Lucifer could question if the source was from his maker’s plans for war or his enemies in Hell, Azrael flung streaming black from his hands.

  Falling to his hands and knees, Lucifer braced for the pain. Two of the four hellhounds padded around him, whining and nudging him with their wet snouts. They let out a few barks for backup as Cyrus coughed a chuckle and Darius hissed. But there was nothing his pets could do. This was his curse, the role he had accepted when he’d still had hope.

  Falling sideways, Lucifer rolled onto his back. His sight of the rocky cave above with its stalactites and woven spiderwebs blurred. Hands going to his throat, he strangled his own screams as his chest cracked open wide. Black masses poured out like billowing smoke that was alive, breaking off into separate entities that formed on the dank ground. There was so much black, so many new arrivals.

  The sound of racing feet and clattering armor rose and neared, responding after the hellhounds’ barks as the last of the black emerged. Two guards appeared as the blobs slithered and took shape, rising up from the ground. Like a creaking old trap, Lucifer’s chest cracked shut, his skin melding back together with a burning heat that was as painful as being ripped apart. A hand reached for him, and Lucifer jerked away, remembering Azrael’s warning. Using raw will, he forced his shaking legs to work. Clambering to his knees and then his feet, Lucifer clenched every intact and healing muscle to hold himself up and stop the quivering.

  The surrounding forms shed black like a watery blanket, taking on human shapes. Men and a few women dressed in bloody black and furs. With so many cuts to their bodies, their slit throats and leaking chests that indicated fatal stabs to their hearts seemed unnecessary. Like so many that had passed to Hell over the months, these newcomers had red eyes too. Hybrids. More than thirty. Cyrus and Darius remained unusually quiet as the hounds awaited a further command.

  Suddenly Lucifer felt tired. Would this ever stop?

  Willing fire to coat his body in a rush, the flames covered the weakness of Lucifer’s voice. He nodded to the two guards. “Lock them up. All of them.” He hiked his chin at two of the hellhounds. “Keep the newcomers in line.”

  The two guards moved at once, taking control of the awestruck hybrids who could not take their eyes off Lucifer. With two groups ushered up the path, a smaller group remained, surrounded by the two remaining hellhounds that growled to assert the pain they could inflict if anyone chose to run. One man with fair hair stared at Lucifer, not with the same awe, but with an expression of contemplation.

  “Darius,” Cyrus hissed under his breath.

  Lucifer whirled, ready to shut the traitor up himself as he unsheathed his sword. But the widening of Cyrus’s eyes as he stared past him had Lucifer spinning back around to face the remaining newcomers.

  As if blind to the fire Lucifer was coated in, the staring man stumbled closer. A hellhound pounced forward, blocking the hybrid-hellion’s advance and the flash of something shiny behind his back.

  “My Dar
k Prince,” a returning guard bowed as he spoke. “Would you like the rest in the forefront cells for your next round of initiations?”

  A caw tore Lucifer’s eyes from the one staring hybrid among the fearful others and stopped him from answering his guard. Belial swooped in above the heads of the newcomers, landing on Lucifer’s shoulder as his flames retreated. With another caw, Lucifer reached up and snatched the gray feather from his claw. Stalking past a watchful Cyrus and Darius with his gaping burned mouth, he faced the dead end and released a quick breath over the delicate silvery vanes. Meet me after initiations today—outside on the rooftop.

  The moment Gabriel’s feather vanished from his upturned hand, Lucifer wondered if her summons would reveal the secret he still felt she harbored. He wanted to go to her now. To seek her out. She would likely be there already. Remembering what he’d clutched earlier, he whirled, patting the ground as he crawled forward. Her special place was her only refuge, the only place she could try to forget where she was and why. A place he’d known about but shied away from to give her the space she seemed to need so desperately from him and Hell. A quick glance at the pendant would confirm her location, but he did not pick it up. “Where are they?” he mumbled to himself. Her words had been clear. After. Not before. And he would not deny her; he would do exactly as she requested, for this request he could fulfill. Lucifer’s fingers brushed over the tiny smooth ovals. He breathed a sigh of relief. New seeds.

  “My prince?”

  Reminded of the gathered newcomers and the guards who were both now waiting on his order, Lucifer snatched up the seeds and stood. Cyrus and Darius both smirked at him, and he could see the conspiring wheels spinning in Cyrus’s crimson eyes. He was planning something. “No. Take them to the back cells.” He already had enough torture victims ready for the afternoon. And now all he could think about was getting through them as fast as possible so he could go to her. “And call in backup. I want Darius moved to the other dead end—straight away.”