Reckoning, page 18
I froze. My dagger slipped lower in my hand, fear locking my chest like iron bands. Every instinct screamed run.
But I couldn’t. Not with Walton bleeding, Silence snarling, and angels closing in.
I wasn’t ready. God, I wasn’t ready.
And yet… this was the moment I’d prayed for and dreaded: the line between faith and terror, survival and surrender.
“Your wife?” The tallest sneered, like the word was filth. “A child of dust bound to one of her kind? She was consecrated for Michael. She is promised.”
Heat burned through me—not shame, not fear, but a surge of defiance that steadied my spine. “I was promised to no one,” I said, voice shaking but strong.
They didn’t even look at me. Their disgust was aimed squarely at Walton, like his love for me was the true blasphemy.
Walton didn’t flinch. “Then you’ll have to kill me. ‘Cause she ain’t leaving my side.”
The angels’ wings rustled, sharp and ugly in the quiet. I gripped my knife tighter, pulse pounding.
If Michael wanted his bride, he’d have to come tear her from my hands.
Walton’s blade tore clean through the angel’s throat, a red arc spraying across the dirt as wings crumpled under the weight of death. The sight should have made me sick—holy flesh burning away in a hiss of ash and blood—but all I could do was stand there, frozen, dagger slack in my grip.
My breath hitched. My Runes flickered uselessly in the air. I couldn’t move.
Then his voice cut through the chaos like a whip, “Don’t freeze! You hesitate, you die!”
The words slammed into me harder than any spear could have. I flinched—shame, fear, anger, all coiling together—but it was enough to break the lock on my body.
I forced my trembling hand to tighten on the dagger. The Rune I’d carved still glowed faintly before me, fragile and waiting. I didn’t think. I didn’t let myself. I just drove the blade into the heart of it.
Light erupted.
It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft—it was fire and fury, a wave of searing brilliance blasting outward. The angel before me shrieked, wings snapping wide as the light ripped through his chest. His form buckled, burning from the inside out, until he collapsed in a heap of smoldering ash at my feet.
The silence after was deafening.
I stared down at my hands, shaking so badly I almost dropped the dagger. My pulse thundered in my ears, my lungs clawed for air. The Rune’s glow faded, leaving only black scorch marks carved into the dirt and the sickly sweet smell of ash.
I killed him.
My knees threatened to give way. For one terrible second, I thought I might fall apart right there, sink into the horror of what I’d just done.
But Walton was still fighting. Silence was still tearing into wings and throats. And if I crumbled now, it would all be for nothing.
I tightened my grip on the dagger, knuckles white.
The angel’s ash curled in the wind, scattering into nothing, and I forced myself to stand taller even as my body shook, even as my heart whispered that I wasn’t built for this.
I was. I had to be.
Because if I faltered again, there’d be no one left to save.
“She spilled angel blood.”
“Blasphemer. Witch.”
Their voices rose around me, sharp and righteous, like the crack of whips.
They began reciting scripture, holy words rolling like thunder over the battlefield, condemning me with every breath. Words I’d heard in sermons as a child. Words meant to guide, to bless, to protect—now turned into weapons meant to tear me apart.
Guilt churned in my gut like poison.
I killed an angel.
An angel.
My stomach lurched. My throat closed tight. The ground swayed beneath me as though I were standing on water, not dirt. My vision tunneled, edges blackening. My dagger slipped in my hand, slick with sweat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t—
“Everly!” Walton’s voice ripped through the fog, harsh and unyielding. “Get over yourself!”
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. But it worked.
My knees locked, my lungs dragging in a shuddering breath. I forced air down, forced my eyes open, forced my focus back to the chaos. Walton’s glare met mine for half a heartbeat—scathing, alive, demanding. He didn’t care if I felt guilty, if I felt holy or damned. He cared that I fought.
A shadow fell across me.
I whipped around just as one of the angels lunged. His blade was gone, but rope unfurled from his belt, glowing with some kind of warding light.
Before I could raise a Rune, he slammed into me; the air punched from my lungs as we hit the ground. Rough hands seized my wrists, twisting hard. The rope seared against my skin, biting into flesh like it was alive.
“No!” I choked out, thrashing. My shoulder hit frozen dirt, pain radiating down my arm. I kicked, shoved, scratched—anything to keep him from binding me.
The rope tightened. My pulse roared in my ears.
“Stop fighting,” he snarled, breath hot with fury. “You don’t belong to him. You belong to Michael.”
My heart hammered. Terror surged, but underneath it—anger. I belonged to no one but God.
I twisted hard, teeth bared, dragging my Rune-carved dagger up between us with shaking hands.
I wasn’t going down bound. Not now. Not ever.
His grip burned my wrists, the rope tightening like fire, and panic clawed at my throat. Desperation made me reckless. I lunged forward and sank my teeth into the angel’s wrist.
He shouted, jerking back in shock, and the rope slackened. I tore free, stumbling onto my knees, my chest heaving.
Think. Fast.
My fingers scrabbled in the dirt, dragging my dagger through the soil. I carved a quick circle, runes sketching themselves under my blade with sparks of light. Holy words, fractured and imperfect from my trembling hand, but strong enough to mean something. I pressed my palm against the ground, whispering, “Sanctify.”
The circle flared white-hot, a protective shimmer forming around me. Relief surged—but only for a second.
A shadow blotted out the light.
Before I could breathe, another angel crashed through the shield, sheer strength breaking what my rushed rune had barely held. His weight hit me like a hammer, driving the air from my lungs. My back slammed against the dirt, the cold seeping through my coat.
I gasped, staring up at the sky—but all I could see was his face, pale and furious, his wings spread wide in judgment. His knees pinned my hips, heavy and immovable. His hands clamped down on my shoulders, forcing me into the earth.
I thrashed, but it was useless. His weight crushed every movement.
“You dare carve the Lord’s words with those unclean hands?” His voice was venom, spit hot against my cheek. “You profane His name, his angels—”
I bucked against him, rage spiking through the fear. My dagger was still in my grip, pinned awkwardly between us. I twisted my wrist, trying to angle the blade, even as his grip bruised into my collarbone.
“Get off me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. My Runes flared weakly under my nails, sparks sputtering against the ground as I clawed for any sigil that might burn him back.
But my hand shook too badly. My lines broke. My breath came ragged, panicked.
He leaned closer, eyes blazing like fire and ash. “You are not his bride. You are an abomination.”
The word sliced sharper than his grip. Shame curdled in my chest—until fury overtook it. I shoved back with everything left in me, twisting my wrist harder, forcing the dagger toward the glowing seams of his armor.
If he thought I was going to lie there and take it, he didn’t know me at all.
The angel’s grip pressed harder into my shoulders, nails like iron biting through my coat. I twisted, teeth clenched, straining to bring my dagger higher. His weight crushed me down, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Across the clearing, Walton was a storm of steel and shadow. His blade gleamed red, his shirt torn across the shoulder, blood—angel and his own—spattering his skin. Silence tore into a winged soldier, ripping feathers and flesh, while Walton rammed his knife through another angel’s throat.
Three bodies already lay in ruin around him, burning away into ash on the snow. But he wasn’t untouched. His movements were slowing, the clean, precise arcs of his strikes sagging with exhaustion. His chest heaved, breath white against the air, his jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack.
And still he fought. Still he stood.
“Walton!” I choked out, my voice ragged under the weight pinning me. He didn’t look my way—he couldn’t. Another blade came down toward him and he barely managed to parry, sparks screaming from the clash of metal.
I needed to do something. Anything.
The Runes—I still had my Runes.
With shaking fingers, I scraped the dagger into the dirt beside me, carving frantic lines around my hip. The sigils flared weakly, stuttering light against the angel’s wings. A circle, crooked but real, pulsed beneath us. I whispered the words, pleading more than commanding, “Bind.”
The earth shuddered. Roots burst upward, curling like blackened hands around the angel’s ankles, dragging him down. His face twisted in fury. He roared, light flashing from his chest, and the roots split like dry twigs.
I gasped. “No—”
He slammed his hand down, not on me but on the ground beside me. His palm landed square on the glowing runes.
And the circle went dark.
The lines fizzled, my magic smothered as if the air itself had been crushed from it. I clawed desperately at the dirt, trying to etch another, but the moment my blade scraped the soil, another angel seized my wrist, yanking the dagger free.
“No!” My scream tore raw from my throat. Sparks lit my fingertips, but nothing came. My symbols unraveled, crumbling to ash.
They’d taken them. The Runes, the only weapon I had—seized, silenced.
The angel leaned close, voice a hiss like fire eating paper. “And now, it's time to return you where you truly belong."
Chapter 20
Walton
The first one came at me fast, spear blazing like a shard of the sun. I barely had time to lift my arm before the tip slashed across it—searing, hissing, the smell of my own flesh burning. Pain ripped through me, but pain I could handle. I caught the shaft before he could drive it home and snarled, snapping it clean in my grip. His eyes widened—just for a second—before I rammed the jagged end straight into his throat. The light burst out of him, white and violent, like a star breaking loose. He fell apart in ash at my boots.
The second thought he was clever, coming at me from behind. I felt the shift in the air, the rush of feathers, the sanctimonious stink of him. I twisted, caught his wing, and pulled with everything I had. Bone cracked, sinew tore, and he screamed like judgment itself had turned against him. His blade clattered useless to the dirt, and I didn’t give him time to beg. My knife found its way under his ribs, up through the heart. The light died in his eyes—like snuffing a candle—and then he was gone too. Nothing but silence and the faint smell of ozone.
I stood there panting, blood—mine and theirs—running hot down my arm. My body shook with the aftermath, not from fear, but from fury. These weren’t warriors; they were wardens, gaudy executioners dressed up in gold. Every one of them stood between me and her. Between me and the only thing I had left worth saving.
Silence padded up beside me, low growl still rumbling in her chest, blood flecked across her dark muzzle. She licked her chops and looked at me like she was waiting for the next kill.
I gave her a grim nod.
My hand tightened around the knife still warm from the angel’s blood, and I whispered through clenched teeth, “Two down. More to go.”
The sight of her—the way she was pressed back, chalk in her hand trembling as she tried to mark her runes—lit a fire under my ribs hotter than the spear burns. She wasn’t fighting for herself alone; I knew that look in her eyes. She was desperate, reaching for the only weapon she could call her own. But the angel stalking her wouldn’t give her space. His wings cut the air like blades, every strike forcing her backward, breaking her concentration. Every unfinished line in the dirt was another second closer to her being crushed beneath them.
I surged forward, but one of them intercepted me—bigger than the last two, his armor gilded thick like he thought weight meant holiness. His sword came down in an arc meant to cleave me in two. I caught it against my mare’s leg, sparks shrieking, the weight rattling bone down to my teeth. My whole arm ached, but I shoved back with a growl, twisting the barrel so the steel bit against his edge. He snarled, wings beating hard enough to whip the dust into my face.
“Get out of my way,” I spat, voice low, guttural. My mind was already on her—on Everly, teeth grit, trying to finish a rune before that bastard ground her into the dirt.
The angel lunged again. His strike was precise, faster than I expected. It slashed across my ribs, white-hot agony blooming across my side. I staggered, but rage steadied me. Pain was fuel. I slammed the stock of the gun into his jaw, bone crunching under the impact. His head snapped sideways, feathers scattering like torn parchment. Before he could recover, I drove forward, pressing the sawed-off barrel against his chest and pulling the trigger.
The shot blew a hole clean through his armor. Light burst out like a furnace door swinging open. He shrieked, wings faltering, body unraveling into ash that scattered on the wind. I didn’t watch him fall. My eyes were already back on her.
Everly was still cornered, but she hadn’t stopped. Even under threat, she was dragging her lines into the soil, hand smearing with dirt and sweat. The angel looming over her pulled out holy twine, ready to tie her up like a pig.
“No!”
The word ripped out of me like a beast unchained. My legs moved before thought, before sense. Silence streaked past me, snarling, snapping at the angel’s ankle to throw him off balance. It bought me the half-second I needed. I came in hard, swinging the mare’s leg like a hammer. The butt of it smashed into his temple, his head jerking to the side, gold helm cracking with the force.
He reeled, wings flaring wide, spear wavering in his grip. I didn’t give him the chance to right himself. My knife flashed into my hand, quicker than breath, and I plunged it under his arm where the plates didn’t meet. His body arched as light poured out of the wound, blinding and violent, then collapsed into ash.
I turned to her immediately, chest heaving, blood wet at my ribs, ash thick in my mouth.
She was on her knees, chalk broken in her hand, eyes wide and wild.
I dropped down in front of her, grabbing her wrist to steady it, my voice rough but steady. “Finish it, angel. Whatever you’re drawing—finish it. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes flicked to mine—fear, fury, and faith all burning together—and for once, I didn’t care about the rest of the world. Just keeping her alive.
I forced myself to keep my voice steady. Truth was, I didn’t know if I had her. My side burned like fire, ribs screaming every time I drew breath. My hand was slick on the knife hilt, blood and sweat mingling until I could barely keep a grip. But I wasn’t about to let her see me falter.
The last angel standing—taller than the rest, armored in plates so white they gleamed even under the ashen dawn—turned his gaze from her to me. His face was radiant, almost beautiful, and I hated him for it. He raised his spear, light coiling down the shaft, humming like a hive. My legs braced, but my body felt heavier than it should’ve. Every muscle screamed at me to stop, to fall.
“Go on,” I muttered, half to Everly, half to myself. “Write your salvation, sugar.”
He lunged. I met him, steel against light, the shock reverberating all the way into my spine. My mare’s leg caught the spearhead, but the force of it drove me backward, boots carving trenches into the dirt. My shoulders lit up with agony, but I roared and shoved back, teeth bared.
He moved faster than I could track. A wing clipped me across the jaw, spinning me sideways. Stars burst in my vision, and I staggered, knees buckling. His spear followed—searing heat grazing my shoulder, skin blistering instantly. I stumbled, tried to counter, but he was relentless. The weapon came down again, and this time it carved across my forearm, splitting skin to bone. The pain was blinding.
“D!” Everly’s voice cracked through the chaos like thunder. I heard her, but I couldn’t risk looking.
I bit down on a scream and shoved forward again. My knife slashed, caught the angel’s thigh, but it barely slowed him. His hand struck my chest, and it was like being hit by a forge hammer. The world tilted. My back slammed into the ground, the air knocked out of me. For a second, all I could do was gasp, vision black around the edges.
The angel loomed over me, spear raised high, light so bright it burned shadows into my eyes. I lifted the mare’s leg, tried to fire, but he kicked it from my hand like I was a child. It skittered into the dirt, out of reach. My arm fell uselessly to the ground. My body refused to rise.
He growled something in the tongue of angels—harsh, guttural, a promise of judgment. The spearhead aimed straight at my chest.
I clenched my teeth. If this was it, then at least I’d taken some of his brothers with me. But the thought of Everly—the thought of her being dragged back screaming into Michael’s grasp—filled me with a rage that pushed against the weight pinning me down.
And then I heard it—her voice, low and steady behind me, words whispered in prayer and command. The scrape of chalk on dirt, sharp and certain.
The angel’s head snapped toward her, fury flashing in his eyes. He started to turn.
“Don’t fucking think about it!” I roared, lunging upward with the last of my strength, grabbing his spear shaft with both hands. The heat seared my palms, flesh blistering instantly, but I held on. My muscles screamed, my vision swam, but I anchored him in place.
“Do it, Everly!” I bellowed through gritted teeth. “Finish it!”
