Reckoning, page 30
Michael stepped closer, calm as if he were walking into prayer. His voice, cold and sharp, cut through the haze:
“Medicine for monsters,” he said, almost gentle, as though this were mercy. His boot nudged me, rolling me onto my back so he could watch me writhe. “Even you can’t stand against it.”
I wanted to spit in his face, curse him, call him the coward he was. But my mouth wouldn’t shape the words—just froth and a guttural growl. My heart thundered, my body on fire, and all I could do was look at Everly. Her eyes, wide and terrified, met mine.
I tried to tell her with a glance what my tongue couldn’t: Don’t give in. Don’t let him win.
Everly’s scream split the air, raw enough to peel the walls bare. My name on her lips sounded like it was torn from her bones. She tried to get to me, but the Purifier bastards swarmed her, rifles pressed to her sides, fists knotted in her arms. She kicked, struggled, clawed—fierce as ever—but they held her back like she was nothing more than a frightened girl instead of the fire I knew she was.
I tried to rise. God help me, I tried. My palms slapped the stone, veins bulging in my arms as I forced my body to obey. But the poison made a mockery of me. Hellroot was in my blood, lighting every nerve aflame, freezing muscles in spasms until I collapsed again, chest heaving. My jaw trembled with the effort to clench, to hold onto some shred of strength, but even my teeth felt brittle, weak. The floor beneath me was cold, and for the first time in a long while, I knew what helplessness tasted like.
Michael didn’t care about me. Not right now. His boots clicked softly across the stone, carrying him to her—my angel. He loomed tall, wings glowing faintly, white light twisting around him like mockery of holiness. His hand reached out, slow, deliberate, curling in the air as if he already owned her. His voice dripped with possession, low and cruel enough to make my stomach heave.
“You’ve run long enough, little bride,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “It’s time to come home.”
I roared inside my skull, but what came out of my mouth was a broken, guttural growl. My vision tunneled, black creeping at the edges, but rage cut through the fog, dragging sound up from the pit of me.
“Don’t…” My throat was raw, choked by the fire crawling through it, but I forced it out. “Don’t you touch her.”
The guards shifted, some of them sneering, one pressing Everly harder against the wall. Michael, though—he smiled. He tilted his head, the light flickering brighter, his shadow stretching across the stone floor until it swallowed me whole.
“Still pretending you’re her protector?” His tone was almost amused, as though watching me struggle was nothing more than entertainment. He bent closer to Everly, ignoring my words, his fingers lifting a strand of her hair like it was his right. “What can you protect her from now, demon? You can’t even stand.”
My body convulsed again, limbs jerking against the poison’s grip, forehead pressed to the floor. I wanted to launch myself at him, tear his smug throat out with my teeth if I had to. Every instinct screamed for blood, for violence, for fire. But all I could do was choke on my own fury and watch Everly’s wide, wet eyes dart from him to me.
And in that look—God—there was no fear of me. Only belief. As if she thought I’d find some way to crawl through the fire in my veins and rise again.
I swore then, voice rasping, throat bleeding on the words: “You’re not takin’ her. Not while I’m breathin’.”
Even if the poison killed me, even if my blood turned black in my veins, I’d die clawing before I let him drag her back into his cage.
Michael’s hand clamped around Everly’s arm like a shackle, his grip cruel and unyielding. She thrashed against him, nails raking at his wrist, but he only tightened his hold, dragging her across the floor toward the open door. Her feet scraped, heels catching on the stone, leaving faint scuffs behind—a trail I wanted to rise and follow, but the poison had me nailed to the ground.
I clawed at the floor, fingernails splitting against the stone as I tried to drag myself forward. Every muscle screamed mutiny, seizing with fire, but I kept fighting, inch by inch. My vision swam red, the world flickering between focus and blur, but all I could see was her.
My angel.
My wife.
Being ripped from me again.
Her scream cut through the chamber, raw and breaking. “Walton!”
The sound was enough to stop my heart and set it on fire at the same time.
I tried to answer her, tried to spit out a promise, a curse, anything—but my voice cracked useless in my throat. My chest heaved, my blood felt like molten lead, and still I dragged my nails down the floor, leaving gouges in the stone. Too slow. Too weak.
At the threshold, she twisted in Michael’s grip, her body jerking as she fought him. Her eyes found mine across the distance—wide, terrified, and shining with something that cut deeper than any blade. Hope. She still believed I’d save her, even like this.
That look gutted me. It branded itself into me, burned into marrow and soul.
The door slammed, her scream echoing down the hall long after she was gone, leaving me with nothing but bloodied hands, convulsing muscles, and the kind of rage that could kill a god.
Chapter 33
Everly
Michael’s hand slammed against my back as he shoved me into the common hall, the doors crashing wide open. Lanternlight spilled over us, painting the rafters in gold smoke while the hearthfire spit sparks into the air. His wings spread wide behind him, luminous and terrible, blotting out everything else.
Gasps rippled through the room. The townsfolk froze, mugs suspended halfway to mouths, chairs screeching back against the floor. Some fell to their knees immediately, bowing as if salvation had walked through the door. Others stared, their fear-struck silence cutting deeper than any scream. I stumbled forward under his push, nearly falling, but I caught myself on the edge of a table. My breath came ragged, my heart a hammer in my ribs, but I straightened.
I wasn’t the girl who once trembled at every touch. I wasn’t the bride who lay silent in his sanctum, waiting for prayers that never came. My eyes lifted to him—burning, defiant, hot enough that I hoped he could feel it against his skin.
Michael’s voice rolled out like thunder, shaking the timbers. “Your savior is nothing but a thief. She is mine. She has always been mine.”
Whispers surged around me, townsfolk clutching at one another, their gazes darting between his gleaming wings and my scarred face. Some of them looked at me with horror, others with pity. But none moved. No one came forward.
I swallowed the ache that rose in my throat. He wanted me small again. Wanted me bowed, wanted me silent. But I straightened instead, my palms pressed flat against the table so I wouldn’t shake. “I don’t belong to you.” The words came rough, but steady.
His eyes narrowed, a storm gathering in their pale depths. He stepped closer, towering over me, his hand lifting as if to claim my face. I flinched back—not from fear, but from disgust.
“You defy God’s order,” he hissed. “Do you think these people will save you? They cower because they know the truth. I am His judgment.”
“No,” I said, louder this time. The word cracked through the murmurs like lightning. “You’re not His judgment—you’re a parasite feeding on His name.” My voice trembled, but I forced it higher, sharper, so the whole hall could hear. “God gave us free will. You took it. That isn’t holiness. That’s tyranny.”
A murmur rolled through the townsfolk, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Some lifted their heads, daring to look at him rather than bow.
Michael’s wings beat once, a violent gust scattering ash from the hearth across the floor. He leaned down, his voice dripping with venom. “You are mine, Everly. And I will drag you back if I have to rip this town apart.”
I felt the heat of his breath, the weight of his presence—but something inside me held steady. He could claim me a thousand times over, but I wasn’t his anymore.
Not ever again.
“Do you see, people of Ironedge?” Michael’s voice boomed through the common hall, rattling the rafters like thunder rolling over mountains. His hand clamped around my arm like an iron shackle, yanking it high for all to see. His wings stretched wide, golden light spilling like fire across the hall. “This woman belongs to me. She is marked by Heaven. To defy me is to defy God Himself.”
Gasps and murmurs swept through the crowd. Men and women shrank back into the shadows. Some dropped to their knees, trembling. Others stared at me, wide-eyed, as if my shame had been laid bare before their hearth. Michael’s angels flanked him in rows, their bodies like alabaster statues, weapons crackling with runes of fire. The air stank of smoke and sanctimony.
My arm throbbed under his grip, but I wrenched free with all the fury I could summon. The sound of my voice surprised even me when it rang out through the hall—sharp, steady, cutting against his roar.
“No.”
Every head turned. My voice shook but grew stronger with every word. “You twist His Word to chain His people. Christ gave us freedom. Not cages. Not forced marriages. Not children raised for slaughter.”
The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. The fire snapped in the hearth. A child whimpered. I felt their eyes on me, wide and uncertain, the weight of their hope and fear pressing against my chest.
Gasps rippled through the room like a wave breaking against stone. Some townsfolk looked scandalized, clutching their hands to their mouths. Others whispered, heads turning, eyes darting between me and the winged host at Michael’s back.
Michael’s angels hissed as one, the sound inhuman, their eyes burning white with judgment. They stepped forward in unison, runic fire glinting on their blades.
Michael’s snarl cut through them, his voice a crack of fury. “Blasphemy! The angels are God’s chosen sword.”
I raised my chin, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My heart hammered against my ribs, but the words came, fierce and true, burning my throat as I gave them life.
“And Christ wept,” I said, voice ringing in the rafters, “for the ones His sword couldn’t save.” My hands trembled, but I clenched them into fists. “Don’t you dare speak His name while you use His words for chains.”
A murmur surged through the crowd—some shocked, some stirred. A woman pressed her hands to her lips and whispered a prayer. A man stared at me as if hearing something he hadn’t dared believe.
Michael’s face twisted, rage breaking through the mask of holiness he wore. His wings flared wider, the light burning hotter, trying to blind them to the truth.
But it was too late.
I had spoken it aloud. And the words hung there between us, alive, undeniable, echoing through the hall like a fire set loose in dry brush.
At first, there was only silence. Heavy, suffocating, like the hall itself was holding its breath.
Then, a shuffle of boots against the stone. A man stepped forward—older, his hands calloused, gripping a farming blade like it was all he had left in the world. His knees shook, but his voice carried, rough with years of hard labor and harder truths.
“She speaks truth,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on Michael’s glowing wings. “Angels ain’t never bled for us. She has.”
A ripple passed through the crowd. Another voice rose—higher, trembling but fierce. A younger woman with a hunting bow clutched in her arms, her knuckles white around the grip. “If they were God’s sword,” she said, eyes narrowing at the shining host, “why do they need children in cages?”
The words struck like stones hurled against stained glass. The people stirred, whispers rushing like wind over dry grass. Faces long bowed in fear now lifted, uncertain but questioning. Men gripped iron picks meant for digging stone. Women clenched knives meant for kitchens, not battle. It was small, fragile—but it was resistance.
Michael’s fury rippled outward like heat from a forge. His jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his weapon. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected humans—broken, dirt-worn, ordinary humans—to lift their heads and defy him.
His voice cut through the rising tide, venomous and sharp: “You dare stand against Heaven?” His wings flared, throwing white firelight across the hall.
The angels moved in unison, weapons rising with a hiss of Runes and steel. Their eyes glowed brighter, their bodies taut with the promise of slaughter.
My pulse hammered so hard I thought my chest might split open, but I refused to step back. I stood taller, trembling but unbroken, meeting the eyes of those who had chosen to rise with me. For a fleeting heartbeat, I saw it—the spark of something more. Not yet a fire, not yet enough to win—but something that terrified Michael more than any demon’s blade.
Hope.
His angels braced to strike. And I braced with them—because even if I burned here, even if the fire consumed me, it wouldn’t go out unseen.
Michael’s voice thundered through the hall, rattling in my bones like the peal of some terrible bell. His words lashed out, sharp and merciless, echoing against the stone rafters above.
“Obedience is salvation!” he cried, every syllable cloaked in the authority of command. “Scripture commands wives to obey their husbands, children to obey their fathers, and men to obey their shepherds!”
The townsfolk flinched. Some dropped their gazes, others clenched their jaws. A few even made the sign of the cross in desperation, as though warding off the judgment his voice promised. The angels behind him bristled, their runic weapons flaring brighter, wings flared like alabaster blades ready to strike.
My own hands shook so badly I nearly clenched them into fists at my sides just to keep from trembling outright. But I forced myself to raise my chin, to let my words carry.
“And yet,” I said, my voice clear—shockingly clear, even to myself—“Christ said the greatest among you shall be a servant.” I locked my eyes on Michael’s, refusing to look away from the fury burning there. “You are no shepherd, Michael—you are a wolf.”
Gasps broke across the room like a wave. The fire from the hearth sputtered, crackling in the thick silence that followed. For the briefest heartbeat, everything stilled—the townsfolk holding their breath, the angels caught in their own shock. Even the great wings surrounding Michael faltered mid-beat, feathers shifting as though the weight of my words had cut through the script they had rehearsed for centuries.
The room trembled, but it wasn’t from his power this time. It was from the fragile weight of truth—raw, unpolished, but unbreakable.
I felt my throat tighten, tears threatening at the edges of my eyes, but I held them back. My fear was a living thing inside me, gnawing at my ribs, screaming at me to kneel, to give in, to save myself. But I would not. Not anymore.
The people’s whispers rose again, not of obedience this time but of wonder, of doubt, of hope. “She’s right,” someone murmured. “Christ washed feet. He never chained them.”
Michael’s face twisted, the mask of holiness slipping into something monstrous—his jaw set like stone, his eyes alight with wrath. “Blasphemy!” he spat, his voice cutting sharp enough to sting. “You twist His words as the Serpent did in the garden. You defile His plan with your rebellion.”
But I stood firm, every tremor in my hands now turned to steel in my voice. “I do not twist them. I remember them. Christ gave us freedom, Michael. He gave us choice. And no angel—no matter how gilded their armor—can take that from us.”
The angels stirred, restless, but still they hesitated. And that hesitation was everything. For the first time, Michael’s certainty cracked.
I could feel it: the people weren’t bowing anymore. They were watching. Measuring. Deciding. And Michael, for all his fire and fury, was bleeding control.
Michael’s wings snapped wide, blotting out the lantern light with a flare of white and gold, but his grandeur no longer dazzled them the way it once had. I could see it in the people’s faces—no awe, just terror mixed with something else. Doubt.
He roared over the crowd, his voice cracking like thunder: “You think freedom will save you? Freedom is chaos. Freedom is sin. Without order, without me, you will fall to ruin.”
His angels stepped forward, blades raised, their polished faces unreadable but their bodies taut, waiting for the order. The townsfolk recoiled, many stumbling back toward the walls. Yet a few—just a few—remained in place. The old man with the farmer’s blade. A mother with nothing more than a rusted pick. They stood trembling, but they did not move.
I felt my knees weaken, but I made myself stand straighter. The Purifiers had told me faith misplaced was worse than defiance. Michael wanted me to believe that. But wasn’t this the very test? To hold to what was true, even when fear pressed down like a mountain?
“Without you, Michael,” I said, and my voice shook but did not break, “we will not fall. Without you, we can finally rise.”
The words felt like fire in my throat, like they burned me even as they gave me strength.
He jabbed a finger toward me. “Seize her!”
The angels surged, but before they reached me, a sound cut through the clamor—low and feral, growing into a terrible snarl. Silence. She burst from the shadows near the hall’s great doors, eyes glowing, her massive frame a blur of fang and claw.
Gasps tore from the crowd as Silence lunged straight at the first angel, dragging him down in a spray of feathers and blood. Her snarl ripped through the hall, low and primal, shaking even the bravest of them. The other angels faltered, their weapons snapping toward her, wings bristling with fury. Townsfolk scattered, some dropping to their knees, others bolting for the corners of the hall.
But Walton did not follow.
Somewhere beyond these walls, he lay crumpled in Hellroot’s grip, that black poison still shackling his veins. He wasn’t storming through the doors. He wasn’t cutting angels down like a storm through trees. He wasn’t here.
