Reckoning, page 31
It was only me.
Michael’s grip clamped tighter on my arm, his wings unfurling wide to shield us both in his perverse display of ownership. His voice slithered against my ear, loud enough for the people to hear: “Do you see, Everly? Even your hound fights like the beast it is. And your demon lies broken, powerless. This is what your faith has bought you.”
I clenched my teeth, my chest heaving as I fought against his hold. I wanted to scream, wanted to claw his smug holiness from his face. “Better powerless with love in his heart,” I spat, “than an angel with none.”
For the first time, Michael’s mask slipped—just barely. A flicker across his eyes, a tremor in his jaw.
But I saw it.
And it was enough. Enough to make me believe he could bleed. Enough to remind me that even those clothed in light could still be monsters.
The town had become a battlefield. Silence tore through one angel, her teeth buried deep in his throat, feathers scattering like ash. The others struck back with spears and flame, the clash of metal and bone reverberating against the stone walls. Townsfolk pressed against the edges, torn between fleeing and the dangerous spark of defiance kindling in their eyes.
Michael yanked me closer, his fury radiating like heat. “You think you can defy me? You think your words, your faith, matter? You are mine, Everly. And when your demon burns, you will finally understand what it means to be chosen.”
My heart hammered so violently it hurt, but beneath the fear, something else rose—sharp, unyielding. I met his gaze head-on, my voice breaking yet steady, “You’ll never own me. Not my body. Not my soul. Not ever.”
My whole body trembled, but I forced my feet to move. I stepped forward, raising the Runes like a shield, letting the light pulse through my hands. My voice cut the chaos, sharper than I thought possible.
“We are not afraid of you anymore.”
The words rang out, echoing off the stone walls, and for a heartbeat—even the angels froze. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some townsfolk clutched their mouths. Others straightened, their fear cracking into something fiercer.
Then everything broke.
Michael’s eyes burned white-hot as his wings unfurled, feathers scattering sparks of fire into the air. His angels dove from the balconies, weapons igniting, their war cries splitting the hall. Townsfolk screamed, some bolting for cover, others raising their makeshift blades and bows. Silence leapt into the fray with a snarl, dragging one angel down in a spray of feathers.
And then—silence.
My knees shook, my lungs burned, but I forced myself forward, Runes alive on my skin, glowing against the choking dark. The angels’ wings whipped the air into a frenzy, their weapons blazing with holy fire, but my voice cut sharper than their steel.
“We are not afraid of you anymore.”
The words didn’t sound like mine. They carried something bigger—like the breath of every girl locked in those bunkers, every child stolen, every voice silenced. And for a heartbeat, even Michael faltered.
His sneer twisted into something darker, wings unfurling until they filled the hall, feathers scattering embers. His sword of light flared to life in his hand, and he raised it high, radiant and terrible.
“You dare stand against Heaven?” His voice cracked like thunder.
I lifted my dagger, small, pitiful against his brilliance. My hands shook, but my voice held.
“I dare. Because Christ didn’t die for your cages. He died for freedom.”
The crowd gasped. The angels hissed. And Michael’s eyes locked on me—no longer a lamb to be led, but a flame burning in defiance.
The air trembled, as if the whole of creation leaned forward, waiting to see if I would break.
But I didn’t. Not this time.
And with a thrust at his chest, the Runes still in my hands, I managed to yank myself away from him.
Chapter 34
Everly
The town was fire and ruin. Smoke curled up the rafters, feathers and ash scattered across the stones like snowfall, and the screams of Ironedge rang in my ears. I stumbled through it, my dagger slick with blood that shimmered faintly in the firelight—angelic blood. My hand trembled from the weight of it, from the impossible reality that I had carved through God’s so-called chosen.
Walton was on the floor. His chest heaved like each breath might be his last, his body poisoned and wracked from the Hellroot. Even when he tried to rise, his limbs betrayed him. I saw his fingers clawing against the stone, trying to drag himself up, but he couldn’t. My heart tore in two at the sight—him, always my shield, now collapsed at my feet.
And Michael was coming.
His wings filled the ruined hall, white fire licking every feather, his steps ringing like judgment itself. His face was carved of fury, of possession, and when his eyes cut through the chaos, they fixed on me. He didn’t even look at Walton.
I tightened my grip on the dagger, my pulse hammering against my ribs. My throat was dry, my lungs choked with smoke, but I forced air through them, anyway. I moved.
The Rune flared to life beneath my fingertips as I carved it into the air—lines of light burning through the haze, defiance given form. My whole body quaked, but the glow held steady, pulsing like a heartbeat. I whispered the words I barely understood, words Mary had pressed into my palm with trembling hope, and the air cracked with power.
Michael sneered, sword of light forming in his hand with a hiss like fire against oil. “You think scribbles will save you?” His voice thundered through the broken hall.
I didn’t answer. I lunged.
My feet hit the blood-slick stone, my shoulders screaming as I threw myself forward. The Rune burst in my hands, searing across the blade of my dagger, coating it in light not my own. I aimed straight for the heart behind his shining breastplate, straight for the man who had taken everything from me.
Michael’s blade of light met my dagger with a sound like thunder. The force of it rattled my bones, sent sparks flying as if Heaven itself had split open. My knees buckled under the weight of his strike, and before I could recover, his wing slammed against me. The world blurred. My body hit stone, air tearing from my lungs as pain bloomed through my ribs.
I coughed, the taste of iron thick in my mouth, but I forced myself up. My hand was slick, whether from blood or sweat I couldn’t tell. Michael advanced with terrible calm, every step echoing like a sermon, his wings blazing brighter.
“You were chosen,” he hissed, raising his sword. “But you turned away. You defiled yourself with a demon. You are nothing but corruption wrapped in skin.”
The light of his sword arced down, and I barely rolled aside. The floor split where I’d been, stone smoking.
I scrambled, carving another Rune with trembling fingers. It flared weakly, my focus shattered by fear. He swung again. The Rune caught it—but the force hurled me across the hall, slamming me into the dais. My back screamed, vision going black at the edges.
I gasped, clutching the dagger tighter, whispering a prayer through broken breaths, “God, don’t let me fall. Please.”
Michael’s laugh rang sharp, cruel. He raised a spear of pure radiance in his hand, aiming straight for my chest. “This ends now.”
I couldn’t move fast enough. My limbs were heavy, my body failing. He hurled it, and the light tore through the air like a comet.
Time slowed. Walton’s broken form flickered in my vision. Silence’s growl echoed faintly, trapped beyond a wall of fire.
But something deep in me broke, or maybe it ignited. I wasn’t fighting for myself. Not anymore. I was fighting for the girls in their cages. For the children raised for slaughter. For every soul shackled under false scripture. Because if I died, I would just be replaced. Like Elise. Like Emma.
My scream ripped through the hall as I surged to my feet. I met the spear head-on, slashing with my Rune-lit dagger. Light and darkness exploded as steel met radiance, blinding, burning. My arm went numb, but I kept moving, fury and faith carrying me through.
Before Michael could recover, I drove forward. My blade found the gap in his chestplate, plunging deep into the heart he thought untouchable.
His eyes widened—shock, disbelief, fury. White light poured from the wound, spilling over me, searing my skin. I held on anyway, pressing the dagger deeper, whispering through clenched teeth.
Michael roared, a sound that shook the very rafters, wings flaring wild. But the blade held fast, and for the first time, I saw it—fear in his eyes.
I was bleeding, shaking, half-broken. But I was still standing.
And he was not.
Michael’s voice rang like thunder, even as the Rune seared deeper into his chest. Scripture poured from his lips, words meant to break me, bind me, crush me under their weight.
But his voice cracked, weakening, twisting into something less holy, more desperate. I felt the blade pulse in my grip, runes burning white-hot, and I leaned in, my own whisper steady and sharp as steel, “You don’t speak His Word anymore.”
I twisted the dagger hard. His scream tore through the hall, shattering against the rafters. Light burst from his chest, blinding, mingling with a gush of thick golden blood that sizzled as it hit the stone. His wings flared wide, feathers falling like ash, then buckled under the weight of death. The glow dimmed, sputtered, and went out.
He collapsed. Michael—the archangel, the monster who had stolen my body, my voice, my faith—lay broken at my feet. His blood spread like fire across the floor, steam rising, painting the pristine white stone in ruin. His sword of light flickered once, twice, then vanished into sparks.
For a breath, no one moved. The only sound was the crackle of flames still eating through the beams of the hall. Then gasps spread through the crowd. Townsfolk clutched each other, trembling, their faces pale with awe or terror—I couldn’t tell which. Even the angels that remained froze, their eyes wide, their grace unraveling in disbelief.
I staggered back, dagger slipping from my trembling hands, my chest heaving as the truth settled in my bones. The impossible had happened.
An archangel was dead.
And I had killed him.
Around me, the air shifted—whispers spilling like smoke, carrying awe and terror in equal measure.
“She killed him…” a woman gasped, her hands pressed to her mouth.
“If Michael fell, none of them are untouchable,” another muttered, voice shaking.
“This is the start of war,” someone else whispered, the words trembling with both fear and hope.
The murmur rose and swelled until it was all I could hear, the sound of a people standing at the edge of something vast and terrible. My chest heaved, my vision blurred, but all of it fell away when I saw him.
Walton.
I dropped to my knees; the dagger slipping uselessly from my hand as I crawled to his side. His body was sprawled against the stone, his blade lying abandoned, his face ashen in the firelight. I clutched his hand, my fingers desperate against his rough, bloodstained skin.
“Walton,” I choked, shaking him gently. His skin burned with fever, each breath he took ragged and shallow. The Hellroot was still inside him, poisoning him from within.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, tears cutting down my cheeks. Around us the world trembled, whispers of war rising, angels faltering. But all I cared about was the man in my arms, the heartbeat flickering faintly beneath my palm.
I broke then, all the fire and steel inside me shattering into raw, desperate sound. My hands shook against his chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall that was slipping too far between breaths.
“Please,” I cried out, voice cracking like glass, head tipped toward the rafters as if heaven itself could hear me through the smoke and ruin. “Please, don’t take him. I’ll do anything. Anything. I can’t do this without him. I can’t.”
The Ironedge healers hovered close—women with bundles of herbs, men with jars of salves, all whispering prayers under their breath. They pressed poultices to his wounds, poured tinctures between his lips, scrawled protection Runes in ash across his fevered skin.
Nothing mattered.
The Hellroot ran too deep, burning him alive from the inside, and their remedies slid off him like water over stone.
Each time he groaned, low and ragged, my body lurched forward as if I could absorb the pain myself. Each time he stilled too long, I pressed my ear to his chest, straining for the faint thunder of his heart.
Finally, I collapsed against him, burying my face in the fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat and blood. My sobs wracked through me, shaking my bones, pulling me apart at the seams. The world outside blurred into silence—the whispers of war, the murmurs of townsfolk, even the crackle of flames from the hall—all of it drowned beneath the desperate beat of my grief.
I held him tighter, as if my arms could anchor him here, as if my tears could wash the poison away. “God, please,” I whispered again, broken. “Not him. Don’t take him from me.”
The firelight bent as though bowing to him, shadows stretching long and unnatural across the ruined hall. My breath caught in my throat, tears still wet on my cheeks as I looked up from Walton’s fevered body.
A man stood in the doorway like he’d been carved out of the dark itself—tall, graceful, too beautiful and too terrible all at once. His coat draped across him like midnight, his pale smile curling with something both cruel and amused. His eyes… God help me, those eyes burned with the kind of weight that had watched centuries rot away like fruit in the sun.
“Touching, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth as silk, sharp as glass. It slipped into my bones, slick and wrong, and made me feel small just for breathing. “How fragile even the strongest become.”
I clutched Walton’s hand tighter, as if the squeeze could shield him from that gaze.
Lucifer stepped inside, boots clicking on stone, weaving through corpses and angel feathers as though none of it meant a thing. He might as well have been walking through a garden path instead of a graveyard.
“You wonder why I wanted Elise,” he said, each syllable deliberate, savoring the sound of it.
My eyes widened. This was…?
“Oh, you didn’t know me? Why, yes, I’m Lucifer.” He smiled charmingly. “Now. Back to your sister. She was a liar of rare breed—perfectly suited for my work. Walton’s last bounty, do you recall? To bring her to me.” His smile deepened, hungry and amused all at once. “Imagine my disappointment when I realized… I chose the wrong sister.”
My chest tightened. Elise. Always Elise. Even now, he twisted the knife of her shadow.
Lucifer’s gaze dragged over me like a scalpel, cutting past my skin to see something I wasn’t ready to admit lived inside me. He tilted his head slightly, smirking faintly, as if savoring a private joke.
“Who would’ve thought you’d be the one?” he murmured, soft as a lover’s whisper, cruel as a blade. “You. A lamb with teeth.”
The fire spat, wood collapsing into ash, the hall hushed as though waiting for my answer. Walton burned beneath my palms, fevered and weak. My stomach churned, but I lifted my chin, trembling not from fear but from the fire that still burned in my chest.
I wasn’t Elise. I wasn’t Michael’s bride. I wasn’t some pawn in Lucifer’s game.
But his words lodged deep, heavy and poisonous. A lamb with teeth.
Lucifer moved with unhurried grace, lowering himself to one knee beside Walton as though this slaughterhouse were a cathedral. His hand, pale and elegant, hovered just above the wound in Walton’s shoulder. The black-green poison throbbed beneath the skin, searing veins like molten glass. Walton groaned, low and ragged, his whole body twitching from the fire eating him alive.
I wanted to scream at Lucifer to move away, to stop touching him—but I couldn’t. My throat closed, breath caught between rage and terror.
Lucifer’s fingers brushed the wound, not pressing, just grazing, and Walton convulsed. The sound of his pain ripped through me. Lucifer tilted his head toward me, his voice suddenly soft, too soft, like the lullaby of a snake.
“I can fix him,” he murmured. “Heal him completely. Better than he was. Stronger. Return him as he was–a man. All it will take is one word from you.”
The world narrowed to those words. I felt the blood drain from my face. My pulse hammered so hard it drowned out the crackling fire, the whispers of the townsfolk who hadn’t yet fled. For a moment, the hall, the battle, the corpses—it all vanished. There was only Walton, writhing beneath my hands, and the Devil offering me a cure.
My voice barely made it past my lips, a trembling rasp. “What’s the price?”
Lucifer’s smile widened, soft and sharp all at once, like glass catching light. His eyes glowed with a dark amusement, savoring the moment.
“A deal,” he said simply. “Of course. Mine to name.” He leaned closer, like a confidant sharing a secret. “His life… for whatever comes after.”
The words slid into me, slick and poisonous. A deal. With him. My stomach lurched, bile rising as the weight of it pressed down. I could almost feel the chains already, invisible but waiting, ready to snap shut the moment I gave in.
But Walton groaned again, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and my heart shattered. My hand gripped his tighter, shaking. I could feel the heat of the poison burning him alive.
Lucifer’s eyes stayed on me, patient, almost gentle. Waiting. Tempting.
And in that moment, I knew the Devil didn’t need to shout or threaten. He only needed to whisper when the world was already breaking me in half.
My whole body trembled as I clutched Walton’s hand, pressing it against my chest like I could hold him here by sheer force of will. His skin was fire-hot, sweat soaking through his shirt, his breath ragged and uneven. Every time his chest hitched, I thought it might be the last.
Lucifer’s offer coiled in my mind, tightening around me like a serpent. A deal. Just one word, and Walton would live. Just one word, and he would open his eyes again, hold me again, fight beside me again.
