“We have to go,” he said when he released her. Taking her hand, he headed out to the sandy beach.
Raziel and Michael were in front of the others, a powerful force, and Rachel released his hand, going to stand with Allie. He had no choice, wasting only a moment to accept that he might never touch her again. And then he went to join the other two leaders.
It was an endless army, as far as the eye could see. No leather armor for them: their bright metal glinted in the filtered sunlight. He looked for Uriel in whatever form he’d chosen, but the archangel wasn’t leading his army of angels today.
At their head was Metatron, king of the angels, ferocious and unblinking and huge. With a definite grudge to bear.
He stood front and center, towering over his foot soldiers, but his sword wasn’t drawn. He wouldn’t call his troops into battle until he raised it, and he was making no effort to reach for it.
“So he wants to talk,” Michael muttered in disappointment. “Coward.”
Raziel glanced at him reprovingly. “You have no wife, Michael. You have nothing to lose.”
“I don’t lose,” Michael said simply.
“Neither does Metatron,” Azazel said.
The king of the angels stepped forward, his black eyes meeting Azazel’s for a pregnant moment. There was no sign of Enoch—that form had vanished completely. There was only a giant among men, hungry for carnage.
“I would talk,” he announced, stopping about twenty feet from the three of them.
“I could kill him now,” Michael muttered, his tattooed arms flexing. “His army would scatter without a leader.”
“Control him,” Raziel snapped, and Azazel put a restraining hand on Michael’s shoulder as their leader stepped forward.
It should have been difficult for Azazel to watch Raziel in the place he himself had held for millennia, but he felt nothing but relief. He glanced over at Rachel. Her face was set, but she felt his gaze on her, and she turned, meeting it. And then she smiled at him.
It almost brought him to his knees. She had never smiled at him, not like this, full of love and promise and, yes, the forgiveness that he’d been too great a coward to ask for. He wanted to cross the sand and pull her into his arms, but he couldn’t move.
Instead, he smiled back at her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Michael growled. “I don’t remember ever seeing you crack a smile in your life, and you decide now is the time to do it?”
He turned to Michael, and his smile shifted to a more ironic grimace. “I’m in love,” he said. He looked back at Rachel.
Her eyes widened, and he knew she’d heard. She might not believe the truth of it, not until he said it out loud, but if he never got the chance at least she’d die knowing it.
Raziel had reached Metatron, and he halted, his hand on his sword, as Metatron began to speak.
“I, Metatron, first guardian of the ephemeral realm, enforcer of the law, protector of the Dark City, king of the warrior angels, demand the surrender of the so-called Fallen of Sheol and their whores to the most proper and right rule of the archangel Uriel, master of the universe.”
He heard a snort of laughter from Allie, which should have infuriated him. She quickly composed herself, whispering something to Rachel, who smothered a smile.
Raziel knew the prescribed form. “I am Raziel, leader of the Fallen and the inhabitants of Sheol, a place declared inviolate by the Supreme Being. We deny your right to have dominion over us, and demand that you leave.”
Metatron’s steely eyes narrowed. “We will not leave until the sand runs red with your blood and that of your mate and the blood of all who dwell here.”
Raziel didn’t move. “Then what stays your hand? Do you have doubts as to the righteousness of your orders?”
“I have no doubts. Will you surrender?”
“Never.”
Azazel waited, his hand poised on his sword, but Metatron made no move. “I will show no mercy.”
“Why should we expect mercy from Uriel’s minion?” Raziel said loftily.
Metatron ground his teeth. “Uriel has granted me the opportunity to make a bargain with you. Your best warrior against mine. If you win, we retreat. If we win, you give yourselves over to my men. I promise you death will be swift. It’s more than you deserve.”
Azazel moved forward, joining Raziel. “How can you possibly offer such a thing? Uriel would never countenance it.”
Metatron’s smile was sour. “I am not the minion you called me. I lead the armies, and it is my right to choose. The archangel Uriel must, on occasion, defer to me.”
Raziel cast a swift glance at Azazel, who nodded; then he turned back to the heavily armed soldier. “We agree, though we have little faith that Uriel will accede to your terms.”
“It will never come to that. I am the champion of my people, and I will kill your warrior and grind his bones into the sand, and then I will set his wife on fire, so that her screams will fill the air as my men destroy the rest of you. If you resist, you will die by flames as well. If you accept, then the sword will be swift and merciful.”
“Our champion is the archangel Michael,” Raziel said. “He has no wife.”
