“He is no archangel. He has fallen,” Metatron said in dismissive tones. “And I have not made the terms clear. I am the one to choose your champion. And I choose Azazel.”
He heard Michael’s roar of frustration, but he didn’t turn around, and someone must have restrained him. He was more distracted by Rachel’s silent cry of horror. And he knew, to his sorrow, that her anguish was for him, not fear of immolation, the most painful form of death.
He had known it would come to this. He looked at Raziel. “By your leave?” he said formally.
After a moment Raziel nodded, and backed away, joining his waiting army, the pathetically small, ill-equipped family of the Fallen.
Azazel had known most of them for thousands of years. Michael and Gabriel had fallen later, as well as Nisroc and Jehoel, but most were almost a second self.
But it was for Rachel he felt the most fear. Metatron was a warrior—he lived to fight, just as Michael did. Azazel had managed to defeat him back in the Dark City because of the sheer rage that had suffused him. Here, on an even playing field, Metatron was by far the stronger. The two of them would stage a prodigious battle, and it was hard to guess who would come out the victor.
Though nearly as tall as Metatron, Azazel lacked the bulk of muscles, the sheer physical power. He would have to use his other gifts, cunning and speed, to keep the battle going until the larger man tired, and he could land the killing blow.
“I will fight you,” Azazel said, and he thought he could hear Rachel’s muffled cry. “And I will kill you,” he added pleasantly.
Metatron’s grin was savage. “You can try.” He spun around, in his element, ready to fight. “I will fight their champion,” he called out to his men, “and the outcome of that match determines the outcome of our assault. You are all to adhere to my agreement. No one is to be touched until I give the order. If I am vanquished, they are to be left alone.”
And then he turned back, his sword drawn, his smile filled with bloody anticipation. “This is a long time coming, traitor.”
Azazel drew his own sword. He was a worker in metals, and he’d crafted it himself, thousands of years ago. Its balance was perfect, its blade razor-sharp, its action smooth and swift. He smiled back at Metatron. “You’ve lived too long, minion,” he purred. “I’m waiting.”
Metatron lunged, his full force behind the move, so quickly that another man would have been unable to react in time. But Azazel knew him of old, and he’d shifted before Metatron even raised his sword, drawing his own across his enemy’s muscular thigh. He couldn’t reach the femoral artery, but he could cause pain, slow him down, and he whipped his sword across the other leg as Metatron spun around, a roar of fury bellowing out.
“Coward!” he shouted, bringing the sword down on Azazel’s neck, but finding only air. He spun quickly, the sword at waist level, and it slashed across Azazel’s chest, splitting the leather and cutting into his skin. Metatron grinned.
A moment later Azazel’s blade sliced his face. It was useless against the steel armor, but the cut was just above Metatron’s eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him, as Azazel moved in.
Even blinded, Metatron sensed him, spinning around and slashing, and Azazel felt the blade bite deep into his back. He went down, then rolled away as Metatron hacked at him, the heavy sword barely missing him in the blood-soaked sand. Azazel was up before he could free the sword from the grip of the sand, and his sword sliced deep into Metatron’s right arm.
Metatron only laughed, tossing the sword to his other hand. He was breathing deeply as he looked at Azazel. “You think I can only kill with one hand, traitor? I can kill you a thousand ways, and could have done so many times already.”
“Then what’s taking you so long, minion?” Azazel mocked him.
“Because I want to prolong your suffering. Knowing you are helpless to save the demon Lilith from the fiery death she deserves, you will suffer and slip and fall and die.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Azazel said in a bored voice. “I am no child to be frightened by your talk. Use your sword instead, and stop posturing. None of our women are impressed.”
“Your women will all be dead!” Metatron shouted as he charged him.
It was not unlike bullfighting, Azazel thought, having seen the barbaric practice long ago. The more he maddened Metatron, the more mistakes the king of the angels would make, until he was exhausted, broken, bleeding. It was a dance with a savage partner, and the same joy filled him, the need to kill, to destroy the force that had drawn him in, deceived him, led him to betray not only Rachel but himself; with each slash, each bleeding cut, he was washing away his guilt, his culpability.
He had trained in the sand, was used to the feel and shift of it beneath his feet as he parried and thrust; but blood was caking his feet, and it slowed him just an infinitesimal amount, just enough, as Metatron’s blade came slashing down, and he heard Rachel’s raw, broken scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY- FOUR
THE SOUND ROARED FROM MY mouth, a shattered remnant of a scream, as I watched the blade slash down on Azazel as he skidded in the wet sand; and the man who had once been Enoch jerked, unaccountably startled, enough so that the blade cleaved Azazel’s shoulder, not his neck, the force blunted, and Azazel was able to roll away, leaping back to his feet, graceful as a dancer.
But he was weakening. I could see it, and Metatron was too big, too strong, despite the slashes and cuts Azazel had landed. Azazel’s speed and agility had kept him safe, but he was beginning to slow, and if I didn’t do something I would see him hacked to death before my eyes. I would watch him die, and I wouldn’t even be able to cry.
I could run out, put myself between them, distract them long enough so that Azazel could land a killing blow. But Azazel had already said I made him vulnerable. If I interfered, it might result in his death.
I looked around desperately, but no one was doing anything to help. They seemed to be relying on some utterly stupid code of honor that was going to end up getting us all killed, and a sudden, ancient rage filled me.
