Rebellion

The air smelled of dust and smoke and cordite, and the Fallen were... falling. Castor and Pollux held their ground behind a tangled pile of bodies, their eyes wide and their poles held at arm’s length. Vin’s hair was streaked with dust and he was slowing now, moving more deliberately through the Fallen who remained. There weren’t many. The angels had seen to that.

Mallory was still up on his perch, surveying everything below. He had dropped into a crouch on the metal bar, balancing on the balls of his feet as he scanned the floor for movement. Satisfied, he tucked his gun into the back of his belt and jumped down, landing in a neat crouch on the floor. “Are you hurt?” He straightened and crossed the floor towards Alice, stepping over an outstretched hand. It was still twitching.

“No, I’m not hurt.” Alice frowned, watching the hand on the floor behind him.

“You’re something, though. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing... I... what?” Alice was still staring at the dead Fallen’s fingers tick-ticking against one another. Mallory followed her gaze. He cocked his head on one side, blinked, whipped out his gun, and shot the hand through the middle of the palm. What was left of it stopped twitching.

“You were saying?” He turned back to Alice.

“I’m not sure that was strictly necessary.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be the voice of my conscience today.”

“Someone has to be!”

“Really? Because funnily enough, I seem to remember having to shoot one of them for you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No. You’re right. I didn’t.”

“Wanker.”

“Ingrate.”

“Are we done here?” Zadkiel was leaning against the wall, watching them. “And while we’re on the subject, have you two considered some kind of joint therapy?”

“We’re done.” Mallory gave Alice a look, and she pulled a face at him as he turned his back.

“Anyone injured? No?” Zadkiel waited, then shrugged. “Good work. Corridor’s secure. Pollux? You stay here and keep it that way. Just you.” He shot a glance at Alice. “Castor? Vhnori, Mallory. With me. Alice – you too.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Michael.”

“And what about this?” She gestured back at the bodies on the floor. There were too many of them. Far too many. And one of them had thanked her as he died.

“You’re right. I don’t suppose you could...”

“Take care of it?”

“I could, of course, always tell Michael that you refused...” Zadkiel shrugged.

“Because Michael knows how much I enjoy being told what to do, is that it? It’s funny: you all like reminding me that I’m not one of you, until it suits you to say otherwise. And then you expect me to follow orders.”

“Now you listen to me.” Zadkiel dropped his voice to a low hiss. “This is a war. The war. There is no stopping; no getting out. You’re in this – just like the rest of us – to the end. So, frankly, I don’t give a shit if you do it because you’re following orders, or because you want to make it through the day alive, or because you like the look of my fucking haircut. Just get it done.”

Alice stared at him, and felt a flush creeping up her cheeks, but was determined to stand her ground.

“You didn’t say please.”

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t say please.”

“I didn’t say please?”

“No.”

“Fine. Alice: would you please take care of this?”

“Seeing as you asked nicely...” She shrugged; out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Castor giving her a thumbs-up and Vin trying to hide a smile behind his hand. Even Mallory seemed to have succumbed to a mysterious coughing fit.

“Pollux? You might not want to be in the middle of the corridor. But, you know, up to you...” She waited for him to move back to the doorway with the others, and knelt down on the floor, placing her hands on the stone.

The paving was sticky, stained; scuffed and scraped by boots and smeared with blood. Closer to it, she could smell the Fallen – a thick, oily, greasy scent, mixed with burning feathers. It turned her stomach.

She was used to the Fallen. She’d faced them often enough: on the streets and in hell. She knew how they worked. And yet, there was something that felt wrong here. Something about the way they had come at her... then stopped. Something about the eyes of the man who had burned. Something didn’t add up.

But apparently it wasn’t her job to ask questions. She rolled her eyes, knowing Zadkiel couldn’t see her... and was alarmed when he cleared his throat loudly behind her.

“Don’t think that because I can’t see you, I don’t know what’s going on in your head. Just to make that clear. Now, can we...?”

“Angels.” Alice sighed, and she set the floor alight.

Fire snaked along the stone; the candles flared as their flames clung to the walls, spreading up and out and along until the whole of the corridor was an inferno.

The angels stepped back from the arched doorway, forced back by the heat. Even Mallory was driven back, although not for one second did he take his eyes off the flames.

When Alice walked out of the corridor, the fire closing like a curtain behind her, the first thing she saw was the look of relief on Mallory’s face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR This Aspect of Iron

IF ALICE THOUGHT the corridor was bad, the place Michael had called the ‘scriptorium’ was worse. And it was hot. Unbearably hot. Turning the corner into it was like walking straight into a hot metal wall. Vin felt it first, spinning back on his heel. “What the fuck...?”

The stone all around them was steaming. Clouds of vapour poured out of the round stone columns which ran in parallel rows down the centre of the room, supporting the vaulted roof. Sunlight streamed through broad arched windows tucked beneath the ceiling, and a huge stone fireplace dominated one end of the room, more than tall enough for an angel to stand in with his wings outstretched. Alice could be fairly confident of that, because she could see one doing just that. He was bringing his sword down onto something furry, something dark; something that writhed beneath him and then went limp as the blade struck home.

Fire clung to the stone ribs of the ceiling, making them glow a deep red. And beneath them, Michael’s choir moved between the columns, their breastplates shining white in the heat. In the midst of it all stood Michael: armoured, his sword raised and his eyes blazing. Flames curled from the tips of his wings and the ends of his hair and his eyes were white-hot with fire, and Alice wondered if that was how she looked. Surely not. She was just Alice, while he was an Archangel, and he moved this way and that – never stopping – his sword slicing through the air like silk. Behind him was another fireplace, the same size, but this one heaped with... piles of fur. They were charred. Alice looked away, but found her eyes drawn back to Michael.

One of the Fallen knelt before him, chin tilted up towards the roof, and Michael’s face as he looked down was completely calm. There was nothing there – no rage, no triumph. Nothing. Just Michael towering over the Fallen with his sword raised. Alice couldn’t move, couldn’t think: all she could do was watch as he whirled around the kneeling figure, a column of flame, stopping behind him and driving his sword, point-down and shining in the heat, into the spine of the defeated Fallen.

There was a sharp cracking sound from somewhere across the room and she whipped around. Mallory was right behind her, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “When we met, I told you that Gabriel would be the last of us. Do you see why?” He pointed to the far corner of the hall, which was alive with white light. Lightning