Rebellion

They stood there: Rimmon laughing, his teeth painted red and a coil of stained rope hanging from his shoulder... Mallory, his arm almost pulled from its socket, his weight on his back foot and pure rage in his eyes.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Rimmon rubbed the swelling bridge of his nose. “We can restore Lucifer, and we will. Soon. He’ll wipe the floor with the lot of you: angels, half-borns, humans. It won’t matter. He’s like a tidal wave. Like a storm. Unstoppable. We will bring hell to this world you fought so hard to protect, Mallory, and there will be no end to the suffering we create.” Rimmon wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. “But you could stop it. All you have to do is agree to join us. Things could go back to the way they were.”

“We’ve already had this conversation. And my answer’s still the same. Go fuck yourself. Lucifer too.”

“There’s that ego again. Still, it’s all very well when it’s just you at stake, but what about when it’s someone else who has to take the fall – so to speak?” He looked pointedly at Toby, still tied to his chair and shivering. “I’ve got some things to do. You know how it is: people to see... busy, busy, busy. But I’ll be back. And then we’ll see if I can interest you in changing your mind.”

Rimmon winked at Mallory, laughing as he went through the door. It slammed behind him, and a moment later, the light snapped off.

Mallory sank to the floor, his head pounding and his heart breaking in the darkness.

VIN HEARD THE footsteps pass his door, and pressed himself back against the wall. Like it would do any good. But the footsteps did not stop: they carried on – almost jauntily – down the corridor outside.

He wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or not.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he turned his attention back to the hinges of the cell door.

At first, he hadn’t been sure it would work: after all, other than the gate the Fallen had built across the mouth of hell – which was its own special case, all things considered – he hadn’t exactly tried to use his gift on much beyond the Fallen themselves. But if it had worked on the Bone-Built Gate... and considering the way the last Fallen he faced had not just turned to stone, but imploded in a shower of dust, he liked the odds.

The first hinge had taken what felt like months. It could only have been hours, but with no way to gauge the passing of time, he couldn’t be sure. It was rusted and half-seized, and that gave him hope. If he couldn’t destroy the hinges, perhaps he could still damage them.

One way or another, he was getting out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Mercy Seat

ALICE WAS STILL searching for an answer when Michael’s head snapped up, eyes alight once more, as though he had heard a sudden sound.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Really.”

“Stay here...” And just like that, he was gone in a swirl of flame.

“So I’ll just wait then, yeah?” Alice shouted at the empty air. There wasn’t a door: the only way in or out seemed to be by angel-express. “Bloody angels,” she sighed. It was something she was saying far too often, and she was getting tired of it. Michael’s little speech had caught her off-guard, and she still wasn’t sure what it had meant. It was either a profession of undying love – doubtful, admittedly – or a confession he needed her help. He wasn’t ordering her; he was asking her. Which was new.

Without the Archangel, the library was even quieter. He obviously had a thing about giving her lectures in libraries, she thought, remembering the first time they had met. Perhaps he thought it lent him some kind of gravitas. Like he needed that. But there was something special about the place... and surrounded by the books and the scrolls and the piles of paper, she was aware of the sound of her breathing, of the sound of her heart. Above her and around her, the scroll of names wheeled and the war went on... and something was very, very wrong in Michael’s fortress.

She could feel it now: it wasn’t an ache, exactly. More like a dull pressure behind her eyes. It was like nothing she had ever felt before – either before or after she had realised she could feel the pain of others. It didn’t stab, didn’t scratch. It was a fist, clad in iron and steel and pressing up against the inside of her skull, pushing to be let out. She frowned and rubbed at her temple, and stared up at the list of names on the wall.

Each symbol was a name. There had to be tens, hundreds of thousands. Each one an angel. A death.

A death for which Mallory still blamed himself.

“You always have to make it about you, don’t you?” she muttered, and would have said more if she hadn’t been distracted by a small trickle of dust falling from the ceiling high above...

“What...” said Alice, holding her hand out. Tiny white flecks began to collect in the curve of her palm, and she looked up. As she looked, squinting against the ache in her head, there was a grinding sound, and the whole room shook. It was almost enough to knock her off her feet, and she threw out an arm to catch herself, knocking a pile of books off a table as she did. The shower of dust became a torrent, white, sparkling flecks pouring down around her, and the names carved into the wall above her began to burn. One by one, the symbols flared into life, the lines carved into the stone filling with fire and glowing a hot orange; each symbol shining in turn until the circle was complete. A band of fire with no end and no beginning. The shaking stopped, and Alice pulled herself up, away from the table she’d been clinging to, and stepped into the middle of the library.

No wonder the room had shaken: running across the dome, from one side to another, was a huge crack. The shadows cast by the flames on the walls danced across it like clouds, transforming it into a break in the sky.

“Michael?” Her voice bounced back to her. “Michael!”

The fire in the walls blazed higher, and her head throbbed harder and harder.

“Michael...”

There was a sound somewhere behind her: a sound like whispering voices, and Alice knew who was there before she turned and saw the black wings.

“Come with me,” said Adriel, and the world pitched and spun and went dark.

WHATEVER ADRIEL DID to get her out of the library, it did not help Alice’s head. In fact, not only did it not help, it made her want to throw up, which wasn’t exactly a step in the right direction. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, slowly, driving out each breath like she meant it. When she was relatively confident she wasn’t going to be sick on anyone’s shoes, she opened her eyes.

She was in the room at the top of Mont Saint-Michel again – the room with the throne. And through the windows, the mount was burning. Flames raged across the roofs, along the walls, through the streets below; they bounced from building to building. Somewhere, a bell was ringing wildly, and Michael sat on the dais at the foot of the throne, his head in his hands, as he wept.

Alice glanced at Adriel, who shook his head. “Zadkiel is dead,” he said gently.

“Zadkiel.” Alice thought she must have misheard, but Adriel nodded. “Oh,” she said, and stared at the floor.

“Zadkiel is dead, and we are betrayed,” murmured Michael, wiping his hand across his face as he gathered himself together.

“You knew that, though. The betrayed bit, at least.”

“But now I know by whom.”

“And that would be...?”

“Gabriel.”

“You’re kidding me.” Alice gaped at him. Gabriel?

“Gabriel murdered Zak, and has betrayed us all.” Michael turned his back on Alice and Adriel and stared out of the window, down over the roofs where his grief burned out of control.