The demon Beleeze was worried.
Something was happening on the island. If he’d been braver he would have approached his master Simeon and told him that they should just find a safe place.
If he were braver.
The normally horrible weather on the Pacific island was suddenly worse, crackling bolts of a strange energy reaching up from somewhere within the ruins of the mining city to entice the storm’s fury. The clouds grew darker, heavier, dropping closer to the rooftops, as the rain continued to fall in drenching sheets.
Beleeze watched his master standing at the end of the street, gazing up curiously at the odd atmospheric conditions.
He sensed a presence move closer and glanced over to see that Dorian had come to join him. He was tempted to place his arm around her shoulder in comfort, but he restrained himself. That was not behavior befitting a demon of his stature.
“What is he doing?” Dorian asked very quietly.
Beleeze was surprised that she had even uttered the words, but could certainly relate to her curiosity.
“It is not my place to ask,” he answered, just as quietly.
Robert, who had once been called Tjernobog, paced back and forth, muttering beneath his breath. It was obvious that he could sense it as well.
Something was happening.
There came a terrific boom of thunder, so loud that it caused what little glass remained in a nearby building to shatter, falling to the street with the rain.
Beleeze advanced partway down the street, in case his master needed him, but Simeon appeared safe—for now.
The sky had become like night, the energy shooting up from the street beyond and striking the clouds, illuminating them eerily.
It was within that illumination that he saw them: human figures flying up into the storm, to be lost among the clouds.
“It’s what I was afraid of,” Simeon said, finally turning away from the view of the sky to look at Beleeze. “The murder of one’s sire. It must have been a catalyst of sorts.”
Simeon strode past the demon, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Now change is upon them.”
Beleeze followed, as Simeon continued to speak.
“And they are becoming so much more than anyone could have ever dreamed.”
Beleeze practically crashed into his master’s back as Simeon came to an abrupt stop.
“A threat to one and all,” he said.
And as if in response to his master’s words, the sky shook, and just barely audible over the roar of thunder, Beleeze thought he heard the sound of laughter.
“A danger to both Heaven, and Hell,” his master said.
Of that, the demon Beleeze had no doubt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Prosper stumbled from the passage into the freezing rainstorm.
He hated this fucking island more than anything, but it had been Simeon’s choice, and who was he to argue with the mysterious figure.
A chill, surprisingly not caused by the rain dripping down the length of his spine, caused him to shudder.
First, it had been losing track of one of the kids and the chaos that followed. Now, it was the angel Remiel flipping over rocks and getting too close to their business. Prosper could already hear Simeon’s words:
It was a good question—one that he really didn’t have the answer to at the moment. He was too fucking busy trying to keep himself alive.
Thunder boomed so loudly above him that he found himself recoiling from the intensity of the burst. “What the fuck?”
Prosper began to run, the rain falling so hard that it obscured most everything around him. It took him a moment to realize that there weren’t any of the usual security teams present to meet him.
That just made him all the more angry.
The rain was falling harder now—if that was even possible—and Prosper stopped momentarily in the deluge to get his bearings. He placed a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the severity of the storm. He couldn’t remember ever feeling more miserable.
Something moved ahead of him, dark shapes behind a curtain of rain.
“You there!” Prosper called over the hissing downpour.
There was no response, and the fallen angel’s ire rose to an unbridled level as he trudged ahead, hand still shielding his eyes from the heavy rain.
The sky was suddenly filled with a flash of unearthly light. At first he believed it to be lightning from the storm—what else could it be? But something didn’t feel quite right.
Prosper stopped, scanning the tumultuous sky, seeing only fat, billowing storm clouds, like smoke. He waited, curious to see if the strange phenomenon would repeat itself.
Again it happened, the sky lighting up as a snaking tendril of raw, luminescent energy shot up from somewhere ahead of him, to illuminate the sky. Prosper was drawn to the source of the flash, but not before there came another explosion of thunder. The sky grew bright, as if lit up by multiple klieg lights, and for the briefest of moments, before his eyes were seared, he saw . . .
Prosper froze, averting his gaze, rubbing at his stinging eyes. To be sure of what he thought he saw, he again turned his vision skyward.
A figure floated in the air, gazing down at him. He recognized her; she was one of the children. Her name was Mavis.
“What—what are you doing?” he stammered, realizing how foolish the question sounded as it left his mouth.
The girl drifted closer, as if carried by invisible wings on the rain-swept winds.
He heard her laugh then. “Poor Prosper,” she taunted. “Not even enough sense to come in out of the rain.”
Before he had a chance to react, she flew at him like a bullet, snatched him up from the ground, and carried him into the sky—up into the storm.
Prosper saw that they were not alone.
And once again, he knew the power of fear.
Francis had some difficulty opening his eyes.
He’d thought that he would avoid more beatings by mentioning Remy Chandler to Michael, but instead, the Archangel had simply left the dungeon, leaving him alone with Dardariel.
The cold stone floor actually felt good against his swollen face, but he decided to forgo the pleasure to assess his current situation.
He managed to push himself up along the stone wall into a sitting position. Through swollen, blood- encrusted eyes Francis saw that he wasn’t alone.
“Well, look at that,” Montagin said. “You’re alive—your middle name must be Lazarus.”
“You wouldn’t have a couple of Advil on you, would you?” Francis asked, exhausted from the effort of righting himself.
He heard Montagin make a sound of disgust, not even bothering with a reply.
