“Michael.” Mallory’s voice was flat.
“You’ve brought me Xaphan, I hear?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So I gather. You understand it’s a trap?”
“I had a feeling it might be.” Mallory nodded.
Alice twitched. “A trap?”
“What would I want with the girl’s brother?” Michael asked. “Have you ever known me to be that petty?”
“So you don’t have him?”
“Oh, no. He’s here. But as my guest, not my prisoner.”
Hearing this, Vin brightened. “Where is he?”
“In his rooms, I imagine. As I say, he’s not a prisoner and he is free to come and go as he pleases. Zadkiel brought him in. He was helping me with something.”
“With what?” Alice asked with a sinking feeling.
“With you, obviously.” Michael replied, looking straight at her. “He was helping me find a way to convince you to come here. Which, apparently, he’s done. And which begs the question of what exactly Xaphan is up to. Tricky, tricky Xaph.” He glanced at Zadkiel. “They’re secure?”
“Brother Phillip has them.”
“Good. I don’t like the timing, but in that case I don’t think there’s too much to worry about. You doubled the guard?”
“Twice.”
“Mmmm.”
“I had a suggestion.” For the first time since she had met him, Alice thought Zadkiel sounded unsure of himself.
“I know what you’re going to say, Zak. The answer’s no.”
“But if you reinstate the Earthbounds...”
“I said no.”
“Tactically, it gives us the numbers.”
“Enough! I said no!” Fire erupted from the floor between Michael and Zadkiel, and everyone jumped back, apart from Zadkiel, who simply rolled his eyes.
“Why do you have to be so pigheaded, Michael? Always.”
“Because I make the rules. Not you.” Michael spat back. “And they’ve always served well enough before.”
“This isn’t like before though, is it? And you know it.” Zadkiel was shouting now, jabbing his finger angrily at Michael. “This isn’t like anything that’s come before.”
“And, given that it’s like nothing that’s come before, you’re basing your theory that sheer weight of numbers will save us on... what, exactly?” Michael snapped
“On nothing! On hope, alright? Is that what you want to hear?” Zadkiel snapped back, kicking out at the air in frustration.
The flames on the floor died down, and Michael sighed. “I understand, Zak. I do. But this is my responsibility.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Finally, Zadkiel said, “Don’t mistake responsibility for martyrdom, Michael,” and turned on his heel, leaving them. They heard his boots echoing down the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said to no-one in particular. “As you can see, things are a little... tense. Zak’s – Zadkiel’s – instincts are good, but he’s overlooking the most basic fact. Lucifer knows exactly how we think. He knows every move we will make before we make it. He knows that if I reinstate the Earthbounds, our numbers will outweigh his; why do you think he’s been so busy with the world? A nudge here, a whisper there... and he has the humans rushing towards their baser nature, tipping the balance in his favour.” He opened his arms as if to illustrate his point. “Everything I do, he can predict. But it cuts both ways. He knows us, but I know him. We know them. If he has set a trap, with the balance against us, it’s almost inevitable that sooner or later, it will work. Which is why we’re doing it the short way.”
“You wanted to see how it pans out.” Alice couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. It almost made sense, but not quite. But then, it was Michael saying it.
“Exactly. You bringing Xaphan here: it happened because Lucifer wanted it to happen. What I want to know is why.” He shrugged. “And the quickest way to find out is to let things follow their natural course.”
“What then?” asked Mallory. His face had settled into an expression Alice could only describe as ‘stony.’ “What if things don’t play out how you expected they would? What if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’m wrong. But tell me, Mallory: what choice do I have?” Michael paced the floor. “I have Lucifer’s body, but his mind is adrift. Any prison I build for him, he turns to his advantage: I locked him in hell, he made it a sanctuary; I lock him up here, he mocks me from the shoreline. He turns humanity against itself and gains power from the chaos while my army fights in vain. He openly walks in the world while we remain hidden, and he takes and he takes and he takes, and I... will... not... lose.”
“There’s always choices, Michael. You don’t need me to tell you that. Are you sure you’re making the right ones?”
“Ever the philosopher, Mallory.” Michael stared out of the window and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I can see why she listens to you.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“Mmm. We’ll see.” He brightened. “But all this is irrelevant. We think we’ve found it. The way to bind him.”
“And then what?”
“Then we destroy Lucifer... and every single one of the Fallen with him.” Michael turned away from the window and back to face them, and his eyes were white-hot with fire. “Lucifer wants absolute war. I’m only too happy to oblige.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Run, Brother
THE FIRST THE Quartermaster heard of it was the bell. Not the bells of the priory or the smaller church lower on the island, but a hand-bell, rung hard and fast, and then dropped with a clatter. Phillip looked up from his workbench and muttered something under his breath. That was the alarm bell. And it could mean only one thing.
He ran to the door of his workshop, tucked beneath the little chapel in the cemetery, and wrenched it open. The graveyard was as tranquil as ever; there was no sign of life. But he could hear running footsteps, shouting. Screams. Without thinking, he ducked back into his workshop and snatched up Mallory’s guns. He threw them into the middle of a cloth on the table and hastily wrapped them up, before throwing them into a green holdall, along with several boxes of bullets. Slinging the holdall onto his shoulder, he leaned over the table and took hold of one of the stones of the wall. Mortar crumbled under his fingernails as he tugged and worked at the edges of the stone. Something lay in the gloomy space behind: something slender, wrapped in a dirty rag. He hesitated, and then added it to his haul. Without another look back, he slammed the door behind him and raced through the graveyard; his feet crunched on the gravel, and he ran as though the devil was behind him.
As far as Phillip was concerned, he was.
THERE WAS SHOUTING, and the sound of more running feet; the howl of a wind that had sprung from nowhere, screaming through the streets and slamming into the ancient walls. Phillip wound his way through the buildings of Mont Saint-Michel, the first plumes of oily black smoke curling up from the island beneath him. And still he ran.
He had reached the bottom of a broad flight of steps, overarched by enormous granite buttresses, when he saw the first of the guards. Three of them lay strewn across the steps, their bodies broken, their wings torn and lifeless. Blood seeped out from beneath them, trickling into a pool almost at his feet. Phillip stared at them. “Forgive me,” he whispered, looking into the dead eyes below him, then stepped over them, lifting his habit clear of their blood. He clutched his bag and ran up the steps two at a time.