The battle for hell had not gone as Michael had hoped, something he blamed largely on Gabriel and his little favourite, Gwyn. Gwyn, he had taken care of; Gabriel was proving to be more problematic. Against his better judgement, Michael had offered him the chance to earn his wings back; he had initially jumped at the chance, but as the days passed, Gabriel grew more and more restless. Recently, he’d moved on from simply grumbling about his punishment to accusing Michael of tricking him, of giving him an impossible task and condemning him to an eternity of hopeless servitude. That little outburst had earned him a week in a windowless cell several floors below ground, giving him a chance to consider the exact meaning of ‘eternity’ and ‘hopeless.’ Needless to say, he had returned refreshed and reinvigorated. And quiet. It hadn’t lasted...
Michael turned away from the window and back to the room. It was large and stone-built, with narrow windows on three sides giving views over the coast below, and a heavy table pushed against one wall, piled high with papers. Several wooden chairs with curved backs were lined up in front of it; the only other furnishing was an ornate seat carved from stone, set on a dais to one side of the room.
“And what is it you would have me do, Zak? Hmm?”
“I want you to be clear about the risks. Reuniting Lucifer, body and soul...” The angel sitting on the lower step of the dais shook his head and held up his hands. “But why would you listen to me?”
“Don’t push your luck.” Michael scowled, and Zadkiel eased himself to his feet and strode towards him. He had deep lines etched into his forehead and hooded eyes, but his face was round, and somehow soft. Zadkiel had been listening to Gabriel speak, rolling a coin across his knuckles thoughtfully, while Michael stared out of the window. Every now and again, he would roll his eyes and chime in, but mostly, he just listened – and because he listened, when he chose to speak, Michael tended to pay attention. Zadkiel was his unofficial lieutenant, the one soul he trusted, and the closest thing he had to a friend.
It was Zadkiel who had taken Michael to task over helclass="underline" over Alice, over Gwyn and Gabriel, and – above all – burning hell itself. “What the fuck, man? What. The. Fuck?” he had shouted, jabbing his fingers into Michael’s shoulder with every word. And Michael had glared at him and spread his burning wings, and Zadkiel had looked him straight in the eye and simply said, “There was a line, back there, and you crossed it. I won’t let you do it again.” And with one more jab, he had walked away.
If it had been anyone else, they would have had to face the full, inescapable weight of Michael’s wrath – but it was Zadkiel, and loyalty had its privileges. And he was loyal. It was Zadkiel who had hauled Lucifer’s body, still imprisoned in its cage of ice, out of the lowest levels of hell. He had followed Michael to war in hell without a word of complaint, and when Michael refused to leave his prisoner in anyone else’s hands, instead of going home, Zadkiel had followed him behind the thick stone walls he’d designed for precisely this purpose.
Which is how Michael found himself in the uppermost room of his earthly stronghold – a fortified priory on an island, linked to the mainland by only the narrowest of causeways, and its lower levels besieged by tourists – along with his closest ally, his greatest enemy (or at least, his enemy’s body, in its cell of unthawing ice) and a recently-Earthbound Archangel having a tantrum.
Michael could think of places he would rather be.
ZADKIEL STEPPED PAST Michael and leaned out of the window, his hands wrapped around the edges of the frame. He looked straight down at the people below. It was a running joke among the angels: the constant coming and going of the crowds had led some of them to nickname the place “No Man’s Land,” although they were careful never to say it too loudly around Michael. He was proud of his island, and had interfered in its construction until he was happy with it. “If they’re going to name the place after me, I might as well have some say in it,” he had said. And they did, and he had... and the final result was as defensible as it was beautiful, and they had called it Mont Saint-Michel. As for the visitors below, as far as they were concerned, this was somewhere to take photos and buy postcards; where the guided tours ran every thirty minutes in seven different languages. There were fewer of them lately, the tourists, far fewer, and those who did come seemed distracted. Quiet. Subdued. Desperate. It wouldn’t be long before there were none at all, and the streets would stand empty.
When the world was as it should be, they came like a tide, sweeping through the steep streets below the priory – streets cluttered with restaurants and souvenir shops selling statues supposedly of Michael (which were a source of never-ending amusement for Zak) – and just like the sea they retreated soon enough, never questioning why a couple of hours in a place like that should leave them feeling so different... never knowing what hid in plain sight above and among them. He walked among them, sometimes, looking like any other man, with his hands in his pockets. He listened to their memories as they drifted past. He watched lovers walking hand-in-hand through the winding alleyways or along the walls, and if anyone should happen to see him, he would smile and nod, and turn away before they could see the sudden sadness in his eyes.
Whether there were many or few, Zadkiel walked among them, and he listened. Above all, he listened... and lately, he did not like what he had heard.
“Just how long are you willing to wait?” he asked.
“As long as it takes,” said Michael.
“We might not have that long.” Zadkiel pulled himself back inside, and sat on the windowsill, looking at Michael. “You may have his body, but his mind’s still loose. The Twelve are still loose...”
“Not all of them.”
“You’re telling me he hasn’t promoted? There’s always Twelve, Michael. Always will be.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And all the while they’re out there, their influence is growing. I can feel it.”
“Nonsense. You’re starting to sound like Raphael...”
“Did it ever occur to you he might be right?”
“We’ve never been so close. Don’t you understand, Zak? The war would be over. Forever.”
“And as I keep trying to tell you, look at what he’s doing without his body: what do you think Lucifer could do if we force him back into it?”
“Without his mind, his body is of no use to me.”
“And locked up, it’s of no use to him. He’s not stupid, Michael. How do you know he couldn’t go right back in there if he saw any value in it?”
“No,” Michael rubbed his chin, scuffing his foot against one of the steps. “He’s cut himself free. He thinks he’ll be safe. Thinks he can hide.”
“He’s not hiding. The things they’re doing... the hold they’ve got...” Zadkiel frowned, closing his eyes, and the lines on his face deepened. “The things these people remember, Michael. The things they’ve seen. The Fallen aren’t running. They’re taunting us. The war’s not over, it just escalated. I didn’t even know that was possible! They’re not content with the scraps any longer. They want it all. And we’ve made sure that they have absolutely nothing to lose.”
“There’s always something for them to lose.”
“You sure about that?” Zadkiel glanced back over his shoulder and out of the window. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like the only ones with something to lose are us. And them.” He jerked his head back at the window. “All I’m asking is that you consider how much you’re prepared to sacrifice for the sake of being right.”