“You were perfect.” He draped his arm around her and drew her close. “It could have been a little quicker, perhaps, but other than that...”
“Oh.” She hung her head.
“But not to worry. I’m sure next time will be better.” He ruffled her hair and shot a glance over the top of her head towards the others. Handing the knife to Gabriel, he nodded. “And that should be it,” he said.
Lucifer blinked at the window and then – quietly at first, but with increasing energy – he began to laugh.
“MALLORY, WHEN ARE you going to get it through that thick head of yours that it doesn’t matter to Rimmon? It won’t make a blind bit of difference to him. How do you know he doesn’t already realise who he’s got in that chair?”
“I don’t doubt he already knows.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Because I couldn’t save Rimmon from them... but I might be able to save him.” Mallory cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders and his neck. “You wait. You find a way, and you get him out of here.”
“You think he’s going to be able to walk out? Seriously? I’d be shocked if he’s got a single bone that’s not broken. Have you seen him?” Vin hissed.
“I don’t need to see him.”
“But you’ll die for him. That’s veering dangerously close to heroic. And you know how I feel about that kind of thing.”
“What happened to my being a coward?”
“Isn’t it the same thing?” Vin shrugged. He was so matter-of-fact about it that Mallory laughed.
“I think they’re supposed to be the opposite. It’s being brave. Doing the things that are necessary. Like you will, because you know that it needs to be done.”
“Wait... did you just call me heroic?”
“Maybe. Don’t get used to it.”
It wasn’t in anything that Mallory said, or did. It wasn’t in the tone of his voice or the look on his face. It wasn’t even in the fact he might possibly have said something that counted as nice to Vin... but he knew that Mallory had made up his mind. There would be no convincing him otherwise; no talking him down.
Mallory was right. As things stood, there was no other way out of this. Not for him. Watching Rimmon torture and kill his way through a busload of people – just because he could? That would kill Mallory too. But it would be slow, and it would be painful, and it would be his spirit that died first. All that would be left was a shell.
However much he hated the idea on every level, Vin was starting to wonder whether Mallory might be right.
He bit his lip, and hoped that Alice would come.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Transition
ALICE WAS ON the stairs. Again. She was on the stairs, turning over everything Adriel had just told her in her mind, and trying to separate out the useful bits from the typically Adriel-ish mysticism. “I think I preferred him when he was just a slightly creepy undertaker,” she muttered as she stomped down the stairs in search of... anyone.
The roofs were still burning, but the fire showed no sign of spreading, and she wondered if there was more to it than just normal flames. It was Michael’s, after all. What did it look like from the mainland? Was there even anyone to see, and if there was, did they care? If the world really was falling apart around them, would anyone notice the death of a single angel?
The news that Zadkiel was dead, that Gabriel was with the Fallen... she had heard it, and she had understood it – but she couldn’t make herself feel it. Michael’s anger had gone beyond mere rage: it was grief, she knew... and something else.
Fear.
She had felt that, alright. A stab of it, deep inside her, as he had left the room. Right after he had mentioned Lucifer.
They were going to restore Lucifer. The Fallen wouldn’t just be the Fallen any longer. They would be an army, led by two Archangels and reinforced by an entire choir, and the current Angel of Death.
And they had Mallory and Vin.
The day was just getting better and better.
She hurried down the stairs fast enough to make herself dizzy. The stone walls no longer felt cold to the touch: now, they were warm, even on the inside, thanks to the flames outside. Michael had a temper... not that that was news to Alice. A temper, combined with grief, was about the most mindlessly destructive force there was. Alice didn’t need anyone to tell her that: she’d been there. She just hoped that in this case, there was someone around to pick up the pieces.
She turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and stepped out of the doorway into the cloister. There, angels were lining up – as she had expected. What she’d seen earlier was a drill. This was the real thing. This was, as Michael had already said, absolute war. Their armour caught the light of the fire above them, glowing deep red in the fading light. Alice glanced up: she hadn’t noticed, but it was almost dusk, and the deepening blue sky was slashed across with red and pink.
She thought back to her first sight of the priory, from the shore of the village they called Medea. The sunset had made the roofs look like they were burning then... now, they were.
A dark figure at the far side of the cloister caught her eye; not in armour, like the others. An Earthbound, with sandy hair, ruffled and streaked with dirt. He was dressed in black – including what looked to Alice like a stab-proof vest. A police vest. Castor.
He barely acknowledged her as she crossed the cloister to him, weaving between angels and ducking beneath outstretched wings as they opened. His face was empty, his eyes dull and red-rimmed.
“Castor...?”
There was no reaction.
“Castor, I’m sorry.” Alice put a hand on his arm and he flinched, but then his eyes seemed to come into focus and he looked at her, recognising her at last.
“He’s dead. Zadkiel is dead,” was all he said, and his voice was little more than a rasp.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“He’s gone. I lost him, Alice. I lost him.” It almost looked as though he was going to say something else, but he changed his mind and covered his eyes with his fingers. Alice rested her hand on his arm, wishing there was more she could say, but there was nothing. Behind them, the angels clattered to attention – all swords and plate and feather – and none of them thought to look in the corner. Not one of them saw Castor weep for his Archangel.
A bell rang somewhere nearby, tolling across the cloisters, and the angels fell silent. Alice looked round just as Michael swept into the cloister, his wings folded behind his back. He cocked his head on one side, listening as the last echoes of the bell died away, and then he folded his arms across his chest, armour blazing not with the light of the sunset, but with flame.
“Tonight, the Angelus has rung without Gabriel. You will know by now that he has betrayed us. He has abandoned us; he has turned on us. He has murdered our brother and opened our gates to the damned.”
There was a quiet murmur from the crowd of assembled angels.
“He has broken our trust, and taken what was not his to take. Tonight, we take it back.”
A cheer.
Alice could have sworn she saw the corner of Michael’s mouth twitch... and at that moment, she realised there was suddenly nothing under her hand. Castor had moved. In fact, Castor was now out in the middle of the cloister, striding towards Michael. “Oh, bollocks,” muttered Alice, scrambling after him.
“What about Zak, Michael?” he shouted. “What about vengeance?”
“Vengeance?” Michael asked, raising his voice. Every single pair of eyes was now very definitely on Castor, and Michael’s face broke into a broad smile. “Vengeance was always what Gabriel did best, wasn’t it? I think it’s time we showed him what vengeance really means.”