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Authors: Heather Killough-Walden

Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (42 page)

BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
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There was no answer from Azrael, however.
Uriel called out to him again.
Still nothing.
Uriel stood in the middle of the sectioned-off street and turned in a quick circle. All around him, people had hit the deck when the first bullets were fired. Some were injured. A few had been shot; others had been wounded by trampling and panicked attempts at escape. The sirens were just down the block now. The injured might survive.
Suddenly, a hard spike of sound and sensation ripped through Uriel’s mind and body.
Uriel!
It was Azrael. It was a warning—and a cry for help.
Another shot rang out through the air, but this time the bullet found its mark in Uriel’s chest.
The impact was impossibly violent. Uriel had been shot many times in the past. He’d lived through countless wars. He’d suffered spear wounds, knife wounds, arrow wounds, gunshot wounds, grenade blasts, shrapnel injuries, concussions, fractured bones, and every other known manmade injury.
But no human could forge a weapon like this. Uriel looked down to find that his chest cavity had been turned black as night. His heart felt heavy and cold and—
wrong
. Then, before his eyes, he saw his body shimmer and shift. He felt sick.
He had never felt sick before. Not like this. He doubled over to vomit, but nothing came up. Instead, he fell forward, onto his hands and knees amid the terrified stares of his various adoring fans.
He tried to breathe, but his lungs would not expand. His entire midsection had been turned into one immobile, solid mass. It was as if he’d been petrified. The world tilted around him and became fuzzy around the edges. He toppled onto his side and gazed up at the streetlights and the stars in the dark sky beyond them.
A face moved into view, coming into brief focus.
The face was smiling down at Uriel. It was a handsome face. It blurred and Uriel’s world went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 
W
hoomp . . .
Whoomp . . .
The sound was low and slow and hollow and it surrounded Uriel on all sides. It was all there was in his world at that moment—just the sound. It came again. And again.
Whoomp . . .
And then, finally, the sound was not alone; it was paired with a faint reddish light that expanded and contracted. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Then came the third sensation. When it arrived, Uriel instantly wished that it hadn’t and that he could remain in the world of sound and sight alone.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
The voice was so loud, it echoed in Uriel’s ears and filled in the spaces in his brain.
He tried to speak, but failed. He couldn’t feel any part of his body but his chest, and that was in agony.
“I know,” the voice continued. “An unfortunate side effect of shard guns is that they do not kill their victims. Death, in this instance, is the preferable choice for the one who has been shot.”
Shut up,
Uriel thought. The man’s voice was driving him mad. Or maybe it was the pain. His chest was de-solidifying, and as it did, he felt as if he’d been drowning and was now coming up for air. The moment when his lungs finally expanded after having been denied air for far too long was so intense, it almost knocked him out again.
“Not to worry,” the man said. “It’s almost over.”
He was right. Uriel hated that he was right—whoever he was. He hated the fact that the stranger knew what was happening and was so obviously in control. It only added to Uriel’s suffering.
“In about thirty seconds, you’ll be capable of speech, which is good, because I have a number of questions to ask you.” There was a scraping sound, like someone moving furniture across a concrete floor. Then there was a bright whiteness behind the red glow that had been ebbing and receding behind Uriel’s closed lids.
Now he could feel that he was bound; his wrists were manacled and the metal was biting into his skin. At the moment, the sensation was not painful enough to override the throbbing in his chest.
He inhaled and exhaled, and with each breath that felt like nerve gas in his lungs, he became more aware of his position. He was not lying down, but was propped up in a vertical position. His booted feet were not touching the floor. His entire weight rested on the metal of the manacles around his wrists.
They were hurting a little more now, even as his lungs and heart began to hurt less.
“Is the pain passing?” the man asked.
Uriel knew that he expected an answer; it was a test to see whether he was yet capable of speech. But he didn’t exactly feel like cooperating with his captor. He remained silent.
“Very well. I’ll assume that you’re ready to talk.”
The light intensified and Uriel found himself blinking rapidly. His eyes were open now; light flooded in, blurring his vision and spearing his head with a new pain. His tongue was dry and felt overly large in his mouth. And there was that wooziness again. It was an entirely new and highly uncomfortable sensation for the archangel.
He thought of the weapon that they—whoever
they
were—had used on him and his brothers. What the hell could possibly have done this to them?
“How many of your kind are you aware of here on Earth?” the man asked.
Uriel could make out a vague outline of his captor now. He was tall and muscular; in the darkness his outline looked like Azrael’s. His hair was black, but cut short. If Uriel had to guess, he would say this was the same man who had stood over him outside the theater just before he’d passed out.
Uriel continued to ignore the man. He concentrated on his body instead. It was hard to do otherwise. He was getting what he knew humans called a full-fledged migraine. Though he had never personally suffered one before, it was easy to recognize. It shot through the right side of his brain and there were only so many kinds of headaches that could hurt this much.
“I had thought we were alone here,” the man continued, almost conversationally. His tone had dropped and his voice was softer now, as if he were reminiscing. “For so long, we’ve been alone. Then came Eleanore . . . and now you.” He took hold of the back of a metal-backed chair, spun it around, and then sat down, draping his arms carelessly over the top. “So I’ll ask you again. How many of you are there?”
“Billions,” Uriel replied, deciding that the man could go and fuck himself. “Billions and billions of us.” His voice cracked a little as pain punished him for speaking.
His captor laughed. It was a deep, genuine chuckle of amusement.
“I take it the other three at the gala were your comrades,” he ventured, ignoring Uriel’s smart-assed response. “And, from their descriptions, I’ll even wager a guess as to their names—and yours.”
He stood then and Uriel got a better look at him. He was, indeed, as tall as Azrael, looking about six feet and five inches. He appeared to be around thirty years of age. He looked strong and hard, and there was an edge to him that reminded Uriel of a human dagger.
He was dressed in combat boots, black army fatigue pants, and a black T-shirt that stretched taut over his arms and chest. There were no markings anywhere on his clothing or body that gave away who he worked for or where, in the world, Uriel was at that moment.
The man moved around the chair and came to stand in front of Uriel, who was strapped to a thick metal “X” using welded-on restraints. They must not have been normal iron or steel; Uriel had already attempted to transform them, to bend them, and even to break them with his mind. His powers were useless against them.
“You’re the four favorites, aren’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. Uriel didn’t bother to respond.
The man went on, undaunted. “The blond was Michael,” he stated, his gaze locking on Uriel’s and holding it fast.
Uriel noticed that his blue eyes were, curiously, as blue as Michael’s. Uncannily similar.
“The Old Man’s number one is easy to recognize. There’s a sense of seriousness about him that borders on comical.” The man’s expression was not quite a smirk. It was more a small smile of genuine amusement.
Uriel could see that this man had charisma in spades. There was a spark to the blue in his eyes, a charming and intelligent bent to his features. Uriel assumed he was the leader. Of
what
, he had no idea.
“The one with the brogue is Gabriel, I’d wager. The Old Man’s Messenger
would
be the one to acquire a discernible accent. And, by process of elimination, that would make the dark one who gave us so much trouble Azrael.” The man looked down, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned away to pace slowly across the small metal-lined room.
Uriel was alert enough now to take in his surroundings. No windows. One door. Everything was constructed of the same metal that bound him to the cross. One table. One chair. One ultrabright lamp—and his black-clad captor.
“And you, of course, are the Angel of Vengeance. Or, should I say
former
Angel of Vengeance?” He turned and leveled a somewhat weary, knowing smile on Uriel. “Which is it, Uriel?”
There was a long, silent beat where neither of them spoke, and their gazes could have burned each other to ash.
“Who are you?” Uriel finally asked. He was no longer able to contain his curiosity.
The man ignored his question. “How did she get away from us tonight?” he asked. His tone had lowered a touch; the question was obviously important to him.
Uriel swallowed past the dry, painful spot in his throat and thought of the horrible thing he’d done to his archess. If this man wasn’t aware of what had transpired, then there might still be hope. It was possible that he didn’t know about Samael at all.
“I didn’t expect you to tell me,” his captor said. “But I assume it has something to do with another of her abilities. It must have been how she avoided us in Rockdale, as well.”
Uriel frowned. Rockdale?
What’s he talking about, now?
“She is, indeed, an amazing woman. There’s so much we could learn from her.”
“Who the
hell
are you?” Uriel asked again, this time fairly growling with the pent-up wrath he was feeling. Pain was edging his words, making them sharp, and reducing him to his basic instincts. He needed to know who his enemy was.
So that he could kill him later.
The man’s blue gaze narrowed slightly. He watched Uriel for some time, as if carefully considering his reply. Then he took a quick breath, let it out with a sigh, and leaned against the metal table, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He stared down at the floor as he quietly spoke. “We’re a practice round, I guess you would say. I’m a rough draft.” He laughed bitterly, if softly, and Uriel’s stomach dropped, his world once more falling out from under him. Somehow, he knew what was coming next.
“There was something the Old Man saw in you that he did not see in me. Nor in my brothers. We were incomplete, the lot of us. Not quite right. I was the first.”
Uriel swallowed and licked his dry lips. “The first what?”
“The first archangels. He
tried
with us—but got it right with you. We were disposed of.” He glanced around and gestured to the room, as if gesturing at the entire world beyond. “Sent
here
.” His eyes narrowed then and he cocked his head slightly to one side. “Tell me—what’s your excuse? We heard rumors that the four of you had come to Earth. But we dismissed it as nothing more than gossip. Until now.”
Uriel could barely digest what he was hearing. There were other archangels? Before he and his brothers?
Imperfect
archangels?
Disposed of?
It was incomprehensible. The Old Man had punished Lilith by sending her to Earth. And he’d sent the archesses to Earth in order to protect them. Uriel and his brothers had elected to come down and look for them. Samael had chosen to follow them down. But the Old Man hadn’t ever
disposed
of anyone or
destroyed
anything. He wasn’t like that. Not really.
Was he?
It was something Uriel could not wrap his head around. Why would the Old Man need a rough draft?
“What do you call yourself?” Uriel asked.
“Kevin.” The man laughed softly. “At least now I do. General Kevin Trenton,” he supplied coolly. “But I was once known as Abraxos.”
Kevin . . . Uriel’s brow furrowed as memories flitted through his head. Eleanore—standing beside the door to the garage in the mansion, telling him about her first crush. A boy on a street corner. It had been a boy with black hair and blue eyes . . . tall and strong. A boy named Kevin.
Kevin Trenton.
Jesus,
he thought. “You’re the kid she fell for in high school. The kid on the street corner,” he gritted. But how could that be? If what this man was saying was true, he was an archangel. Archangels were never children.
BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
6.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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