Reaver

Raphael scoffed. “You want command of an entire flight? You’re barely capable as a battle soldier.”

“I’m more powerful than any battle angel, and you know it.”

“But you can’t follow orders. How are you supposed to lead if you can’t follow?” Metatron sounded almost reasonable. Wrong, but reasonable.

Raphael’s shrewd gaze fixed on Reaver as if stripping him down to his very essence. Reaver actually looked down to make sure he was still clothed in jeans and a navy button-down.

“We appreciate your wanting to help,” Raphael said in the same tone someone might use to pat a child on the head. “But even if we did decide to rescue Harvester, you’d be the last person we’d send. She hated Yenrieth. She’d be more likely to hand you over to Satan than let you rescue her.”

Reaver frowned. “But she gave up her wings for his—my—children. Why would she do that if she hated me?”

Raphael’s mouth puckered like he’d licked a rotten lemon. “I’ve wondered the same thing.” He waved his hand, dismissing the subject and Reaver. “We’ll take it from here.”

“You can’t do this—”

Raphael waved his hand again, and Reaver’s voice cut out. “We can do whatever we want.”

Screw you. Reaver hoped they could read his mind.

“Don’t even think about rescuing Harvester,” Metatron said. “You won’t make it out of Sheoul, and even if you do, we’ll take your memory from you again, but not before raining fire down on you with such force that you’ll beg for death.”

Normally, at this point he’d flare his wings out in defiance. Or flip them the not-so-holy bird. But if there was ever a time when Reaver needed to exercise control and feign compliance, now was it.

However, playing nice didn’t mean he had to roll over like a chastised puppy. “Can I at least have my memory back?”

He was tired of no one remembering him, tired of not remembering anything beyond the last thirty years. He’d only recently pieced some bits of his past together, but there were still far too many holes in his angelic timeline. If he could just get some of that back maybe he could finally feel whole. His memory loss had always bothered him, but after learning that he was a father—to the Four Horsemen, no less—getting his past back had become a priority. How could he be a good father if he didn’t know why he’d abandoned them for five thousand years in the first place?

Not to mention the fact that as the Horsemen’s father, it was he who was fated to break their Seals to begin the biblical Apocalypse, one of the last measures meant to stop Satan in the final days of the prophesied war between Heaven and hell.

“No,” Metatron said. “And stop asking.” He strode over to Revenant and nudged him with a toe as he lay on his side. Reaver wished the archangel would give the evil Watcher a swift kick in the ribs.

“Reaver.” Raphael’s voice was hushed as he pressed an object into Reaver’s palm. “I mean it. Stay out of Sheoul.” He joined Metatron, leaving Reaver to check out Raphael’s gift.

His breath caught when he saw the grape-sized rough crystal in his hand. He’d seen only one in his thirty years of memories, and that one was in his possession, lifted off Gethel a few months back.

He ran his thumb over the sheoulghul, a device that allowed angels to charge their powers in places angels couldn’t normally access a charge.

Like Sheoul.

But why would Raphael give him something like this? Did he want Reaver to go after Harvester?

Well, well. Weren’t archangels full of surprises. Reaver had no doubt the guy would deny helping Reaver in any way, but for now, he was going to take it as a sign.

A sign that pointed straight to hell.

Two

That hell was all fire and brimstone was a common misconception, and while there most certainly were areas of blistering heat and flames fifty stories tall, Harvester thought the freezing cold was much worse.

But that was because she was in a torture chamber whose blizzard-like atmosphere froze her lungs with every breath. Not that taking breaths was easy, given that she was facedown and being pressed between two blocks of ice.

Tomorrow she might be back in the fires, or she’d be tossed into a pit full of ravenous hellhounds, or she’d be impaled on a thick pole and put on display in Satan’s living room, where anyone who entered could do whatever they wished to her.

Those were the most pleasant of the thousands of scenarios she could be faced with.

She marshaled all her strength to take a breath, but what little air she took in felt like it consisted of tiny razor blades. Blood splashed from her nose and mouth, freezing almost instantly on her lips and skin.

A prickling sensation stung her neck muscles, which should have been frozen solid, and she knew she was no longer alone.

“Harvesssster.” Venom, one of Satan’s Torture Marshals, spoke in his silky, snakey voice. The yellow-skinned bastard’s shuffling footsteps came closer. “It’s time to move you.”

A shiver went through her. She hoped he’d move her to a cell where she’d get a few hours of rest and some food, but that happened so rarely that hoping was akin to dreaming. Most likely, she was in for more misery.

“On a ssscale of one to one hundred, I’ll bet your desssire to die is clossse to one hundred, yesss?”

One hundred? One million would be more accurate.

“Your father wantsss to sssee you.”

No. Oh… no. A single tear formed in her eye, freezing before it could fall.

“He isss having a feassst tonight. You will be the centerpiece on hisss table. Quite an honor.”

Forgive me for not being excited, but last time, I was the predinner entertainment, and then I was part of the meal.

“You also have a visitor.”

Visitor?

Another prickly sensation joined the first, and her gut twisted as a female voice filled the chamber. “Oh, my. You do look awful.”

Gethel. That bitch. The former angel had betrayed Heaven in the worst way, and now, if Harvester’s senses were working properly, it would seem that Gethel was pregnant with Harvester’s half sibling.

Daddy had been busy.

“I wanted to be the first to tell you that I will be giving birth to Lucifer.”

If Harvester could throw up, she would have. But there was nothing in her crushed belly. Lucifer’s rebirth would send shockwaves through Heaven. Literal shockwaves that would cause death and destruction.

“And this is where you come in.” Gethel cleared her throat as if preparing to give a speech. “He’ll be born full-grown. The birth, of course, will kill me, but I’ll die a glorious death, don’t you think?”

Glorious? No. But with any luck Gethel would suffer the way she deserved.

“You, Harvester, will nourish him when he’s born. Instead of milk, he’ll need blood. And instead of being cradled in the arms of his mother, he’ll be cradled between your welcoming thighs. And when he’s finished with you, he will destroy everything you hold dear. The Horsemen. Their children.” Her voice dropped to a low growl. “Reaver.”

That was where Gethel was wrong. Harvester did not hold Reaver dear. She hated him, and if she never saw him again it would be too soon. Okay, yes, she’d always been fiercely attracted to him and certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed for picking his teeth with bones, but she still hated him.

He’d stirred those dual desires from the day they’d met at Ares’s Greek manor. He’d been assigned as the Horsemen’s Heavenly Watcher shortly before Reseph’s Seal broke and initiated the demon bible’s apocalyptic prophecy. He’d flashed onto Ares’s beach, and Harvester had zapped him with a bolt of lightning before he’d fully materialized.

“Who are you?” Harvester stood, feet glued to the sand, stunned at her own actions. She’d sensed his arrival and her first instinct had been to strike. Sure, she’d always been one to shoot first and ask questions later, but she wasn’t usually this quick on the draw.

The newcomer angel peeled himself off one of the many ancient stone columns that dotted Ares’s island, his charred T-shirt trailing wisps of smoke and his sapphire eyes seething. With a snap of his fingers he returned fire, nailing her between the eyes with some sort of invisible sledgehammer.

Crushing pain nearly knocked her to her knees. Bastard. She threw another bolt at him, but he was ready, and he wheeled gracefully out of the way.

“Knock it off!” he yelled. “You’re Harvester, right?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe.” Damn, he was hot. Smoking hot. Literally. His jeans were still smoldering.

“I’m Reaver. Gethel’s replacement.” He strode toward her, and the closer he got, the more she wanted to light him up again.

Something about him pissed her the hell off, and she had to wonder if they’d met in battle in the past. Had to be a battle, because she’d have remembered a one-on-one meeting with him.

Or a one-on-one anything.

She held up her hand. “Stop now or I’ll fry you to a crisp.” Tiny streaks of lightning danced between her fingers, poised to make her threat a reality.

He blatantly, infuriatingly, took two more steps, ignoring her warning before halting just out of arm’s reach. “Why did you attack me?”

“You’re a stranger.”

“A stranger? You’re kidding, right? Because it’s not like I zapped in here with candy and a white van with blacked-out windows.” He stepped closer, and she turned up the electric charge in her hand. “Also, you aren’t twelve. So why did you attack me?”

“How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to attack me? It’s not like angels pop out of thin air all the time just to wish me a nice day.”

His full lips twisted into a sneer. “Don’t f**k with me again, Fallen.”

Fallen. Of all the insults he could throw at her, of all the vile slurs, he chose the only one that really stung. The only one that struck her like a physical blow. All other cheap barbs rolled off her back because they were either ridiculous or true. But this one… she’d fallen from grace to help superior asshats like the angel standing before her, and she was tired of putting up with holier-than-thou self-importance from dicks like him.