CHAPTER 4
Rook flew low over the enormous prison, rolling left and right to avoid the jagged spires of black that rose from the sprawling high-walled building to form towers where the more rowdy and uncooperative of his master’s captives were held.
He scanned the courtyard and the cells on the ravine side of the main building where one wall was missing, leaving the prisoners with the choice of attempting to escape.
The Devil did enjoy seeing how many of his captives would risk falling into the river of lava that snaked around the prison, seduced by the thought of being free.
So far, no one had made it out alive that way.
Maybe he should bring his master here. He was sure it would lift his mood. The Devil had been twitchy again today, more mercurial than usual. He had called Rook in for another round of questioning, going over his encounter with Apollyon and Einar all over again. Was his master expecting him to slip up?
It wasn’t going to happen.
The Devil had given him good reason to keep the story he had told him in his report straight and not screw it up when he had arrived shortly after being summoned.
And had found his master in the fortress's courtyard, stood at the top of the broad black steps that led up to the immense doors of the building with both hands covered in blood.
Rook had looked at the bottom of the steps to find three glowing circles on the obsidian slabs.
All that was left of the three angels who had apparently displeased his master and had been returned to Heaven through death at his hands.
Not the end Rook desired for himself, so when he had been questioned in the very spot the males had died, he had spewed the same lies he had on the plateau.
He wasn’t sure his master had bought them. Each time he was summoned, the Devil looked less like he believed him, and more strained. Why? What was plaguing him?
Rook wasn’t the only one who had noticed the Devil was more over the edge than on it these days.
He could count at least a dozen reports of his master sending angels serving him back to Heaven in the signature bright white flashes of light. Hell, he had been on patrol yesterday and had witnessed what had looked like a damned lightning storm near the prison. The Devil must have killed at least thirty of his own men in the span of a few minutes.
No one was sure why.
It wasn’t as if he could stroll up and ask what had him so cranky and quick to kill his own men.
Not without joining their ranks anyway.
The First Commander hoped that Asmodeus could talk their master down. Apparently, the brute had frequently been seen at the fortress over the past few days, since the angel incursion.
Asmodeus had come up with a solution, a way of soothing the Devil’s fury.
The number of angel fatalities was decreasing each day, so the monster had to be doing something right. Rook hoped that was a good sign, because he was tiring of the duty that had been assigned to his squadron.
He swept down and dropped his feet, beat his broad crimson wings as he landed silently outside the prison.
“Are we sure it’s enough?” Rook looked over today’s offering.
Four scantily dressed mortal females huddled together on the black ground in front of his commander. A smattering of demons had been gathered too. Their sickly yellow gazes darted around as they stood off to one side, grouped so close together their dark scales blended to make them look like one demon with a hundred eyes.
“I hope so.” His commander cast his grey gaze over the females in particular. “The men brought back an assortment today. They should appease one appetite while the demons will satisfy the other.”
Rook hoped the Devil knew what to do with which. It seemed a shame to kill perfectly good females and disturbing to bed the demons.
“Take them.” His commander signalled to the men guarding the humans and they nodded, grabbed a shrieking female each, and took flight.
Four more angels prodded the group of demons with their spears, forcing them to move.
“I’m going to take another look around and then head back to camp.” Rook spread his wings.
His commander didn’t take his eyes off the demons that were being led away. “I need you back within the hour. The Devil wants us to deal with some demons in the northern mountains, and you need to rest.”
Rook nodded, kicked off and beat his wings, lifting into the air. He didn’t want to rest. He needed to keep active or he ended up in his quarters, staring at the drawing of the witch.
Isadora.
If he could sleep and dream, he was sure she would be waiting there to torment him.
A feeling swirled inside him, pulling his focus to his left, away from the prison.
Speaking of torment.
The damned angel was back.
Rook drew the crimson sword from the sheath hanging at his waist, twisted and shot towards the plateau. He was done with Apollyon. He wouldn’t allow the male to keep entering Hell, a place where he didn’t belong, and certainly wouldn’t allow him to make another attempt to sway him. He was sure it was the angel’s presence and what he had tried to do that had the Devil in a foul mood.
He growled through his sharpening teeth as he closed in on the plateau and spotted the black-winged angel.
Apollyon hovered just feet above the flat slab of basalt, the glow of the rivers glinting off the gilded edges of his onyx armour.
Rook felt it when his focus shifted to him, the oppressive weight of the male’s power bearing down on him, and snarled as he beat his wings harder, flew faster towards him, determined to end him.
The male stared him down but made no move to draw his weapons. He remained hovering in the air, an easy target.
On a wicked roar, Rook swept his hand along the length of his crimson blade, transforming it into a broadsword. He gripped it in both hands above his head and swung hard the moment he was within reach, aiming for Apollyon’s left wing.
The male dodged right, narrowly evading the blow, and Rook growled as he followed through, the force of the swing dragging him down as the angel flew upwards.
Towards the portal.
His gaze snapped to it and he glimpsed a faint blue streak in the middle of the long crevasse in the dark ceiling of Hell.
Apollyon shot towards it, wings beating furiously.
No. He wasn’t going to get away this time. Rook flapped his own wings and pursued him. Wind buffeted him as he manoeuvred beneath Apollyon and he swayed to his right, out of the vortex created by the angel’s wings. The male glanced over his shoulder at him and flew harder in response, spiralled back into his path and tore a growl from Rook. He was trying to slow him down.
It wasn’t going to happen.
He flew harder, faster, spun in the air and banked left as he put a burst of effort into his strokes, determined to capture Apollyon. Nothing would stop him this time. He grunted and flew harder still, ignoring the burn in his wings as he furiously pumped them. He almost drew level with the angel.
Apollyon cast him a black look and then strafed towards him, forcing Rook to drop to avoid a collision between their wings, losing the ground he had gained.
Son of a bitch.
He redoubled his effort to close the distance again, was so focused on drawing level with the bastard that he didn’t notice breaking free of Hell.
It was only when a weight bloomed in his chest, tugging him downwards, that it dawned on him.
He turned in the air, driven to obey the command that pulled at him for an instant before it disappeared, and reached for the fracture in the pavement. The portal closed before he could reach it and he landed hard, pivoted on his heel and came to face Apollyon.
The male casually set down and furled his black wings against his back, his blue eyes cautious as he studied Rook.
“Open it again.” Rook looked down at his feet and then at his surroundings. A city. Paris by the looks of it. He had been here recently, less than five years ago, on a mission for the Devil. He tore his gaze away from the elegant pale stone buildings with their lead grey roofs and fixed it back on Apollyon. “Open it.”
“No.”
He bared his fangs at the male. “Fine. I will open a portal then.”
Although it required concentration, and he wasn’t sure Apollyon would give him the time he needed to muster it even if he could get his mind off the fact he was in the mortal realm. Noises and scents swirled around him, and his thoughts dived down avenues that had him restless with the need to return to Hell before he surrendered to them.
Thoughts of Isadora.
Of finding her.
He needed to return to his own realm. Remaining here was dangerous. If he could feel his master’s voice, the command to head back into Hell, he was sure he would be able to focus enough to cast his portal.
Why had his master stopped calling him?
Because the Devil wanted him to slay this angel for him?
He could do that. He would do it so he could go home and so his master would be pleased with him.
He readied his blade, gripping it before him with both hands.
“Just focus, Rook. Focus and see if you can find her.” Apollyon’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “She’s in danger. A group of witches have her, one known to be stealing powers from other witches by killing them.”
An inferno consumed him at the thought of the female in danger, more violent than the one that had gripped him the first time Apollyon had told him the witch was in trouble. He cursed himself, sure he had been feeding it by looking at her picture, by trying to see if he could remember her. He had given her power over him by thinking about her. She was a lie.
But what if she wasn’t?
What if she was in grave danger and he was the only one who could save her?
Apollyon’s blue eyes gained a glimmer he didn’t like, one that said the angel thought he was reaching him at last.
“It has nothing to do with me,” he bit out and swept his blade down at his side as he advanced on Apollyon. “I do not know the female.”
“You do know her.” The dark angel backed off a step. “You know her better than anyone.”
He didn’t believe that.
He charged at the angel on a roar.
Apollyon kicked off, launched backwards and spread his wings. He twisted and beat them, flew along the road low to the ground.
Rook gave chase, not because he was curious about the witch or because he believed a word Apollyon said, but because he was determined to take the male’s head. The Devil would forgive him for leaving Hell unsanctioned if he brought back such a fine gift and Rook’s life would be quieter for it too. He could forget about the female and focus on his mission to take command of the First Battalion.
He flew harder, gaining height to get a better view of the angel as he followed the road and could chart the male’s potential course.
A cold feeling went through him when he noticed something.
The street was empty.
Cars lined it, but they were stationary and there were no humans to be seen.
He looked over his shoulder and frowned. The route back towards the point where he had exited the portal was the same.
He focused.
The entire area was empty of people.
His eyebrows knitted harder. No, that wasn’t true.
There was one signature other than the angel’s in the vicinity.
He looked ahead again, in the direction the angel was flying, and almost slowed as he sensed power.
Not angelic.
It stirred a strange feeling inside him, one he didn’t understand because it had the backs of his eyes burning and a fire blazing inside him, a confusing mixture of agony and anger.
His eyes slowly widened.
It was magic.
He could feel magic.
His gaze darted over the buildings that lined the broad road, seeking the one who wielded it.
Ahead of him, beyond Apollyon, on the rooftop of the white townhouse at the end of the street, stood a petite female. Her blonde hair whipped around her shoulders, a long thick dark red coat hugging her slender figure, reaching her ankles.
It wasn’t the witch from the picture.
An odd sense of disappointment flooded him.
Fury and desperation replaced it when he realised Apollyon was ascending, heading for the witch, and she was smiling at the angel.
There was something about that knowing smile that had Rook flying harder, desperate to reach Apollyon before he could make it to her.
She held her hands out to Apollyon.
Rook closed the distance down to inches and stretched for the male’s boots.
Roared as the witch caught the angel’s hands and they both disappeared.
His demonic form shifted over his skin as he turned in the air, snarling and growling through his fangs as he scanned the area for them. They were gone. Fuck.
He couldn’t return without the angel’s head, not if he wanted to keep his own one.
Rook flew in expanding circles over the city, scouring it for the angel.
As he flew, a need blossomed and he struggled to deny it.
He did not want to find Isadora.
He didn’t know the witch. Apollyon was wrong about that.
But what if he could find her?
What would that even mean? That he had once been her guardian angel? Apollyon seemed sure he had been, and that he knew her. Finding her was important to the angel.
She might be a key to something after all.
He slowly smiled.
She might be the key to capturing the angel.
If he could find her, he could use her as bait and could fool the angel into lowering his guard by gaining his trust.
It was worth a shot.
Rook focused as he flew, his mind on the witch. He built a picture of her in it, saw silver hair and eyes as blue as moonlight, a contrast to the way he had imagined her all the times he had studied the drawing of her. Her true appearance, or a new one his mind had constructed in an attempt to see if he really knew her?
As he reached the outskirts of the city, where it gave way to country roads and larger dwellings, something stirred inside him.
He followed the sensation that beat in his veins like a drum, changing course whenever it grew weaker, and flying harder whenever it gained strength. Was he closing in on her when that happened?
The day came and went, and his focus slipped at times, fatigue creeping up on him and forcing him to set down more than once in the countryside. It was impossible to rest though, even for five minutes. The sensation that he was getting closer to her and the drum that now pounded in his breast drove him to keep going, to continue searching and not stop for anything.
Not even if he fell from the sky.
Moonlight chased over the land below him as he flew, the air so cold it chilled his skin, and the scent of snow rose from the quiet white countryside. No sound other than that of his wings beating the night air reached his ears.
The entire world had fallen silent.
He blinked away sleep, ignoring the desire, and shut out the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
All that mattered was the beating drum, and that it was growing stronger, pulling him towards something now.
Lights in the distance caught his attention as he rubbed the exposed patch of stomach between his hip armour and breastplate, trying to silence his stomach. He could eat and rest soon enough.
He focused on the golden light, frowned when his eyes grew hazy and blinked to clear them. The cold wasn’t doing him any favours. It sapped his strength, had his muscles sluggish and wings tiring faster than they should have been. He had flown plenty of times in the mortal world, knew his body’s needs when he was in this realm. He should have been able to keep going a little longer.
He cursed the snow.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so much white. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen it. He cursed the cold too, missed the heat of Hell as he swept lower, seeking warmer air.
Spires pierced the white glow of the mountains as he descended, almost silhouetted against them. As he approached the pale stone castle, the shadows shrouding it fell away to reveal conical and square towers.
He did a lap of the building, studying it as he flew over the snowy grounds, his stomach rumbling again. The chateau was occupied. He could probably get food inside, could slip in unnoticed to steal something to eat that would give him the strength to keep going.
He dropped lower.
Hit an invisible barrier that repelled him.
“What the fuck?” he muttered and beat his wings to hold his position in the frigid air as he stretched a hand out.
He slowly moved forwards until his palm met the invisible force. He pressed against it, his eyebrows pinching together as it resisted him, didn’t even bow as he exerted all of his remaining strength on it.
Magic?
He scanned the dark brown tiled roof below him and what he could see of the inner courtyard of the stilted circle of the chateau.
Was she here?
He flapped his wings and flew higher, needing to get a better look at his surroundings. Mountains. A forest. A lake far up the valley to his right.
Not a single building other than this one for miles.
Whoever had cast the barrier liked their privacy.
Either that or they didn’t want someone to know they were up to no good.
He wasn’t one to judge those who were up to no good, because he had never been the hypocritical type, but it was hard not to when there was a chance these people had turned on their own kind.
As much as he wanted to climb the ranks, he had never actively taken down a fellow angel to achieve the upward motion he desired. He might have orchestrated a few of their deaths, but he had never done the deed. Plenty of angels in Hell were happy to do that for him. He just had to find whoever the angel he wanted eliminated had recently pissed off and point them in his direction.
Of course, some might view that as turning on his own kind.
Everyone had their own rules they lived by.
He flew around the perimeter of the barrier, studying that beat inside him, trying to discern whether it was growing stronger or weaker as he moved.
It grew stronger the closer he flew to the mountains.
Rook headed out over the forest and that unjustified sense of fury swept through him again as the beat grew weaker, confirming she was in the castle. He turned back towards it, glared at the towers and felt his eyes shift to crimson as black rippled over his skin.
New question.
Had the barrier been made by whoever had apparently taken her, or had she cast it to keep people out and protect herself?
He only had Apollyon’s word to go on, and he didn’t place much value in it. For all he knew, the angel could be luring him here so the witch could weaken herself by attempting to kill him and his own witch could steal her powers, making herself stronger.
Rook cautiously flew lower, touched down in the white garden and glared at his feet as they sank into the freezing snow. He shuddered and kicked his feet, trying to shake it off.
A golden light burst to life in the corner of his eye, near to the ground.
His eyes darted there.
A shadowy figure moved beyond the barred window.
Was it her?
Had he found her because he had been her guardian angel, or because this was all some elaborate trap devised by the angel and his witch?
He hadn’t noticed the blonde witch casting a spell on him.
And the angel had seemed genuinely concerned about the safety of the one called Isadora.
He found himself wading through the snow towards that faint light, a need rising inside him, one so powerful he couldn’t deny it, didn’t feel the cold as the icy flakes washed over his knees and got into his boots. It consumed and controlled him, had him moving faster as it grew, driving him onwards. It beat inside him as fiercely as the feeling he was closing in on the witch in the picture.
Isadora.
He needed to see her in the flesh.
He needed to ask her a question, one that the answer to would either make him feel like a fool or turn his entire world on its head.
Did he know her?