D

eep in the shadow of a twenty-five foot outcropping of granite, Sammiél studied the lone figure casting a line into the still waters of Lake Willoughby. Though low on the horizon, sunlight dappled the landscape, effectively trapping him where he stood.

At the peak of his power, even though he’d fallen, Sammiél had the capacity to control the weather almost as well as Rimmon. Sammiél couldn’t bring a category five hurricane, but a thunderstorm blocking the sun for a few miles was within his ability. Michael’s recent beating had drained him. The ever present simmering anger kept him upright, but not for much longer. It would take weeks for him to regain his strength in time for the sixth of the month to repeat the beating. The pact must be maintained.

Weariness, a constant companion, rode him hard. He needed to retreat to his private space inside the shadows to heal. After this meeting, he would else risk injuring those around him. A vast well of power resided within his body. Death and destruction. Anyone could kill a single person, a single thing. It took great skill to kill on a global level. That was the true mission of the Archangel of Death. Total annihilation.

Only once had he ever unleashed the power Father had bestowed upon him. In the Great War between angels and demons, when demons freely roamed the earth and the skies, the battle raged for millennia until Father ordered the Archangel of Death to end the war. End it, he did, without mercy, until Metatron reined him in.

When the dust settled, Father created Hell and cast what remained of the demons into the pit. Why He created the Cruor, only He could answer the question no one dared ask. Yet, the answer was simple: Nothing is absolute, not in nature, not in Heaven, not in Hell, not in the universe. Every prison must have an entrance, thus also have an exit.

“What have I done to deserve this visit?”

Daeden’s voice yanked Sammiél back to the present and the man who continued to fish in the waning sunlight. Shouting at each other was not how he wanted to conduct this conversation. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Still allergic to the sun, I see.” Daeden packed up his tackle kit and rod and started hiking to the house fifty yards away. “Meet me inside.”

Sammiél took the invitation and melted into the shadows at his back. He exited seconds later in the dark recesses of the single room cabin that smelled of tobacco and pine. There was a murphy bed against the left wall, a kitchenette with a wood burning potbelly stove behind him, and a desk with a laptop and a cellphone to the right.

Sunlight spilled from a window in front of the desk, splitting the room into Ying and Yang halves as the two beings faced each other. Daeden had changed since the last time they’d met. Gray sprinkled his hair and jaw, and his skin had a weathered, textured look of one who’d lived a life in the sun. Surprising since immortals didn’t age.

It was all an act, of course. Daeden could change his appearance. Reapers could be anyone they needed to be to achieve their goal of reaping a soul. So why the old man instead of someone in their prime?

Sammiél shelved the inquiry. He wasn’t that interested in the answer.

“Have you come to kill me?” Daeden folded his arms across his chest, not particularly concerned.

The question was unexpected, but the candor was appreciated. “Remains to be seen,” Sammiél said, though the only weapon that could kill a Reaper, Michael now possessed.

Daeden nodded and scratched at his jaw as he crossed into the shadows. “Want a beer?” He walked passed Sammiél to a half fridge next to the sink. He didn’t wait for an answer to toss a bottle at him. Sammiél caught it, but didn’t open it. He placed it on the stove as Daeden cracked open his bottle and took a long gulp. “So, what brings you out to the sticks?” he asked after dragging his forearm across his wet mouth.

Sammiél took in the cabin again, then stretched his senses to the surrounding woods, searching. He brushed against the usual wildlife: a deer, raccoons, plenty of insects, hawks nesting, nothing with a human heartbeat and no dead zones indicating a demonic presence. Once more, he was surprised. The leader of the Reapers living a solitary life wasn’t what he’d expected. Then again, who was he to judge. “Barrin. He said you are leading the Reapers.”

Daeden took another swig of beer. “I did, had for a while.”

“What is a while?”

“Since you fell, until a century ago.”

That was longer than a while. “Why? You performed the job all that time, why cease?”

Daeden re-crossed the room and dropped to the edge of the bed, the mattress groaned under his weight. “Got tired. The Reapers stopped listening, and I stopped talking. I didn’t give a shit anymore. They needed real leadership and I wasn’t it.” He took another swig of beer.

Sammiél snorted and held up a finger. “Reapers have one job. Collect souls. They needed to be lead to do the one job they were created for? Explain.”

Daeden sighed. “That was always your problem. You didn’t appreciate the loyalty that was thrown in your lap. You were given an army that you couldn’t be bothered to lead.”

Sammiél fumed. Daeden had struck close to home. “I never wanted an army.”

The Reaper tossed him a sardonic glance. “When has it ever been about what you wanted? What I wanted? The Almighty gave humans free will, not you. Not me.”

Nothing ever said was more true.

“You gave the Reapers a ‘Fuck you’ and walked away from the lot of us. And yeah, we kept the engine purring like good little cogs. Shit, the majority of us still are, but the dissent has risen to a level that cannot be ignored.”

The heated note in Daeden’s voice couldn’t be ignored. Rising to the challenge, Sammiél growled, “Do I detect a threat?”

Daeden propped his elbows on his thighs and gave a sloppy shrug. “You detect the truth. Take it as a threat if you want.”

The Reaper couldn’t be more non-threatening. The fight Sammiél came for wasn’t going to happen. “So who leads them now?” He opened the beer and downed half.

Face scrunched as if concentrating took effort, Daeden rattled off, “Grim, Liqis, Blitz, Finis, any of them could be leading the Reapers.”

His nonchalance seriously pissed Sammiél off. Could the Reaper be any more useless?

Daeden ran the back of his hand under the rough whiskers on his chin. “Why do want to know? Planning a comeback?”

Good question. One he had no answer for.

All of Sammiél’s muscles tensed and a shudder crawled down his spine. He whipped around to see tendrils extending from the shadows, reaching for him.

“Why is it doing that?” Daeden shouted, more animated now than he’d been with Sammiél, though he remained seated, elbows still on his thighs, relaxed. It made Sammiél wonder what would get a rise out of the Reaper.

The tendrils contracted and sprang at him again. “Something is wrong.”

Daeden stood, the mattress squealed in relief. “What?” He went to the window and peered out.

“Not out there.” Someone cried for help. The psychic scream broke through the barrier Sammiél had erected, reached inside his head, and squeezed. A vise would’ve been gentler. He followed the breadcrumbs back through the mental link to the source. But it wasn’t just one source, it was multiple sources: Zedekiél, Rimmon, Gadreel, Ioath, Chayyliél, Tahariél, Kushiél, and Bane. Every single one of them screamed in agony. Something that had never—ever—happened.

As Daeden asked, “What’s wrong?” Sammiél ignored the Reaper and lowered all of his remaining mental barriers, releasing the power leashed inside him.

He entered the shadows as Sammiél.

He exited the shadows as the Archangel of Death.