Chapter 3
“This is the dwelling of the supposed Master of Practitioners?” Michael asked. He scrunched his nose as he took in the building before them, a crumbling structure that once served as an inn to travelers passing through the township of Eastlake Falls. Michael had walked by it many times, but not once gave it a second glance.
Joan stared at the dilapidated three story, one of her arched brows raised in similar doubt. After a moment’s contemplation, Joan answered Michael’s question. She couldn’t—or more likely didn’t bother to—hide the skepticism in her tone. Joan was honest to a fault. “Osdel said the Master, Dionysus Albericus, has a room here.” Michael pondered this news. Osdel was a practitioner Michael knew well and trusted. If the information came from the sorcerer, Michael believed it to be truth. “Apparently, when the innkeeper died, he left no heirs. According to Osdel, a sorcerer purchased the property and rents rooms to young practitioners that don’t have parents,” Joan continued. “Then he takes the time to teach the youths what it is they need to know.”
“A dormitory for practitioners,” Michael mused. “Smart. Keeping the young ones under a watchful eye.”
Practitioners were born human, coming into their abilities some time around the age of twenty-three. Believing themselves human only to be suddenly thrust into a world of immortals and what they previously believed to be fantastical impossibilities, practitioners required instruction in order to gain full command over their powers. Usually, the parents were tasked with teaching their offspring. There were times, however, where the parents were either deceased or for whatever reason unable to pass on the appropriate knowledge to their offspring. Creating a place under one roof where those in need of instruction could be taught was wise indeed. The last thing Michael desired or needed were untrained, rogue practitioners running around Eastlake Falls, casting spells without thought, possibly even alerting humans as to their existence.
Michael held the door for Joan and asked, “Which room?”
“One oh four.”
He led the way down a damp, narrow hallway, eyeing the sagging ceiling. Damaged by neglect and time, it looked as if mayhap it would collapse any moment. Once they reached the correct door, Michael raised a hand and knocked.
“Y-yes?” A wavering voice called out from within.
“Dionysus Albericus?” Michael asked. There were scuffling sounds behind the door and a loud thump. He exchanged a look with Joan before speaking again. “Open the door, Dionysus. We are only here to talk.”
“W-who are you?” The voice pitched higher and its source was much closer. If Michael had to guess, he’d say its owner was directly on the other side of the thin wood slab.
“I am Michael Caelum. With me is Joan Puella.”
There was a gasp loud enough to hear in the hall, and then scrabbling as the bolt was unlatched and the door yanked open. Before them, wide-eyed, ruddy cheeked, with his clothes and hair disheveled, stood a young male who, in order to be a mature practitioner, had to be in his early twenties. Yet if Michael didn’t know the male was a sorcerer who already gained his abilities, he’d assume the boy to be a mere teen. And a young one at that. Huge hands and feet, all long, gangly arms and legs, and a protruding Adam’s apple, it was obvious Dionysus had yet to grow into full manhood. Unheard of in changed practitioners. Michael had doubts. He didn’t think it possible the nervous male trembling head to foot could be a Master Sorcerer, if even a practitioner at all.
“You are Dionysus Albericus?” Michael questioned, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
The boy swallowed and that bulging Adam’s apple bobbed. “I-I am. I… I can’t believe it’s really you, um, m’lord.” Dionysus’ voice cracked like that of a boy halfway through puberty. The boy’s eyes flicked to Joan. “Oh. Apologies.” He made a half bow to Joan. “And m’lady.” Dionysus stepped back and indicated they should enter. Michael and Joan stepped into a room so tiny it barely fit the three of them without their shoulders touching. When the door slammed behind them, Joan spun around and assumed a defensive position. Dionysus flushed bright crimson all the way to the tips of his ears. “S-sorry. I’m just nervous.” The boy licked his lips and dropped his gaze to the worn wood floor.
“You know of us?” Joan asked. “You know who we are?”
“I do,” the boy responded, eyes still fixed on his own feet, stuffed into worn out shoes. “H-how can I be of service, Archangel? And, um, St. Joan.”
Joan and Michael exchanged yet another incredulous look.
“You are the Master of Practitioners we’ve heard so much about?” Michael asked. His tone must have relayed his disbelief, because the young male stiffened and raised his chin in defiance until his glittering eyes met Michael’s. Eyes that held secrets. Eyes that had seen things, the kind of things that changed you. Changed who you were inside. Eyes that appeared older than that of the face in which they were set.
“Aye, I am the Master of Practitioners.” Michael found Dionysus’ rapid transformation from nervous to overly confident puzzling. The immortal before him was a complete contradiction to the cowering young male that answered the door.
Joan stepped forward and, being rather petite, tipped her head back to glare at the tall, lanky practitioner and growled, “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” Which was flat out impossible if Dionysus had come into his powers. Before Michael or Joan could voice protest at the obvious lie, the boy continued. “I know I’m not old enough to go through the transition, but on my vow, I did. I have all my powers and they are both plentiful and formidable.” When Michael and Joan stared back at the boy without responding, Dionysus shocked them both. “I can prove it.”
Joan, clearly not believing a word the boy said, crossed her arms over her chest and sneered. “Go ahead, then. Prove it.” She waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
“Joan,” Michael warned. He didn’t fancy the lad truthful either, but Michael wasn’t about to shame the boy outright.
“No, it’s all right,” Dionysus said. “No one believes me when they lay eyes upon this face or this body.” He glanced down at himself as if angry at his undeveloped body for having the gall to appear so young. “It is precisely my age that makes me certain I am indeed a Master. I, um, came unto my powers at twelve.” Dionysus flushed for the third time since they arrived, his ruddy cheeks and the way he bit his lip subtracting years to make him look even younger than his proclaimed fourteen.
Joan choked and Michael smothered his own reaction to the revelation. “I have never heard of such a thing,” Michael said.
“No one has,” Dionysus replied, a sheepish expression on his rounded, boyish face. “But I promise, I am what I say.” Dionysus puffed out his chest. “If it pleases, I beg you to watch.”
Michael and Joan both stepped back—well, as much as they could in the tight space—as Dionysus raised a hand. Without uttering a single word, his palm emanated a bright glow from within. Michael immediately recognized the golden power of the aether—the energy that surrounded every Earthly being and object—as it gathered in the boy’s hand. With a flick of Dionysus’ wrist, the coiled ball of light rose and grew into a large orb that hung in the air. Another subtle hand gesture and the orb flattened and stretched until it spanned the width and height of an oversized tapestry, one that hung in the air without the aid of hooks or rope. Then, the strangest thing happened. The light in the center of the energy faded and began to blur. It morphed in brightness and color until Michael realized he was looking at an image of a village. One he didn’t recognize from his many travels.
He and Joan jumped when from the far end of the image, a crackling bolt of lightning shot across the sky, the loud thunderclap that followed near deafening, even as witnessed second hand in a room miles away from wherever this scene unfolded. A cloud, black as night, dropped down to crowd the rooftops. Screaming, panicked humans flooded the muddy pathways that wound around the shabbiest homes in the village.
Michael’s gaze darted to Dionysus. As the scene continued, the young Master stood idly, his features blank and perfectly still save a blink of his eyes every so often. Though Michael knew the boy was not in a trance. The sorcerer was simply used to witnessing these visions of horror.
“Michael, it’s Death,” Joan whispered.
Michael refocused on the screen of moving images. There, at the edge of the village, stood a great steed, pale in color and massive in size. Upon its back sat a figure, clad in black robes, his pale skin contrasting with that of his clothing and his dark hair. The figure grinned, eyes black as coal, and from over his broad shoulder flew a shadow, a long scythe in its transparent clutches.
“Death indeed,” Michael agreed. “What is this, Dionysus?”
The image vanished and the glowing energy shrank and winked out of existence, returning to the aether. As Michael and Joan tried to make sense of what they just watched, Dionysus offered up the answer they were desperately scrambling for.
“Call me Dion.” The boy grinned, then his smile disappeared and his expression turned grave. “What I showed you is the future, and I know when and approximately where, it will occur. I apologize that I am unable to give you specifics, but there is one I know who can narrow down the search.”
Michael was astounded. How could one so young wield such power? He could tell them when and where Death would strike next?
Master of Practitioners indeed.
A smile spread across Michael’s normally stoic facade. He would have to remember to send Osdel a fruit basket. Dion was exactly what they needed to bring the mighty Horsemen to their knees.
* * *
As she did every day from the very first time Gabriel sent her back to Earth to watch the Archangel Michael, Honor stayed out of the way and masked her presence from those around her. In her two meager weeks as a Watcher, the fact that the angels and saints could neither see nor hear her, never failed to amaze. She would think immortals possessed powers beyond those of the humans she encountered. Powers that enabled them to sense her presence. Except at times, Michael did in a way seem aware something was amiss. Honor swore he looked directly at her on several occasions, as if he perceived her as easily as she saw the great Archangel’s large and striking figure. And what about the way her life force reacted? The awakening of feelings, the crackling and swirling center of pale lilac whenever Michael was near, continued to occur. This strange phenomena, only served to muddle her mind.
Today, however, the routine of watching Michael go through his daily activities broke ritual. Though immortal, to her dismay, on her very first day back on the Earthly plane, Honor discovered she retained most of her human emotions and effects thereof. As she watched the saints and angels—known as the sancten and angelen—prepare to hunt down and do battle with the most terrifying of foes, nerves jittered in her belly like fireflies captured in a glass lamp. Gastritis was not an affliction Honor thought possible in an immortal, yet here she was, hand splayed over her midsection as her stomach churned.
“I have decided three of us, myself included, plus the mage recommended by Dion, will seek out the location of the Horseman. When we find him, I will send for the rest of you to do battle.”
The group of warriors gathered in the hall nodded, each of the Guard eager to be chosen to seek out Death.
“Once captured, the Horsemen shall be banished one by one. Young Dion, the Master of Practitioners, has not only provided us with a way to find the Horsemen, but agreed to carry out the banishment spell on our behalf once we catch them.” Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the hall.
As Michael continued to speak, Honor’s thoughts drifted. She wasn’t positive she knew what banishment meant, exactly, but from bits she caught here and there, her best guess was that it was a way to force an immortal into the Underworld. Honor was aware that the Underworld was the antithesis of the Hereafter, an eternity of torture versus one of peace and joy. If the great Fates ruled the Hereafter, who ruled the Underworld? Honor had no desire to ever find out who, or what, it was. Just the thought of how terrible the creature or creatures must be made her shudder. At her involuntary spasm, Michael’s head whipped around. His sharp gaze bored into the very space Honor tucked herself away. She held her breath and knew not how much time passed before one of the Guard called out to the Archangel.
“Michael?”
Not only did Michael not acknowledge his name, he never moved his steady stare from Honor’s corner. She licked her lips, eyes locked on those of the stunning male as her life force reacted, doing its now familiar sparking and flaring whilst her body did… other unmentionable things, as Michael’s bright blue irises kept her rooted to the spot. Honor watched, entranced, as Michael’s pupils dilated and his lips parted the smallest of fractions. Her heart fluttered as the overtaxed muscle forced blood rushing through her veins, and her life force hissed and sizzled as the temperature in the room rose dramatically.
During her training, Honor was educated as to the purpose of the swirling center of pale lilac light in her chest. The one currently pulsing and snapping, growing larger and brighter with each passing second. It was her soul, her life force, the essence of an immortal from the Hereafter. And for some reason, it went mad when the Archangel seemed to sense her nearby.
“Michael.”
Both Honor and Michael blinked and pulled away from each other when St. Anthony put a hand on the Archangel’s shoulder to get the male’s attention.
“What?” Michael snapped, clearly irritated by the interruption.
Honor watched as Michael seemed to come out of his daze, the very same daze as she. Honor found herself unable to look away as Michael’s cheeks flushed. By the Kingdom, it was a beautiful and rare sight, seeing the powerful Archangel in such a vulnerable state. Honor didn’t think she had ever seen anything so utterly charming.
“Apologies,” Michael said to Tony and his Guard, his expression fixed back into its usual stone-faced detachment. “I don’t know what came over me.” He flicked a final glance in Honor’s direction before shaking his head and refocusing his attentions on the gathered warriors.
As Michael laid out the strategy to capture Death, the first of the four Horsemen, Honor could do nothing but Watch. And watch she did. Mercy, what else was she to do? For whatever reason, she was beyond taken with the gorgeous male and his easy confidence. Despite no longer being under the scrutiny of Michael’s intense stare, Honor’s pulse never slowed, her blood never cooled, and her increasingly bright life force continued to electrify her insides. Every sensation that bombarded Honor eventually overwhelmed her senses to the point she needed space.
She dematerialized from the Guard’s chamber to reappear in the shadows behind the stacked stone structure. Gasping for breath, Honor doubled over, hands on her knees, and gulped down the cool autumn air until her body and soul returned to normal. It took much longer for her flaring life force to stop sparking and shrink back to its usual state than for her physical being to calm down.
“Why is this happening to me?” she whispered.
Honor pressed her palms to her cheeks. They felt hot to the touch. Too hot. Almost as if they were glowing coals. The heated sensation reminded her of Michael’s face when he flushed crimson, and with that thought, the chaos roiling within her body returned. In between crushing waves of tingling pleasure and confusing forces she never before experienced, Honor heard Michael order his Guard to return to their homes and await his signal. Then he asked St. Anthony as well as Donovan, the Angel of Protection, to stay behind.
With a task to complete, Honor hurried to return to her corner so she would miss nothing of importance. Her mouth fell open when, the second she manifested inside the hall, Michael’s fingers twitched and his eyes briefly darted in her direction. The action was so quick and so subtle Honor knew the others failed to take notice.
“We depart in one hour,” Michael announced to his fellow warriors. “Donovan, remember, we are merely scouting, but wear your armor.” He turned to St. Anthony—Tony. Honor must remember the dark-haired male went by Tony. “I need you to fetch Sami. Dion promised she would be willing to join us on our quest.”
Tony gaped at Michael. “You were serious when you mentioned bringing Sami into this?”
Honor wasn’t sure who Sami was. This being the first time the name was mentioned that she could recall. What was strikingly obvious, however, was that whoever this Sami was, St. Anthony absolutely did not want her accompanying them. Tony doubting Michael’s orders caused Michael’s thick blond brows to furrow and the corners of his mouth to turn down. Honor did not miss the way Michael’s jaw ticked with displeasure.
“Fetch the Psi and deliver her here in one hour. Is that clear, warrior?” Chills swept down Honor’s spine at Michael’s tone, almost as if she could feel the Archangel’s power behind the words.
Now it was Tony’s turn for his cheek to twitch. Without responding, Tony followed Michael’s command, though Honor knew it cost the male dearly to do so. “As you wish.” Tony said in a clipped tone. With a final glare directed at Michael, the saint demanifested from the chamber.
“You’re sure about this?” Donovan asked. The angel laid a concerned hand on Michael’s arm. Honor swallowed, irrationally jealous of Donovan for being allowed to freely touch Michael. She wished she were the one to offer comfort. That Michael came to her when he needed someone to lean on or confide in. Honor’s eyes slid shut as she imagined how it would feel to run the flat of her palm over the breast of Michael’s tunic. To be allowed to revel in his wide chest and angled planes as her fingers danced over well-defined muscles, his heart beating beneath her hand.
“I’m positive.”
Honor opened her eyes to find Donovan gone. Michael remained alone at the front of the hall. With a sigh, he dragged one hand through the bristles on his unshaven chin. The muscles in Honor’s lower abdomen clenched at the sight. What would it be like to touch him there? Would the short hairs be coarse and prickly, or soft and luxurious? A repeat of the earlier swell of desire crashed into Honor, the intense heat returning at double the strength. Her reaction was so strong, Honor felt as if she were being consumed by fire from the inside out, the invisible flames scorching every cell in her body to ash.
Instinctively, Honor raised her fingers to her own lips and proceeded to slide them back and forth over the plump flesh. A tiny moan escaped her throat at the sensual act. As if he heard the sound, Michael tilted his head in Honor’s direction. She slapped her palm over her mouth and held her breath.
How is it he knows I’m here?
In the Hereafter, Honor had been led to believe it impossible, but she no longer held any doubt in her mind. Somehow, someway, Michael could sense her presence. To what degree, Honor hadn’t a clue.
What Honor did understand, what worried her almost as much as the notion of Michael facing this evil named Death was that somewhere along the way, she had developed feelings for the fierce warrior. Feelings that were likely forbidden. If Gabriel found out, Honor feared she would no longer be allowed to Watch Michael, and she was positive she would never have the strength to leave.
* * *
Head throbbing and neck tight, Michael waited for Tony and Sami, the Psi Mage, to arrive at the prescribed meeting point, a small clearing in a wooded area many miles from the nearest village. Donovan stood at his side, the angel shifting as he fidgeted with the bracers wrapped around his forearms for what had to be the tenth time in the last quarter hour. Like the sword strapped to Michael’s back, Donovan’s armor was forged in the Hereafter, crafted by immortals from a metal unknown to the Earthly plane.
“Where are they?” Michael muttered, then inwardly cringed. A leader did not whine or complain. Ever. This was his duty. His purpose. Trivial matters such as physical comfort or Michael’s own needs and desires were irrelevant. He was the Protector, and the responsibility that came with the title took precedence over everything else.
“They will come,” Donovan replied with a calm that proved to annoy rather than reassure, though Michael noted despite the even voice, there was tension in Donovan’s heavily muscled body. The male’s posture, while flawless and in constant motion, was more rigid than normal and the angel’s dark features harsher.
Michael opened his mouth to point out the contradiction in Donovan’s body language, but the two missing immortals’ sudden appearance in the clearing rendered it unnecessary.
“Finally,” Michael snapped.
Michael caught how Anthony’s upper lip curled before the male could fix his expression.
Fates, I’m already letting my temper get the best of me.
Tony gave a sharp nod. “Apologies. We were delayed.” The saint’s eyes darted to Sami, who was hunched over with her head hanging down, long hair hiding her face.
The Psi Mage’s anxiety greatly troubled Michael. He needed her alert and capable in order to locate Death. Michael took a step toward the mage and placed a hand on the female’s arm. By the Fates, his hand looked ridiculously large on the skinny female, Sami being much, much smaller than Michael’s towering six-foot, six-inch frame. It would likely take three of the Psi standing shoulder to shoulder just to equal the width of Michael’s chest.
“Sami, can you assure me you are capable of your duties today?” he asked, making sure to keep his voice devoid of the anger or frustration he’d bottled up. It did no good to shout at the Psi Mage for being late or frightened. They were delicate creatures. Of all the immortals, Psi’s were the most frail both physically and mentally, but then it was their abilities that made them powerful, not their brawn or bravado.
The Psi Mages might appear to act in the manner of practitioners, but are in truth sent from the Hereafter. Practitioners are born on the Earthly plane and come into their powers at the end of adolescence to become sorcerers, divinators, enchanters, necromancers and the like. The daemons and angelen are created in the Underworld and the Hereafter, respectively. Saints—or sancten—like practitioners, are born human. It is only after death that they are granted immortality as reward for their great sacrifices on Earth, but they are considered of the Hereafter.
Samien, or Sami, has the gift of empathy—the ability to sense emotion in others and the surrounding area. Psi Mages can also manipulate those emotions, for example, soothe anger or bring peace where there is conflict. Because a Psi isn’t a practitioner, Sami can do this without disrupting the delicately balanced environment by tapping into the aether.
Sami was asked by Dion to assist Michael in finding Death, tasked to reach out in search of an enormous amount of the worst kind of evil. So finely tuned is this particular Psi’s ability, she can detect individual emotions from miles away and when focused, even farther. And because Death literally radiates sin and depravity, Sami would know if the Horseman were anywhere nearby, and do it within a fairly large radius.
“I am capable, m’lord,” Sami said in her light, melodic voice.
Michael shot a look at Tony, one brow raised. The saint merely shrugged as if to say don’t ask me. “She was like this when I arrived at her cottage.”
Unlike the Michael and the Guard who stuck to the remote outskirts of civilization, most immortals lived in villages amongst humans. Michael could, and has in the past, done the same. It’s simply easier to not have to constantly explain one’s self to others. He and his angelen were also quite a bit larger in stature than human men, and their size tended to frighten people. Oh, and they never aged. That tiny fact tended to raise questions.
One hand still on the mage’s arm, Michael put his free one beneath Sami’s chin and gently lifted until he was able to meet her luminous brown eyes. “You’re certain, child? This mission is not to be taken lightly. If you cannot do it, tell me.”
Sami’s lip quivered and she blinked away the glistening moisture that welled up. “I am certain.”
Michael smiled, pleased when the Psi did the same. She was quite beautiful, petite, with creamy skin and mahogany hair that complemented her eyes. He gave the female a quick hug and patted her back.
“Let us go then.” Michael nodded at the trio. “Everyone knows where to meet?” Three positive responses and Michael vanished.
He rematerialized deep in a forest, the sun dappled as it filtered through dense foliage. Michael checked that the others were present. Satisfied, he turned to Sami.
“Last week, every human in a tiny village at the north side of this forest was found dead.” Michael tried to suppress the now-familiar rage that burned hot in his gut. The anger shifted and pulsed like a living thing. Sami gasped and Michael’s eyes widened at the petrified expression on her face.
Whoops!
Of course. I am such a stultus. Being what she was, the mage could sense Michael’s fury and it was affecting her negatively.
“My apologies,” Michael said as he wrestled back his churning fury. He knew better than to fall prey to his emotions, but he was so bloody tired of being one step behind the Horsemen, always turning up after the carnage, never in time to stop it. Weeks of reining in his temper were taking a huge toll on his self-control.
“None needed, m’lord.”
Michael sighed and felt more exhausted than he had in decades. “If it pleases, you may call me Michael.” He knew Sami wouldn’t. This wasn’t the first time he told the mage to address him by name, and still, the female refused to drop formalities. Even when Michael explained he was in no way a lord of any sort.
“If I may,” Tony interrupted. Michael stepped back and indicated he speak. “Myself and two others scouted this entire forest after Death visited the village.” Michael was unsurprised at the hostility in Tony’s voice. Passionate in everything task he undertook, Tony read like an open book, quite unlike Michael and his forced facade.
Donovan spoke next. “And what did you find?”
Tony frowned. “Nothing at the time, but now… I can detect something I felt at the last scene. It’s more of a feeling than an object. I can’t explain it, but with the sensation returning, I am confident we are near to where Death shall open his next seal.”
Everyone accepted Tony at his word, without question. As the Patron Saint of Lost Items, Tony was exceptionally skilled at finding both things and people. If Tony believed Death would strike another village in the land adjacent to the forest that was good enough for Michael to proceed. With the general idea of where Death would attack, Dion having put them in the general vicinity, their next problem was figuring out when.
“Sami,” Michael said.
He needn’t elaborate. The Psi knew what he desired. She closed her eyes and easily slid into her role. Though still paler than he’d like, Sami looked much better than she did in the clearing before they dematerialized. Hours seemed to pass before she opened her eyes.
“Nothing yet, m’lord.”
Donovan hissed a low oath and Michael shot him a glare. Cursing happened, of that Michael took no issue. But in front of a female? That, in his opinion, was unacceptable.
“Apologies, Sami,” Donovan said, bowing slightly at the waist.
Sami stiffened and her delicate spine became as straight as a finely forged longsword. Her entire body began to tremble and her eyes rolled back into her head. Donovan reached out to steady the mage, but Tony slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch her,” he warned. “Not when she’s using her ability.”
Donovan snarled at Tony. “She’s going to fall. You’d let a female drop to the ground?”
Tony got right back in the angel’s face, teeth clenched and lips peeled back. “If you touch her, she’ll focus every bit of her influence on you. Doing so will not only stop her from finding Death, but could prove catastrophic.”
“What do you mean?” Donovan asked, still vibrating with fury.
“What he means, Donovan, is that for a Psi, Sami is exceptionally gifted. There have been cases in which the one who made contact with a Psi whilst in the clutches of one of these…” Michael gestured at the shuddering and thrashing Sami, who by some miracle, remained on her feet.
“Efficax visionis,” Tony supplied. Donovan gave him a blank stare and Tony elaborated. “A great vision. They are rare, and only occur when emotions are extraordinarily potent .” He glanced at the shaking female. “Sami is overly sensitive, even for a Psi, so when she has a vision, it can turn violent. This severe of a reaction,” Michael stared at the convulsing female and frowned. “Likely means Death is indeed near.”
With that news, Donovan snapped to attention, his keen warrior’s eyes scanning the forest for anything out of the norm.
“Relax,” Tony said with a smirk. “Death could be up to a hundred miles away. The one-mile radius is for normal emotions and normal Psi Mages. Sami and Death are both anything but normal.”
Michael leaned against a nearby tree and folded his arms across his chest. “We shall wait.”
* * *
Terror streaked through Honor, leaving a gaping hole in its wake like a spear piercing the center of its target. Mere minutes ago, she was green with envy when Michael wrapped the tiny mage in his strong embrace. Now she felt only pity as the helpless Sami twitched and flopped on the ground, caught in some sort of trance. Honor was shocked Sami remained upright for as long as she had. Eventually, the female’s legs couldn’t hold. They buckled and the poor thing crashed to the ground. Covered in leaves and debris, Sami arched her back at a strange angle and the cry that tore from her throat was so heart-rending, it sent a flurry of goose bumps down Honor’s arms. The wail stirred a nearby unkindness of ravens, sending a black, flapping cloud bursting from a nearby tree.
“H-he…” Sami blinked as she regained consciousness. She brought a trembling hand to her sweaty forehead, and attempted to rise.
Michael rushed over and knelt at Sami’s side. “Shhh, do not try to move, child.” He gentled his palm down her back, and Fates forgive her, Honor felt that stab of jealousy return, along with shame for her unkind feelings toward the weak and defenseless female.
“Death,” Sami whispered. Honor mimicked the three males and they all sucked in a sharp breath at the word. “S-soon. Ohhh, it hurts…” Sami sobbed and pulled her knees to her chest. “S-so much h-hate.” She looked pitiful, which made Honor feel even worse for her petty jealousy.
“Where?” Tony asked. “When? Could you see anything?”
Sami nodded. “E-east. T-travel east until you s-see g-goats.” She gulped down several lungsful of air and her tremors settled a bit. “You will know it is the correct place when you see the blue goat.”
The warriors exchanged skeptical looks.
“Blue goat?” Michael asked. “Are you certain?”
Sami nodded violently, her head bobbing rapidly. “Aye.” Slowly, she climbed to her feet, refusing any offers of help. After sweeping debris from the forest floor off her clothing, Sami met Michael’s gaze. “May I take leave, m’lord?”
Michael smoothed a hand down the thick hair that hung halfway down her back, now damp and tangled with leaves and dirt. “You may. Many thanks for your assistance.”
The Archangel no sooner finished speaking and Sami was gone.
Michael stood and wiped his hands off on his tunic. He turned to his companions. “Manifest east at quarter mile intervals until we find this…” He screwed up his mouth in distaste. “Blue goat.” Tony and Donovan nodded and disappeared.
Honor followed, popping in and out as the party made their way east through the forest. Despite the thick canopy, Honor knew the sun, which had been high in the sky when this quest began, was now near to dipping below the horizon as dusk approached. A chill ran down her back. Almost as if she herself had absorbed some of the Psi’s power, Honor swore she could feel the evil growing the further east they travelled. Icy snakes wrapped around her limbs and burrowed their way under her skin and into her veins. It became such that no matter what Honor did, the frigid, oppressive sensation remained steadfast.
“Stop.” Donovan and Tony froze at Michael’s command. “There,” Michael’s tone was one of astonishment. Honor followed the Archangel’s outstretched arm in the direction he pointed. A crude wooden sign stuck out of the soft earth next to a well-used dirt path, crisscrossed with dozens of hoof prints and cart tracks, both fresh and worn.
Tony approached the sign and raised a hand to trace his fingertips along the roughhewn edge. “I don’t believe it.”
Honor didn’t either, but there it was.
Carefully applied in swirling letters were the words “Blue Bostwick’s Farm.” Beneath that was an intricate drawing of a goat, painted in shades of blue. “Fine Goat Milk and Cheese” scrawled next to the animal. Honor knew Bostwick to be one of the surnames taken by dairy farmers, and if the farmer’s first name was Blue, as odd as it sounded when she uttered it, Sami’s vision made perfect sense.
“Death is close,” Michael murmured. His eyes were closed and large hands fisted at his sides. The others immediately shifted to flank their commander. True warriors ready for battle. “We must fetch the rest of the Order. This may be our best chance to capture him. Tony, notify Joan and return at once. She shall collect everyone and bring them here. Prepare for the worst.”
Honor shivered at Michael’s ominous outlook, though she knew a great leader anticipated every outcome, with strategies mapped out in advance to face both success and failure. Tony nodded and demanifested.
Not a minute later, the sun dipped partway below the horizon, sending brilliant streaks of orange and red across the darkening sky. If she weren’t so frightened, Honor would find it beautiful. Sunsets, however, were the least of her worries. Right now, Honor feared for Michael. She had never met or seen Death, nor any of the four Horsemen, but the very thought of her beautiful warrior angel facing the embodiment of everything evil, made her insides knot and her teeth chatter.
Fates be, never in a million years did Honor think being a Watcher would be so difficult. Watch the assigned subject. Report to Gabriel. That was what her duties encompassed. Or so she believed. In reality, the task was more mentally taxing than anything Honor experienced as a human. Limited to the sidelines, unable to interfere or help, or even warn Michael of impending danger, was strictly forbidden. All Honor could do was stand helplessly as the future unfurled as the Fates intended.
Honor swallowed and wondered if she were cut out for this.
A deafening crack of lightning put an abrupt halt to her musing. Every hair on Honor’s body stood on end, her skin prickling with a web of electricity that smelled of rot and death.
“Donovan. It’s beginning. I must needs go, else more humans will perish.”
“Shouldn’t you wait for—”
Michael snarled. “Humans will die! I shall distract Death and prevent him from opening the seal. You wait here for Tony and the others.” Donovan opened his mouth to argue, but the Archangel was already gone.
“Fuck.”
Honor caught Donovan’s curse right before she demanifested to follow Michael. Headed straight toward Death.
She would never say it out loud, but she agreed with Donovan one hundred percent. This was a very bad idea.