But his command seems to change nothing. The pressure persists. My vision becomes spotty, my head quickly growing lighter, lighter?—
“Michael,”Abaddon’s pitch drops to a low, lethal warning.“This is my realm, where Kae Lambros is a resident under my protection. Release her immediately.”
The air floods back into my lungs with such suddenty, I stagger backward. Darkness still blots out my vision, quickly threatening my head with the ground, but Dusk slips an arm around my waist to steady me.
Desperately, I try to calm my ragged breath and pounding heart, staring at the ground until it comes into focus again. They’re likely all watching me, gauging how easily I can recover from such a violent intrusion, and I’m ashamed. Overwhelmed with shame. Never in my life have I felt my fragile human mortality to be such an embarrassingweakness before.
“Come on,” Dusk whispers, close enough to my ear that his nose brushes my hair. “Let’s get you to a chair.”
I only glance up for a moment, briefly noting the small litany ofangels seated around the table, before I avert my eyes again.
“Right.”
Dusk plays the gentleman as he guides me into the room, disguising his help as chivalry. He even pulls the chair out for me, which is something I don’t think he’s ever done, before he sits down beside me. It’s then that I notice his demeanor seems softened, his glow weakened.
It drives a needle into my heart.
He has to be accustomed to working closely with this Council. If what I just experienced is even a fraction of the control that Dusk has lived under for over a thousand years, then I’ve entirely misjudged him.
He’s not a loyal lapdog.
He’straumatizedby these people.
The subtle shift in him reminds me of the way Jackie gets whenever her snake of a biological father rears his ugly head in her life again. I can’t help but wonder how Dusk has suffered at the hands of these angels. What awful penance they’ve made him endure.
And why? Why are they such vengeful creatures? I thought they’re supposed to be a force for good. A system of pain and punishment is built on hatred, not forgiveness.
Their conversation topics are so mundane, so counter to the nature I know they’re hiding, it’s almost comical. They seem to be stuck on geology and weather patterns. Tectonic platesthis, seismic activitythat… maybe it’s an apocalypse thing, but I’m failing to connect any dots here.
Instead, I use the opportunity to finally take a long look at whoever is speaking— the ageless, winged men in power. None of them looks a day over thirty, but their faces are all decidedly masculine.
First, there’s the one across from me, with the light purple wings. That’s Uriel, I think. He’s a lanky albino man with violet eyes and a deathly, haunting beauty. His corpse-like skin looks paper-thin, wroughtwith dozens of visible blood vessels that look like they might burst at any moment. Yet, despite its unnatural bony protrusions, I cannot deny that his face is utterly captivating.
At the end of his eloquent statement about the Richter scale, he catches my eye and dips his chin in a slight greeting. His attention alone gives me the chills, though, and I quickly divert my eyes to his right.
To Raphael.
His warm skin seems to sparkle, even in the dim candlelit room, as if he’s covered in mica powder. He wears unassuming, loose-fitting, mint green robes that remind me of my medical scrubs back home. When the angel catches me staring and meets my eye, his attention isn’t at all chilling. It’s the opposite—warm, calming, welcoming. He smiles at me in a way that almost makes me forget he’s inhuman, and I find myself feeling steady enough to give him a slight smile back.
Even if Dusk hadn’t already told me that Raphael is a healer and the ‘most tolerable’ of the group, I think I would still intuitively trust him more than the others. His presence feels familiar, reminding me of many of my favorite physicians I used to work with.
A cold, militant voice at the end of their side of the table takes over the discussion.
I let my eyes drift down the line to him, to the angel placed in my usual spot next to Abaddon’s head seat. Gabriel. He appears to be from the Far East, with silken black hair tied up in a bun. He doesn’t even look my way, and I get the sense that I wouldn’t want him to. I don’t let my gaze linger for long.
But then that leaves the last of the four—Michael—who is mostly blocked from my sight by Malak’s body. All I can see are the massive wings that hang off his back, taller and wider than all the others. They’re a vibrant red, like poppies dipped in blood, connecting with glistening gold armor.
Dusk, paying little attention, leans farther back in his chair, suddenly creating a clear line of sight. Instantly, Michael’s head turns, his eyes snapping to mine. They’re… my God, they’rered. It’s as if flames have been caught in his eyes, slowed by time.
Interrupting, Michael says to Abaddon, “Do not let the girl leave the Abyss.”
He stares a hole into me, and I can’t look away fast enough. A deeply embedded instinct squirms inside me, shooting warnings of terror into my bloodstream.Do not disobey him,it seems to say.Obey to survive.
“I have not, nor will I,” the King replies.
I flatten my expression, trying to keep any type of insubordination off of it, no matter how much I want to question his motives. If I came here willingly, why can’t I leave whenever I want? Maybe it’s just Michael’s callous, intimidating presence, but that feels a lot more like imprisonment than protection…
“When will she be ready to open the Abyss?”
