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“Gather round,” Cephalus says gruffly.
Traditionally, I’ve stood across from him during these briefings, and that’s where I move now. Abaddon, rushing to take the same place, steps on my foot and jostles me with his shoulder. Holding my ground, I give him a flat look. He puffs up his chest, taking up more space, making an ass out of himself looking like a high school bully. “You’re in my spot, coward,” Abaddon huffs.
The table falls silent. That’s not a word one throws around lightly—not in Hell, and not in a war room. I can feel the gleeful anticipation of violence from several directions, and it reminds me how long I’ve been gone; those who know me, know better.
“Remove yourself from my foot,” I say quietly.
“Remove yourself from my spot!” He bumps me with his chest and an instant later he’s on the floor, gasping for air and staring. Blood pools in four evenly-spaced wounds in his solar plexus—a nerve center for demons of a certain shape as well as humans, and coats my talons, which shimmer halfway between forms on the tips of my fingers. With a flick of my wrist I remove the blood and hide my talons, then turn my attention back to the map.
“And so we begin,” Cephalus sighs without acknowledging anything that just transpired. Abaddon’s air is slowly returning as he gasps and flops on the floor like a fish out of water. Following Cephalus’s lead, the rest of the table ignores Abaddon’s distress. It will pass more quickly than his humiliation.
“The angels have tired of our small conflicts,” Cephalus says as he scans the map with his focused, serious eyes. “Frankly, so have I. The armies of Heaven have declared their intent. Our ambassadors have negotiated the battlefield. The chosen grounds give our army the advantage, which concerns me.”
“What is there to be concerned about? Advantage is advantage, and we wouldn’t need it anyway—we have me. The battle is all but won.” Abaddon is back on his feet and running his mouth, still invading my personal space but not so overtly.
Cephalus gives him a long-suffering look. “The angels suggested the battlefield. What does that tell you?”
“That they’re idiots,” Abaddon replies with a smirk. “Death Valley’s vortex is ours. The ley lines on all sides, from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, are Hell’s domain. It’s summer, which makes the environment much more tolerable for our people than theirs. They’re handing this battle to us. They might as well surrender.”
Cephalus stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to follow that logic just a bit farther. When it’s clear that Abaddon is perfectly content with his analysis, Cephalus sighs. “Wargund, have you ever known the angels to deliberately throw a battle?”
“Never,” Wargund states firmly.
“Rir, have you ever known angelic strategists to be, as Abaddon suggests, idiotic?”
“Not even close, sir.”
“Why, then, would they choose such a strategically poor battleground? Anyone?” my father questions, his gaze panning around the room.
There’s a long and pensive silence. Annoyed—both by the intellectual wasteland around me and by my own inability to leave that question unanswered—I resign myself to full participation in this meeting. “They have a secret weapon or an airtight battle strategy,” I inform the table. “They’re confident that they will wipe the floor with us. Not only that, they want us thinking we can’t lose. They want us overconfident and underprepared.”
Several glances are thrown in Abaddon’s direction, and I can feel him puff up defensively. “Where are you getting that crap from?” He demands. “A secret weapon? You have some insider information? What, have you been up there playing with angels as well as humans? You’d better take a closer look at his friends, Father. I think we’ve got ourselves a double agent.”
Cephalus sighs and rubs his temple. “Is that what you think, Abaddon?”
Abaddon misses the warning in Cephalus’s flat tone. “Yeah, that’s what I think! You know what, we should go up there, we should interrogate all of his so-called employees and go through that shack he calls a house. He’s—” Abaddon’s next accusation is cut off in a rush of air as Cephalus’s heel slams into his chest—in the same spot I hit a few minutes ago. Abaddon slams to the floor, red-faced and furious. Cephalus doesn’t give him time to react. He yanks him off the floor by his collar and glares directly into his eyeballs, seething.
“Are you telling me I’m a fool?” our father demands.
“Wh-what? No, I’m just—”
“You’re just flapping and squawking like a blind bird,” Cephalus growls. “Squalling for attention like a damned infant. You will stand and listen. One more word out of you, and you will be barred from this room. Do I make myself clear?”
Abaddon bares his teeth, but nods. Cephalus shoves Abaddon toward the table, then marches back to his own spot. His flying leap over the table didn’t disturb so much as a scrap of paper, and he picks up where he left off. “Negotiations gave us the advantage of location, but not of time. The battle will be upon us in short order, and we will be ready.”
Chapter14
Sophia
He’s been gonefor a while. How long do war councils take?
I guess that’s a stupid question. Depends on the war and the councilors, I suppose, and this war has gone on forever, and everyone at the meeting is immortal. From the corner of my eye, I catch something moving and I jump, barely swallowing a scream. My heart is hammering in my ears, even though I see that it was only my own reflection in the mirror.
“Not a snake,” I murmur to myself. “There aren’t any more snakes.”
But I’m rubbing the wounds on my chest and pacing the room, peering in corners and under beds, nervous of every shadow. The satin curtain pulls make my heart race whenever I glimpse them in my peripherals, and I’m about ready to tear them down. At least I’m feeling better, apart from the anxiety and restlessness. My equilibrium is back and my head isn’t pounding anymore. My stomach has settled and my wounds don’t hurt. Well if I could leave them alone and stop rubbing them, they wouldn’t hurt. Right now they’re feeling a little raw, but it’s my own fault.
“I wish Lucifer would come back,” I say quietly to myself. It worked before—why shouldn’t it work now? Feeling a little foolish and childish, I shoot a half-expectant glance at the door. To my immense delight, the handle turns and the door opens.
