28. WEN

Idon’t know where I find the strength as I fight Astaroth like a cornered animal, striking out at him with every technique Godric has taught me.

But the archdemon is almost as powerful as him, and he subdues me with perfect ease and economy.

There’s nothing I can do to stop him from taking me back to the Congress.

It’s unbearable to think I’ll become Azazel’s slave with Godric so near, yet so far. Then I’ll never be with him again.

I’ll never train or tease or take walks with him. Never revel in his scorching gaze and wit, or dream of his touch and passion. Azazel might never let me see him again. Might order me to never look in his direction, or influence me to hate him.

“Astaroth, please!” I sob as I thrash like a fish out of water, feeling like I’ll break my own body trying to escape his grasp. “Stop.”

“You stop, Cadet White, or you’ll only hurt yourself further.”

He might have read my thoughts. Or he knows I have no defense against him. I’m depleted, and can’t weaken him by yanking on his Life Essence. I can’t even see it. I don’t remember seeing it when I saw the others’.

My head rolls over his shoulder, numbness overtaking me. I can’t even scream for Godric. I wouldn’t if I could. I can’t distract him and get him killed.

He will probably get killed anyway. Not even he can stand against an army alone.

My eyes close, unable to bear seeing his end, or mine.

Astaroth stops, and my lids drag open to find him laying me down behind Azrael’s statue, no longer immaculate. It figures only a Godric-caliber incursion can disturb his perfection.

Slicking his mussed hair back, he kneels beside me, takes off his jacket, revealing arms corded with muscles and straining against his silver-grey silk shirt.

After folding and pillowing his jacket beneath my head, he murmurs what sounds like an invocation as he waves a hand over the dagger. The moment it dissolves, I feel my healing powers struggling to kick in. But it’s like something is stopping them from rushing to the injury, from knitting my flesh where it had been disrupted.

Astaroth only stems my bleeding with another wave of his hand and more arcane murmurings. Then rolling one sleeve up, he extends his forefinger’s trim fingernail into a straight, sharp claw, and picks up my forearm, his movements efficient, precise, like a surgeon about to perform field surgery.

He pauses when I choke, focusing on my face for the first time.

“Why are you doing this?” I whimper.

He inclines his head at me in total composure, as if we’re not within range of a Celestial war zone, and he’s about to inflict some demonic blood ritual on me. “Doing what exactly? Dragging you away from the fray before you killed yourself helping Godric? Or before his shield collapsed completely, and you got torn apart by the Fallen, or crushed in the fallout of his struggle, whichever came first?”

My head spins as I watch him slice into his sinewy forearm. The blood that wells from the incision isn’t sludge-black like most of the demons I’ve seen. It’s the richest, darkest wine color. And it’s on fire. Hellfire. This man, this entity, is probably the personification of Hell itself.

He gestures at my arm. “May I?”

“Is-is this some ritualistic preparation, before you take me back to Azazel to complete the Ligare?”

“You had an arterial bleed and lost almost half your blood. This is to restore you before you fall into an irreversible coma.”

“Before you take me back to Azazel?” I persist.

“I certainly won’t do that. But I also can’t take you to the Sanatorium. The Fallen are surrounding Jegudiel House, and unlike Godric, I am susceptible to their angelic powers, when there’s that many of them, at least.”

“He can’t stand against that many for much longer,” I sob.

“I wouldn’t worry about Godric. He’s faced much worse.”

Gideon told me something to that effect before, but it feels so far, so vague. I’m fading.

“You mean you’re doing all this to save me?” I mumble.

He nods. “I can understand why this is hard for you to believe.”

“Because you’re always doing Azazel’s bidding?”

“Because I’m a demon.”

“You’re an archdemon. Hell, you’re a King of Hell. It should make it even harder to believe, but you’re actually the only professor I like …”

My vision dims, and something Jinny told me flits at the edges of my wavering consciousness. Something about blood mingling not being such a good idea.

But I’m on the edge of oblivion. I was already weak, and unprepared, and I’ve extended myself too far, and something within me has snapped. I will slip away and never come back. But if Godric won’t die, and Astaroth can keep me here …

“What the Hell,” I moan. “Do it.”

His claw slices into my flesh, then he presses our forearms together.

The moment the first drop of his blood mixes with mine, my whole body bows up as if with the charge of a defibrillator.

My awareness shoots through an eternity of sensations and images. My body flares with a surge of primordial power.

I’ve only felt something like this when I tasted Godric’s blood. This isn’t anywhere as exhilarating and addicting, but it’s still amazing.

My void agrees. It’s roaring in a rage of hunger.

More,more, it screeches. All.

But Astaroth is already separating our already healing flesh.

Sitting back on his heels, he produces a pristine handkerchief, wipes my arm clean as my body and mind reset. I’m still unable to move, but I have to say one thing, and ask another.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he inclines his head in gracious acceptance. “Will you let me go back there once this post-transfusion paralysis lifts?”

“Certainly not. I won’t let you risk accessing your power so soon.”

“But Godric needs help! And where is Azazel? Is he waiting until his fanatics soften Godric up to strike him down?”

“It’s endearing how you worry for your mentor, Cadet White. But confronting a superior enemy isn’t one of Azazel’s follies, not unless he is absolutely cornered into it. And any conjugation of the word ‘soft’ should never be put in the same sentence as Godric.” He gestures with his head behind us where the cacophony of the mini-war rages. “He will bring this to an end, one way or another. And he’ll be the one left standing. Trust me.”

Weirdly, I do. And not because he just saved me. There’s always been something about him that makes me glad to see him. No idea what it is, and it’s Sarah who has accurate gut feelings. But I can’t ignore mine where he’s concerned.

Still buzzing with anxiety, but unable to do anything about it for now, I exhale raggedly. “You know, it would have broken my heart if you, of all people in the Academy, helped Azazel bind me into a worse-than-death fate.”

His dark gaze settles on my face with something that feels like surprise, before he shakes his head. “I thought I made my position clear, especially after I connected with you, to tell you to reach out to Godric, and kept delaying the process, until you did.”

“I didn’t feel any connection, just that you were trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t tell what. I screamed for Godric in sheer desperation.”

His stare grows dismayed for a second, before serenity descends on him again. “That’s a more plausible explanation for what happened, no matter what I hoped. I’m grateful he heard you, and could respond so swiftly. We were out of time.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” I rise to my elbows, feeling my body restarting. “But what if he is, too? No matter what you think, can’t you help him? Please? Even if they can’t kill him, they’re hurting him, and I-I can’t bear leaving him alone like that.”

He points upward, to the gaping crater in the ceiling. “He’s not alone anymore.”

I swear my heart drumrolls as the winged incomers take shape.

Lorcan and Gideon!

Without even realizing it, I’m on my feet and limping around Azrael’s monolith.

I hear Astaroth’s dismayed order to come back just as I see Godric turning his head toward his cousin and brother, before his shout booms. “Incarceratus.”

Lorcan and Gideon dive-bomb toward him, as if they’re going to ram into him, too.

As I try to cry out even a mental warning, the two nephilim come to an abrupt halt, putting their backs to one another and to Godric. They all emit a sharp-edged, golden-hued energy field that makes them look like a gigantic, tri-faceted prism.

Godric nods, and the three of them open their arms wide, then bring them together on simultaneous, world-shattering claps.

The field detonates in a millions shards, each targeting a fallen, knocking them back and pinning them to the chamber’s walls like mounted butterflies.

And just like that, it’s over.

Godric and the other two land among the rubble and the enraged cries of the trapped fallen.

Astaroth puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from running to him. “I think you’d better hang back for now. Godric will now have to resolve this with Azazel, and seeing you looking like this might not result in the best of outcomes.”

I wince. My reflection in the mirror this morning looked terrible. By now I imagine I’m at walking-dead levels.

“Show yourself, Azazel,” Godric calls in that voice that makes me want to snuggle within it forever. “The Incarceratus effect will resolve in minutes, then we’re no longer holding back. This is your last chance. Order your zealots to stand down. There’s no need for them to get massacred. Consider how hard it would be to replace them.”

Azazel walks out from behind Jophiel’s statue on the far side of the chamber. “I have far more followers than you can dream, you filthy hybrid.”

“I don’t need to imagine. I know. Call them all, and I would still destroy them.” His runes suddenly spew fire, like solar flares, his voice becoming a roll of thunder, coming from everywhere, the effect I’ve only heard from the higher Celestials. “You dared attempt to usurp my archangel-given right to Cadet White.”

Azazel cackles. “Leave it and lose it, nephilim.”

Godric’s jaw works, before his lips twist in a vicious smirk. “You leave it, or lose it, fallen. All of it.” He angles his head down at the fallen angel’s groin. “I’d make sure it wouldn’t grow back.”

Did he just threaten Azazel with castration and—de-dickation, or whatever blasting his dick off is called?

From Lorcan’s and Gideon’s snickers, he did.

Azazel comes to a stop a dozen feet from Godric, and looks up at his bloody and beaten army pinned above us.

Once they’re free, they’d commit suicide at a blink from him. I bet the bastard is considering it. It would put Godric and the others in a terrible position, give him a reason to ignite that internal war Godric talked about.

Godric also told me he was sick of waiting for it, would have it and be done with it. That must have been frustration talking. Any war should be avoided at all costs.

“Very well, fallen. You leave me no other recourse, so let it be noted.” Before I could do anything, to convince him not to take Azazel’s bait, Godric’s voice rises again, like a knell of doom. “I, Godric, Son of Azrael, challenge you, Azazel, Lord of the Fallen, to a Duellum.” He points at his men. “Lorcan, son of Gabriel.” Then he points towards us, without looking our way. “Astaroth, King of Hell, the two of you will be witnesses.”

From the manic grin on Azazel’s face, this is exactly what he’s been hoping for as he drawls, “Your terms?”

“I win, and you never again even think of Cadet White, let alone come near her, or do anything in any way, direct or indirect, to cause her any worry or harm. You will certainly never attempt the Ligare, or any other binding or attempt to use her or access her power. If you do, every last stipulation in your Armistice Accords’ clause, along with its privileges and protections will be erased. Then, I will come for you. And I will end you.”

“And if I win, you will rescind your right to her, and I can do whatever I please with her?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

My scream reverberates in the chamber, a shrill echo of horror and denial. Then I’m escaping Astaroth’s detaining hands, only the desperation to make Godric take this back catapulting me towards him.

I don’t reach him. Two inescapable shackles pull me back a hundred feet away as Azazel assumes his monstrous form. It’s Lorcan and Gideon, each grabbing an arm.

“It’s done, Wen,” Gideon hisses. “No one can interfere now on pain of death.”

I struggle, shake my head, shake all over. “Look at him! He’s four times as big as Godric.”

“You know what they say about the bigger they are,” Lorcan says and I turn my eyes to him, wishing they were arrows. “Just saying.”

“Just shut up, Lorcan, and let me go. I have to convince him to stop this.”

Gideon’s lips twist. “Oh, there’s no going back now. Truth be told, I can’t wait for Azazel to kick him around a bit.”

“You petty dickwad,” I shout, twisting rabidly in their hold. “This is your brother right there, and it’s my fate in the balance.”

Lorcan comes in front of me, any levity leaving his face. “It’s the best way to end this once and for all, Wen. Or Azazel will only keep coming after you.”

“What if he loses?”

Astaroth has joined us, and the three of them look at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“It’s possible!” I insist. “Azazel is not only a powerful monster, he’s a sneaky, dishonorable heap of Heavenly shit.”

“And you think Godric is what?” Gideon shakes his head in incredulity. “Mother Teresa? He’s as sneaky a bastard as they get.”

“But he’s not dishonorable!”

That elicits a spectacular snort from Gideon. “Oh, you think so, do you?”

“Don’t listen to him.” Lorcan shoves Gideon further aside. “What matters is that Godric knows Azazel’s kind inside and out. He eats them for breakfast, so relax, will you?”

Before I can say anything more, the nightmare facing Godric rams into him with the force of a meta bomb.