Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

LILITH

I do not, it turns out, have to wait long.

Michael sends me a message the same day, via falcon because he's a melodramatic fuck like that, asking me to meet with him. Thankfully, Eve and Adam are gone by the time it comes, so at least I don't have to worry about convincing them to stay away.

Azrael more than makes up for it, though. When I try to leave her behind at the flat, she grasps hold of my sleeve in a death grip and refuses to let go no matter how much I cajole her with promises of my swift return.

In the end, I have no choice but to give in unless I want to get in a straight-up fucking fistfight with her over it, and believe me, on most days I'd be willing to do just that. I've kneed my fair share of Angels in the face, and I'm not afraid to do it again. But just when I'm about to wake up and choose violence, Azrael gives me this oh-so-solemn stare and says she doesn't want to be alone, and I cave with embarrassing ease.

My only consolation is the fact that there's not an ounce of triumph in Azrael's relieved exhale.

Michael gets me to meet him down at the docks because again, drama . He's hidden in the shadowed enclave between two massive ships. There's no one around, and I don't know if that's luck or literal divine intervention making it so.

I get Azrael to wait at the top of the gangway, close enough that she's still in my sightline but far enough that it won't feel like she's looming during whatever fuckery this is about to be with Michael.

He looks the same. His mortal form hasn't changed since the very beginning. In human years, he looks to be in his late thirties, with dark-red hair hanging to his shoulders and a large, hulking frame. His eyes, like Azrael's, shine pure white inside his skull. He has thick eyebrows, perfectly sculpted for judgement, and he utilises them well now.

"Why did she come to you?" Michael demands without any preamble. He's scowling, but it's nowhere near as good as Azrael's. She makes it look threatening. He just looks like a grumpy prick.

There's a light breeze on the air that blow tiny wisps of air around my face. One longer strand gets caught on my lip, stuck to the balm coating it, and I have to raise a hand to drag it away. It gives me a second to calm down so I don't just drop-kick him into the ocean.

"No idea," I lie blithely. "Thought you sent her."

"We didn't." Michael eyes me with barely veiled contempt. "And you figured that out, but you still didn't see fit to contact me once you knew she was … lost."

Lost? Fucking escaped , he means.

"Not my fault if you don't have any control over your own foot soldiers, is it? But then"—I sigh forlornly—"you've never been able to command the same kind of loyalty that Lucifer could."

Low blow, bringing up Lucifer. It always is, which is the point. The salt and burn of long-ingrained sibling rivalries never die, especially for immortals.

Michael's nostrils flare in irritation, his top lip twitching to reveal one sharp little incisor. I've known him far too long, and that facial tick is a sure sign that he is rapidly losing the grip on his tether, which is interesting since we've barely started. Either he's getting some heavy-duty pressure for letting one of his soldiers skip out on their team, or there's something special about Azrael. I resist the urge to glance back at her, not wanting to give anything away to Michael.

"You will surrender her to us, Lilith," he says, a frigid arrogance to his voice that sets my teeth on edge, like I'm trying to bite through solid ice.

"If that was a demand, you feathered fuck, the answer is no. If it was a badly phrased request, the answer is also no." I sneer at him. "I ain't your soldier or your sister or your pet , so you can just fuck right off."

Michael has never understood the difference between ordering warriors and commanding dogs. To him, they are one and the same, and therein lies the cause of all his failures, whether he acknowledges them as such or not.

"You seek to challenge us on this," Michael says, mildly incredulous as he draws himself up to his full height, shoulders rigid as church stone. "You mean to challenge me ." It isn't a question. He knows better than to question my willingness to rebel against him and all the horses he rode in on by now.

Here he is. Leader of the Angels, the first in creation. That's something we've aways been able to meet in the middle on, what it feels like to be the first, to bear that burden for everyone who came after us.

"I won't let you have her," I say in answer to his non-question.

"Why?" Michael demands in a rough bark, appearing genuinely flummoxed, which is part of the problem. "You don't care about Angels, Lilith. Do you pretend to be taking on the role of saviour now? For what purpose?"

Many millennia ago, when we stood on either side of the battlefield that would later become our lives, in constant static flux between revolution and oppression, I watched Michael destroy his family and then blame that destruction on his brother, on me, on the humans, on his father—on anyone but himself.

And yet I felt for him then because for all his faults and fucking hubris, there was a time when we saw each other as kin. Such ties are harder to break than we believe them to be, almost as hard as they are to repair once damaged.

I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and exhale slowly, regarding him with more empathetic understanding than he will be able to stomach for long.

"Leave her be, Michael," I say, darting a glance over at Azrael. She hasn't moved from where I left her, standing at the top of the gangway with her bare, scarred arms crossed over her chest as she watches us with an expression too blank to be anything other than a wall for her fear to hide behind. "She's served her time."

"If you insist on this foolishness, I will be forced to consider you an obstacle," Michael says, stiff and overbearingly formal to cover up the severe discomfort I know he feels at the sight of Azrael, ghostly pale and hunched in and stripped of any sense of self. For all his talk, Michael was as opposed to the creation of lesser Angels as Lucifer was at the start.

It was only when things came to a head that he dug his heels in, and now he's stuck with nowhere to go without cutting his own legs out from under him.

"Michael, don't do this," I try again even though I know in my heart that it's futile.

Michael's white eyes narrow, and his jaw hardens, stubborn as a childhood nightmare. "We will take her back." He takes another step towards me. Big mistake.

I smirk up at him, vague disappointment warring with impending satisfaction. I snatch one hand out of my pocket, brandishing the bronze dagger I have with me in the likely occasion that I will need to use it.

"You'll have to find us first, Mikey," I say, and Michael has a half second to be surprised before I slam the blade into his chest. A blinding-white light emits from the stab wound, and Michael's mortal form explodes into celestial atoms, sending him right back to Heaven.

Whipping around with the bronze dagger still clenched in my hand, I start running full pelt away from where Michael once stood, grabbing hold of Azrael's hand and yanking her along with me. I send a silent thank you to the universe for Michael's arrogance, which led him to not bring any reinforcements.

"What are we doing?" Azrael asks as we sprint through the docks, our hands locked together, her fingers digging into my skin and barely avoiding crushing bone with her Angelic strength.

I flash a quicksilver grin at her over my shoulder. "Now, Az, we enter a chapter of our relationship called: ‘Thelma and Louise, the Reboot.'"

Azrael grips my hand just that little bit tighter.