He stood front and center, towering over his foot soldiers, but his sword wasn’t drawn. He wouldn’t call his troops into battle until he raised it, and he was making no effort to reach for it.
“So he wants to talk,” Michael muttered in disappointment. “Coward.”
Raziel glanced at him reprovingly. “You have no wife, Michael. You have nothing to lose.”
“I don’t lose,” Michael said simply.
“Neither does Metatron,” Azazel said.
The king of the angels stepped forward, his black eyes meeting Azazel’s for a pregnant moment. There was no sign of Enoch—that form had vanished completely. There was only a giant among men, hungry for carnage.
“I would talk,” he announced, stopping about twenty feet from the three of them.
“I could kill him now,” Michael muttered, his tattooed arms flexing. “His army would scatter without a leader.”
“Control him,” Raziel snapped, and Azazel put a restraining hand on Michael’s shoulder as their leader stepped forward.
It should have been difficult for Azazel to watch Raziel in the place he himself had held for millennia, but he felt nothing but relief. He glanced over at Rachel. Her face was set, but she felt his gaze on her, and she turned, meeting it. And then she smiled at him.
It almost brought him to his knees. She had never smiled at him, not like this, full of love and promise and, yes, the forgiveness that he’d been too great a coward to ask for. He wanted to cross the sand and pull her into his arms, but he couldn’t move.
Instead, he smiled back at her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Michael growled. “I don’t remember ever seeing you crack a smile in your life, and you decide now is the time to do it?”
He turned to Michael, and his smile shifted to a more ironic grimace. “I’m in love,” he said. He looked back at Rachel. I love you, he thought, wondering if she could pick up the words.
Her eyes widened, and he knew she’d heard. She might not believe the truth of it, not until he said it out loud, but if he never got the chance at least she’d die knowing it.
Raziel had reached Metatron, and he halted, his hand on his sword, as Metatron began to speak.
“I, Metatron, first guardian of the ephemeral realm, enforcer of the law, protector of the Dark City, king of the warrior angels, demand the surrender of the so-called Fallen of Sheol and their whores to the most proper and right rule of the archangel Uriel, master of the universe.”
He heard a snort of laughter from Allie, which should have infuriated him. She quickly composed herself, whispering something to Rachel, who smothered a smile.
Raziel knew the prescribed form. “I am Raziel, leader of the Fallen and the inhabitants of Sheol, a place declared inviolate by the Supreme Being. We deny your right to have dominion over us, and demand that you leave.”
Metatron’s steely eyes narrowed. “We will not leave until the sand runs red with your blood and that of your mate and the blood of all who dwell here.”
Raziel didn’t move. “Then what stays your hand? Do you have doubts as to the righteousness of your orders?”
“I have no doubts. Will you surrender?”
“Never.”
Azazel waited, his hand poised on his sword, but Metatron made no move. “I will show no mercy.”
“Why should we expect mercy from Uriel’s minion?” Raziel said loftily.
Metatron ground his teeth. “Uriel has granted me the opportunity to make a bargain with you. Your best warrior against mine. If you win, we retreat. If we win, you give yourselves over to my men. I promise you death will be swift. It’s more than you deserve.”
Azazel moved forward, joining Raziel. “How can you possibly offer such a thing? Uriel would never countenance it.”
Metatron’s smile was sour. “I am not the minion you called me. I lead the armies, and it is my right to choose. The archangel Uriel must, on occasion, defer to me.”
Raziel cast a swift glance at Azazel, who nodded; then he turned back to the heavily armed soldier. “We agree, though we have little faith that Uriel will accede to your terms.”
“It will never come to that. I am the champion of my people, and I will kill your warrior and grind his bones into the sand, and then I will set his wife on fire, so that her screams will fill the air as my men destroy the rest of you. If you resist, you will die by flames as well. If you accept, then the sword will be swift and merciful.”
“Our champion is the archangel Michael,” Raziel said. “He has no wife.”
“He is no archangel. He has fallen,” Metatron said in dismissive tones. “And I have not made the terms clear. I am the one to choose your champion. And I choose Azazel.”
He heard Michael’s roar of frustration, but he didn’t turn around, and someone must have restrained him. He was more distracted by Rachel’s silent cry of horror. And he knew, to his sorrow, that her anguish was for him, not fear of immolation, the most painful form of death.
He had known it would come to this. He looked at Raziel. “By your leave?” he said formally.
After a moment Raziel nodded, and backed away, joining his waiting army, the pathetically small, ill-equipped family of the Fallen.
Azazel had known most of them for thousands of years. Michael and Gabriel had fallen later, as well as Nisroc and Jehoel, but most were almost a second self.
But it was for Rachel he felt the most fear. Metatron was a warrior—he lived to fight, just as Michael did. Azazel had managed to defeat him back in the Dark City because of the sheer rage that had suffused him. Here, on an even playing field, Metatron was by far the stronger. The two of them would stage a prodigious battle, and it was hard to guess who would come out the victor.
Though nearly as tall as Metatron, Azazel lacked the bulk of muscles, the sheer physical power. He would have to use his other gifts, cunning and speed, to keep the battle going until the larger man tired, and he could land the killing blow.
“I will fight you,” Azazel said, and he thought he could hear Rachel’s muffled cry. “And I will kill you,” he added pleasantly.
Metatron’s grin was savage. “You can try.” He spun around, in his element, ready to fight. “I will fight their champion,” he called out to his men, “and the outcome of that match determines the outcome of our assault. You are all to adhere to my agreement. No one is to be touched until I give the order. If I am vanquished, they are to be left alone.”
And then he turned back, his sword drawn, his smile filled with bloody anticipation. “This is a long time coming, traitor.”
Azazel drew his own sword. He was a worker in metals, and he’d crafted it himself, thousands of years ago. Its balance was perfect, its blade razor-sharp, its action smooth and swift. He smiled back at Metatron. “You’ve lived too long, minion,” he purred. “I’m waiting.”
Metatron lunged, his full force behind the move, so quickly that another man would have been unable to react in time. But Azazel knew him of old, and he’d shifted before Metatron even raised his sword, drawing his own across his enemy’s muscular thigh. He couldn’t reach the femoral artery, but he could cause pain, slow him down, and he whipped his sword across the other leg as Metatron spun around, a roar of fury bellowing out.
“Coward!” he shouted, bringing the sword down on Azazel’s neck, but finding only air. He spun quickly, the sword at waist level, and it slashed across Azazel’s chest, splitting the leather and cutting into his skin. Metatron grinned.
A moment later Azazel’s blade sliced his face. It was useless against the steel armor, but the cut was just above Metatron’s eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him, as Azazel moved in.
Even blinded, Metatron sensed him, spinning around and slashing, and Azazel felt the blade bite deep into his back. He went down, then rolled away as Metatron hacked at him, the heavy sword barely missing him in the blood-soaked sand. Azazel was up before he could free the sword from the grip of the sand, and his sword sliced deep into Metatron’s right arm.