The steps climbed sharply, crowded between high walls, and then levelled out into a long, straight passageway. At the end of the passage was smoke. Smoke and fire. Scorch marks stained the granite blocks on either side, and deep sword cuts in the rock.
Bodies littered the ground ahead of him, and with mounting horror, he realised that he was going to have to go through them to reach the priory. Slowly, he picked his way between them: wings torn apart, littering the ground with feathers, and empty faces, their eyes open and unseeing. Something brushed against his ankle and he recoiled with a gasp: a hand. An angel he didn’t recognise, but the sigil on his wrist was Michael’s. His fingers were still clasped around the hilt of his sword.
The passageway rang with the sounds of fighting now, screams and howls bouncing off the high stone walls, and Phillip felt cold. So cold. It occurred to him that he could turn back; he could run. And the more he thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. There was nothing to stop him – he knew the island better than anyone. He was sure he could make his way out without being seen, and he certainly knew his way across the sands to the mainland. All he had to do was wait until dark, and he could make a run for it. No-one would think any less of him. After all, he was only human.
Phillip’s head snapped up. The voice in his mind, the voice telling him to run... it wasn’t his. He looked down at his feet. He had, without quite realising, turned and taken several steps back the way he came. “I am myself,” he said to no-one. “And I choose my own end in peace.” The air around him cooled again, the wind swallowing his words. There was no-one there to hear them. It didn’t matter. Head held high, Phillip started forwards again.
The thick white smoke now spanned the end of the passageway, hiding everything behind it. There were shapes moving, and flashes of light – of fire – but everything was obscured. He stretched out his hand to touch it, watching it coil around his fingers... then snatched them back, suddenly feeling foolish. Someone on the other side of the veil screamed, and something heavy fell to the ground.
Phillip stepped through the smoke.
PHILLIP HAD NEVER considered hell. He had never claimed to be perfect, and had led a less sheltered life by far than most of the brothers in Michael’s service, but the chaos at the end of the passageway was like nothing he had ever seen, either waking or dreaming.
Five angels, fully armoured, surrounded the prisoners, their backs turned inwards. Florence and Xaphan, wrists still bound and tied to one another, cowered in the middle of the circle, while the Descendeds lunged outwards at a half-dozen Fallen. They hurled themselves at the angels in a fury, tearing, clawing, gouging, biting. And despite the fire the Descendeds threw at them, they kept coming. A heap of blackened bodies past the knot of angels suggested there had been more. Far more, judging by the number of dead angels Phillip had passed. He didn’t stop to wonder where they had come from; didn’t wait to ask. Instead, spotting a glint of silver beneath a pile of scorched feathers, he hurried towards it.
The sword was heavier than he had expected; while the angels swung theirs with one hand, it took both of his and all his strength just to lift it. The point shook wildly as he held it up, with fear and exertion.
He could see the doorway. The one he needed. Less than fifty yards ahead and the wrong side of the pitched battle going on in front of him. If he could get to that, he could get to Zadkiel and Michael.
One of the Descendeds looked up and saw him, frozen in the midst of the chaos. Phillip recognised A’albiel, one of Michael’s favourites. He was already wounded: one shoulder hung lower than the other and his face was covered in blood and ash. Flames blazed around him as his chest heaved in and out with the effort of breathing; his breastplate shone under a layer of battle-grime. He would know what to do.
Phillip met his gaze, and A’albiel seemed to understand. He nodded, and shouted something Phillip could not make out. The others must have understood it; they raised their swords as one and whirled – and in a blur of fire and feathers, they had spun around pinning the attacking Fallen back against one of the walls and leaving a narrow gap behind them. They had given up their defensive position, had laid themselves wide open, but they had given him a pathway to the door.
“Go!” A’albiel shouted at him. Phillip dropped the sword and ran for the door.
As he passed them, still running, he thought he saw Xaphan wink at him...
And then he was in the doorway, scrabbling for the handle and tumbling through, slamming the door shut behind him.
OUTSIDE, A’ALBIEL HEARD the door bang, heard the key turn in the lock. The Quartermaster was safe. He ducked as one of the Fallen threw... something at him. It passed by too quickly to see what it was, and Al didn’t really care. It had almost hit him, and he lunged forward with a flaming sword; smiling in satisfaction as his assailant took the blade in the face and dropped where he stood.
He was still smiling when the knife slipped into his back, finding its way between the links of the chainmail and down into the root of his wings. Stars bloomed in his eyes and the ground beneath him softened as the blade slid home. His sword dropped from his hand.
He twisted as he fell. He hit the ground, seeing Xaphan casually shaking off his restraints, smiling at him. As the remains of the guard, too, fell around him, Xaphan stepped over a heap that had once been an angel and dropped into a crouch, running his finger down A’albiel’s cheek. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he whispered. “Everywhere and anywhere. The world is ours.” He smiled again, and wiped the blood from his knife on A’albiel’s shoulder, before slipping the blade back into his pocket and holding his hand out to Florence. She took his hand, and they turned their backs on A’albiel, the three remaining Fallen following them, vanishing into the drifting smoke.
A’albiel rolled onto his back, feeling the chill spreading out from beneath his wings. His vision clouded, and he turned his eyes to the perfectly empty blue sky.
And inside the abbey, Phillip ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fire with Fire
THE PIECE OF paper Michael had been holding slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor. He strode towards the window, frowning. “Smoke,” he said, looking out over the roofs.
Alice looked out of the nearest window. He was right. A cloud of smoke hung over the island below them; it was thick and black, greasy. She had seen it before.
“Mallory...”
“I see it. Michael?”
“Hmm.” Michael looked thoughtful. “Not the approach I would have taken, but still...”
“Michael!”
“What?” Michael’s head snapped around to face Mallory.
“What do you want us to do?”
“To do?” Michael looked puzzled, his eyes moving from Mallory to the window and back again. “We fight, of course.”
“With what?” Mallory said pointedly. “I hate to point this out, but your Quartermaster relieved me of my guns.”
Michael raised a finger and cocked his head. Someone was coming up the stairs.
The door was thrown open as Zadkiel burst into the room. He was carrying a small roll of cloth, which he threw to Mallory. “Brother Phillip sends his regards, and his apologies. Almost got himself killed getting here.”
Mallory caught it and unwrapped his guns, dropping the cloth and checking the magazines on both Colts before stuffing them into his pockets. “He’s got good timing,” he muttered as Zadkiel dropped a green holdall on the floor with a brusque, “Ammo.” The Archangel then raced across the room, and whispered something into his commander’s ear. Michael’s frown deepened.