End of Days (Penryn & the End of Days Series Book 3) Read online

  A thought slips into my head. I can’t seem to get rid of it no matter how hard I try to shove it aside.

  What would it be like to have Raffe’s hand on that part of my body?

  I’m seventeen years old, going on eighteen, and I’ve never had a guy caress my breast. The way things are going, I probably never will, at least, not in a good, loving kind of way. In an apocalyptic world, violence is guaranteed and good experiences are just a dream. That makes me want to feel it in a good way all the more. Something gentle and sweet that should have happened in due time with the right guy if the world hadn’t gone to hell.

  While my head rages in argument and confusion, my hand covers his. Gently, oh, so gently. What would it be like to have Raffe’s hand caress my nipple?

  Really?

  Am I really thinking this?

  But thinking is not the right word for what’s going on inside me. It’s more of an . . . urge. An irresistible, undeniable, pounding, trembling, panting urge.

  I slowly inch his hand up so that his thumb presses against the soft flesh of my breast.

  Then I nudge it up just another fraction.

  Raffe’s breathing is still steady. He’s still asleep.

  A little more. Just a fraction . . .

  Until I can feel the warmth of his hand spreading over my chest.

  And then everything changes.

  His breathing becomes ragged. His hand pushes up and begins kneading my flesh. Demanding. On the verge of hurting, but not quite. Not quite. An incredible sensation runs through me, starting from my breast and flooding out from there.

  I’m panting before I know it.

  He moans and kisses the nape of my neck. He works his way up to my mouth. His lips land on mine, hot and wet and sucking. His tongue sweeps in, teasing mine.

  My whole world is a mass of sensations—the soft sucking of his lips, the warm slipperiness of his tongue, the hard pressure of his body against mine.

  He flips me onto my back and moves over me. The weight of his body presses me down against the mattress. My arms slip around his neck, and my legs and hips shift restlessly.

  I’m whimpering or moaning or mewling, I’m not sure which. I’m so deeply lost in the vortex of sensations that the only thing that matters is the here and now.

  Raffe.

  My hands run over the muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his bulging arms.

  Then he pulls away, leaving me gasping.

  I groggily open my eyes, feeling drugged, reaching out for him.

  He looks at me with intense eyes. Distressed but swirling with want.

  He pushes back away from me.

  He turns to sit with his back to me. “Christ.” He rakes his hair with both hands. “What just happened?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but the only thing that comes out is “Raffe.” I can’t tell if it’s a question or a plea.

  He sits with his back ramrod straight, his muscles stiff, his wings folded tightly along his back. I touch his shoulder, and he starts as though I shocked him with electricity.

  Without another word, he gets up and walks briskly out of the room.

  I HEAR RAFFE’S footsteps clomp down the wooden stairs. The front door opens and slams shut. Then I see a snowy wing tip sweep the air outside my window as he takes off.

  I shut my eyes in utter humiliation.

  How can the world end in a giant fury of biblical proportions yet still leave room for embarrassment?

  I lie there for what seems like forever, wishing I could blot out what happened. But I can’t. Massive confusion swirls through me. I get it. He’s not supposed to . . . Daughter of Man . . . blah, blah, blah.

  Can’t anything be simple? I sigh and stare at the white ceiling.

  I might have stayed there all day if I hadn’t glanced through the door that Raffe left open on his way out.

  Across the hallway, Paige’s door is open and her bed is empty.

  I sit up. “Paige?”

  No answer. I grab my tennis shoes, slipping them on while walking down the hallway.

  “Paige?”

  I don’t hear anything. She’s not in the kitchen, dining room, or living room. I look out the living room window.

  There she is. Her little body is curled up on the ground beside Beliel, who is still chained to the picket fence.

  I run outside. “Paige? Are you all right?”

  She lifts her head, blinking sleepily at me. My heart slows down, and I exhale, letting out the tension.

  “What are you doing out here?” I’m careful to walk beyond Beliel’s reach. Paige lies just out of his reach too. She may be strangely attached to him, but she’s not stupid.

  Beliel the demon lies still. He’s raw and red where the chunks were taken out, although he’s not bleeding anymore. I’m pretty sure he’s come out of his paralysis, but he hasn’t moved since we were at the aerie.

  His skin is pruned. His breathing is raspy, as if his lungs are bleeding. He’s not healing as quickly as I expected him to. But his eyes follow us, alert and hostile.

  I put my arm under my sister’s shoulders and lift her up in my arms. Until recently, she had been getting too big for me to do that, but the Great Attack changed all that. Now she’s no heavier than a stuffed doll.

  She squirms, looking around. She’s making sleepy toddler noises, making it clear she doesn’t want to be taken away. She reaches out toward Beliel, who just sneers. He doesn’t seem bothered or confused by her inconsistent attitude toward him.

  “Your voice sounds familiar,” says Beliel. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. He’s like a dead body that can move its eyes and lips. “Where have I seen you?”

  I’m a little creeped out that he’s thinking the same thing I thought when I first saw him in chains.

  I walk away from him with Paige in my arms.

  “Your angel doesn’t have much time left to get his wings back,” says Beliel.

  “How do you know? You’re not a doctor.”

  “Raphael ripped a wing almost completely off my back once. I had to have that puny human doctor sew it back on. He warned me that I wouldn’t have much time if they came off again.”

  “What puny doctor? Doc?”

  “I ignored him. But now that I think of it, the little puke was probably right. Raphael has done nothing but make us both wingless.”

  “He’s not wingless.”

  “He will be.” He gives a grim smile, exposing his bloody teeth.

  I keep walking onto the porch. I’m almost at the door when he speaks again.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” he rasps. “You think you’re so special. Special enough to catch an archangel’s love.” He makes a dry, rattling noise that I think must be a laugh. “Do you know how many people have thought they could win his love over the centuries? That he’d be loyal to them just as they were loyal to him?”

  I know I should ignore him. Nothing he says can be trusted—I know that—but curiosity burns through me anyway. I put my sister down at the open doorway.

  “Go back to your bed, Paige.” After a little coaxing, she walks into the house.

  I turn and lean on the porch railing. “What do you know about him?”

  “You want to know how many Daughters of Men he’s gone through? How many hearts do you think have shattered over Raphael, the great archangel?”

  “You’re telling me he’s a heartbreaker?”

  “I’m telling you he’s heartless.”

  “You’re going to tell me that he did you wrong? That you don’t deserve to be chained up like a rabid animal?”

  “He’s not a good guy, your angel. None of them are.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I turn to go back into the house.

  “You don’t believe me. I can show you.” He says
these words quietly like it doesn’t matter to him whether I believe him or not.

  I pause at the doorstep.

  “I’m not a big fan of creepy guys offering to show me anything.”

  “That sword you carry around hidden under the stuffed animal,” he says, “it can do more than just look shiny. It can show you things.”

  I get goose bumps. How does he know?

  “I can show you what I experienced at the hands of that archangel you’re so enamored with. We just both need to be touching the sword.”

  I turn back toward him. “I’m not stupid enough to give you my sword.”

  “You don’t need to give it to me. You can hold it while I just touch it.”

  I look at him to see if there are any tricks. “Why should I risk losing my sword just to see if you’re telling the truth?”

  “There is no risk. The sword will not allow me to lift it or to take it from you.” He’s talking to me like I’m an idiot. “It’ll be perfectly safe for you.”

  I envision myself being in a memory trance within easy reach of Beliel. “Thanks, but no.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Not stupid.”

  “You can tie my hands, chain me, bag me, put me in a cage. Do whatever you like to ensure your safety from an old demon who can’t even get up on his own anymore. Once you do that, you know the sword won’t allow me to take it, so you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  I stare at him, trying to see through his game.

  “Are you really afraid of me harming you?” he asks. “Or maybe you just don’t want to know the truth about your precious archangel? He’s not what he seems. He’s a liar and a betrayer, and I can prove it. The sword won’t let me lie—it doesn’t pass on pretty words. Just memories.”

  I hesitate. I should be turning around to leave, and he knows it. I should be ignoring everything he says.

  But instead, I stand rooted to the porch. “You have your own agenda that has nothing to do with showing me the truth.”

  “Of course I do. Maybe you’ll let me go after you realize that he’s really the bad guy, not me.”

  “You’re the good guy now?”

  Beliel’s voice turns cold. “Do you want to see it or not?”

  I stand in the sunshine, looking at the beautiful view of the bay and the green hills beyond it. The sky is blue with only a few puffy clouds.

  I should explore more of the island to see if there’s something here we could use. I should be coming up with a plan to get my sister better. I should be making myself useful instead of flirting with disaster.

  But my dream keeps coming back to me. Could Beliel have been one of Raffe’s Watchers?

  “Were you . . . did you used to work with Raffe?”

  “You could say that. He used to be my commanding officer. There was a time when I would have done anything for him. Anything. That was before he betrayed me. Just like he’s going to do to you. It’s in his nature.”

  “I know you lied to my sister just for sport. I’m not a lonely, scared seven-year-old, so drop the evil manipulation act.”

  “Suit yourself, little Daughter of Man. You wouldn’t have believed what you saw anyway. You’re too loyal to the archangel to believe that he was the source of so much misery.”

  I turn around and walk into the house. I check to see that Paige is sleeping in her room. I check the cupboards in the kitchen to take stock of the few cans of soup left by the men who were camped here before us.

  While wandering around, the desire to see what Beliel is offering nags at me. Maybe he’ll show me something that brings me to my senses about Raffe. Maybe I’ll snap out of it and move on with my life—my life with other human beings, where I belong.

  I can’t even think about what happened earlier with Raffe without my face flaming in embarrassment. How am I supposed to look at him when he comes back?

  If he comes back.

  The thought twists my gut into a knot.

  I kick a decorative pillow on the floor, getting no satisfaction out of seeing it bounce off the wall.

  Okay. Enough.

  It’s just peeking into Beliel’s memory. Obi’s men are risking their lives every day, trying to spy on the angels for tiny scraps of intel. And here I am with the best spying device in the world, plus an offer to go into an enemy’s memories. I’ll have my sword with me the whole time, and it’s true that he won’t be able to use it against me.

  I’ll just get it out of my system and move on. I’ll be extra careful.

  Regardless of what Beliel has to show me, Paige and I will leave the island afterward, and we’ll go back to the Resistance. We’ll find Mom and see if we can find Doc. Maybe he can help Paige eat normal food again.

  And then, after that, we’ll . . . survive.

  Alone.

  I go upstairs to grab Pooky Bear, then walk outside to Beliel. He’s lying near the fence post, curled in the exact same position he was in when I left. I can see in his eyes that he was expecting me to come back.

  “So what do I do?”

  “I need to be touching your sword.”

  I lift my sword, pointing it at him. It shines in the sunlight. I have the urge to ask it if it wants to do this. But I don’t want to sound stupid in front of Beliel.

  “Come closer.” He holds out his hand to grab it.

  I hesitate. “Do you need to hold it, or can you just touch it?”

  “Touch it.”

  “Okay. Turn around.”

  He turns on the dirt without protest. His back is roped with strings of dried muscle. I don’t want to touch him with a ten-foot sword. But I press the tip of my blade into his back anyway.

  “One wrong move and I’ll stick you right through.” I’m not sure if the connection is enough with only the tip touching his back, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  I feel something opening in my head.

  It’s not like the other times when I suddenly found myself somewhere else. This one is weaker, lighter, as if I could choose not to go there if I wanted, as if the sword isn’t so sure about this particular voyage.

  I take a deep breath too. I make sure my feet are in proper fighting position and brace myself for an attack.

  And then I close my eyes.

  I FEEL A moment of dizziness, then I land on firm ground.

  The first thing that hits me is the overwhelming heat. Then the stench of rotten eggs.

  Under a black-purple sky, a chariot is drawn by six angels harnessed like horses. Blood and sweat stream down their shoulders and chests where the harness cuts into them. They strain to drag the chariot and the giant demon who drives it.

  The demon has wings of course. He could just fly to his destination if he wanted. Instead, he rolls slowly through his domain.

  The demon is so big he makes Beliel look like a child. His wings flame with what looks like real fire reflecting off his sweaty skin.

  He carries a stick with a circle of shriveled heads at the top. On the heads, the eyes blink and the mouths try to scream. Or maybe they’re drowning and gasping for air. I’m not sure, because no sound comes out. Each has long blond hair that flows up and around the heads like seaweed waving in a current.

  Once I get past the horror of the heads, I realize that the eyes are all the same shade of green. How many heads would you have to choose from to be able to collect a group with the exact same shade of eyes and hair?

  The ground is covered in broken glass and shards of bone. Each wheel is draped with two angels as if the monster demon didn’t want his shiny wheels marred by the rough ground. The Fallen angels are chained to the wheels and are stuck through with all kinds of shards sticking out of their skin.

  Beliel is one of these Fallen chained to a wheel.

  H
is wings are the color of a dying sunset. They must be his original angel wings. They’re half stretched out like he hopes to be able to keep them from being crushed. But many of the feathers are already scorched and broken.

  I hadn’t thought about how demons become the way they are. Maybe there’s a transition time between being an angel and becoming a demon. Since Beliel still has feathers, I’m guessing this probably means that it hasn’t been long since his fall.

  His face is recognizable, although somehow smoother, more innocent. His eyes lack that stinging, harsh quality that I’ve come to know. He looks almost handsome without his usual smirk and bitterness, though there’s pain.

  A lot of pain.

  But he bears it without a whimper.

  The wheel rolls, crushing his body against the bone shards covering the ground, making him endure the weight of both the vehicle and the monster riding on it. His face is focused and determined, looking like he’s clenching his jaw to keep from screaming.

  His wings tremble with the effort to hover above the ground. That protects them from the worst of the damage, but they still drag along the field of sharp bone and glass.

  As the wheels roll, the angels who are chained to them are getting their wings slowly crushed and splintered. They still carry their empty scabbards, which clank and drag against the rough ground, reminders of what they’ve lost.

  The giant demon cracks his stick above his head, and it unspools, whipping through the air. The shrunken heads begin shrieking as soon as they’re let loose. They shoot toward the harnessed angels with hair streaking through the air in front of them like snaky spears.

  When they hit the angels pulling the chariot, the sharp hair begins to shred their skin.

  The heads open their mouths wide and frantically gnaw on the Fallen. One of them manages to burrow halfway into the back of an angel before the whip gets pulled back.

  These Fallen angels look starved and are covered in festering wounds. I suspect even angels need their nourishment to fuel their speed healing.

  Then, in the middle of all this, a pack of hellions with their bat faces and shadowy wings slink toward them. They’re bigger than the ones I saw in my sword’s memories. Beefier and with spotted wings, as if they had disease blooming on them.