Wings rolled a thunder greater than the storm’s. The male angel was returning.
The knife. He needed the goddamned knife. Kim had lost it while the female had him by the neck.
He dropped to the ground, pawing the stones, barely missing outstretched fingers ready to wrap around his throat again. Kim swore, hissing more curses, finally feeling the familiar curve of the handle settled inside his palm.
He turned, swinging his arm in a wild arc, desperate to fend off the latest shadow.
Troy swooped out of the rain and down to the ground, the female following close behind. The angel was a picture of white rage, almost as frightful as the Jinn who’d torn a gash in her wing. Her cheeks flared with red stripes, like elegant, terrifying war paint.
These angels fought like rabid dogs.
Troy galloped on her hands and feet, closing in on Kim. When they met, she pressed against his back, spreading her wings in a threatening display, gnashing her teeth furiously at the white angel who leaned over them both, tall and furious. Troy’s pinions rubbed Kim’s shoulders and arms, the feathers on each stiff and unforgiving as razor blades. “Do it,” she shrieked. “Before the male returns.”
Too late. He was heading straight for them.
Troy fended the female off, spitting like some nightmarish cat.
“Just don’t whine that it hurts.” Kim tore the buttons from his coat sleeve, rolling it upward.
He set the knife to his skin.
God—the cut felt like a streak of fire.
A long red line appeared, followed by more crimson dripping slowly down his hand. Kim’s fingers slipped against each other, soaked with redness despite the rain. He began tracing the pentagram in the air shakily, hurried by panic.
“I said do it,” Troy shrieked again, hissing so loudly at the angel Kim’s ears throbbed in pain. She lunged, the bones in her hair rattling like a snake’s tail. “Throne,” she spit at the female. “Abomination. Back to your cage and leash, bastard crow. Better that you’d rotted in the depths of the Underworld, a chick without a hope.”
The female screamed wordlessly, but Troy’s insults kept her close and vulnerable. She flapped her wings, face-to-face with his cousin, both of them continuing their threat displays.
Troy bit for the angel’s throat, her teeth smashing together.
A Throne.
No wonder these angels fought like berserkers. For once, Troy had a challenge on her hands. When it came to fury and relentless murder, they were probably a closer match than even she felt comfortable with. But there was no doubt now that Israfel was nearby, probably right inside St. Mary’s, wreaking all kinds of havoc. These were his guardians, and most likely, some of the best that Heaven had ever produced. Thrones were the privilege of the high angels, the powerful personalities. And they were also—unfortunately—the first set of opponents if anyone dared infringe on their master’s interests.
Most never survived to tell about it—but Kim was hardly ready to settle for death.
The smile spreading across his face had the joy of hurting more than the angels behind it. “Defende nos in proelio!”
Troy stiffened against him, hardly able to bear his voice.
Kim’s blood remained in the air, the droplets holding fast to the invisible pentagram. His arm shook, and he glared directly into the male angel’s eyes. In a few seconds, they would be on top of each other. Behind him, the female moaned, her wings slowing as Troy’s also relaxed, both of them stricken. His cousin’s breath was like a ragged whisper.
“Contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium!”
The pentagram blazed, its light like a red star.
Troy collapsed to the ground, panting, her nails scraping the stone.
“Libera nos a malo! A malo!”
The red light exploded, expanding in a circle of brilliance to the fringes of the courtyard, all the rain seeming to turn into blood. Within it, the Thrones shrieked with a chilling kind of rage, and then their own silver light flashed in front of the church, lightning that mixed with more lightning.
In an instant, they escaped into the next dimension and were gone, wounds still streaming, wings thundering faintly.
Troy’s gasps came slower, but the pain on her face was something Kim rarely witnessed.
Her ears flicked water away from her cheeks, and her glowing eyes hid under half-mast lids, dimmed by the spiritual oppression. Gradually, she folded her wings tightly against her back and clambered onto hands and feet, rising to sit on her haunches. Her face was uncharacteristically expressionless. Kim knew better than to talk. He knew better than to listen for a thank you. Instead, he watched the water roll along the white curves of her face.
If only the prayer had the power to kill her.