Chapter 35
Abaddon leads me down the halls until we reach a magic-locked door hiding a staircase.
Down we go, into a level I’ve never been to, nor knew existed.
I mentally prepare myself to walk through some medieval horror-filled basement, but instead, it’s just a storage room.
A very junky storage room. Chests, crates, and other types of containers are stacked to the ceiling, many of them dusty and covered in cobwebs.
Abaddon doesn’t slow down, tugging me into a long concrete hallway. It’s much narrower than the castle above, stripped bare of any grandiosity. Even the doors are simple, made out of unkempt wood.
We move so fast that we’re practically running, everything blurring together in a nondescript repeating pattern. I couldn’t remember the way if I tried.
Eventually, a narrow archway appears in the place of one of the doors.
Abaddon guides me ahead of him, since the hole in the wall is barely wide enough to fit his wings in with him.
It immediately takes us down a small set of stairs, leading to a cast-iron door.
I stare at the carving on it for a moment—a strange symbol of an eye with six wings—before the King gets impatient and magically opens the door for me.
Inside, the first thing my eyes draw to is the massive circular conference table, built from glossy obsidian stone, consuming the center of the room. After allowing space for angel wings, it fits ten seats, most of which are already filled.
But there’s more.
The table is bracketed by multiple tiers of stone benches, packed with dozens of angels I’ve never seen before, as if trying to imitate an auditorium.
They all wear the same armor, but they sit in sections of matching colors of sashes, capes, or robes.
Various shades of blue, earth tones, red, pink…
Some of them have an uncanny resemblance to the Council members, too. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that one of the angels wearing lavender looks as ghastly and pale as Uriel.
Most of the crowd turns to look at Abaddon and me, as if we’re students late to a class. Quietly, they inspect us, seeming less than pleased at what they find.
It’s unnerving.
Meanwhile, Semyaza sits at the table with four of his generals, all of them wearing various shades of black and silver.
The Council occupies four more, each of them dressed in their own signature shades: gold armor for the two genocideists, white robes for the purple-winged Uriel, and green robes for Raphael.
Only one chair is left open, carved out of the same stone as the table, and it rests directly in front of us. Right between the Profuga and Elohim.
Abaddon takes one look at the sole remaining seat before magically splitting it into two.
All the others chairs shift with their occupants in tow, evenly distributing around the table in a groaning of stone.
There’s a slight murmur in the stands. Some of the Elohim’s eyes widen in shock, while others sneer with disdain. They whisper to each other, quietly laughing, their eyes fixed on me.
I’m nothing more than a circus animal to them.
Only a flicker of rage swells in me before it’s snuffed by another’s foreign emotions, shoved into my soul like a dirty gag. Pride, confidence, spite—everything I’d imagine Abaddon would be feeling in a situation like this.
I don’t dare glance at him, wary of being seen as weak by our audience.
As much as I hate to entertain his wild ideas, I know I’m surrounded by a room full of predators. I can feel it in the prickling of my skin, the judgment in their eyes. Maybe he’s right, and his execution is just flawed... Maybe I really do need his help to survive them.
“Thank you for finally joining us, Destroyer.” Michael stands, his obnoxiously booming voice demanding attention.
Abaddon turns my direction, looking at my face without seeing me. In stark opposition to Michael’s eternally burning anger, he is nothing but cold impassiveness. “Before we begin, I’d like to formally announce my betrothed: Kae Lambros, Key to the Abyss, soon to be its Queen.”
I don’t know what he expected. Applause? A challenge? None of that happens. The crowd looks at us the same, not daring to speak while Michael is still standing. They give him their attention with the utmost respect. Perhaps even fear.
Abaddon doesn’t pay them any mind. Unshaken, he leads us straight to the open chairs, finally releasing my hand from his death grip so we can sit down.
“As you can see, I’ve brought a handful of Elohim nobility and cadets from the Academy. I trust you will not find their attendance burdensome.” Michael slides back down into his chair, lazily waving a hand to his second-in-command. “Gabriel, you may proceed.”
At least I’m too numb to feel sickened by their presence. Semyaza and his men seem to be taking the same approach. Nothing on their faces gives away their feelings as Gabriel stands, clearing his throat before speaking.
“Earlier this week, the Global Peace Objective enacted militant blockades around the globe to enforce their International Environmental Recovery Agreement—the IERA—against merchant ships.” He speaks in a no-nonsense way, serious and lacking any distinction.
“Within hours of the announcement, the United States president responded to this by promising to ‘use all necessary force’ to exercise the country’s right to maritime law. ”
Huh. I thought they’d be announcing the literal red apocalypse horse, not giving a militant status report…
“Yesterday at approximately 2100Z,” he continues, “one such blockade tried to prevent the U.S.S. Moonlight from exporting goods to Uruguay, the last remaining country in South America to not join the GPO. While multiple U.S. ships have attempted to reach South America this week, this was the first to be escorted by naval battleships, and the first to refuse to stand down under the blockade. The GPO fired first in what we believe were only warning shots, but the U.S. returned with full force. Over the course of three hours, the U.S.S. Moonlight, along with both of its escorts and two GPO warships, was ultimately damaged beyond the point of salvage. They have now fully sunk, and the surviving American citizens are returning home. The current casualty count is one hundred and eighty-seven humans wounded, including sixty-four dead. Are there any questions?”
A hand raises in the audience, and Gabriel nods towards it. “Yes, Shasta?”
“Were there any angel casualties?” The girl asking has warm brown skin and ridiculously long hair, dark at the roots but painted in seafoam green, and wears emerald green robes. A descendant of Raphael, maybe? I don’t know—she looks more Indian than African American.
“No. Two Speculatores were present at the scene, and they will be returning home soon for a brief recovery.”
A collective sigh of relief ripples through the Elohim.
That says something to me. Five dozen dead humans, and all they care about are their immortal kin? The ones capable of infinitely respawning? I don’t like it.
“If there are no other questions, this concludes my report.” Gabriel waits for a few sparse seconds before sitting down, and the room fills with murmuring.
But the second that Michael speaks again, all the Elohim fall deathly silent without hesitation. “It appears the Red Horse of War is nearly upon us.”
Nearly? I could have sworn Abaddon said it’s already here…
“Do our field agents inside political leadership have any theories on the GPO’s next steps?” the King asks.
“We do have some intel,” Uriel’s strange, melodic voice hums in response. “Though it is sparse. It appears the GPO is waiting on the U.S. to retaliate in full force. New militant alliances are still under discussion.”
“Which is why we’re happy you’re here with us, Semyaza.” Michael turns his chair to look at Semyaza’s side. “Your generals, too. Especially you, Urakiba.”
Who? I really should have taken more time to learn these archangels’ names… Clueless, I follow everyone’s eyes to the person of interest—the androgynous angel with facial features of a high-fashion runway model.
Their wavy hair falls just past their shoulder, accenting a masculine jawline, yet their face is strangely softened by thick lips and sultry, deep-set eyes.
Though they might be somewhat pale, they don’t seem to have a specific, notable ethnicity, either.
Even their all-black clothes seem to be a strange admixture of fashion from different centuries.
“It’s just Kiba now,” they reply, their voice a perfect neutrality between masculinity and femininity. It has a coolness to it, unbothered by all the attention. “I suppose you want me to use my specialty for your cause.”
“Yes, Kiba,” Michael scoffs. “The quality of our intel could be drastically improved with the unique strengths of your abilities.”
“I know what you are going to ask, and I am not in favor of killing a human in cold blood to assume their place. Even if that human is a politician in the GPO.”
My eyebrows shoot up at the sheer boldness. But, I’ll admit, I love to see it. It seems to irk Michael, probably more than he cares to let on.
“Do you not think the Profuga should assist in defeating the Adversary?” he snaps back, his voice quick and accusatory. “Are you not devoted to serving the Almighty?”
Kiba scowls, and a second later, their entire body melts and shifts into an exact copy of Michael. Despite everything, I gasp—and so does the rest of the room.
All of the Elohim in the stands are unequivocally shocked.
I glance over at them, trying to gather information from their response. Either they don’t have shapeshifters in their realm, or they’re appalled that someone would be bold enough to impersonate their Chief Asshole. I can’t tell which one it is, unfortunately.