Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The path Sachiel had marked out wound languorously through the city, and Michael cursed the other man for his laissez-faire demeanor.
He was ninety percent certain there was a more direct path, and he would’ve accused Sachiel of leading him on a wild goose chase if he didn’t know the Fallen had always been meandering and relaxed, even when he needed to be serious.
Eventually the trail led him into an alley between a deli and a barber shop.
Michael scanned the grime-streaked brick walls of the alley.
Pops of color peeked through in broad swirls and what might be letters, but unless the graffiti contained some secret code, it wasn’t going to make this any less of a dead end.
There were no doors, no archways. He quickly swept the ground and affirmed that no, there were no trap doors or manholes hidden under the piles and bags of garbage, either.
“Dammit Sachiel,” he groaned. First he leads him on a ridiculous path, wasting his time and energy, and now he’s expected to what? Walk through solid brick?
No. He had to stop, center himself. He was the best tracker Heaven could claim, and he was better than this.
If he could focus…he could find the entrance.
The golden angel steeled himself for what he needed to do.
Drawing a dagger from its sheath strapped to his thigh, he weighed it carefully, then slashed it quickly over his forearm.
A twinge of pain, a spray of golden blood, but nothing he couldn’t bear.
Already the pain dulled, and the flesh began to knit over the shallow wound.
That was fine; he only needed a small amount of blood.
Dipping his index finger into the shimmering gold, he went down on one knee and began to carefully trace symbols onto the slimy pavement, trying to ignore the potential sources of years of layered residue.
Getting a general sense of direction or following a trail was one thing.
That was like echolocation, telling him which way to move.
But when the trail died out, the only option left was to dig deeper and peel back the layers of interference, until he could expose the living memories embedded in the fabric of reality.
The simple sigil relied mostly on the blood of the caster to determine its strength, and he finished it quickly. Almost instantly, trickles of magic echoed back to him, a testament to his skills as well as the recency of the trail. A small smile danced over his lips. Still got it.
Closing his eyes, Michael did not sink back down into the void of his senses but instead pulled at the edges of the magic spreading through the alley.
Unlike tracing someone’s steps by the feel of the magic alone, his fingers trailed lightly through the air, reaching along invisible threads as if there was a rope there, guiding him deeper into the alley.
Flickers of images teased the corners of his vision, a scene like a movie clip forming in his mind.
A hidden door, here in the back wall. And to open it… Suddenly, there was a flare in the connection. The difference was as drastic as overpowering a candle by turning on a lamp. The image shattered before he could make out the method of entry, and Michael cringed.
A man stood before him. A man he knew well, which was unfortunate.
Despite his long hair, pulled into a low tail at his nape, and the layers of jewelry and black leather he wore, this was no common punk.
This was a fellow immortal, one who was every bit as deadly and nearly as powerful as Michael, if more inclined to work in the shadows than on the front lines.
When Balthazar chose to show himself to you, it was already too late to run.
“Come on, Mikey,” his voice was like smoke over stone, smooth with a touch of roughness, and he looked distinctly displeased despite the pleasant tone he attempted.
His false smile was betrayed by the hard anger in his gaze.
“You should know better, really. My Eyes see everything, and we’re very careful about monitoring our borders. ”
Michael said nothing, his hands hanging still at his sides but within reach of the dagger he had re-sheathed. The other man clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at him.
“Well, that’s just bad manners, Mike. Breaking and entering, and now you’re thinking about trying to, what, stab me?”
A long, tense moment hung between them. Michael’s narrowed silver gaze locked on that cold, ebony glare. Then, “I need to see Lucifer.”
Bal smirked and dropped his hand, laden with numerous, mismatched rings, heavily onto Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, friend,” he smiled brightly. “That’s exactly where I was planning to take you.”
“I’ll bet.” Michael cursed himself for his carelessness.
If anyone should have been prepared for this, it was him.
He had been Bal’s commander for eons, utilizing the man’s penchant for slipping into pockets between space to their advantage more than once during battles and reconnaissance missions.
Yet he had walked into this trap like an errant fly, never pausing to look for the signs.
He was either becoming careless or reckless, and neither option appealed to him.
“Hey, cheer up, Mikey,” Bal maintained his cheery facade, throwing an arm around Michael’s shoulders, which were unencumbered by his glamoured wings.
A tendril of unease uncurled in his stomach at the vulnerability his exposed back presented, and he found himself casually inspecting Bal’s layered belts for a knife sheath. Finding none, he relaxed a fraction.
“You’re getting what you want, alright? Unfortunately, I will have to…well, put you under, for lack of a better term.”
Bal’s hand slid up quickly, over Michael’s shoulder, to grip him by the nape of his neck. Michael tensed, but he knew it was already too late as a spark of magic zipped under his skin and the world began to tilt.
“Sorry, old friend,” Bal’s grin was genuine now, because he was most certainly not sorry in the slightest. He had always had a penchant for mischief. “I didn’t make the rules, I just enforce ‘em.”
The last thing Michael heard before he passed out was a low, dark chuckle that sent chills rolling down his spine.
Darkness, a touch of cool breeze, and the scent of burning herbs roused him from his stupor. Michael shifted, restless, and winced at the kiss of something hard and surprisingly cold against his skin. He groaned, shifted again, and felt a flare of concern at the restricted movement of his limbs.
With a concerted effort, he forced his eyes open, blinking in the low light from a crackling fire in the grate beside him.
He was seated in a sturdy wooden chair; shimmering cords of white magic bound him securely in place.
Thinking quickly despite the lingering fog, Michael tried to rock the chair to either side in an effort to tip it over and get onto his feet.
It was a wasted effort; it had been carved from a dense wood that gave it considerable weight. This was not good. Instinctually, he began looking for a fire poker, or some other tool that could be repurposed as a weapon.
“Don’t mind the fire,” a low, sensuous voice taunted him from the darkness, and Michael jerked in surprise.
Lucifer. The man himself came into view, sliding out from the shadows at the room’s edge with deadly grace and the threat of violence glimmering in his eyes. “It does get a bit drafty in here.”
Michael stared blandly back. The only betrayal of his indifferent mask was the stubborn set of his jaw; the quick calculations running behind his eyes.
“You can give up on plotting your escape, Michael.” Luce settled against the edge of the desk placed opposite the chair, arms folded, with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle.
“Even if you somehow managed to free yourself, you’d have to get past me.
If by some miracle you managed that, there’s a veritable army of my most loyal, highly trained soldiers between you and the Rift.
You are well and truly fucked, angel boy. ”
He was. Damn. Even Michael could admit that—skilled tactician he may be—there were some odds even he couldn’t beat.
And this deck had been stacked well in advance.
They had known, somehow, that he was coming, and that he would be alone.
He pictured Sachi’s easy smile and wanted to curse.
It had been a carefully laid trap, and like a wobbling newborn, Michael had practically tripped over himself to fall into it.
Luce eyed him steadily, refusing to even blink as he circled slowly around.
When he stood directly behind the chair, he paused, and Michael tried not to panic.
Lucifer had never been needlessly vicious in the past, but he had no way of knowing if that still held true.
Time could change a person in endless ways, and though he hated to admit it, Michael could no longer claim to know this man.
No angel would be comfortable with an unassessed threat standing at his back, and Michael silently cursed himself again for his foolishness. He had been stronger, once. Balthazar would never have been able to incapacitate Michael in his glory. This was disgraceful.
As if reading his mind, Lucifer reached out to rub his fingertips along Michael’s bare shoulder blades, at the exact spot where tawny wings normally sprouted from sun kissed skin. Michael did his best to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine as he was stroked and prodded.
“Your glamour should be nearly depleted,” Luce mused thoughtfully, and a shard of fear embedded itself in Michael’s gut.
It would be only fair, he knew. An angel’s wings were their greatest treasure, and he had been the one to destroy Lucifer’s own.
“I’ll get to see those glorious wings again, angel. ”