Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luce whimpered. Michael turned to him in shock. For what was simultaneously seconds and days, they stared at each other, equally speechless.
“I should have seen it,” Luce finally broke the silence, casting his eyes down at his hands as if his upturned palms would have answers for him. He lifted his haunted gaze to Michael’s. “How did I not see his machinations?”
“Because we never want to believe the ones we love could betray us.”
“You believed I had betrayed you,” Luce argued. “And I never considered Gabriel had set me up. I only thought he had abandoned me during my trial.”
“He was too busy weaseling into your place to speak in your defense.”
“Of course he was,” the Devil sighed. “He always was the most ambitious of us. That’s why I said you were better off asking him to join the rebellion.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Luce mirrored his expression. “The only reason I was in the Garden that day was because you encouraged me to hear Adam out.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do!” Luce huffed in frustration. “A few nights before, we were in bed. I was telling you how Adam had begun asking questions about his purpose, about the restrictions my brother had imposed. I was considering challenging Jehovah’s edict, and you encouraged me to speak with Adam about it.”
“I was away, Lucifer.” Michael's stomach twisted violently and he slowly shook his head. “I was on a scouting mission with Uriel for almost a week, and Jophiel accosted me the night I returned.”
The other man paled. “Oh, no.”
“I’m...so sorry. You weren’t in bed with me that night.”
Luce flinched back with pain in his eyes. “I’m going to be ill.”
Michael was lifting his hands to comfort him when a violent shudder raced along the earth and threw him off balance. His hands sought purchase instinctively, landing on Lucifer’s shoulders and holding tight.
“Shit,” Luce groaned, and answered the unspoken question in Michael’s eyes. “We’re being kicked back.”
Another quake rocked the forest, and the image appeared to waver and flicker. Instead of pushing off the angel’s hands, Luce wound an arm firmly around his waist. Michael started to pull away, and that bracing arm became an iron band holding him tight against the other man.
“You won’t want to do that, angel. This has only happened to me once before, and I’d hate to leave you stranded in the aether.”
Michael grumbled but stopped fighting the unexpected embrace as the very air flexed and warped around them, whipping their hair and clothes.
Amid all of this, he was surprised and strangely pleased to note that in this close proximity, Luce still smelled of burning cedar and cinnamon.
A traitorous flush kissed Michael’s cheeks as the scent wound its way through his blood and sent his heart hammering.
Lucifer chuckled. “No need to be afraid.”
“I’m not,” Michael protested with a glower.
“Ah, yes, of course. Simply overwhelmed by my sensuality and good looks, right?”
The sarcasm hit uncomfortably close to the truth, and Michael made an affronted sound to Luce’s increased amusement.
The lighthearted moment was broken by a rumbling that started in the distance and swelled around them, growing louder as it swept inward, accompanied by the most violent shaking yet experienced.
The image went pale and shivered like television static, then drew itself taut and literally shattered around them.
Luce tightened his grip on Michael’s waist.
“Brace yourself, Michael. We’re going back home.”
All sound died out, and the world erupted into an expanse of white so blinding, they were forced to close their eyes against it.
A violent rush of wind slammed into the pair, tugging at hair and wings and clothing as if searching for anything to catch on and yank them apart.
Luce’s fingers were a hot brand on his hip, and Michael was sure he was leaving bruises on those broad shoulders.
And then, as suddenly as it began, everything stopped.
The shaking, the windstorm, the light—everything fell away, replaced by the familiar scent of dust and a brush of cool air. They opened their eyes, both tensing as they found themselves mere inches apart. Lucifer’s sharp inhalation sent a rush of cool air over Michael’s chin.
If he bent down just slightly, he could brush his lips across those princely cheekbones as he had so many times before. The swell of desire was overwhelming, and he found himself shocked by how badly he wanted to kiss him.
“Don’t.” Luce’s plea was a whisper, a strained shadow of his normally confident declarations, though his eyes burned with a powerful, unreadable emotion. “Please.”
Michael recoiled. “No, I—sorry, I, I wasn’t—”
“Right.” Luce released him first, drawing back his arm and pulling it to his chest. “We need to figure out what pulled us back here.”
As if in answer, a violent wave of energy rocked the room, sending items toppling from shelves or the tops of piles or the backs of chairs.
A painting of a farmhouse fell from the far wall, followed by a rack of renaissance doublets.
Michael lost his balance and wavered, but Luce reached for him and steadied him at the last moment.
Then another wave of energy swept through, and Luce lost his own footing.
They fell in opposite directions, Michael landing in an oversized laundry basket stuffed with scarves and silks and discarded fabric scraps.
Lucifer went pinwheeling into a steamer trunk packed to overflowing with Victorian dresses and hats.
A tea set on a nearby bookcase landed with a clatter in his lap.
Michael huffed a breath and gave Luce a look.
“Okay, okay! I’ll have a damn yard sale! Can it wait until after this calamity?”
“There you fucking are!” a new voice burst into the room, and they both looked to the doorway to see Remiel backlit against the semi-trashed office. “Cwall and I have been looking everywhere for you, you asshole, and you’re in here playing dress up?”
“No!” Luce protested.
“Looks like it!”
“Well, we’re not!”
Michael tried to push himself to his feet and found the laundry basket firmly wedged to his hips like some children’s cartoon. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Remi blinked slowly, then closed her eyes and placed her hands over them.
“I’m not seeing this right now. I did not spend the better part of an hour running around the fucking estate looking for you, bothering the Eyes and Zaj and even fucking Bal, only to find you wearing a dress and Michael with a fucking bucket on his ass. ”
Another wave of raw power swept the room and interrupted whatever snappy retort Luce was working up. He heaved a sigh and settled for civility. “We were in the damn portal, Remi, and then we got yanked out. Would you care to clue us in, since you obviously know what’s going on and we don’t?”
Michael gave a good shove and the laundry fell to the floor. He extended a hand to Luce, who waved him off and stood.
“I’m not sure what Cwall needs, but something is wrong with Mags.”
“Way to bury the lead, Rem!” Luce gave her a nasty glare and shoved past her to run out the door.
Michael frowned at the smirking woman. “Why do you torment him?”
“Got him moving, didn’t it?”
Michael sighed. “I’ve always wondered about you.”
“Oh please, Mikey. If I wanted to wreak havoc, I would. Giving Luce a hard time is just fun.”
The infirmary was a chaotic rush after the silence and isolation of the portal.
Demons scurried along the perimeter with worried or purposeful expressions, collecting items such as herbs or damp towels and depositing them on the table in the center of the room.
In the center, a cluster of bodies obscured their view: Raguel with arms crossed like a guard and his back to the occupied bed.
Camiel applying a fresh towel to Mags’s brow.
Zaj hovered like a frantic pixie and barked directions to the other demons.
Remi hurried back to her husband’s side, but Luce hesitated at the door.
He might have stood there all night, frozen in place by worry and guilt, but another blast of powerful magic rocked the room.
Bottles rattled in their cases, one of the cabinets tipping wildly before an electric blue demon with two forked tails steadied it.
You have to do this. Luce crossed the room with purposeful strides. “What’s going on, dammit?”
Rag gave him a measured look and nodded at the bed they all clustered around. “Mags had an episode. She went into one of her trances, but this one was…really bad. We couldn’t bring her out of it, and she just—” He broke off, looking pained.
Cami leaned in close to Luce, grabbing his sleeve. “I have not heard screams like hers since the Plague.”
Luce pushed into the cluster of bodies until he could take Mags’s small hand in his own. “Who put her under?”
Sachiel looked haunted. “I didn’t want to.”
“He had to.” Glory’s eyes sparkled with tears. “She just kept screaming Lucifer, I thought her lungs would burst.”
Luce extended his free hand to rest on Sachi’s arm. “You had no choice, it seems. But now I need her to wake. Bring her back, please.”
Sachi stepped in close, kneeling beside the bed so that his mouth was level with Mags’s head, and pursed his lips as if to whistle.
Instead, he blew out a stream of blue-tinted breath that wafted in lazy coils over her slack, sleeping face.
It drifted downward as he rose to his feet, settling onto her skin and sinking beneath the surface.
A tense moment brought the room to an unnatural stillness, save for the demons clearing away in anticipation of what was to come.
Slowly, her lashes fluttered. Her lip twitched, and her eyes blinked open. Mags cast her gaze around wildly, breath coming in rapid gasps as she sat bolt upright so abruptly that Luce had to catch her against his chest.
“Breathe, Mags! You’re fine, you’re safe.”