CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
REAVER
The air in the Heavens tastes like lies wrapped in gold leaf.
I stand at the edge of Themis’ palace district, staring up at the towering spires of white marble that gleam like broken promises in the eternal twilight.
Everything here is too perfect, too pristine, too fucking wrong.
The streets practically hum with divine righteousness, and it makes my skin crawl.
Or maybe that is just the collar around my neck.
I reach up and tug at the enchanted metal—Pestilence’s little insurance policy to make sure I follow through on our bargain.
The moment I agreed to help her, she slapped this monstrosity on me.
It doesn’t look like much, just a thin band of blackened silver, but I can feel its power thrumming against my throat.
One wrong move, one deviation from the plan, and it will constrict until my head pops off like a champagne cork.
“Poetic, isn’t she?” I mutter to myself.
A passing servant gives me a startled look, probably because fallen Archangels don’t typically show up in the Heavens, making sarcastic comments to themselves.
I flash him my most charming smile, which, given my scarred face and general appearance of a man who’s crawled out of Hell, probably looks more like a death threat.
He hurries away, glancing over his shoulder as he goes, probably ensuring I’m not following him.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I call after him.
The palace looms ahead, all sweeping buttresses and golden domes that catch the light like a million tiny suns. I’ve been here before, many, many times, when I was still Barachiel’s twin. Still an Elite Archangel, still someone who belongs in places like this.
Now I’m just Reaver, the broken and expendable one. The one stupid enough to think he can pay off his debt to Pestilence.
I can still hear her voice in my head from when she laid out the plan: “It’s simple, darling. You get into Themis’ palace, convince her to meet you somewhere private—the Garden of Echoes should do nicely—and I’ll handle the rest. She trusts you. Or at least, she used to.”
I laughed at her insinuation that Themis held anything but contempt for me. “She tricked and lied, condemning me to Treachery Prison,” I reminded her. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed, burned, and sunk to the bottom of the fucking ocean.”
Pestilence just smiled that loathsome, monstrous smile of hers, the one that has successfully gotten her everything she’s ever deserved.
“Then use that. Play the repentant warrior. The prodigal son returning home. You’re good at pretending, Reaver.
You’ve been pretending you don’t love Kennedy for over a year. ”
The mention of Kennedy’s name was a low blow, and Pestilence knew it. But she was right. I am good at pretending. Good at lying. Good at doing whatever it takes to survive, even if it means becoming the very thing I’ve spent centuries fighting against.
Taking a deep breath, I start walking toward the palace gates.
The guards stationed there straighten as I approach—six Archangels in full ceremonial armor, wings spread in that intimidating display that is supposed to make you think twice about causing trouble.
They’re all barely men, and they aren’t Elite, not like me and all the other Blood Angels Themis tricked into falling.
Their wings are beautiful and majestic, but white, not gold, as mine are. I’d be shocked if any one of them were more than a few months out of training.
“State your business,” the lead guard commands as he puffs out his chest, trying to match my size. He’s young, probably only a few centuries old, with the kind of pristine white wings that scream ‘never seen real combat.’
“I’m here to see the Themis,” I reply, keeping my voice level and respectful. It physically hurts having to show these whelps an iota of respect they haven’t earned. But I grit my teeth and continue, “I have information regarding Pestilence.”
The guards exchange glances when I mention the Horseman. It’s like dropping a bomb in polite conversation—everyone wants to know more, but nobody wants to be the one to ask.
“Name?” the lead guard demands, and I take notice as he stretches his wings out a bit further. I chuckle to myself, because if I were to unfurl my golden wings, their span would cast a shadow on all three, and they would drop to their knees, heads bowed for even questioning who I am.
“Reaver,” I announce, and then I study his face carefully. “Formerly Barachiel of the Elite Guard,” I add as I unfurl my majestic golden wings.
The two guards behind him immediately take a knee. However, it takes their leader a full minute to process what, or rather who, is in front of him. When the realization finally hits, I watch as his eyes widen. Bingo. My name still carries weight here, even if it is the burden of scandal and shame.
He bows his head in respect. “Wait here,” he says curtly, then turns and disappears through the palace gates.
The two remaining guards raise their heads slightly to look at me.
“Sir, it’s an honor,” one says through a shaky voice. “I studied your battle tactics day and night,” he adds, and that makes me smile.
“You may rise,” I instruct them. “What are your names?”
“Wallace, sir, and this is my brother by blood, Caleb,” he remarks as he pats his brother on the shoulder. “We are twins, like you.”
“A rarity. Protect each other at all costs,” I instruct them. Male Archangels are taken from their families and begin their training as young as five. Most never remember their parents or whether they had siblings. Twins are extremely rare, and almost never kept together.
“Always, sir,” he agrees
I retract my wings and stand stoic, hands clasped behind my back, trying to look like a reformed fallen angel and not a man plotting to betray the goddess of Justice herself. The brothers, though impressed by my lineage, watch me as if I might spontaneously combust or start murdering people.
Both are distinct possibilities.
My mind wanders back to Kennedy, to the note I left on her refrigerator, to the photo I stole from her bedside table.
It is still in my pocket, and I resist the urge to touch it.
She is the reason I am doing this—the reason I am willing to walk into the Heavens and dance with the devil, or in this case, Pestilence.
The devil, at least, you can bargain with. Pestilence is single-minded and laser focused.
If I stay in Kennedy’s world, Pestilence will use her to get to me. I know how the game works. The only way to protect Kennedy is to give Pestilence what she wants, settle the debt, and try to disappear. Or more likely, face a permanent death.
Even if all she wants is for me to deliver Themis to the Underworld, the goddess of Justice isn’t going to come willingly.
Finally, the guard returns, looking slightly green around the gills.
“The goddess will see you. But you are to be escorted at all times, your weapons are to remain peace-bound, and if you make one wrong move, you will be executed on sight.” He chokes out the last part, practically stumbling over his words.
I give him a raised eyebrow. “Sounds fair,” I agree with a shrug.
They surround me like I’m a particularly dangerous prisoner—which, to be fair, I am—and march me through the palace gates. The moment I cross the threshold, I feel the weight of divine magic pressing down on me. Themis has reinforced her wards since I was last here.
A smart woman, especially for one with a price on her head. Evil, manipulative, self-righteous bitch, but smart.
The palace interior is exactly as I remember it—all white marble and gold accents, soaring ceilings painted with scenes of justice being served and righteousness prevailing. It is propaganda masquerading as art, and it makes me want to vomit.
Or maybe that’s the collar tightening slightly around my throat, reminding me why I am here.
We walk through endless corridors, passing Seraphim and lesser angels who stop to stare at the once infamous Archangel being paraded through their sacred halls. I keep my head high and my expression neutral.
Let them stare. I’ve survived worse than their judgment.
Finally, we reach Themis’s throne room and judgment chamber.
It’s excessive even by Heaven’s standards—a massive chamber with columns that stretch up into infinity, floors so polished you can see your reflection, and at the far end, seated on a throne of pure gold that could look out over all the Heavens, is Themis herself.
She doesn’t look any different, she’s eternal.
Tall, regal, with sharp features that can cut glass and eyes that hold all the warmth of a glacier.
Her raven hair is pinned up in an elaborate chignon that probably took an army of servants to achieve, and she wears robes of deep purple that mark her status as a High Goddess.
“Reaver,” she says my name, her voice dripping with disdain. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you. I was under the impression you were rotting somewhere with your traitorous band of Blood Angels. Or perhaps back in Treachery Prison, where you belong.”
“They give time off for good behavior,” I reply with a smile that is all teeth and no humor. “I figure I’ll vacation in our old stomping ground.”
Her eyes narrow. “Somehow, I doubt that the term good behavior has ever applied to you.”
From my peripheral vision, I see the guards have taken up positions along the walls, hands on their weapons, ready to strike me down if I so much as sneeze wrong.
I’m acutely aware that I’m standing in the heart of enemy territory with nothing but my wits and a plan that is already beginning to fall apart.