“I am sorry, old friend, but our Prince has not granted you death,” the angel said.

  Ori was murmuring in some archaic language, his face full of pleading. His wounds began to heal and he cried out in anguish. “No! Release me! I beg of you!”

  Riley’s eyes met Gusion’s.

  “That is a favor I do not have the power to grant, my friend,” the angel said.

  Favor?

  “Lucifer,” Riley called out, not bothering to raise her voice. She knew he could hear her. “I did as you asked. I freed Ori and now it’s your turn. I call in my favor with you, Prince of Hell. Release your servant and let Ori die. Let him find peace.”

  Ori’s eyes widened as he choked hard.

  “Lucifer!” she called out again. “Honor your promise!”

  The Prince swore in her mind. Then came the words she’d hoped to hear. Your favor has redeemed. My servant will die. I hope you’re happy now.

  “Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “I am.”

  Ori’s wounds began to bleed again, torrents of blue blood flowing onto her hands and onto her lap. He smiled at her weakly. “Thank you.”

  Riley’s tears spilled down her cheeks. “Find the Light. Never stop looking. You were never meant to stay in Hell.”

  A faint nod. I release your soul, Riley Anora Blackthorne. Watch the sunrise . . . and think of me.

  A soft stream of an unknown language passed Ori’s pale lips with his final breath. A prayer for forgiveness, perhaps? As Riley held him, she knew that in some way she still loved him. He had shaded the truth on occasion, but he never truly lied to her. He had saved her life and Beck’s.

  The angel’s body grew fainter until all that remained were the stark patches of blue blood on her hands and arms. She looked up at Gusion and saw a single tear track down his face.

  “He is at peace. I envy him,” the angel said.

  This time Ori was gone forever.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Beck’s foe smirked at him, Sartael’s breath unusually labored. “Step aside, Denver Beck, and I will grant you any wish you choose. The master’s whelp is not worth your life.”

  “Ya got nothin’ I want.”

  “I can free your mother’s soul from Hell.”

  Beck hesitated, then shook his head. “No deal. This ends here, for both of us.”

  As his foe’s blade came uncomfortably close, he reared back. He was tiring, but then, surprisingly, so was his opponent. With his cohort of demons out of commission, both here and in Hell, Sartael had only his own power to draw upon. Still, that was enough to kill a trapper ten times over.

  Sartael’s next blow sent Beck’s sword flying and he retreated, desperate for a weapon. With a shout, Simon tossed him his sword. “Thanks!”

  He waded back in. “What’s with you, angel?” Beck called out. “Figured you’d have leveled the city by now.”

  Sartael redoubled his blows, sending waves of pain through to Beck’s arm and shoulders. With a prayer on his lips, Beck drove his own sword toward the Archangel, but Sartael’s blade struck him first, slicing deep into his upper left chest.

  He screamed in agony, his left arm going numb in a heartbeat. He fell backward, the wound spreading shards of ice along every vein, as if he was being frozen alive. As the Archangel moved closer now, keen to impale him, there were shouts from some of the trappers. None of them would be close enough to save him.

  A dirty figure rose, Beck’s sword in her hand and hate in her eyes.

  “Stupid child. Bow down to me and I’ll spare you!” Sartael ordered.

  “Like Beck said, it ends here.”

  Riley was challenging one of God’s most deadly creations, and without Ori’s protection, Sartael would cut her down like a stalk of ripe wheat. As the Archangel closed in for the kill, with one final burst of strength Beck made it to his feet to stand next to his woman.

  “Lad!” Stewart called out and the master’s sword skidded to a halt near Beck’s boot. It took every ounce of his energy to pick it up. It felt as if it weighed more than he did and Beck could barely hold it in his right hand, his left almost useless. He forced the numbed fingers around the hilt and clasped his good hand over the top of them.

  “All or nothing,” Riley said.

  “All or nothin’” he repeated, his throat dry and his heart bursting in his chest.

  Please, God, give us a chance. Just one chance.

  The Archangel’s strike was faster than Beck had anticipated. It struck his blade first, then slid off and knocked Riley’s from her grasp. She cried out when the flames came too close to her face and she staggered back, blinded. A quick clip of Sartael’s wing knocked her aside.

  “You son of a bitch!” Beck shouted and dove forward in his last, desperate bid to kill their enemy. Stewart’s powerful sword drove home deep in the center of the Archangel’s chest, exactly where Ori had told him to strike. Using all of his power, Beck pulled the blade to the right, destroying the Fallen’s heart like a ripe fruit.

  The Archangel reeled backward, shocked, as blood pumped out from his chest and soaked into his monk’s robe. He reached out with a hand, trying to pull energy from those in Hell who were his to command. The blood continued to pour out, faster now.

  Lucifer had cut his lifeline.

  “No! You cannot deny me!” he cried. His eyes sought Riley and a cruel smile formed. “Blackthorne’s Daughter will serve me just as well.” His hand went toward Riley and she began to flail on the ground, crying out in agony as brilliant white light flowed from her to the wounded angel.

  A figure stepped between them, cutting the flow of healing energy from its source.

  “Gusion. Why do you do this?” Sartael demanded. “I cannot heal without—” He wheezed, each breath tighter now. “Why?”

  “As a favor to an old friend who is no more,” Gusion replied. The angel gestured to Beck. “He is yours, mortal. It is between you two now. Whoever is better will win.”

  Sartael swung at Beck, but missed. Beck did not, his slice a perfect union of holy steel and righteous anger. The instant the blade slid laterally across his enemy’s neck, severing it from the body, the corpse and the head fell into the heap on the dirty ground. It immediately ignited into a mass of black, roiling flames, but there was no smoke, no stench of burning flesh, only absolute destruction. Lucifer’s rival was no more.

  Beck had kept his promise to Riley’s angel.

  He lost his ability to stand, his strength gone. Arms held him and there was dampness on his cheeks. He wondered if it was raining.

  “Promise me you’ll live,” Riley begged.

  “I love . . . you.” It was the best he could do, for there were no promises left.

  As Beck slid into utter darkness, voices assailed him, carving through his soul like a barbed whip does tender flesh. Scores of demons called to him, naming his fate.

  Angel Killer! Evil Mortal!

  Hell is your home now

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Riley was oblivious to anything but the man in her arms, though her face and eyes burned so badly tears poured down without restraint. Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

  It seemed like forever before someone touched her arm.

  “Riley?” Harper said. “Let go of Beck so we can treat him.”

  She didn’t want to let go, but she did anyway, hearing unusual compassion in her master’s voice. When someone took hold of her hand, she forced her eyes open even though they felt as if they’d been bathed in acid.

  Peter knelt next to her, unharmed. Thank God.

  “He can’t die. Not after all this,” she pleaded. Her friend’s reply was a tight hug.

  Through the sheen of tears, she watched as Harper gently peeled back Beck’s jacket and then his shirt. The wound was high on his chest, but it wasn’t bleeding. In fact, it had sealed over as if it had already healed. This was something different. Something very frightening.

  When her eyes met Harper’s, his had saddened.

  “This isn’t good, Riley,” he said. Then he was up on his feet, talking to Stewart in hushed tones.

  “Aye,” the Scotsman said in reply. “The lad will want ta be in his own bed when . . . “ He cleared his throat. “Remmers, ya and Simon carry him ta my car and take him ta his house.”

  “Shouldn’t he go to the hospital?” Remmers asked.

  “There is . . . no need,” the old master replied, his eyes meeting Riley’s now.

  It was then she knew that the man she loved was dying.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Riley remembered little of the journey, other than sitting in the back of the car with Beck’s head in her lap. The longer they drove, the more his color grew ashen, his breathing increasingly shallow. She hung on every one of those breaths, afraid that it would be his last.

  He can’t die. Not now.

  After Peter helped her disable the alarm—she had trouble seeing the keypad—the trappers carried Beck to his bed. Simon stripped off his boots and Remmers helped remove the injured man’s outer clothes. Once he was settled under the covers, Riley sat near him, holding his hand.

  As she bent down to kiss him, the scent of his aftershave caught her nose. It brought back memories of them in this very bed, laughing, making love, talking about their future.

  Through her fog of grief, snippets of conversation came from the front of the house. One of the voices belonged to Carmela, the Guild’s doctor.

  “I want to examine him,” she insisted.

  “Aye, I understand, but there is nothin’ ya can do for him,” Stewart said. “Mortals are not supposed ta kill an Archangel. Angelic wounds are unlike any other, and the healin’ must come from within him, not from without. There is nothin’ ya can do for him.”

  “My God,” the doctor murmured. “What are his chances?”

  “Astronomically poor,” Stewart replied, his voice catching. “We’ll know within twenty-four hours.”

  Riley lowered her face to Beck’s ear. “I don’t care about those odds. Those mean nothing to me. All I know is that Rennie and I need you, so don’t you dare die on us, you hear? Don’t. You. Die.” Then she closed her eyes and began to pray.

  Later, when Carmela insisted on examining her, Riley tried to push the woman away until Stewart intervened and she had no choice in the matter.

  The doctor’s touch was gentle. “Your face has a bad burn from the angel’s sword. I’ll give you some ointment for that. As for your eyes . . . I’ve got some drops. Use them every two hours. A cold compress wouldn’t hurt either. If your eyesight isn’t better by tomorrow, you’ll need to see a specialist.”

  Riley nodded, but none of that mattered. There was nothing in this world she wanted to see without the man she loved at her side.

  As time passed, Beck began to murmur in a nonsensical language, like the one Ori had spoken right before he’d died. Stewart said it was the mother tongue of the angels, but how would he know?

  Sometime near midnight, Father Harrison joined her for the vigil. It felt good to have him here, even if she wasn’t Catholic. He had a way of offering hope even when you were surrounded by impenetrable darkness.

  “I spoke with Father Rosetti an hour ago,” he said. “They’re offering a healing mass for Beck at St. Peter’s Basilica in the morning. And there are prayer chains active throughout Atlanta.”

  Maybe God would listen to all those people if He didn’t listen to her.

  “What about the exorcist guy?” she asked. “Is he alive?”

  “Yes. He’s not saying much. I think he’s as frightened as everyone else.”

  “No need to be. Not anymore.” Sartael is dead.

  Hours passed. Friends came and went—Fireman Jack, Peter, Simi, then Ayden and Mort. Even Justine called to wish Beck well.

  Every now and then someone would bring Riley a drink—water or juice. She took what was offered, but refused anything else in the way of food. Sometimes she’d talk to Beck like he could hear her. Other times she’d just hold his hand and will him to live.

  Toward dawn, he grew more agitated, calling out in delirium. At his cries, Stewart stirred from the chair on the other side of the bed. The old master hadn’t left the house since the battle, still wearing the same bloodstained clothes from the night before.

  “What is happening to him?” Riley asked.

  “He’s bein’ tormented . . . in Hell. It’s the fate of anyone who kills a Fallen.”

  She jolted back in surprise. “He doesn’t belong there. They don’t own his soul.”

  “Aye, but that’s what’s happenin’.” He looked over at the injured trapper. “Despite how bad it looks, he has somethin’ ta fight for now. Yer the lighthouse in his storm, lass.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “That’s up ta God.”

  She’d used her one favor for Ori, not realizing that Beck would be in dire need as well. She knew what the angel would have done—he would have insisted her favor be given to the mortal she loved. Which is why Ori deserved to be in Heaven.

  “Maybe if I talk to Lucifer—”

  “I know ya love this lad more than yer own life,” Stewart replied, “but if yer thinkin’ of makin’ a deal with the Prince ta save him, that would be a mistake. Beck has ta do this himself. Ya ken?”

  Her eyes began to cloud. “No, I don’t ken. Everyone gets what they want. For once, why can’t I?”

  “It has ta be his battle. I know that makes little sense ta ya, but that’s the way of it.”

  She really didn’t want to believe the old master, but in her heart she knew he was right. If she did make a deal with Hell to save Beck’s life, it would never be the same between them.

  Riley bent over and laid her head on her boyfriend’s chest, tears bathing her cheeks.

  “Come on, Backwoods Boy,” she said fiercely. “Don’t let them win. Don’t let them take you away from me.”

  As she sobbed, Stewart’s hand touched her shoulder. It shook as the older man wept with her.

  Beck heard her calling to him. Though Riley urged him to live, he felt so alone in this barren place. He should have known he’d been damned either way—if he killed Sartael or not. Hell never played fair.

  When he was a kid, the preachers always conjured up gruesome descriptions of fiery pits full of boiling sinners or maniacal demons cutting people into pieces and roasting them over open flames. This Hell wasn’t like that. At least not the part he was in. There were demons here, but he felt them more than saw them. They pressed around him, touching him, cursing him for daring to venture into their realm. It was like being clawed to death by invisible rats.

  That was bad, but what really frightened him were the faces of the damned in the walls and the ceiling of the long corridor in front of him. The tormented eyes followed him as their mouths cried out. Some insisted they were here by mistake. Others, more cunning, offered to help him if he would just free them. All he needed to do was touch the entombed face and then they’d show him the way out. Beck knew better than that. He heard the lies, so he kept walking, praying that the corridor would end and he would find himself outside of purgatory.

  The Prince of Hell materialized out of nowhere. There were wide swatches of black demon blood smeared across his armor, but he wasn’t carrying a sword.

  “Denver Beck. Welcome to my domain,” he said magnanimously. “What do you think of it?”

  Beck kept walking. The ache in his left shoulder grew, a hundredfold now, throbbing with each rapid heartbeat. He was miserably cold, like he was already in the grave, though the air around him was filled with steamy mist.

  “I can send you home,” the Prince continued. “You could be back with Blackthorne’s Daughter this very instant. Just say the word.”

  Beck forced one foot ahead of the other. The Prince didn’t bother to catch up with him, but just appeared farther down the hallway in front of him.

  “I don’t see one of Heaven’s angels offering to help you out,” Lucifer said slyly.

  He came to a halt in front of Hell’s ruler. “I may not have any more time with the woman I love, but my soul is still my own. That’s not gonna change. So go torment some other poor bastard.”

  “What will it matter? You’re here, whether your soul is yours or not.”

  “It’s a pride thing,” Beck said. “Now leave me be, angel.”

  “Well, I did try,” Lucifer said lightly. “It is my job, after all.”

  Then the Prince vanished, leaving him with only the voices of the damned for company.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  An eternity later, Beck began to rethink the proposal. He could be free of this place, with Riley, and no one would ever know he’d bargained his soul to save himself. They could get married and have kids. She had given up her soul to save the world. Why couldn’t he do it to save himself?

  The damned all began to shout at once, a roaring sound that beat at him like a solid wall of sound. Beck covered his ears, trying to shut them out, to prevent them from driving him mad.

  “God, help me!” he cried out.

  Someone touched him on the shoulder, and he jumped in surprise. “Momma?”

  His mother wore the dress Riley had chosen for the burial, and her eyes burned with that same eerie fire like those souls trapped in the walls.

  “Come, boy,” she said, offering her bony hand. “Ya don’t belong here.”

  “I’m not givin’ up my soul.”

  “I know that. Come on!”

  He didn’t dare trust her. She had lied and hurt him all her life, left him to die in the swamp. And yet here, in this purgatory, he had no one else to trust.

  “Come on, Denver. Don’t be a fool,” she said. “The girl is waitin’ for ya.”

  The moment he offered his hand, Sadie yanked him forward. They moved at incredible speed, their feet never touching the floor, as the faces in the corridor blurred to gray.