For the first time, I wonder if my mother really was responsible for Paige’s broken back.

“We have to get out of here,” says Mom with her arm protectively around Paige. Her voice is clear and full of purpose.

I look up at her in surprise. Before I can stop myself, hope blooms inside me. She sounds full of authority and confidence. She sounds like a mother ready and determined to lead her daughters to safety.

She sounds sane.

Then she says, “They’re after us.”

Hope shrivels and dies inside me, leaving a hard lump where my heart should be. I don’t need to ask who “they” are. According to my mother, “they” have been after us for as long as I can remember. Her protective statement is not a step toward taking responsibility for her girls.

I nod, taking the weight of my family responsibilities back on my shoulders.

CHAPTER 41

Mom is guiding Paige toward the exit when a loud crash from behind the double doors stops them in their tracks. It comes from the room the angels came out of. I pause mid-swing, wondering whether to check it out.

I can’t think of a good reason to waste time looking through those doors, but something bothers me. It snags on my brain like a needle picking a weave, trying to unravel it to see something beneath. So much has been happening I haven’t had time to follow up on a thought—something that might be important, something…

The blood.

The angels had blood all over their gloved hands and in front of their white smocks.

And Laylah. She was supposed to be in surgery with Raffe.

Another crash comes through the doors. Metal on metal like a cart tipping over and crashing into another.

I’m running before I know it.

As I near the double doors, a body crashes through it. I only have a second to recognize Raffe hurtling through the air.

A giant of an angel slams through the doors after him.

Something about the way he moves seems familiar. His face might have been handsome once, but now his vicious expression dominates.

He has beautiful snowy wings spread out behind him. The base of his wings are covered in dried blood where fresh stitches hold them onto his back. Oddly, though there is blood on his back, it’s his stomach that’s bandaged.

There’s something familiar about those wings.

One of them has a notch on it where scissors had sliced through the feathers. A notch exactly like the one I cut on Raffe’s wings.

My brain tries to reject the obvious conclusion.

The giant angel stands between my family and the door we came through. My mom stands frozen in terror as she stares at him. Her cattle prod shakes in her hand as she holds it out toward the giant. It looks almost as much of an offering as a warding.

A low bang rumbles through the ceiling, closely followed by another, then another. Each bang gets louder. This must be what the angels were hearing. Now there’s no doubt in my mind that the attacks have started.

I frantically wave at my mother to go through the doors the delivery guy used. She finally gets it and scampers off through the doors with Paige.

I’m terrified the giant will stop them, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. He reserves all his attention for Raffe.

Raffe lies on the floor, his face and muscles contorted with pain. His back arches to try to keep from touching the concrete floor. Below him, spread out like a dark cape on the floor, is a pair of giant bat wings.

It looks like a film of leather stretched out over a skeletal structure that looks more like a deadly weapon than a frame for wings. The wing edges are razor-sharp with a series of ever-growing hooks; the smallest of which resemble barbed fishhooks. The largest hooks are at the wing tips. They remind me of sharp scythes.

Raffe’s back drips with fresh blood as he turns around painfully and pushes himself up off the floor. His new wings droop over him as he moves, as if they are not yet under his control. He shoves one behind him the way I might shove my hair out of my face. His arm comes back bloodied with fresh slices on his forearm and a gash where one of the hooks catches his flesh.

“Careful with that, archangel,” says the giant as he stalks toward Raffe. He says the word “archangel” with much venom.

I recognize his voice. It is the voice of the Night Angel who cut off Raffe’s wings the night we met. He walks past me without looking as though I am a piece of furniture.

“What games are you playing, Beliel? Why not just kill me on the operating table? Why bother to sew these things onto me?” Raffe weaves a little on his feet. They must have just finished the operation, moments before the doctor angels left.

By the look of the dried blood on the giant’s back, it doesn’t take a genius to tell they had worked on him first. He’s had more time to recover than Raffe, although I’m willing to bet he’s nowhere near full strength yet.

I lift my sword, trying to be as discreet as I can.

“Killing you would have been my choice,” says Beliel. “But all those petty angel politics. You remember what that’s like.”

“Been a long time.” Raffe sways on his feet.

“And it’ll be longer still, now that you have those wings.” Beliel grins, but his expression still manages to be cruel. “Women and children will run screaming from you now. And so will angels.”

He turns toward the exit, stroking his new feathers. “Run along now while I show off my new acquisition. No one below has feathers. I’ll be the envy of hell.”

Putting his head down like a bull, Raffe charges Beliel.

With all that blood loss, I’m surprised Raffe can walk, much less run. He weaves a little as he rushes Beliel, who catches him under one massive arm and shoves him into a cart.

Raffe goes crashing down along with the cart. Vivid red slices appear on his cheek, neck, and arms as his uncontrolled wings flop around during his fall.

I run over to Raffe and hand him his sword.

A look of uncertainty crosses Beliel face, and his motions suddenly become cautious.

As soon as I let go of the hilt in Raffe’s hand, the sword’s tip hits the floor like a ton of lead.

Raffe holds the sword like it takes every ounce of strength for him to keep the hilt from hitting the floor as well. It’s been as light as air in my hands.

Raffe looks like someone just broke his heart.

He looks at his sword in bewilderment and betrayal. He tries to lift it again but can’t. Disbelief and hurt mix in his expression. This is the most emotional I’ve seen him, and seeing him like this makes me want to hurt something.

Beliel is the first of us to recover from the shock of seeing Raffe struggle to lift his blade. “Your own blade rejects you. It senses my wings. You’re no longer just Raphael.”

He chuckles, a dark sound that’s all the more disturbing by the undercurrent of genuine mirth. “How sad. A leader bereft of followers. An angel with severed wings. A warrior without a sword.” Beliel circles Raffe like a shark as he taunts him. “You have nothing left.”

“He has me,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raffe wince.

Beliel looks at me, really seeing me for the first time. “You’ve acquired a pet, archangel. When did this happen?” There’s puzzlement in his voice, as if it’s normal for Beliel to know of Raffe’s companions.

“I’m not anyone’s pet.”

“I met her tonight at the aerie,” says Raffe. “She’s been following me around. She means nothing.”

Beliel snorts. “Funny, I didn’t ask if she meant anything to you.” He looks me up and down, taking in every detail. “Scrawny. But serviceable.” He saunters toward me.

Raffe hands the sword hilt back to me. “Run.”

I hesitate, wondering how much of a beating Raffe can take in his state.

“Run!” Raffe positions himself between me and Beliel.

I run. I hide behind a fetal column to watch.

“Making friends, are we?” asks Beliel. “And with a Daughter of Man. How deliciously ironic. When will the surprises end?” He actually sounds delighted. “Pretty soon, you’ll end up being a full-fledged member of my clan. I always knew you would. You’d make an excellent archdemon.” His smile dries up. “Too bad I don’t care to have you as my boss.”

He grabs Raffe in a bear hug but quickly lets go. His arms and chest bleed from fresh cuts, courtesy of Raffe’s new wings. Raffe is apparently not the only one who is unused to his new wings.

This time he grabs Raffe by the neck, lifting him off the floor. Raffe’s face turns red, veins popping on his temples as Beliel crushes his throat.

A loud boom shakes the building above us. Concrete debris crashes through the door to the garage. Several of the remaining glass columns crack, causing the monstrous occupants to gyrate in agitation.

I run toward Beliel.

The sword feels solid and well-balanced in my hands. I swing back the sword and get yet another shock.

The sword adjusts itself.

I could swear it tweaks its angle to raise my elbows higher. It’s ready for battle and thirsty for blood. I blink in surprise, almost missing my timing. But I don’t miss my timing, because, though my feet are frozen in shock, my arm moves in a smooth arc, led by the sword.

I’m not wielding the sword. It is wielding me.

I swing the sword at the same time Raffe whips his deadly wings at Beliel. My sword slices through the meat of his back, wedging in his spine.

Raffe’s wings shred the demon’s cheeks and lay open his forearms. He screams, letting go of Raffe’s throat.

Raffe crumples to the floor, gasping for breath.

Beliel staggers away from us. Maybe if he hadn’t just been through surgery, he would have been strong enough to withstand us both. Or maybe not. The bandages around his middle must be from the sword wound Raffe gave him a few days ago during their last fight. Beliel’s wounds won’t be healing any time soon if Raffe is right about angel swords.

My blade swings back again, clearly wanting me to attack him again. Beliel stares at me with eyes bewildered, no less surprised than the angels who had seen me kill their coworker. An angel sword isn’t supposed to be in the hands of a human girl. It just isn’t done.

Raffe springs up and charges Beliel.

I watch in awe as Raffe pummels Beliel with blows so fast they’re almost a blur. The force of the emotion behind those blows is immense. For the first time, he doesn’t bother to hide his frustration and anger, or his longing for the wings he lost.

As Beliel staggers from the blows, Raffe grabs his old wing and pulls. Stitches begin popping out of Beliel’s back, fresh blood staining the once-snowy wings. Raffe seems determined to get his wings back even if he has to rip them out of Beliel’s flesh, stitch by stitch.