Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (42 page)

Through the barred window was an old apartment, but he didn’t waste time and effort getting into the room. He couldn’t guarantee that anyone wasn’t on the second floor, and he didn’t want to risk breaking the glass.

The jump for the edge of the roof was farther away than the window’s had been, but the ledge was wider. Zarachiel quickly had himself righted and walked across the roof. If the Loyalists had been smart, they would’ve put sentries up here as well. They weren’t.

The sound of voices drew him toward the front of the building. When he was close enough to the edge, he army crawled over until his head was barely poking over the roof’s edge. Below, the two guards were still moving about, loading more large crates into the back of an old stock trailer hitched to a pickup truck. Zarachiel didn’t have to strain too hard to hear what they were saying.

“—much longer?” a younger guy with a patchy red beard asked.

The second, older man grunted as they hefted the crate into the trailer. “Five minutes have passed since the last time ya asked me that.”

“We always get the longest watch,” the first guy complained. They walked out of the trailer and went back for another crate. There was a pile of them outside the bar, and from the careful way the men picked each of them up, Zarachiel guessed the contents were delicate.

“Don’t let Jimmy hear you say that,” the other guy warned. “He’ll flog ya for it.”

“I’m not scared of Jimmy.” But Zarachiel heard the fear in the guy’s voice. He made a mental note that this Jimmy guy must be the Loyalists’ leader.

“He’s been in a mood lately.”

“Do you really think this is going to work?”

They settled the other crate into the trailer and stepped back outside, making the trailer bounce and squeak with their heavy steps. The second man wore a nasty scowl as he took in the first guy. “If you’re too scared, boy, then ya shouldn’t have signed up. Only men get to be Loyalists, hear me? No pussies.”

“I’m not a pussy,” the younger guy mumbled under his breath, like a pouting child. He looked no more than nineteen. When they turned around, Zarachiel noticed the large automatic guns strapped to their backs. “I want to kill angels just like the rest of you. I’ll do it too. Kill them, I mean.”

“I bet you’ll piss you’re little whities when you see one.”

“Have you seen one?” the younger guy challenged.

The older guy paused and slowly turned back to face the younger guy, raking him over with scathing eyes. “Listen here, boy. You can bet your ass that when I do, I’ll slit their freaking throats. And as they’re dying, I’ll piss in their mouths.”

“I take that as a ‘no’ then.”

The man grunted again and stepped away. “I’ve got to piss. Watch the door, will ya?”

He strode off into the alley beside Zarachiel. Z waited until the younger guy was back at the bar’s front entrance before he crept to the other side of the building. He climbed onto the roof’s ledge and swung his legs over. Hovering for a quick second, he released his grip and dropped almost silently into the nearly full dumpster below him. The trash gave a moist complaint as he landed, his boots sinking into the damp garbage like it was a swamp. The stench was gag-worthy, and Zarachiel quickly pulled himself over the rim.

He checked around the corner of the building. The first guy was out of sight, and the second was hopefully still in the other alley. With a quick breath, Zarachiel eased into the open and crept past the row of cars, keeping to the side away from the bar. From the number of trucks and SUVs, the Loyalists had a lot of recruits and little concern for conserving their fuel resources. Clothes and empty beer bottles were strewn about in every car he passed. He also noted weapon holsters and stacks of ammo left out in the open. Zarachiel frowned. These people really thought themselves to be the biggest threat around to leave their camp and supplies so scantly guarded.

Finally, he made it to the stock trailer. The back door was still open, a padlock hanging loose on the handle. Zarachiel crept inside, careful to ensure his footsteps were silent. He stopped at the first crate and wedged his fingers under a board. The wooden slat gave a warning creak before it popped open. It was a narrow slit, but large enough to see what the box contained.

Claymores. With a “highly explosive” warning on the front.

He turned to another random crate and popped a slat loose. Inside were packets of C4, carefully wrapped in straw. No wonder the guards were so careful with these boxes; Zarachiel bet they were all filled with explosives. He recalled what the guys had said about if something “would really work.” The Loyalists were obviously planning something with the explosives—and soon. This amount of firepower wasn’t something to be hauled around for the fun of it. Zarachiel needed more information.

“Come on, man. Why didn’t you lock the door? Do I have to do everything for you?”

Zarachiel’s head jerked up, his eyes going to the space between the metal of the trailer. The second guy was walking past the front of the pickup and heading for the back of the trailer. Moving quickly, Z hurried out of the trailer and slipped around the other side, just as the second guy swung the door closed with a loud bang. Z used the sound to cover his departure as he sprinted away, darting across the road and slipping back into the shadows.

“I thought they had you there for a minute,” a quiet female voice said.

Even though he recognized her voice, Zarachiel still jumped slightly, his heart pumping with adrenaline. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to find you,” Michaela said.

“Who’s watching Grace?”

“Clark’s back. That’s why I’m here,” Michaela answered.

“Is Camille okay?”

“She’s bad, Z. Clark needs you.”

“Oh.” Zarachiel turned back to the bar, his eyes traveling to the fully loaded stock trailer. “They have a lot of explosives in that trailer. And they’re armed to the teeth. I think they’re planning some attack.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“I overheard the guards talking like they were preparing for something. We need to know what they’re planning.”

He clearly had Michaela’s attention now. She studied the bar from the shadows, her gold wings casting their own shadows against the side of the building they stood next to. “Maybe they’re just barricading the town.”

“You really think so?”

Michaela sighed. “No, you’re right. We need to know more about these Loyalists.” Even as she said the words, she turned away from the bar and looked fully at Zarachiel. “But Clark needs you, and we have to leave.”

“Don’t you think we should handle this first?” Zarachiel asked, his eyes going back to the trailer.

“Zarachiel,” Michaela said, capturing his attention again with her sharp tone. “Camille is dying. You need to be with Clark.”

Coldness reached in and gripped his stomach. He would’ve felt sick if he’d eaten anything this morning. Camille couldn’t be dying; she was too tough, too hard. Too mean. Nothing could kill her. He stood frozen, his mouth open but unspeaking.

“We have to go.
Now
.” Michaela took his hand and didn’t wait for his permission.

Together, they disappeared.

Chapter Two

C
lark didn’t even make it inside the cabin with Camille.

He laid her body out in the cold, thinking the freezing temperature would help slow her blood loss. But he wasn’t thinking clearly, so he didn’t know if that was actually a thing: that cold weather, cold ground could slow down blood. He didn’t know. Didn’t know if it would make much of a difference either from the looks of Camille.

Her head lolled to the side as he settled her onto the ground. Blood, dark and dull, bubbled from her mouth. Her eyelashes twitched and fluttered against her deathly pale skin. The cut on her cheek was gummy with drying blood and pus. Her lips were cracked and dry, and sometimes she would try to speak. Other times, she would struggle in his arms, weakly trying to wrestle away from him.

It was agony, trying to hold her still and save her at the same time. Clark couldn’t think, and he had to think. He kept trying to find the spot in his mind where his magic hid away, but every time he got close, Camille would thrash in his arms, making more blood gush from her wounds. His grip on her was slick from the blood—her blood—that coated his body. Too much was coming out of the holes in her wings. It made the ground muddy, so that Clark’s knees skidded and fought for purchase as he clenched Camille in his grip.

He was losing her.

“Michaela!” he screamed, throwing back his head and using every inch of his lungs to put power behind the name. But she wasn’t back yet. As soon as he’d come staggering into the cabin’s clearing, Michaela had seen him from her position on the front porch. She’d disappeared instantly, hopefully going to get help. Because Clark needed help. He had to calm down to think clearly; he had to slow his breathing to use his magic. And he couldn’t do either with Camille thrashing about in his arms.

After they’d left the cave, the hike back through the woods had been more like a mad sprint. He knew he’d jostled Camille around too much; they’d left a trail of blood in their wake, a golden slick path of breadcrumbs leading straight back to Hell. He’d fallen and slid, dropped her and snagged her legs on rocks and trees. It’d been bad and desperate, and Clark had gone to such a dark place in his head that he was too afraid to set Camille down and try to use his magic in the woods; he was afraid that he would kill her for sure, so he just ran. Ran for both their lives.

The hours it had taken him and Maya to reach the cave were cut in half by his frantic pace back to the car. And when Clark had reached his Chevelle, his entire body had been shaking with exhaustion as he stuffed Camille and her damaged wings into the backseat. He was covered in sweat and blood when he got behind the wheel with Camille groaning in the back, her blood dripping off the seat and onto the floorboard. Clark revved the engine and gunned the car forward, making it lurch and sputter to a jolting stop. Camille had lurched backward, rolling onto her wings and crying out in pain.

It’d been bad. But they were here now, and Clark was going to fix her as soon as he could remember how to call forth the magic.

“I’m going to save you,” he whispered, probing his mind for the answers, hoping that speaking out loud would give his goal more meaning. “Don’t worry. I’ve almost got it…”

Camille writhed in his arms, her hands pushing against his chest. She was saying something, Clark realized. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. “What?”

“No...”

“No, what?”

“Don’t…do…it.”

“Oh,” Clark said, realizing. His heart broke even as fury lanced through his body. “Cami, you’re fine. Lucifer is gone. He’s not going to do anything to you anymore.”

Camille shook her head, her eyes opening and looking weakly off into the woods. She wouldn’t look at him. Her mouth opened again, her lips bleeding from the effort. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

It took a minute for Clark to remember that Lucifer had called her that name in the cave. He didn’t know how he could feel any more anger, but he did. He gripped Camille’s arms a little too tightly, but he doubted a few more bruises would really matter. Her body was shattered. He felt the press of broken ribs against her skin, saw blood welling like a dark bruise in her stomach.

“I’m sorry. But save your energy, okay? No more talking. Michaela and Zarachiel will be back any second, and when they’re here, I’ll calm down. When they get here, I’ll be able to think straight.” Clark was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’ll figure out how to fix you and then everything will be okay.”

“No...”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Clark shouted in frustration.

Camille struggled again in his grip, and this time, Clark let her go, feeling suddenly as angry with Camille as he was with Lucifer. She inched away from him, her eyes still not meeting his. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want you to fix me.”

“But Camille—”

“Just let me
die
.”

A deep shudder spread throughout Clark’s body, silencing him with its sheer force. He couldn’t think to argue with her or to even ask why. Her words had stabbed their icy fingers into his skull and wrenched away his ability to function.

“Clark?” A voice penetrated his numbness and pulled him back to the present. Michaela and Zarachiel hurried across the clearing, their gazes flickering between him and Camille.

Their worry was so plain on their faces that Clark had to look away. “She’s going to be fine. I’m going to fix her,” he mumbled.

Michaela and Zarachiel crouched beside Camille, their hands hovering above her like they didn’t know where to start. Finally, Zarachiel lifted one of Camille’s wings and inspected the deep wound while Michaela looked at the puncture marks on Camille’s palms. But their eyes kept returning to the swelling and bruising beneath the skin of her abdomen, where the blood was pooling. It was clear she’d been kicked. Many times. She had some sort of internal bleeding. While all her other injuries were gruesome, they weren’t as fatal as what was happening in her stomach.

“She doesn’t have long,” Michaela whispered, meeting Clark’s eyes. “I feel her fading.”