Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (49 page)

At the beginning of the message, there was a series of high and low toned beeps followed by, “Attention. Attention. This is not a test.” Then more beeps. Zarachiel committed the number and length to memory, thinking they might be coded coordinates. “Attention. Attention. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Attention. Attention. This is not a test. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Alpha and Omega in position. Alpha and Omega in position. Stand by Omega. Stand by Omega. Keep position. Alpha circling. Alpha circling. Position readied. Position readied. Bringing the brimstone in 0800. Bringing the brimstone in 0800. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Lo-ah. Attention. Attention.” Then more beeping and the message started over.

The sun was low in the sky, the air cooling dramatically in the evening hours, but Zarachiel remained in the abandoned car, unraveling the message. “Lo-ah” was an abbreviation for LOA: Loyalists of Adam. He was certain of that. The “Alpha and Omega” codes sounded like the Loyalists were planning another attack, possibly on two different fronts. One or both was happening tomorrow morning from the sound of “0800.” Zarachiel gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let that happen either. He was going to take out the Loyalists before they could hurt anyone else. He shifted in the seat to ease the pain that flared up from his pelvis to his neck and radiated out along his arms. He’d been sitting still for too long, but he ignored it. He had to figure out the rest of this message.

“Stand by Omega” was tripping him up. It almost sounded like
Alpha
and
Omega
were two separate groups. Why was one attacking while the other was waiting?

Zarachiel thought on it for a long time, repeating the phrase over and over. The message contained no coordinates or anything else that would clue him in on the location of the Loyalists, unless the beeps were some kind of code. They were being careful, which meant they suspected their messages were being listened to.

When it was clear that he wasn’t going to hear anything else, Zarachiel carefully removed the radio from the brackets screwed into the bottom of the car’s dashboard. The radio ran on a battery, and he hoped he hadn’t used up all the power by listening for so long. If he did, he could put it in Clark’s car to charge so they could listen. There was no way to know when a new message would come on the air, which meant they would likely have to set up shifts not only to watch the cabin but to listen to the radio as well.

His back was too sore and the radio too cumbersome to run fast back to the cabin, so Zarachiel just jogged. His long legs still covered the ground quickly, and the activity helped to spur his thoughts as the sun started dipping into the horizon. He kept thinking about “Alpha circling” and “stand by Omega.” What could the Loyalists be planning? What other weapons could they have after the first attack? Enough for two groups?

Zarachiel was on the park’s service road when a thought twisted up.

It came to him slowly, revealing itself only when he was prepared to look at it fully, like an aggravated rattlesnake rattling until it was seen. His attention captured, Zarachiel slowed to a walk, his eyes far away. His mind whirred along, his grip tightening on the radio. The thought took control and steered his thoughts until he was racing around the idea in a single-minded fever.

A horrible cold feeling seeped through his belly.

The thought—this crazy idea of what “stand by Omega” could mean—was possible: horrifyingly, terrifyingly possible. If he let himself think rationally and removed his emotions from the equation, he could pick up on little things he’d missed. Tiny details that should have alerted him to the breadth of the Loyalists’ plans, to their capacity to hate. It was so possible that Zarachiel sat the radio on the side of the road, hidden in some brush, and took off in a mad sprint back to the cabin.

The question was how much did the Loyalists know. Zarachiel had to assume the worst. If it was possible there was even a fraction of truth to his idea, he couldn’t waste time. He might be too late already.

Too late
, he thought.
Too late
.
What if you’re too late?

There was that darkness again. He couldn’t allow it. But it still managed to whisper,
What if you’re too late and they’re all dead? What if you couldn’t save anyone?

Zarachiel ran even faster, faster than he’d ever run. The bones in his back, the ones torn asunder and left jagged and scraping, shifted and jabbed at him, as if punishing him for being so stupid. His back hurt enough that he knew he was doing irreparable damage. He felt things tearing and breaking, but he couldn’t stop.

He had to save them.

When he burst through the clearing, his massive stride chewed up half the burnt yard before he saw her. He took one look and knew he’d been right to believe the worst.

“Are they already dead?” he asked, breathless. He wanted to pant and gasp for air, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“Not yet. But soon. I told you about the radio because I needed to get you out of the house, so I could get this,” Grace said. She held up Clark’s gun as she stood on the stairs, smiling widely, like she’d just won an award. Her flaming red hair was tied up in a tight ponytail, her bruises standing out on her sweating face. Her green eyes were unblinking with excitement and maniacal delight. She pointed the gun at him when he took a step closer. “You were the main target, of course. I had to be careful so that I didn’t tip you off. You had to be the first one I killed—a great Archangel.” Grace sneered the last word like it was blasphemous. “You destroyed the world and our race. I’m here to make you pay. We won’t stop until you’re all dead.”

Zarachiel felt a sadness that he couldn’t allow himself to think too long about. He’d made love to this broken girl, and she was clearly broken; he could see that now. The Loyalists had found a beautiful, scared girl and twisted her up with their lies and abuse before unleashing her on him in the hope that she could trick him, and she’d played right into his need to care for someone. And he’d missed it. He’d overlooked all the little warning details because he’d wanted to believe that she was just a victim and not a victim
and
a killer. The deceit and betrayal melded with the pulsing from his back and turned into one great wrenching numbness through him. He’d brought this snake into their fold. He’d insisted that they save her. He wished they had. She deserved it. Even now, he believed she deserved it. He smiled at her.

“I’m sorry I failed you, Grace. I wish I could have done more for you.”

Grace’s twisted smile shifted. She snarled her lip in disgust, but her beautiful green eyes fractured. She took a few steps down the stairs until she was in the yard with him. “I can make him proud of me. If I kill you, he said that I would belong to him and him only. He said that no one else would ever touch me again because he would be too proud of me to share.” Grace smiled widely around her words. “He will be so excited when I kill you and those others. He’ll be so happy.”

“I’m sorry,” Zarachiel repeated. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

Grace took a few more steps toward them, sliding her finger against the trigger. Her finger flexed, but there was no way to cross the distance between him and her. If he’d had wings…maybe. If he’d let Clark repair him…maybe. If he hadn’t taken so long out at the interstate…maybe.

Zarachiel didn’t look away from the broken girl he’d held in his arms so tightly. He’d thought he was saving her. But she was already too far gone.

The gun fired.

Chapter Six

A few moments before…

C
lark had slept so fitfully that he doubted it could even be considered sleep. He’d walked a line between unconsciousness and consciousness, lost in a state of dreams and reality. He heard Camille shifting about on her pallet, but he dreamed that she walked over to him and started stroking his cheek, her lips on his neck. He was smiling when he opened his eyes and saw she hadn’t moved from her spot on the pallet. Though he was still exhausted, he forced himself to keep his eyes open because he couldn’t bear another dream like that. He shifted away from the wall and stretched.

The house was disturbingly quiet. The bedroom door was shut, which meant Grace must be asleep. Clark didn’t know if Zarachiel was on watch or asleep. They’d been lax when they got back from the Loyalist’s bar; he hadn’t assigned watches. It was a stupid move, and he should have known better.

Feeling frustrated with himself, he rose from the floor with a silent groan. His entire body hurt from sitting in such a position for the last few hours. He tilted his neck back and forth as he crossed to the kitchen window and looked outside. Surprisingly, Grace sat on the front porch, her chin in her hand with a faraway look, watching the sun begin to set. If she was outside, that meant Zarachiel must not be far away. It made Clark feel slightly better, so he let the curtain fall back into place.

Unwillingly, his eyes traveled the short distance to Camille’s pallet. She was curled in a tight ball, her knees tucked against her chest beneath the covers. The blanket was pulled up to her ears so that only her dirty hair and a slice of her pale, bruised face showed. Her breathing was so quiet that Clark knew she wasn’t asleep, but it was so controlled that he knew she was feeling a lot better. Good enough to not want to talk to him, look at him, be near him. Looking at her made Clark feel a plummeting sensation of emotions. He was guilty and sad, but also nearly ecstatic that she was even alive enough to hate him. He knew what he’d done—saving her against her will—was wrong, but it was the only thing he could’ve done.

Sometimes the wrong way is the only way.

If he could just talk to her, he might be able to make her understand why he had to do what he did. He took a step toward her, eyes lingering on the patch of skin where her jaw met her temple. The floorboard creaked beneath his footstep, and Camille jerked. The blanket slid down her shoulder, revealing the furious clenching of her jaw. Her green eyes seared into him, warning him to stay back. “Don’t,” she hissed like a cornered wild cat.

“Camille—”

“Just don’t! Don’t talk to me! Don’t come near me!”

Clark’s shoulders slumped. He stepped back until he bumped against the dining room table. The chair scraped across the wooden floors, making Camille flinch again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Camille turned, shifting on her pallet until she was sitting up with her back in the corner. She tucked her knees up under her chin, shielding herself from him. While he had been sleeping, she’d put on an extra pair of jeans and one of his loose shirts. From her corner, she glared at him until Clark felt compelled to back farther across the room. Her jaw worked furiously; a vein on her temple pulsed. The scar along her cheek was jagged and red. Not even his magic had been able to heal all the marks on her body. She would forever be scarred by Lucifer.

Clark was so tired, so numb, that he didn’t even feel angry with the devil for what he’d done to Camille. He didn’t feel anything.

“Why?” Camille said, so quietly that Clark thought he’d made up the sound. Only when she waited for him to answer did he realize she’d actually spoken out loud. Apparently, she’d decided she wanted answers more than she hated him.

“I…” Clark started but couldn’t bring himself to finish. How selfish was he? How could he explain this to Camille when he couldn’t even be honest with himself? “I love you,” he finally managed with a hopeless shrug. He’d never felt as lost, as floundering as he did right then. This was it. This was rock bottom. It took one war, countless angels, and death all around, but he was finally there. This was the end of it all. “I couldn’t let you die if there was even one slight chance I could save you. I’m sorry for that.” Clark started talking faster as the words came to him. He had nothing else to lose. “No, actually, I’m not sorry for that. I’m not sorry at all. I saved you because it was the only way for me. But if you’re set on dying, then leave.” Clark cast his arm toward the door. “Just leave and go far away. Take my bone dagger if you need it. Shove it into your heart if you must, but do it as far from me as you can get. Kill yourself that way, but don’t involve me again and then ask me not to do the only thing that makes any sense to me.”

Her catlike eyes widened, brows arching in surprise at his words. She’d opened her mouth to respond when her brow furrowed and she glanced at the kitchen window. The curtains were still closed. She frowned. Clearly she was listening to something outside.

“What is it?”

Camille cocked her head to listen closer. Her body went very still for a tiny second before she lurched forward, stumbling to her feet. “It’s—”

She didn’t get to finish.

The gunshot was loud enough for them both to hear.

“What the hell?” Clark shouted, spinning around and racing toward the door.

Camille was right at his heels. “It’s Grace! She’s still working with the Loyalists!”

She said the last few words as they rocketed out of the front door and crashed onto the porch. Clark jerked to a stop as he tried to take in the scene before him. Camille hovered at his shoulder, a low growl rumbling up the back of her throat.

Grace was backing away, into the front yard. Her gun was pointed at Zarachiel still, but her eyes never left Clark and Camille. She looked completely different now; gone was the frail, scared girl. In her place was a mad woman, who stood tall, with a rigid spine and a wild smile. She practically glowed with excitement at what she’d done. She picked up her pace, backing away, until she stood over Zarachiel. She was close enough to shoot him while still staying out of his reach.