Mercy on Your Soul: The Mercy Aymes Series, #2

By H. M. Mills

HOW FAR IS FAR ENOUGH WHEN THERE'S NOWHERE ON EARTH OR IN HEAVEN YOU CAN HIDE FROM THE ULTIMATE IMMORTALS?
SHE MADE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL AND HE MEANS TO COLLECT…

Runnings as easy as breathing, Mercy's been doing it her whole life: From the law, the past, her tormentors, even from herself. But running from fate proves futile when it awaits her in the light ahead and hunts her from the shadows behind.
When the Archangel of Death banished her father to the mortal realm and stole his memories of life before, Mercy jumped at the chance to have his immortality returned, even if it meant an eternity as a Demon. All she had to surrender was her life as she knew it; become Lucifer's Queen, open the veil, and lead the horde through the gates to war.

But then she'd been missing vital facts, and now, armed with the truth, the puzzle pieces are finally falling into place, and as far as she's concerned, she'll be honouring her side of the bargain when Hell freezes over.
Fleeing across the English Channel with the Angel of Death and the Devil in hot pursuit would come to an end one way or another and Mercy was tired or running. It was time to make a stand and now they had four thousand and ninety-nine new reasons for Azrael and Lucifer to think twice at Notre Dame.

 

MERCY ON YOUR SOUL is a spellbinding paranormal, dark fantasy that will immerse you in a world beyond the veil, where the battle of the fallen still rages, and the weapon to end it all lies in the blood of a teenage immortal half-breed. This is a sequel full to the brim of vibrant characters, plenty of action, and a whole lot of love, loss, and wickedness. Join Mercy, her friends, and her Gargoyle mate in the race of their lives and stand with them as they face down savage Demons and merciless Archangels.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. M. Mills
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215716274

Book preview

Prologue

THE WORLD IS EVER TURNING on its axis, and, whether it be human or the otherworldly realm; Mortals and Immortals alike spin along with it.

Lucifer sank deep into his throne, resting his chin on steepled fingers and stretched out his long legs. With a glassy-eyed stare, he watched over a throng of Demons, swaying hypnotically to the seductive beat of the drums. Their bodies radiated a heat as intense as the flames casting a red haze Lucifer found most pleasing. He ignored the shadow-Phantoms sipping at his essence, growing fat on his darkening thoughts as they slid over the deliciously slick skin of his powerful arms.

He, the King of Hell, had made a monumental mistake, and was not too thrilled to admit it, not even to himself. How could he have been so blind as to have underestimated the grip Mercy’s deceitful Angel had on her? To have not foreseen the angelic deceiver would convince her of forfeiting the life of her newly altered Demon sire and flee.

It was a predicament of Mercy’s own making; having demanded the transformation of her father’s mortal shell, in exchange for becoming his Queen. And like a fool, he’d taken her at her word. That was his first mistake. His second was to fulfil his side of the bargain prematurely. Not only had Mercy chosen an inferior gargoyle over her own sire, but over him, her true king and demon mate.

Demons are tricksters to be sure; it’s their nature, but a bargain struck in Hell is binding, and she was a fool to think he wouldn’t collect on it. He would take back what was rightfully his, even if it meant killing every angel and gargoyle that got in his way.

‘My lord,’ Xaphan murmured, coming to stand below the steps of the throne.

Lucifer remained unmoved, enjoying his violent fantasies a little longer. It forced his hesitant warrior to clear his throat, rendering his presence undeniable.

Xaphan’s newly knitted bones ached at the thought of having them re-broken so soon after the Witch’s healing, but he had no choice.

‘My King,’ he repeated with greater volume.

Lucifer’s countenance was unreadable, though he spoke in a throaty growl.

‘What is so damn important you must disturb me?’ he asked, keeping his inner musings clearly at the forefront of his mind.

‘The scouts have returned with news of your Queen, my lord.’

A spark ignited behind the vacant glassiness within Lucifer’s deep-set sockets, and he dropped his hands, shifting to face his warrior. ‘What news have they to report? Has she come to her senses?’

Loathing to say the words aloud, a weakness overcame Xaphan’s legs. ‘No, my lord,’ he said, speaking them to the ground.

Slamming his hands on the decorative skulls, Lucifer stood with a snarl. ‘Then what?’ He spat venomously.

‘It is the Archangel, Azrael. He is already on the hunt, tracking her south-east with several Guardians at his command.’

‘Argh!’ Lucifer scoffed, crushing several fresh skulls under foot. ‘And so it begins,’ he said, his mouth splitting into a wide grin. ‘Soon, I shall hold Azrael’s head aloft upon a pike, and the broken bodies of his Guardians paving the ground I walk on.’ He laughed, pleased to be taking action. ‘Come, Xaphan, we must ready the horde. We go to war.’ He grinned, sliding a hand down his chest as though seduced by his own speech.

Chapter One

Decisions & Decrees

No longer shining like the blazing sun, Chayyliel paced the rooftop, his barely contained rage sending fine tremors quivering along his wings. As the early morning light struck his feathers, it cast a spray of gold, dancing like sprites over the gathering of Guardians standing as silent sentinels. They had no wish to trigger the precariously hanging pin from this grenade, not while it swung like a pendulum before their eyes.

Azrael had no such concerns. ‘You should have summoned the defectors before declaring them no longer guardians, brother. It seems you have severed your bond with the rogues prematurely,’ he announced acerbically.

Chayyliel halted from his swift forward motion, spinning to face the Archangel. He eyed his brother critically, annoyed at the sight of him casually leaning against the empty plinth of the lost gargoyle, Tagas. Azrael stood in faux indifference, his black hair fluttering in a haze of contained emotions. He was a dark storm, periodically illuminated by the white shimmers of energy beneath his wings; remnants of the departed souls he’d ferried home.

‘How helpful of you, brother. Perhaps you should have shared your concerns with me before I passed judgement. As it stands, your conjectures are of little use to me now.’

Azrael scowled, his annoyance bubbling close to the surface, yet he said nothing, opting instead to glare silently at Chayyliel when he returned to his introspective pacing.

Gargoyles have the capability of remaining dutifully mute and immobile for an eternity, but the long-forgotten imp, would not.

Forced into silent limbo on the cleft of the cathedral’s arch for over seven centuries, there was no way Gekas would ever willingly remain voiceless again. When commanded alongside his brother, Thaxus, to wreak havoc on the newly built church in 1092, he found himself at the end of the Archangel Chayyliel’s wrath for his crimes and cast as the cold stone statue of the Lincoln Imp, forever to be ridiculed and gawked at by generations of passers-by. His brother, Thaxus, having avoided the same agonizing fate with the good sense to retreat, had slunk away under the cover of darkness.

The Imp no longer wished to be kept a tongueless observer, though he would have preferred more stimulating company than these pompous angels and weak-minded humans; perhaps even a minotaur or a she‐devil or two.

‘Mercy is lost to you now, Angel,’ the Imp taunted. ‘Lucifer will find her, slay your guardians and make her his queen, long before you know where to cast your eyes,’ he concluded, raising his upper lip; as though scenting something vile.

Azrael pushed away from the plinth, letting his rage propel him forward like a homing missile. He stopped short of trampling the little beastie, his dark looming shadow reducing the creature to little more than a shrunken, piteous animal.

The Imp snapped his square teeth in response, reminding the angel he wasn’t entirely without means of inflicting some nasty, lasting damage of his own.

Azrael dropped his outstretched arms to his sides, clenching his fists so tightly, his nails dug into half-moon imprints in the soft pads of his palms. Knowing better of it, yet allowing his control to slip, he snarled down at the belligerent creature. ‘Not only is Lucifer no longer your master, but he had the girl within his grasp and still, he could not keep his hold on her. Stolen, right out of his most trusted demon’s clutches, as easily as I snatch souls from their mortal death beds.’

Gekas shot Azrael a hate-filled glare; the reminder of the severed bond between him and Lucifer was a physical blow to his yearning heart. He bared his blunted teeth, gnashing at the angel, while conjuring images of his throat between them.

While his plan of escaping formulated in the recesses of his mind, it mollified him to imagine Azrael’s icy blood dripping from his chin and soaking into the woollen fleece of his chest.

If Chayyliel decided he had no more use for him, he’d return him to stone, and then all hope of escape would be lost.

He needed to think fast; some way of severing the thread of Chayyliel’s power, as Mercy and the gargoyles had done.

Azrael watched the wicked grin form on the imp’s thick lips and shuddered. He hated the mere sight of the creature, and hate was not a common emotion among Angels. He just wanted the ugly little beast gone from his sight.

Azrael heard the faint padding of Chayyliel’s feet come to a standstill. Its sudden shift, no matter how minute, caught his attention, transferring his focus from The Imp to his brother.

The light of the morning sun splashed brightly across Chayyliel’s weary face as he addressed Iael. ‘Are you certain your connection with Talus has broken?’

Iael allowed his natural stillness to soften, as though warmth and life had entered him, returning rough-hewn stone into flesh. The white brilliance of his moonstone orbs stared back at the Angel unblinking.

‘Yes, Bestower of the Blessed Kiss. The connection is no longer viable. Undoubtedly severed when he and Mercy absconded, breaking from the Order.’ He gave the archangel a respectful bow, having nothing more to reveal.

‘You may dispense with the appellations, Iael,’ Chayyliel said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Just tell me if it is so with Petram and Af?’ he asked, grappling with his impatience, though he knew he was failing to keep it hidden.

Iael inclined his head. ‘It is so,’ he answered succinctly; knowing Chayyliel was in no mood for a drawn-out explanation.

The Angel expelled a frustrated breath. ‘And the girl?’ He stared into the white stone of Iael’s eyes as though compelling him to divulge the answer he most desired.

From the back of Iael’s head, his carved symbiont, Aylin mumbled incoherently behind the spill of their white hair, as confused by the question as his host.

‘I do not understand, the girl, Your Grace?’ A deep crease appearing between the old guardian’s brow, and, despite his visions, he was as in the dark as Aylin.

‘Yes, the girl, Iael, the abomination, the centre of all this chaos,’ Chayyliel snapped, waving his arms about him as though it was written in the sky. ‘Have you attempted to connect with her? She is somewhat Angel, after all, and obviously close to Talus. Perhaps if they are bound, they are linked telepathically, the way in which Talus was once able to hear her calls. And if so, you can convince the girl, returning is their best course of action.’ He looked no more convinced of his own words than Iael did. ‘Just try to call to her guardian,’ he ordered flatly.

Closing his lids against the fervent glint in Chayyliel’s eyes, Iael raised his face to the pallid rays of the winter sun. The occupants of the rooftop hushed; the consensus not to disturb his concentration kept their tongues firmly behind their teeth.

A blue light shone behind Iael’s eyes, allowing his inner thoughts to form. His mind reached out like elongated fingers searching far and wide, waiting to touch a familiar thread, or any thread at all.

‘Mercy—It is Iael. If you can hear me, tell me you and my beloved brothers are safe? Chayyliel’s retraction of Guardian status has severed our connection. Can you hear me, Mercy? You must speak if you can.’ He waited, listening to the static silence, and feeling the strain of his pulsing temples. Releasing all hope with a heavy sigh, he reluctantly allowed his eyelids to open.

The whisper of his name was soft and unsure, reaching out with feather light touches. ‘Iael?’ He could sense Mercy tentatively fluttering about his mind like a moth searching through the dark for a skerrick of light.

It had been a familiar, yet barely discernible voice, and then it was gone with a harsh clang, as though an impenetrable metal door had slammed shut behind it. Had she been unable to keep the line of communication open, or did she not trust him to be inside her head? Either way, he felt relief to have found a way in and frustrated he’d been shut out—at least for now.

‘What is it? Have you made contact?’ Chayyliel fixed his hopeful eyes on Iael, holding completely still, as though the slightest movement or breath would provoke an unfavourable outcome.

Iael let his emotions melt away, hiding them behind a perfectly honed stone mask, lest the Angel see the rapid beat of his heart or the initial shock sliding from his face.

He wasn’t hiding much, just a single word, but even keeping that from the commanding Archangel would be enough to see him cast into soulless obscurity. He would be of no use to anyone in that state.

‘I believed I may have heard a voice, my Lord, but it proved merely to be an echo of a past vision.’

‘Argh!’ Chayyliel growled, storming off to resume his pacing with deft, aggressive strides. He froze as a thought struck him.

‘What was it?’ he asked.

Iael stared at him blankly.

‘The vision, what was it?’ he clarified.

If he were to share any of his past visions, they would best be ones that served his purpose. This was his chance to guide Chayyliel to reason. A chance he didn’t think he’d get again.

‘Aylin and I have seen the bond between Mercy and Talus. We know it is not only strong but fated.’

‘Gah! I have already heard this from you, Iael. Be told. It is nothing more than stories.’

‘No! It is much more than stories, Your Grace. I have seen their bond will not only strengthen the Gargoyles but unify them with the Angels.’

No longer willing to remain on the sidelines, Azrael interjected. ‘What does that even mean, Iael? Angels and gargoyles are already as one. We are all on the same side, are we not?’ He folded his arms across his chest.

A clear message to Iael’s thinking, that he had closed himself off to any other point of view but his own. He wanted to laugh; the Angels had always treated gargoyles as lesser beings, not so unlike mortals using dogs to guard their precious property. In the Angels’ defence, it wasn’t a case of maliciousness or speciesism, merely arrogance. Something often misunderstood, particularly by mortals, was that being angel didn’t automatically make them immune from such traits. He let those thoughts drop away, answering Chayyliel with simple facts.

‘It means, should Mercy and Talus join by a mating, their union will create stronger, more powerful guardians and bring us closer to Angel-kind,’ he answered, unsure if this would be enough to satisfy them. He went for one final push. ‘The joining of several angels and demons has occurred in the past.’ He eyed the pair, daring them to dispute the facts. When they scowled but remained tight-lipped, he continued. ‘They defied your laws, as well as the Demon King’s, despite understanding the severity of their punishment if caught.’ Iael lowered his voice, imbuing importance. ‘There is something powerful happening between them; something beyond the physical, driving them to risk their very existence. That kind of commitment suggests it’s likely there will be further bouts of defiance in the future. If you do not mind my candour, Your Eminence; wouldn’t it be prudent to set up a plan of action beyond punishment, or rather in place of? Then, should these unholy unions result in half-blood offspring, they could strengthen our ranks rather than tear us apart.’

Azrael scoffed.

Iael eyed Chayyliel with hope, seeing that he at least was mulling over his words.

The wind had picked up, grabbing the silken material of Chayyliel’s tunic, slapping it furiously against his legs. The updraft caught at his hair, whipping it across his face and lifted the flailing strands, as though desperate to escape his scalp.

Iael looked to Azrael, unconcerned to be similarly assailed. The Gargoyle thought him night to Chayyliel’s day. He watched as the Archangel’s long strands of blue-black hair twisted wildly about his head, like Medusa’s snakes. Iael wasn’t sure if there had been a natural shift in the elements, or if the Angel’s emotions were no longer quite so contained. Chayyliel’s voice broke him from his musings.

‘You give me nothing but assumptions and speculations, Iael, nothing concrete, and nothing new. Have you forgotten Lucifer can and will use the half-bloods to his advantage? It is a gamble, and a price far too high. No! It is done. My judgement stands!’ He raised his chin. ‘The Gargoyles Talus, Petram, and Af are Guardians no more. We must bring them to justice for their crimes. Let it be known, the half-breed abomination will be hunted down and dealt with in accordance with our laws.’ He regarded the gargoyle’s grave expressions, searching the gathering for one in particular. He knew his next words would more than likely add to their discernible distress. Their eyes locked as he found who he sought. ‘Abdiel,’ he called, motioning for him to step forward.

The chimera cocked his beaky head, his treacle gaze swivelling between Iael and the two archangels.

Chayyliel’s narrowed at the gargoyle’s unburdened hand and empty leather sheath strapped to his back.

‘I see you are still without your sword. You neither retrieved it, nor the Mortal boy you gave it to during the demon battle. Why is that Abdiel? I would have expected the loss of your gifted weapon to feel as though your limb had been severed, does it not?’

At the tension, Dumah slipped his lithe frame from between Sablo’s squat limestone figure and Cassiel’s dragon-like form. His dark robes billowed behind him as he passed, outlining the front of his skeletal body. ‘Your Grace, this is all my fault. I swore to you before the battle that I would retrieve the girl, and I failed to do so.’ The Gargoyle’s nightmarish skull-like features were at complete odds with his contrition.

‘Yes, well, be that as it may, Dumah, there is no time for blame and self-flagellation. We must find solutions, and so far, I have been offered none. I have found a worthy line of pursuit I had not factored in, until now.’ Chayyliel relaxed his stance, and with it, the raging wind ceased, leaving a gentle breeze fluttering over their skin.

That answered that question, Iael thought, realising that though Chayyliel appeared calm, his mood influenced the weather. Interesting. Iael’s mind raced for a potential distraction, coming up empty. Seeming of little consequence at the time, he’d neglected to consider the importance of Abdiel’s sword. Now, in bright neon flashing lights, he saw its danger, just as Chayyliel seemed to find its purpose.

‘If I am not mistaken, while under Petram’s protection, the mortal boy fought against the demons wielding your sword, did he not Abdiel?’ Chayyliel asked. ‘And now both mortal and gargoyle have absconded with your weaponry.’ His face relaxed at an inhale of breath. ‘As for the fair Abigail,’ he resumed, speaking her name with a gentle caress sliding from his tongue, ‘she too, is not amongst us, as she was meant to be,’ he said, emphasising his vexation at her absence. He knew they would not understand his concern for the mortal female; he did not understand it himself. ‘I can only assume they are together. Wherever Petram has gone, so to have the mortals, and I believe Af, and Talus have followed with the abomination. You can track your sword, Abdiel, can you not?’ Chayyliel held the gargoyle’s stare expectantly.

Abdiel stilled, anxious, but not surprised by the question. He could not tell a lie, no matter how much he wished to. It was a well-known fact that the sword of Abdiel could never be hidden from its true bearer; that it would call to him, even from the bottom of the deepest ocean. In light of their situation, he had ignored its call, feeling the constant humming through his sword arm. ‘Yes, it is possible. I can track my sword.’ He snapped his beak shut, wishing he could have crushed the words before they’d left his mouth.

Azrael grinned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eager to get started. At last, there was movement, a plan he could consider, a trail he could track and a foe he could hunt.

Chayyliel remained quiet, considering his next words as he watched cold understanding slide across Abdiel’s orbs and set the strands of black swirling within his treacle irises. He felt a twinge of doubt at the Guardian’s loyalty to the Angels over his own brothers, despite their defection.

‘Azrael, I want you to go with Abdiel and track his sword. Take Hamon, Zaapiel, Leo and Sablo with you. The trail will undoubtably lead you to the rogue’s hiding place.’

Azrael gave him a sweeping bow, his face alight with anticipation, ready to do his brother’s bidding. He settled his sword firmly on his back, its gold hilt and black diamond pommel visible from between his shoulder blades. His fluorescent green eyes flashed, scrutinising the Gargoyles, shuffling uncomfortably.

They moved aside, allowing Leo to pass. The large man-beast stalking forward, parted the field of Guardians as though they were tall grass, bending to his will. In single file, Zaapiel, Sablo and Hamon followed like a king’s entourage, keeping several paces behind him. None of them wished to take part in this pursuit, sadly finding themselves duty bound.

Chayyliel stood before them, emanating authority and power as he spoke, binding them under the weight of Angel Law.

‘As the right hand of God, the Bestower of the Blessed Kiss and upholder of our Laws, I Chayyliel, decree, Abdiel, Angel Warrior and Guardian of the Heavenly Realm, to return the defectors, Talus, Af, and Petram to face justice for crimes committed against Angel Law and God. In addition, I decree, Azrael: Archangel of Death and Warrior for our Almighty Father, hereby dispatched to hunt down the half-Demon abomination known as Mercy Aymes and execute her on sight.’

Chapter Two

On His Mind

Anthony stared around at the peaceful normality of the day; God knows there hadn’t been many of them since the day he’d met Mercy. From the moment she’d witnessed his humiliation and introduced herself anyway, his life had become just one big explosive development after another.

It wasn’t all bad, he thought. Earlier he’d gotten to wake up next to Abigail, an absolute dream come true, despite being fully clothed and made to remain on top of the duvet with a pillow barricade between them. Still, it wouldn’t have happened at all if he hadn’t met Mercy.

The girl may have brought avenging Angels, hate-filled Demons, and lovesick Gargoyles into his life, but he wouldn’t exchange her for a mundane best friend, even if she brought about the Apocalypse, which, at this point, seemed highly probable.

He shielded his eyes against the bright sun glinting off Petram’s enormous hide waddling ahead of him. It flashed and winked like he’d spent the night dancing at a glitter party. Ant thought he may not have been quite as flashy as Af, with veins of metallic silver, but his rotund body and booming laughter made him stand out in a crowd. He stared at the Gargoyles broad, goofy-looking head, certain it wasn’t in league with his fearsome brothers. At least he wasn’t as uptight as they were, he mused, grinning.

Anthony glanced at Abi leading the procession. She happily chatted away at Af while the giant gargoyle regarded her quizzically, attempting to give her his full attention. He watched Af’s mouth open and shut several times like a goldfish and chuckled to himself, knowing Abi wasn’t giving him a chance to get a word in edge-wise. With Af being the introspective, polite guardian, Anthony watched the gargoyle scratch his head and shake it a few times in resigned delight.

Ant smiled at his girlfriend’s gleeful oblivion, and his heart did a little splutter. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging. He could join them, but sometimes he just liked to observe her from afar, uninhibited by his presence. He loved watching her blossom from the quick-tempered hermit at Lincoln to the confident chatterbox before him.

Shifting his focus, he took in the way Mercy and Talus walked side by side in muffled conversation, sandwiched between two guardians, as though protected by personal bodyguards. It was strange to see the way they leaned towards each other, like flowers drawn to the sun. They were like any other newly loved-up couple, if said couple happened to be over six feet tall, with eyes of metallic fire and ice, and wings that cascaded in a waterfall of feathers.

It was hard for him to reconcile the image of the tiny girl he’d met on her first day of school with the striking Angel before him, not to mention the Demon hidden within her, like a monster under her bed.

He allowed his mind to wander over the previous evening’s pow-wow, running through the conversation that naturally turned to Mercy’s current demonic condition. Talus had spoken of her demon as a temporary state, suppressed by their strengthening bond; he’d finished with a hanging, unless. Anthony shook his head at the memory of Abigail’s fundamental curiosity urging her on to ask what was on everyone’s lips, except Mercy’s. Unless what?

Talus had answered the question as openly and honestly as a Guardian of God would: unless he and Mercy made their bond permanent, which would involve making sweet, sweet love.

Ant shuffled through his memory banks, adjusting his own polite version to recall the Gargoyle’s exact words.

It will only become permanent when I, as her mate, take Mercy for the first time, and share with her my seed. It is very potent, powerful enough to send a demon’s soul back to Hell.

Anthony snorted, remembering the way Mercy had spluttered, her face turning every shade of crimson and not just from choking on her food. Powerful magic seed indeed, he chortled to himself.

He still didn’t see why it was such a big deal for Mercy; especially since it would solve all their problems by stopping Lucifer from getting what he wanted. Simple! Or so he’d thought. He shrugged his shoulders at his internal monologue’s, apparently not, response.

Skipping ahead, he mulled over the private conversation he’d had with Mercy later that night while she prepared popcorn and anchovy sandwiches for Petram. A disgusting combination the gargoyle had become obsessed with. He gagged at the nauseating olfactory memory, having to cover his mouth and push the conjured scent aside, allowing the conversation to replay.

‘How can you say that? I’m not having sex with Talus just because it might solve our problems,’ Mercy had thrown back, screwing up her pert nose and slamming the top slice of bread on the sandwich stack.

‘Why not?’ he’d asked, embarrassed to remember the whiny sound of his voice. It seemed so logical to him. A quick and simple clear-cut end to everything, and here she was dismissing it, or at least delaying it for some romantic nonsense. At the time, he’d felt an annoying sensation poking at his conscience, swatting it away to figure out later, or not at all.

As the feeling jabbed at him once again, he realised he wasn’t going to get away with ignoring it any longer, wondering if it was nonsense after all.

When he’d slept with Bethany Slayter for the first time, it had been an awkward, fumbling experience for them both. A couple of stupid kids really, experimenting in an adult world they had no business being in. Not a thought to the potential consequences, and what made it worse, were the feelings of cold disappointment afterwards; not a single firework to be seen or a songbird to be heard.

A vision of Abigail’s fair form rubbed against the inner walls of his mind, feeling the dewy velvet softness of her skin and a trickle of understanding began to pool. He wanted much more than that with Abi. The truth rudely slapped him across the face. He wanted the singing birds and fireworks just as much as Mercy, but his existence didn’t depend on it.

‘Anthony, I’m not ready to give myself to him yet, and I definitely don’t want my first time to be because of cold reasoning. He’s my first love, and I want him to be my only. When we choose to be together, it’ll be when we feel the time is right and not before, not even to stop a war.’

Ant had watched her prepare the food with care; things mattered to her, even if they meant little to others.

He followed his chattering girlfriend across the lawn, grumbling under his breath. ‘Who even thinks like that anymore?’ He gave an exasperated sigh and quickly tightened his lips, sure he’d caught Petram’s interest. He reverted to the safety of his internal monologue. For Christ’s sake, at almost eighteen, it’s just not natural to be so inexperienced.

Petram’s voice intruded on his thoughts, and he slowed to match Ant’s pace. ‘Humans are such complex beings. Perhaps, little Ant, Mercy has been strongly influenced by her Angel’s desire to remain chaste for her mate, more so than her Demon’s proclivities towards debauchery.’

Ant’s mouth popped open. ‘You can hear me?’

‘It appears so,’ Petram said, shrugging his round boulder-like shoulders.

Ant shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets, digging deep to fiddle with the lint, attempting to seem unfazed. ‘So, what, you can hear everything I’m thinking, any time you wish?’ he said, clenching his unseen fists.

Petram’s heavy brow fell, snatching away his joyful expression and replaced it with stone cold indignation.

‘No! I do not spy on your thoughts. You were thinking very loudly. It was hard to ignore.’

‘Can the others hear me?’

Petram’s head swivelled on his great neck, checking on his brothers before he answered. ‘No.’

‘Then why can you? Oh!’ Ant exclaimed, taking a small stumbling step back. ‘You’re not going to tell me we’re fated mates, are you? Cos, I don’t swing that way.’ He held up a hand to ward him off. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’ve got a few gay mates–er–I mean friends, pals, you know,’ he cleared up, spotting the corners of the Guardian’s lips tremble at his flustered explanation.

‘No, we are not mates,’ Petram answered, averting his eyes to hide his loneliness. ‘Mayhap, we are friends though,’ he said, giving him a weak smile and shrugging, not knowing the answer to the sudden telepathic abilities any more than Anthony did.

‘Of course, friends. Yes, we are friends,’ Ant said, relaxing his stance.

Petram’s mouth grew wide, displaying a gaping, square-toothed grin. ‘Friends,’ he happily agreed, walking off with a jaunty waddle and swinging his long, thick arms as he went.

Anthony let the remnants of his memories float away like threads of smoke. They faded from his mind as his consciousness swam upwards, breaking the surface of the here and now and allowed the warmth of Abi’s hand to anchor him to reality. Abi’s hand! When had she come to him? When had he taken hold of her hand?

Af had taken up the mantle, continuing to lead their motley crew through the gardens, while Abi held onto him with a relaxed possessiveness, he was more than okay with.

Despite the random moments he watched Abi from afar, he barely left her side. It wasn’t just for safety in numbers, though there was that; he felt he needed to make up for lost time. Especially since carrying around a heavy nagging feeling that, at any moment, she would be snatched away from him.

The thought stabbed at his belly and twisted like a knife. Abi was fast becoming his everything, and he didn’t want to lose her. He liked every inch of her, from her strawberry blonde locks and eyes of cloudless summer skies to the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. She was smart, kind, and quirky, even funny when she wanted to be. She was just beautiful inside and out.

Pushing all irrational and negative feelings away, Ant allowed the positives to wrap around him. His heart tripped, unable to remember the last time he’d ever felt so happy. Even with dangers lurking around every corner and knowing Lucifer could sic his monstrous Demons on them, capture Mercy and force her to lead his army into Heaven, he still couldn’t help but be content, especially now, with her flashing him one of her rare and radiant smiles.

‘You look happy,’ he said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. God, she had cute ears, he thought. Any reason to touch her, he was going to take it.

She ducked her face, perhaps thinking he couldn’t see the pink tinge spreading across her cheeks, or the smile tugging at the corners of her eyes. When she smiled, her entire face lit up; he loved that about her.

His heart smacked against his ribs, making sure he knew exactly what he’d just thought meant something. Did he love her—genuinely love her? Maybe he did, but it was far too early to be putting that kind of pressure on either of them.

‘I’m happy,’ she answered, looking up. Her smile had vanished, but the spark of happiness still gleamed in her amazing eyes. She continued to stare, seeming to be waiting for something from him.

Deep down, Anthony knew if he didn’t figure it out, it would set him right back to the beginning. Panic rose and the bruises around his eyes, courtesy of Slayter, throbbed with each thump of his heart. He saw a muscle twitch in her cheek and knew he’d just run out of time. He blurted the only thing he thought safe to say at that moment.

‘I’m happy too.’ His inflection rose at the end, making it sound like a question rather than a statement. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, gifting him with the brightest smile he’d ever seen on her pink lips. His taut muscles loosened, and his shoulders dropped. Crisis averted. Women! They really are hard work, he thought, beaming down at her adorable face. But so worth it.

Chapter Three

Destination

We were finally getting a chance to stroll through Abi’s home estate gardens for a closer look at the sculptures, but all that filled my mind was Talus. I still wasn’t used to seeing him as a man, albeit a very tall man with striking beauty and wings of the brightest white, edged in gold.

‘How long do you think we can stay here?’ I asked him, hoping he’d say, for as long as we wanted, but that was just juvenile wishful thinking. Nothing lasts forever, and this wasn’t some romantic getaway.

He stopped and sighed, giving me that look that said I wasn’t going to like the answer. ‘Not long,’ he grumbled, fanning a chilled breath over my upturned face, stroking a warm finger along my cheek and coming to rest under my chin. My eyes shut, absorbing his gentle, adoring touch. Even when he was giving me bad news, he made it sound as though everything was going to be alright. ‘Perhaps a week or two at the most, then we must leave. It won’t take the Archangels long to track us down, let alone Lucifer.’

My eyes sprung open at the nudge he gave my chin, and I caught my breath when he bent his head, bringing our faces slowly together. My skin tingled at his nearness and my stomach clenched. God! Even the sound of his voice made my insides squirm.

‘Make no mistake, Mercy, Lucifer will come for you,’ he said with a quiver of fear I knew wasn’t for himself.

My jitters turned to quivers under his intense stare, and felt it ripple along my wings, like an autumn breeze whistling through a canopy of leaves. It was an odd sensation, as though my wings weren’t naturally attached to me yet. Almost like an artificial limb that sometimes didn’t respond to my wishes, and at other times moved spontaneously without conscious thought. I hoped it didn’t always feel this way. I did, however, enjoy having less of a height difference between us while in my altered state. It thankfully reduced the impression of being a child in his presence. And let’s not forget the silver eyes, though I hadn’t been so aware of them, until catching Ant gaping instead of listening to me. I regrouped my thoughts, answering his concerns.

‘I know Lucifer’s coming, and Azrael and Chayyliel, not just for me, but for you and the others. So, where can we go, that they won’t find us? We’re going to be running for the rest of our lives. We can’t live like that; not forever.’ I panicked at the enormity of our situation, the big picture looking bleaker by the minute.

‘Shh, everything will be alright. I will protect you,’ Talus crooned, pulling me into his powerful arms and gently rocking me from side to side, stroked my hair, as though he were soothing a child.

Get a grip on yourself, girl! You want him to see you as a strong independent woman, not an infant needing to be nurtured all the time. I gently pulled back, not wishing to hurt his feelings, as I so often unwittingly did.

‘I’m okay, honest. I just don’t know what we should do.’ I still heard panic fighting to take control of my voice.

‘We go to France!’ Af interjected, stopping to join the conversation. His matter-of-fact contribution hung in the air, as though it needed no further explanation, though it most certainly did.

Like a parliament of mute owls caught in daylight, we stood about gawping.

‘Why France?’ Ant thankfully asked, deciding it wasn’t quite so obvious to him.

‘I am from France.’

Blinking goggle-eyed, we waited for Af to elaborate, though he returned our blank stares. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or yell at him. I did neither for, at that moment, Abigail stormed across, hands on hips and halted on tiptoes, growling like a momma bear. Af stared down at her, his arched brow ironing out the creases, then at Talus, who shrugged in complete ignorance. I let go of my laughter, having firsthand experience with Abi’s sharp tongue.

‘If you have something to say, for goodness’ sake spit it out, you colossal igneous boulder,’ she scolded.

The shock on Af and Anthony’s faces alone nearly undid me, but it was Petram’s thrown back head and resounding laughter, booming from his wide theme park mouth that tipped me over the edge.

I laughed, a rip-roaring belly-heaving laugh, that spilled tears of joy and gratefulness for the moment. It was nice to hear Talus laughing along with us, the sound sultry and smooth. We laughed for several minutes, finding it hard to rein in with Af continuing to glare down at her, and she up at him.

It was Talus who finally brought us to order, a born leader and master of rationality.

I pulled myself together, wiping the happy tears from my face. ‘Why would you think France is a better place to run to than, let’s say, anywhere else in the world? They could find us there just as quickly as staying in England. At some point, we’re going to have to face them.’

Af’s demeanour softened. ‘France is where I was first created by my Mage, Gautier Lemaitre. Commissioned by William, Duke of Normandy, who later became William I of England; you may know him better as William the Conqueror,’ he said, offering the information to Abi rather than myself. I didn’t take it as a personal snub; in fact, I felt a flush of gratitude knowing that he knew the history lesson would thrill Abi.

Abigail’s open mouth and dancing eyes were a particularly good sign. ‘You were created specifically for William the Conqueror?’ It was hard to discern whether she was impressed or disbelieving.

‘Yes, though he had the Bishop de Burgundy relocate me from Notre Dame to Lincolnshire after they completed the Lincoln Cathedral.’

‘You’re from Notre Dame?’ The look of awe on Abigail’s face was endearing and from the way Ant threw an arm around her, beaming, he thought so, too.

Petram ambled forward on his thick bandy legs. ‘Why should we go to France, Af? What makes us any safer there than Canada or Australia? I mean, France is quite close. Would it not be more pragmatic to get as far away as possible?’

Talus looked from one to the other. ‘I believe Petram is right, Af. Maybe it is best you tell us what’s on your mind?’

Af dipped his opal eyes and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, though I didn’t think it necessary for a Gargoyle to do. It seemed like he was uncomfortable becoming the object of everyone’s attention.

Talus lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Speak up, brother. Your contribution is most welcome. At this point, I fear I am at a loss as to where we should go from here.’

I would have thought it hard for Talus to confess he was less than perfect, but he didn’t seem to struggle with it. As a Guardian, maybe he wasn’t burdened by the affliction of pride, or maybe that was just him.

Af released a heavy breath, swiftly nodding his domed head. ‘Notre Dame has four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine Gargoyles; I am the five thousandth. You are correct, we cannot run from Lucifer forever, nor Azrael. We are either going to give ourselves up, or make a stand, and if we are to make a stand, having five thousand Gargoyles at your back cannot hurt.’ He seemed to become surer of himself the longer he spoke.

‘Why would they fight for us?’ Ant asked, crossing his arms and frowning.

Af’s lips tilted in a half smile. I wondered if his amusement was at Anthony’s expense, seeing Gargoyles, a half-breed, and humans, as an us.

‘They will fight against Lucifer, because that is what they were created for.’

‘Yes, but will they fight against the Archangels?’ Ant persisted.

‘I do not know.’

‘Then what’s the point of going there? They might just see you as rogues and hand us over to the Archangels.’ I knew Ant wasn’t trying to be a downer; he was playing Devil’s Advocate. Not for the sake of argument, but to expose any unforeseen issues, no matter how desperately he wanted it to be a good idea.

‘It is the only plan we have. And as I said, they will fight against Lucifer, but I do not believe they will fight the Archangels for our cause. It would be treason and a fall from Grace. That is a big ask of any Guardian.’

‘We will not be asking them to fight for us, Af,’ Talus said, sounding adamant. ‘We can discuss what has happened; beyond that is entirely up to them. I will not hold it against them, should they choose not to be involved. For now, you are right. It is the only plan we have.’

With a strategy finally decided, shoulders eased, and facial lines faded, at least a little; as though the worry of being directionless had wound us up like tight rubber bands, only now releasing and allowing our limbs to loosen.

Abi looked around, smiling brightly. ‘Anthony and I are going inside to make food. Does anyone have any requests?’ she asked, like a coffeehouse waitress.

‘We are?’ Anthony piped up, glowering.

I sensed a nervous zing of energy emanating from her.

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and taking a few backward steps, pulled him along with her towards the house. ‘Yes, we are,’ she said with a flash of her flitting eyes.

‘Oh, Miss Abigail,’ Petram called, rubbing his belly. ‘Since you ask, may I have the delicious little fish on my