Dragonfly felt more like a ghost ship than a working brigantine. Its black sails were furled tight, casting a stark silhouette against the backdrop of a gray sky. The sea was a dark shadow around them with little whitecaps slapping the hull. The energy of summer and the bustle of travel were gone. The armada was holed up in the Salish Sea for the season, and the crew was far too quiet.
Bryony hugged herself against the chill and looked around warily for people she knew. Her view was soon filled by the Black Armada’s commodore, who stood before her, arms crossed, all business. She wore her usual tall boots and a black peacoat. “Where’s your conjuring angel?” she asked. It seemed there would be no time lost to sentimentalities.
“Resting,” Bryony answered.
Raeni nodded. “As is Daniel. He’s saving his strength for the archangel.” It was so strange to have angels in common with the commodore. The two of them lived in a different world now that Daniel and Azza were part of it. None of the other crew could begin to understand. “And where is our erstwhile navigator?”
Bryony cocked her head. Did Raeni really not know? “He’s . . . been taken. By the demon king? He’s being held hostage. That’s why we have to do this in secret.”
A look of worry crossed the commodore’s face. Then she turned her eyes to heaven and shook a fist at the sky. “Daniel! Tell me everything, you dolt!” She cleared her throat and calmed herself as Andrew approached.
“The cabin is ready, Commodore,” he said. He didn’t even look at Bryony, and she flashed back to holding a gun to his chest and threatening to shoot him with it. She supposed she deserved one cold shoulder—at least Loki was getting the other one. Though Andrew refused to acknowledge the trickster, their juxtaposition made their similarities undeniable. Loki was a little rosier in the cheeks, a touch narrower at the shoulders, and perhaps an inch or two taller, but they could have easily been mistaken for brothers. Bryony wondered whether the shapeshifter’s human body was inspired by the man she once thought of as a California Viking, but she would have to ask later.
The commodore scowled at the sky again and muttered, “I wasn’t informed we were working against a demon. Ah, well.” She turned her attention back to Bryony. “You know how big this could be for us, don’t you?”
Bryony nodded.
“You know we’re all putting our lives on the line for this? All of us.”
Again, Bryony nodded, a little ashamed of how much she asked of them.
Raeni gripped her shoulder and squeezed. “Then know this. Everything you did to us, every lie you told, and every ill intention you had—succeed at this, and you’ll have made it up tenfold.” The commodore shook her head, and the briefest flicker of affection crossed her face. “I can’t believe you survived. You and that fool Michael who wears his heart on his sleeve. So . . . Raphael it is.”
The commodore stepped back and addressed her entire crew. “We’re playing with the big boys today, children, and we’ve the rare opportunity to win a powerful game piece! Remember why you’re doing this! We will not back down! This is war! Say your goodbyes while you can!” She was magnificent, as usual, and Bryony noted her machete was still at her hip, tucked under her coat like a secret between them. Raeni glanced down at Bryony with a twinkle in her eye. “That goes for you too, medic.” And she nodded to something over Bryony’s shoulder.
When Bryony turned around, she found Papillon’s tattooed captain standing behind her. He instantly grabbed her and held her in his long arms. Chuy. He’d been the first to smile at her, the first to trust her, and now he was the first to openly welcome her back. Too many thoughts competed for her voice at once, and she was left speechless.
“Chuy insisted on being aboard when you arrived,” Raeni said.
“You’re alive.” Chuy squeezed her tight. “They told me you weren’t. But when they said Michael went after you, I knew he’d find a way to save you. I knew it.”
As a half angel, Michael had very few friends among the crew of the Black Armada. Many who gave everything to fight the angels did so because the angels had taken every other reason they had to live. Bryony understood the feeling. The first time she’d learned what Michael was, she’d wanted to run from him, but she hadn’t. Chuy hadn’t, Dara hadn’t, and Raeni hadn’t. Bryony was proud to be among people who could rip their hatred out at the roots when it became the right thing to do. It was something she’d not thought herself capable of, but Michael had changed her.
Michael had changed everything.
Chuy finally let her go and grinned down at her. “Well, as long as luck’s on our side, we’d better tackle the scary jobs.”
“Yes.” It was all Bryony could do to keep from crying. “We’d better.”
“Absolutely,” Raeni broke in. “The captain’s quarters are ready when you are. According to Daniel, you’ll need privacy for the possession. I can’t tell you how displeased I am that he’s so familiar with the practice. He’ll be explaining some things to me when this is said and done—I can promise you that. See you on the other side, medic.” And she marched off to supervise her crew.
With enormous reluctance, Bryony squeezed Chuy’s hand in a quick goodbye. “We’ll get through this,” she said to him.
Chuy grinned at her. “I know.”
Before she lost her composure completely, Bryony headed toward those ornate doors she’d first opened the day she met Michael. The captain’s quarters were unchanged. It touched her to see that her own little bunk was just as she’d left it, as was Michael’s considerably larger one. There they’d shared their first kiss. And there, on the floor, was where they’d sat while Bryony tested all Michael’s needles to prove he was not the godhunter. She could almost feel his oversized hand closing around hers, the impression of his sailmaker’s palm against her bare skin. She swallowed a sob and gritted her teeth. There was no time to cry.
At the center of the chart table was a glass mixing bowl filled almost entirely with what appeared to be salt. A stock pot half full of water sat beside it. It was a strange setup, but Bryony didn’t have much time to examine it before a figure began to materialize before her. It was fuzzy around the edges, like a mist coming together in the shape of a man. And then it was Azazel, and Bryony was no longer alone.
The angel had changed his colors again. Now his hair was a deep garnet at the roots that faded to tangerine. Around his amber eyes, he wore a red and charcoal pattern that made her think of waning embers. His coat was a shadowy color, embroidered with gold and green thread. He looked like a forest fire in the distance, something beautiful and terrifying all at once. He took her breath away. It was probably a good thing Michael couldn’t see him now.
Azza smiled and spread his arms in a quiet flourish. “Shall we begin?”
“What’s all this for?” Bryony nodded down at the chart table.
“For the net, of course. As we’re on a moving vessel, it’ll be wise to make our salt into a paste.” He pressed a finger to his lips and frowned. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but . . . why?” A sudden edge of nausea crept up on Bryony. Yesterday, this had been a challenge she thought she could meet. But now, the idea that she would soon come face to face with a real archangel overwhelmed her. She groaned. “Oh god, this is really happening.”
“Come now. You’ll be fine. I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.” Azza pulled her into his arms and pressed her cheek to his chest. “This is the easy part,” he whispered. His hand trailed down her left arm until it came to rest just above her wrist. “Forgive me, darling.” And he cut into her skin with an invisible blade.
The sting came first, and then her wrist began to burn. The angel gripped her left arm and pulled her toward the table. She stumbled as he plunged her hand into the stockpot and held it there. “What the hell!” She glared up at him.
“To lure an archangel, one must make a sacrifice. They crave after sacrifice.” He chuckled darkly. “The beasts.”
Bryony looked into the stockpot and saw her own blood swirling with the water. “You could have warned me,” she grumbled.
“Should I have? I’m sorry for that. I thought the pain would be easier if you didn’t anticipate it.”
She chewed at her lip as her wrist throbbed. The wound wasn’t too big, maybe an inch at most, and it wasn’t deep either. But all around it a raised pattern began to bloom. It looked like a lace teardrop. It stretched halfway up her forearm and dipped just below her wrist. The pattern was intricate, and it shimmered green and orange like oxidized copper where the light touched it.
She caught her breath as the truth dawned on her. “Did you cut me with your sword?”
He leaned down until his mouth was at her ear. “Can you ever forgive me, little god?”
She should have been angry, furious even, but she wasn’t. Bryony would have given an entire limb to bring medicine back, and Azza was risking so much to help her. She didn’t think he really had to. He’d bested Loki, and he could have bested Bryony, too, the instant she’d fallen asleep that first night. No, he wasn’t doing this for himself. She recalled the cracks in the watcher’s voice the night he finally broke down in front of her, the way he couldn’t even hold his body together. How much had he suffered all those years in the dark, all because he’d changed his mind about humanity? And now he was doing it again. Azazel—a lesser angel, a defeated watcher—was willing to fight the archangel Michael alongside a powerless god and an outcast Jötunn, all for the love of the mortal world.
Azza pulled her hand from the water and pressed a piece of clean gauze to her wound. He held her wrist tight where he’d cut her and wrapped a bandage around it. Her new tattoo peeked out from beneath the gauze. She was suddenly excited to show it to Chuy, who she was certain would appreciate it even more than she did.
“How long will it last?” she asked, tracing the edges of the pattern.
“It will last as long as you love it, darling. It wants to be beautiful to your eyes.”
“What does it mean?”
He touched a hand to her cheek. “It means you’re under my protection. You met my weapon and walked away with your life. It means I love you.”
The confession left her stunned. She stared in disbelief as Azza began to slowly pour the water into the mixing bowl and stir her blood into the salt like he was only making marzipan. There was an almost mechanical emptiness about the way he worked. Either he’d done this before, or he was overwhelmed again and could not express feeling. She guessed it was a little of both. In reality, neither of them knew what would become of them if they caught the archangel Michael in their net. Bryony could be swallowed whole. Azza could be bound in darkness for another millennium. They risked everything, and neither one of them had really spoken of it.
“I love you too,” she said at last. Azazel stopped stirring and glanced up. “I mean it seriously this time. Loki would say I’ve gotten too attached. He says I always show my hand, but I don’t care. For whatever it’s worth, you’re under my protection too. If Raphael binds you again, I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting to free you.” She tried to smile as he dropped the spoon into the bowl and stopped breathing completely. “I can’t mark you or anything—”
“You already have.” His voice was low and earnest. “Can’t you see it?”
Bryony shook her head, and Azazel began to melt. The solid colors left his body, dissolving away like Bryony’s blood in the pot of water. What was left was the man-shaped iceberg with fire at its breast and clinging snow at its hands and feet. “Will you allow me to show you through worship?” he asked.
Bryony took a step back, but Azza reassured her. “It will strengthen us both. I’ll not be driven to madness if that’s your concern. My heart was won many thousands of years ago, and she’ll have it for a thousand more. But I’ve been godless for so long.”
The creature he’d become sank to its knees, and this time, Bryony did not try to stop it. Instead, she focused on the memory of his name—his real name—the sun reflected on a snowy hillside, the crisp air of winter, little rainbows everywhere. “Azza,” she whispered.
The watcher touched his forehead to the floor and sent waves of perfect bliss to his god. His voice was a whisper of steam, the ghost of water devoured by fire. His words were simple. “I hunger.” And Bryony knew exactly what he meant. She was hungry too. She had no idea how hungry she’d been until the angel began to feed her.
Instinctively, she reached down and laid a hand on the back of the creature’s head as though blessing it. Her fingers dipped below the surface of half melted ice. It felt like a river in the first days of spring—alive at last, but shockingly cold despite the warmth of the sun.
Azazel sighed at her touch. “My god was cruel,” he said. “My god was unyielding and pitiless.” He hesitated, and just for a moment, Bryony felt ice form at the tips of her fingers and then melt again. “I hunger for mercy, for kindness. I always have. Forgive me. Forgive me for being soft and weak, for leaving my daughters to darkness. Forgive my pride, my carelessness, my frivolity. Show mercy . . .” His inhuman voice caught, and Bryony understood that he wasn’t really with her anymore. He’d gone back in time, back before his binding. This was his original supplication. “Please, don’t take the light from my eyes, God. Don’t take the color from my palette. I won’t fall again. I swear it. I’ll never stumble again.”
Bryony knelt down with him and laid her hands over what would have been his shoulder blades if he were human. “That’s enough, Azza. Come back to me now.”
Color crawled into his skin, and soon he was human again, wearing his forest-fire ensemble. He did not lift his head. “Will you say it?”
She knew what he wanted to hear, but she’d never been that kind of god. She provided a service, and however people wanted to live the rest of their lives was entirely up to them. It was neither her place to condemn nor forgive as far as she was concerned. But then she thought of how long the angel must have waited to hear those words from his god, how he must have longed for them while he was alone in darkness, bound as stone. She recalled how it felt to be tied to the mast of Dragonfly after the crew had discovered her deception, how badly she had craved understanding, forgiveness. How much greater would Azazel’s craving be?
“I forgive you,” she said, but she couldn’t help amending it. “But fall as often as you like, Azza, especially if you’re falling in love. Fall over and over again, and don’t be afraid to stumble. I’ll be here to catch you.”
The figure under her arms shuddered and stilled. He lifted his head, and his brightly colored hair fell away from his face. Each time she saw him up close, she had to remind herself that he could only make himself this beautiful because he knew how human eyes would see him. Ash had suggested that the watcher Azazel was an insatiable creature, that he was seductive by design. He certainly could have been if that was his desire. Instead, he’d made himself into a work of art. He was the sort of beauty she might have found in the halls of a museum, hanging on the walls or sculpted into clay.
Now he looked new again, bright and stunning. He rose, stretched, and bounced on the balls of his feet like an athlete preparing for a race. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes radiant. “I feel so refreshed!” he cried. “Don’t you? I feel like I can do anything.” He took her by both hands, grinning like they’d already won. “We can do anything. Let’s net ourselves an archangel, shall we?”