Bryony’s eyes had found him for the briefest moment, but she turned away without saying a word. He screamed louder, and Loki replaced the chain in his mouth with a muffling hand. “That’s enough of that,” he said. “Let her concentrate on what she needs to do.”
Crew scrambled to secure the ship and lash down the boats, the oars, anything they had stored on deck. They knew something big was coming, but Michael was certain they could not fathom just how big it really was.
“Brace yourselves!” the demon king shouted over the sounds of frantic work. “When her song is done, she’ll summon the archangel Michael, and the archangel himself will demonstrate to you why this was a terrible idea from the start. If he’s not immediately subdued, he’ll call to his aid a legion of angels the likes of which you’ve never seen. One thought from him, and they’ll be upon you. Can you fight a legion with two watchers and a Jötunn?” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “Use your heads!” Satisfied with his lecture, Ashmedai took Chuy by the wrist and began dragging him away from the chaos. “You’re coming with me.”
“What?” Chuy stumbled after him. “Wait . . . Why?”
“Because!” Ash stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “You have no idea . . . You weren’t supposed to exist. I can’t let you die here. I already tried to view this event. All I saw was a wall of light. That’s death. Do you understand? It was far more death than he could account for on his own.” Ash made a sweeping gesture to Michael, and by the sudden, determined look on Chuy’s face, he had to know it had been a mistake.
“Michael!” Chuy wrenched his arm free. “What did they do to you?”
Thank god, was all Michael could think. Thank god someone noticed him, someone other than Bryony, who appeared to be completely under the angel’s control now. She’d already begun to sing in a strange, inhuman tongue. And worse, the song itself was so melodious, so beautiful he almost, almost wanted to stay chained to the mast just so he could enjoy it a little while longer.
Loki pulled the chain tighter, and Chuy turned back to Ashmedai. “Fine, demon. I’ll go with you willingly if you free him first.” He pointed to Michael, and Michael shook his head. He wanted to tell Chuy not to sacrifice himself, but he couldn’t speak at all.
Ash raised an eyebrow. Michael had learned to read the demon king’s expressions over the course of his captivity, and this particular expression definitely read along the lines of, Who said anything about willingly? But Ash knit his brow and changed course. “You’re right,” he muttered. “Of course you’re right—you always are.” He smiled at some memory of a future Michael could only begin to guess at. “My little brother is our last chance, isn’t he?” The demon king strode over to Michael.
Loki tightened his grip and growled, “Back off, sore loser.”
Ash scoffed. “Oh, you won’t be tricking me out of a treasure today, old man. I’ve no intention to engage you in a battle of wits. This time, the stakes are too high. If my estimation is correct—and my estimation is almost always correct—the archangel Michael will not leave this enterprise in one piece. He must not be summoned. My little brother understands this.” He nodded to Michael. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d step aside and allow him to wrest his woman from Azazel’s influence. I’ve agreed not to stop the conjuration, but my brother has made no such promise.”
Loki shook his head. “No can do, kid. I’m repaying a life debt to that woman up there. To her, Raphael is worth the risk, and to me, she is worth even more.”
“Honorable and unfortunate.” Ashmedai tapped a foot and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I had hoped to avoid another physical altercation, but I suppose this one’s necessary.”
Loki began to grow, and his eyes shimmered with a fiery, orange light. “You will lose.”
“Of course I will.” Ashmedai matched the Jötunn inch for inch and took his cherubic form. “But winning is not the objective.”
The attack was so fast, Michael could not have said who struck first. Before he knew it, a cherub and an elemental were locked in a battle high overhead and flying further and further from Dragonfly, no doubt by Ash’s own design. Bryony’s song reached a fever pitch, and the wind itself responded to her call. Frantically, Chuy freed Michael from the mast and handed the bulk of his chain back to him. “Wish I could do more,” he said.
“You can.” Michael gave his friend a squeeze on the shoulder, hoping the gesture could somehow convey the weight of his gratitude. “Tell the others to get belowdecks and brace themselves. We’re in for more than a squall if she succeeds.”
The final notes of the lure hung in the air like mist. They were layered and harmonized, a siren song over the roar of the disquieted sea. Azazel had formed the net with Bryony’s hands. The paste made of salt and blood clung to the ship’s deck better than she’d expected. The circle’s crisscrossing lines were composed of whole sentences in a language she couldn’t begin to identify. One string of symbols spiraled inward, adorning the center like a jewel. The name of God, Azazel had called it. Unspeakable and secret. Write it, and someone will come to snuff it out. If they played their cards right, that someone would be the archangel Michael.
A haze of heat rose from the circle like a street mirage on a summer day. Bryony’s skin tingled as though she had a fever, as though the brush of softest silk would sting her. And she knew it was time. She began the summons. “I command you—”
“Stop! Don’t!” A deep voice tugged at her buried consciousness. She’d been in a dreamlike state in which everything she did was predetermined, every choice she made not entirely hers. Even her own voice belonged to someone else. But the instant Michael called to her, she woke. She whirled around to see him approach with chains in his hands. From within, Azza clung to her consciousness, but he could not compete with Michael—her Michael—who stood before her now and begged, “Bryony, don’t do this. Please, it’s not worth it.”
“Why?” Her voice was all hers now.
Michael crouched beside her. “The archangel Michael isn’t who we thought he was.” He was terrified and trembling. “He’s dangerous, far more dangerous than either one of us realized. Bryony . . .” He hesitated, and she cocked her head, waiting.
Azza took over her consciousness again, and this time, she didn’t resist him. Dangerous or not, the archangel Michael was their one chance to get Raphael back, to get medicine back. And when she considered throwing away that chance, the only face she could see was that of her baby brother. “I command you—”
“It was the archangel Michael who ordered the massacre!” The man she loved let the truth slip from his lips like it was a dog he could no longer restrain. “Please, Bryony. It was the archangel Michael who sent them all to their graves—the doctors, the scientists, your family. You have to know I wouldn’t lie about this. I was as ignorant as you a week ago. I named myself for him.” He paused. “My god, I named myself for a monster.”
Bryony dropped to her knees, stunned beyond speech. Did you know this? she asked the angel inhabiting her body. Azazel did not respond, but that was all the answer she needed. She immediately cast him out, and she heard him shatter behind her.
Michael knelt and wrapped his enormous arms around her. “Thank god I stopped you in time. Thank god, Bryony.” He held her tighter, trembling. “I love you. I missed you so much.” She nuzzled into him and closed her eyes to the rest of the world. It was so good to touch him again. She wanted to crawl into his lap and disappear in his embrace—in her dark and quiet hiding place—but she couldn’t. Because there were two ways to resurrect Rahab, and Michael had only rendered one of them unthinkable.
The circle still sang. The conjuration was still active. And before anyone could stop her, she turned to it and shouted, “I command you, Samael, appear in my circle—”
“No!” Two voices screamed at once. Michael and Azazel. Two voices in perfect harmony, in total agreement that she’d just made a devastating, deadly mistake. The sun turned red, and the sky blackened with smoke. A sound like lighting striking too close deafened her. She screamed, and Michael covered her ears. Unlike lightning, this explosive sound and blinding light did not fade. It continued. It stayed. All the hairs on her arms stood on end. Every nerve in her body prickled and stung. The atmosphere thrummed with electricity and set her teeth on edge.
“Hang on!” Michael shouted over the storm. He wrapped his chain around the forecastle rail and kept hold of it with one hand while he reeled Bryony in with the other. For a split second, she remembered her first squall, the way he’d held her and reassured her that everything was going to be all right. There were no reassurances now.
A wall of water rose up before Dragonfly’s bow, and the brigantine tipped back and back, dragging its anchor until the deck was almost vertical. Michael and Bryony braced themselves against the rail. Chaos was all around them. The wave they rode was no natural thing. They were going to die. Dragonfly was going to capsize. Its masts would break, and its sails would shred. The crew would be tossed and drowned. What had she done? The conjuration wasn’t working the way it was supposed to. Where was the seraph she’d summoned? Why wasn’t he standing in her circle as Daniel had?
As if in answer, Azza shouted, “You must finish summoning him! You can’t stop it now! Say the words!”
“I can’t remember them!” she screamed back at him. Memorizing the summons had never been a concern because she’d expected to do it with Azza, not alone.
“Repeat what I say!” Azza commanded. “Appear in my circle in fair and comely form, without noise or deformity!”
Bryony did as she was told, but the wall of water continued to grow. She repeated in fair and comely form over and over again—hoping the angel might finally choose to comply—as the wave was filled with blinding light. The electrified sea rose high into the sky and touched the clouds, spinning like an enormous waterspout.
Azazel continued to shout over the wind. “Come now, angel—visibly, peacefully, affably—without delay! Speak to me with a clear and perfect voice!”
Bryony parroted every word he said. She emphasized peacefully and repeated the line, Speak to me with a clear and perfect voice, twice for good measure. The waterspout bowed over the ship, and Bryony heard the creaking of Dragonfly’s bones as it was tossed like a toy in a bathtub. Michael gripped her so hard it hurt. She could smell the fear leaking from his pores. The world was wrong and spinning out of control, but somehow, the little orb-weaver finished her summons. “Answer to your names: Blind Guardian, Venom of God, Angel of Death! Come! Appear before me now, Samael!”
The world shifted again, twisting back into something recognizable. Was Dragonfly actually righting itself, or was that just Bryony’s desperate, wishful thinking? The waterspout broke apart, and the creature born of it rose from the sea like a dragon. Its body was a twisting pillar of menacing light. Its head was hooded like a cobra, but the face inside was like nothing earthly she’d ever seen. In contrast to the ophan and Michael—whose many eyes looked like distant, blinking suns—the Angel of Death had eyes of darkness, immense voids that yawned across the seraph’s body, as black and empty as a starless universe. Twelve tongues of fire bloomed from the creature’s back, and Bryony recognized them as its wings. They were so massive she couldn’t see the ends of them as they unfolded and unfolded endlessly before her.
She had only a moment to glimpse the beast she’d summoned before her body reflexively dropped to the deck. Her hands spread out before her. Her fingernails dug into the teak like it was a grave she meant to rob. She gathered all her strength and turned her head to see Michael in the same position. To her horror, when she looked the other way, she saw the legendary watcher Azazel as prone and helpless as she was. They had all fallen before the Angel of Death, and no one came to their aid—no one could.
What was this? Compelled worship? But the deep, guttural moan that leached from her lungs and grew at the back of her throat was too familiar. This wasn’t worship. No, this was unbearable, unspeakable grief. She tasted it on her tongue like an old family recipe—the hopelessness, the finality, the vacuum left behind when a life was snuffed out. Bryony knew this flavor well, and she used her familiarity to find her tongue again. “I command you, Samael, appear in my circle in fair and comely form without noise or deformity.” Louder. “Appear in my circle in fair and comely form!” Louder. “Now, Samael! Now!”
Suddenly, the seas were quiet. There was no settling, no slowing of the wind or waves. It was as though the entire storm had existed only in her head, just the memory of a dream.
Bryony fought to lift her face from the deck and saw a pair of bare feet, without blemish or deformity, and a robe of rich and weighty silk that clung to a perfect, androgynous body. All of it looked as though it had been carved from white marble. Finally, she blinked up at what she could only describe as one of the stone angels that marked the oldest graves in her local graveyard. It had the traditional feathered wings at its shoulders and exquisite, almost feminine features. Its colorless hair fell just past its shoulders, curling at the cut ends exactly the way Michael’s did. The curve of its chin was delicate and its mouth familiar and broad. The only thing that marked it as monstrous now were its eyes, which still had that blackness, that vast emptiness Bryony could hardly stand to see.
Then the marble statue spoke. “Am I not fair and comely enough for you now?”
So this was the Angel of Death. Bryony could only look at him for seconds at a time before she had to avert her eyes. Even in this contrived shape, something about him overwhelmed her. His voice, deliberately softened, sounded breathy and warm, like a singer who was trying to save it for a performance.
“Is my voice not clear and perfect?” he said. He was mocking her, and Bryony did not appreciate it.
Azza still lay prone beside her, all his colors faded away. The watcher was smoky glass, empty and hollow, completely overwhelmed by grief. He must have known it was coming—neither grief nor Samael’s curse were new phenomena to him—but Azza had helped her finish her conjuration anyway. He’s not dead, she reminded herself, though the sight of him in such poor condition troubled her. He’s just exhausted.
Then she felt Michael take her hand, and she turned to see him, his cheek still pressed to the deck, his eyes rimmed with worry and unwelcome tears. In his gesture was the deepest of apologies. I’m sorry about him, he seemed to say, but Bryony didn’t know why he felt the need. His father had nothing to do with him. In fact, the angel had abandoned him long ago—left him with no family and no home, left him completely alone in the world—and that made Bryony angry. She dug deep and found a lingering store of rage. She let it consume her until it eclipsed her grief long enough for her to answer the graveyard angel. “You look like an overpriced tombstone to me.”
Samael’s feet rocked forward as he crouched down to meet her. “Be grateful I’ve chosen a form familiar to you,” he murmured. “I didn’t have to take your comfort into consideration.”
She wrapped her hand around the staff of the scythe—his weapon, she realized—and pulled it closer. “There’s nothing comforting about those eyes.”
“Ah.” Samael stood, and Bryony was left staring at his feet again. “My disability, unfortunately, cannot be helped. You understand.”
“Disability?”
“Did you not command me to answer to my names? Did you not list them aloud? Did you think you were simply reciting nonsense?”
Blind Guardian. She hadn’t realized it was literal. A second rush of hopelessness overcame her, and she began to wonder whether she’d actually made the right choice. Summoning Samael had been an impulsive decision, an emotional one, and now she didn’t know how to deal with the consequences. “Azza,” she murmured to the angel who’d gotten her this far. “Azza, tell me what to say. I don’t know what to say.”
But it was Samael who responded. “He cannot help you now, I’m afraid. He looked too long and lost his voice. Trust me. The pattern repeats itself, again and again. You will just have to improvise.”
Samael wasn’t lying. Azza hadn’t stirred since his collapse, and he hadn’t given her any instructions on what to do after the summoning. Presumably, he would have been able to possess or advise her after she’d successfully conjured the archangel Michael. Now everything was in flux, and she was completely on her own.
The pattern repeats itself . . . What an odd thing for an angel to say—an unnecessary piece of information—and the way he’d said it . . . There was a weariness in his tone, almost as though he suffered as much as those who looked upon him. If he was suffering, perhaps he wanted this over as quickly as Bryony did. She decided to come to the point. “I had hoped . . .” She hesitated and took a deep, trembling breath. This was Michael’s father. It was only Michael’s father. “I had hoped you’d return Raphael from the deep.”
There was a pause, and then the graveyard angel asked, “Why did you not summon the archangel Michael for such a task?”
Was he really trying to pass the buck? Bryony glowered at Dragonfly’s deck, and the ship seemed to rock in response to her frustration. “The archangel Michael killed my family, as far as I’m concerned. I didn’t want to see his face.”
“Yet you wanted to see mine.” Samael laughed—dear god, he actually laughed—and his laugh was as musical and beautiful as Azza’s. “If your family is dead, why would you not assign blame to the Angel of Death?”
With every word he spoke, he became less of an existential idea and more of a sentient creature with a body, a voice, a personality. She thought about his question. “Death didn’t cause their suffering. Death only ended it.”
Samael’s voice was at her ear again, but she did not look up to see him. “Do you hate him?” he whispered. “The archangel Michael. Do you despise the very idea of him?”
She got the distinct impression this was meant to be a secret confession, so she whispered back, “Yes.”
The angel’s sigh of satisfaction followed her answer. Of course, the best way to make an ally was to share his enemy. It seemed so obvious now that she thought of it. Then Samael surprised her. “Regrettable,” he said, his voice high above her again. “He might have helped you. I will not.”
What? A slow anger crept up Bryony’s spine and settled in her chest. Whatever she’d expected of the Angel of Death, it wasn’t childish defiance. “Do you have a choice?” she said bitterly. “I summoned you. I won’t let you go until you agree to it.”
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she heard Ashmedai’s warning—he does not honor his contracts—but it was too late to take her words back.