Page 60 of Grave Revelations (Prophecies of Angels and Demons #3)

Chapter 59

Azazel

Azazel landed hard in the throne room, his eyes darting to the fourth seat he’d already known would be there.

“No,” he breathed.

“Ah, Azazel. Welcome,” Samael said.

Azazel stepped past him and gripped Chamuel’s forearms. “Brother. Why? Your analogous umbra resides in Alaxia.”

Chamuel looked down, not meeting his gaze.

Samael’s dark chuckle resounded off the walls. “Not all of us are so blinded by love, Azazel.”

Mahazael landed in the room, the same stricken look overtaking his face. “Chamuel.”

“Meet your newest prince, Azrael,” Samael said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And now, I am complete.”

He raised both arms, letting a small cyclone form in his palm.

Azazel watched, fresh horror rolling through him. The Fallen had done it. He had swayed three of his siblings to his cause, extracting a gift from each of them, and now he was restored. Made whole .

Chamuel—Azrael—pulled free of Azazel’s grasp, sitting in the newest chair. This one, displaying an upside-down triangle at its center, was midnight-blue for his primary gift: water.

Azazel darted a glance at Mahazael as the energy of Azrael’s acceptance zinged through him, taking a fraction of the power he’d been funneled and redirecting it to his brother.

Samael sat on his crimson throne, stretching long fingers over the arms, absorbing the power pulsing through it. “Come, princes, take your seats.” He beckoned them forward and Azazel ground his teeth as his feet slid over dry earth toward his chair.

Azazel should have been free to refuse the command, but with all four gifts coursing through Samael’s veins, the balance of power had tipped once more. Their Father’s sacrifice all those years ago for the humans was negated as Samael leaned back, breathing deeply.

His feet hit the edge of his seat, and he felt his knees bending, forcing him down. He growled his frustration even as the energy stored there—awaiting his return—surged to meet him.

Mahazael’s protests beside him told him he, too, was fighting a losing battle for control.

When they were seated, Samael opened his eyes. “Time to restore what was taken,” he said and stretched his arms wide as dark, flaming wings shot from his shoulder blades and draped along his back.

Azazel tried to ignore the intoxicating allure of the magic coursing through him, pulled from the pain and suffering of this place, but it was strong, and some new energy hummed inside him, either from Samael’s release from their Father’s bindings or from some symmetry formed from the completed elements of the four Princes of Hell.

His bond with Rebecca—dimmed through planes of existence—had begun to pulse, somehow strengthening.

“Astaroth,” Samael said, snapping Azazel out of his trance. “Bring the demon horde. ”

Astaroth appeared, bobbing his horned brow, and dissolved again into nothing.

Samael glanced left and right at his brothers. “Now, with Alaxia’s greatest general on our side, let the battle begin.”