Page 79 of Grave Revelations (Prophecies of Angels and Demons #3)

Chapter 78

Azazel

A ten-thousand-pound weight had settled on Azazel’s chest, but slowly, it was lifting—some catastrophic wound knitting itself together. He strained to open his eyes, raising lids made of concrete.

The world blinked into focus as memories rushed back.

He had fought Samael and lost, distracted by Alexander when he raced into the sky with the necromancer flailing in his grasp. He should have ignored them, should have kept his focus on his brother. But rage like he’d never known tore through him at the sight of the being responsible for so much of his other half’s suffering, and he’d released Samael, grabbing Alexander by his horns and tearing him in two.

When he’d flung the two halves of the creature in either direction, green essence coating his arms, a sharp pain pierced his chest, and he’d looked down to find two massive talons speared through his middle.

Samael had slammed him down into the earth, digging poisoned talons in deeper, searching for the soul that lay buried beneath. The pain had been excruciating. As the world went dark, Rebecca’s screams filled his mind.

In the pitch black, he knew where he was: Primoria.

The Fallen had inflicted enough damage to vanquish him .

Azazel sat up, running a hand down his chest. It was whole, unmarred. He’d been reset in Primoria, the foul magic funneling through the realm restoring him.

There was one difference now, though. The endless well of energy powering Primoria was gone. Now that Earth and Primoria were united, the lesser demons that had fueled this place didn’t channel enough magic to regenerate. All that energy now lived on the mortal plane.

Demons—manifestations of a soul twisted by their vices—would cease to exist if they were killed.

Azazel had used the last dregs of magic to revive himself one last time. There would be no more chances.

He moved into the throne room, spying four vacant thrones, each representing a different element. He strode past them, sparing a thought for his two other fallen brethren. Where were they?

He stopped, staring up at an expansive charcoal wall. Where the portal had been from the dawn of Primoria’s creation, nothing but cold stone barred his path now.

Turning, he closed his eyes, searching for that pull, the one that always told him where the King of Hell was. It was faint across realms but not muted as it should have been. They weren’t a united plane, as he’d thought before. Primoria was fading away. Without magic—without its ruler—it would eventually crumble into nothing.

The end times were no longer coming. They were here.

He became dust, moving through cave walls and empty spaces until he reached Behemoth’s room. The ancient beast, separated from his Leviathan so many centuries ago, was gone, his shackles tossed aside.

Where his divining room once existed, a gaping hole stretched up—all the way to the mortal plane. Azazel spared one moment of prayer for Behemoth and his Leviathan. At the end of the world, he hoped those two would finally be reunited. The creature’s only crime had been to love a monster—weren’t they all monsters in some way?

Azazel spread his wings, shooting up through the chasm cleaved through planes by Dina’s sacrifice, and pain sliced through him .

His chest spasmed as he neared the surface. Rebecca was injured, and it was no small thing. Her agony ripped through him again, and he stuttered mid-flight, dipping before he righted himself, stretching his wings. He beat them harder, breaching the surface of the mortal plane, and shot into the sky, hovering over the estate.

There. Rebecca’s soul pulsed inside the house.

He dove for it, flying through the gaping hole they’d made just a few hours before when they’d fought Samael together. She had been so brave, so strong.

He followed her soul’s call for help down the stairs into her father’s dark lair and tackled Samael to the floor.

They tumbled into the wall, and he called roots from deep beneath the ground, wrapping them around the Fallen.

Samael’s form burst into scarlet flame, burning the vines away.

“Az!” Rebecca cried. He looked up, meeting her eyes.

Azazel snarled as scorching heat exploded in his right wing. Samael raised a flaming hand, firing again. He cursed, pressing back into the wall.

Rebecca wriggled in her bonds, a line of crimson dribbling down her chin, painting her lips. It ran down her neck, pooling atop the dais at the center of the room and spilling into a silver bowl beneath it.

Don’t move, Light. I’m coming.

She tossed her head back, bucking in her restraints, a cry falling from her lips.

He jerked as it speared into him, and Samael used this distraction to his advantage, wrapping flaming claws around his neck.

“Azazel!” she cried as she fought her restraints and more of her precious life spilled over the table.

Samael’s talons bit into Azazel’s skin, sending pain radiating through him and numbing his limbs as it settled into muscle.

Azazel’s nails lengthened into sharp claws, and he dug into the hands spearing his neck.

Samael’s gleeful smile was frightening as he pressed closer. “I wonder if you’ll be able to regenerate a head,” he said against Azazel’s shoulder as tendons snapped and tore, flesh melting away under searing heat.

Azazel released Samael’s hands, calling the earth up as he pulled dirt and debris over the Fallen’s arms, but he was unrelenting as he sank burning, poisoned talons deeper into Azazel’s neck.

I love you.

The words in his mind shifted his focus from his brother’s savage grin to the woman on the table. Rebecca’s legs were still bound tightly, but her arms were loose, and the lance was gripped in her palms. She lifted it above her head.

No, Light. No!

He wants to use my body to bring her back, Rebecca thought. I can’t let him. Use the distraction. Get the lance and kill him.

He pressed sharp nails harder into the hands, digging into his neck, trying to free himself, trying to reach her.

Light. Light! Don’t leave me!

Rebecca brought the lance down hard and slumped back, her hand falling off the side of the table to hang over its edge.

A new pain, one more terrible than any physical wound, sliced so deep it struck bone. It wrenched at his core, tore at the very fabric of his being. His other half was gone. Truly, completely.

Erased.