Page 147 of The Death Wish

‘Raph, don’t do this. I know you hear me.’ Lucifer winced beneath the growing strength of the angel’s light; it came fromhis wings and eyes, and now through rivulets tracing through his skin. The body he wore would not hold even this weaker, lesser piece of the Seraph much longer.

The harp joined the cello; the quartet following instruction still, whilst their master shook as much as his Sanctuary. Lucifer tried once more to gain his attention. And failed.

Lucifer gathered himself, prepared for the driving pain he knew would come, and ignited. Letting his flames mimic the glorious wings of the angel. Only their hues differed; Seraphiel white as stars, and Lucifer the heart of the sun.

He had the angel’s attention now. Seraphiel stared, lips parted, at the daemonflame that danced in courtship with his own. His wings lost their calamity, slowing their beating, finding the rhythm of the dance Lucifer laid out for them. For the first time in their long association, Lucifer found himself with the greater wingspan, and the more radiant.

His wings were bright as the lava that churned in the River Lethe. Their light played against Seraphiel’s face, lined and cracked as it was, as the angel’s essence shone its last.

But he had his Antinous back.

‘Now, take what you need.’ Lucifer heard the groan of timbers, the shattering of a window pane, the fall of another chandelier, all as if they were a world away. ‘I give it freely.’

Seraphiel nodded, and touched his hand to Lucifer’s cheek, calmed once more. ‘Do you find regret here, my king?’

His touch rocked Lucifer on his feet, but the Seraph was there to keep him steady.

‘Only that I could not save you from your burden.’

The quartet played–a harp amongst its number now–with delicate notes, whilst a brutal siphoning of power began.

‘I was the master of my demise, Lucifer, never you. And I know full well you warned me countless times. Now here is your reward. I take more from you than the gods should allow.’

Seraphiel drew them both into his Cultivation, his magick like the nicks of a knife and the sear of a furnace. Their wings curved about one another, taking them into a place where no other could follow. Lucifer fought the urge to close his eyes. He wanted to watch the angel till the last.

‘The gods would not dare. I have the stain of free will in my veins. And I have grown a taste for making my own choices.’ The pain was ebbing, a numbness growing in its place. He felt wonderfully light. Free of all burden. ‘I dare hope, though, that they see fit to find us a place near one another, in the world that comes after death.’

‘I defy the Celestials to try otherwise when I take my place in their ranks.’

The Seraph surrounded him, coveted him, seeped into every crack and crevice that had formed over Lucifer’s seemingly never-ending years. His eyes were narrowed to cracks, his legs had given way, but still the Seraphiel held him. Took from him, whilst Lucifer gave. Emptying him until nothing remained but all he had to give. His creation flame; the last spark of a daemonking’s soul.

A fragile gasp brushed his ear. And the angel’s hold tightened. ‘I see him, Luci. The prince…the halo is his.’

Seraphiel sobbed into his magick, his tears vanishing with the molten heat.

‘You are free.’ Lucifer’s words were fire, the last dance of his creation flame. ‘We are free.’

They fell into one another and merged. Coming together in an explosion of angelfire and daemonflame. A herculean force that neither the legions of Arcadia nor Samyaza had hope of thwarting.

Lucifer had laid down his crown.

And left the way open for a new King of Daemonkind to emerge.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

SILAS HELDback Blood Lake’s angst-ridden tide, arms spread against the surge of almighty resistance. The mace swung, shredding the boney onslaught, but more gathered at his back and climbed atop his shoulders; an invading horde seeking to spill over a mountain range. The water sought entry between his feet, trying to find a path through the shadows he cast.

It would find none.

He would allow nothing to steal sight of the culmination of all things.

His beautiful, terrifying view of what was always meant to pass.

The halo was remarkably plain, its hilt leather-bound, its blade dull. But there was nothing so insipid about the daemon who pulled it from its bedrock of bones.

A daemon incapable of ugliness, despite what he may believe.

Silas took in every inch of the Berserker Prince, every river of liquid flame that ran through an exterior as rough and jagged as a barren mountaintop, and black as night. Atop his head, a rough cut of basalt curved like a diadem, the great ember at its centre, an indescribable gem.