Page 55 of The Death Wish
‘No. You don’t, do you? I see that now. And more is the pity for you.’
Michael dug his fingers into the wound on Lucifer’s palm. The bellow it drew forth must have reached all the way to Arcadia. It certainly cleared the tea-room of lingering guests, who added their own cries to the hue.
Lucifer’s roar shook the windowpanes. He sought to ignite his vestige but the angelbone lay stagnant. He shot raw daemonic flame from his other hand, wild and lashing, catching Michael square in the chest.
The blast sent them both flying through the tea rooms front wall.
Michael did not release his clawed hold on Lucifer’s hand, and it was impossible to work himself free, no matter how vigorously he tried.
They shot out across the road, and into the open field opposite. ‘Your blood reeks,’ Michael snarled in his ear, ‘of forbidden things, daemon.’ They carved a deep gully into the earth with the slide of their bodies, churning the grass to nothing as they tumbled and fought. White fire, orange fire, burning the field to a carpet of cinder. ‘Of maleficium and divine magick but it is the stolen fire that shall kill you. It crawls through your blood, and soon you shall know why the Primordial Flame is for the gods’ alone.’ Michael’s hiss gave off steam, his human skin splitting open with the impossible task of holding in all he was. Angelfire poured from the tears. ‘No corporeal creature survives long once touched.’
Lucifer fought, letting his fire surge, great infernal wings fending off the light that sought to douse them. He fought, through fatigue and horror, through something akin to fear, striving to resist the angel’s ministrations. But this was a Seraph. One not worn down by all Lucifer had weathered. And Michael had realised it before Lucifer himself. The chaos in that conservatory–in the heart of the Erlking’s hidden realm–a storm of maleficium, divine magick and ancient flame, could not be weathered without consequence.
A brilliant burst of Angelfire stole Lucifer’s vision. It was a fleeting moment, and it was all Michael needed.
The Seraph pinned him down, shoving himself between Lucifer’s legs. Crushing his fire into the earth.
He tore at his trouser leg.
‘The thigh, was it not?’ Michael hung like a sun above him. ‘That is where they took the piece from you that made him, if I recall.’
Lucifer opened his mouth to protest, and Michael shattered his jaw with a casual strike from an Angelic wing. The break was nasty, and would be slow to heal. But with that strike Michael had rid Lucifer of any lingering doubts; he’d do anything in his power to see Vassago afforded the chance to test Seraphiel’s Cultivation now. Lucifer did not take kindly to this sanctimonious prick’s bullish behaviour.
Michael dug his fingers into Lucifer’s human flesh, sinking them into the daemonstone beneath, and the scar embedded there; the place where Lord Enoch’s blade had cut away Lucifer’s flesh and cast the piece into the Creation Flames, so a new Dominion Prince could be made.
Michael leaned on him, crushing bone and lungs and all those feeble vessels of humanity.
‘You could have just taken me to him, Lucifer. Avoided all this unpleasantness,’ he said, his brilliance glancing against the low lie of the clouds. ‘I see it very clearly now.’ He slumped back onto his heels, holding Lucifer’s scarred daemonstone like some rocky heart in his hand. ‘That day upon the cliff was a result of my brother, the fool, becoming the architect of his own demise. The Cultivation is in the Dominion Prince. And Seraphiel lost control of his creation.’ He shook his head, and it was like a shower of stars. He studied the piece of Lucifer he held. ‘Now I will see that Cultivation destroyed. This entire, farcical episode shall be done with. And this piece of the sire shall lead me to the wretched spawn. I will see your crown stripped from you for your part in all this, Lucifer. You will pay for your blind devotion.’
He pressed down on the place where he had dug part of Lucifer away, pushing himself to his feet.
And when he swept his wings, he let them crash their way across Lucifer’s body, striking him from importance. From consciousness.
In one final act of degradation, he stooped and grabbed Lucifer’s finger, where the vestige burned like a hot ember in his nail. Despite all his attempts during the battle, Lucifer’s vestige had not ignited as it should; had not amplify his daemonflame to give him greater defence against an all-powerful angel. Michael snapped the finger so decisively the entire digit broke free with a clean tear of flesh.
The Seraph rose, the brightest star in a sky not yet touched by any other. And blackness stole Lucifer from his senses.
He had no inkling of how long he lay there. Half pressed into the earth, shattered and picked at like carrion. Long enough to know some of his bones had healed, but far from enough. The faint tinkling of bells found its way into his dazed mind.
‘Gods,’ he breathed, through swollen lips and throat, but grateful he could speak at all, his jaw bone having knitted its break.
His eyes fluttered open, and even his lashes seemed to ache.
A new darkness presented itself to him. A darkness that moved. Nudged at him. Snorted in his aching face. Touched at his torn-open hand with a hoof studded with nails.
Lucifer sat up, far too quickly, finding every rib not yet knit together, and collarbones that poked at flesh where they really shouldn’t.
The Dullahan’s black stallion screamed, every bit the war horse.
Chollima went to his knees, lowering his great bulk to the ground, tossing his head, sending the reigns to within Lucifer’s reach. The message was crystal clear. Get on.
‘I mount, and then what?’ Lucifer wheezed, dreading the punishment that would come with trying to get to his knees, let alone his feet.
‘He’s a horse. Fae horse, sure, but not going to talk back to you.’ The rather shrill voice belonged to the tiny creature sittingon the pommel of Chollima’s saddle. A pixie, if Lucifer was guessing correctly. One that looked to be several twigs twisted around one another. ‘Are we going to find him or not? You are looking for Silas Mercer, aren’t you?’
Was he? If he wished to find Vassago, then the answer was yes. He doubted Enoch himself could separate the two. But maybe Lucifer was best to just stay here, like an old stump rotting in the soil; let his wounds heal over and let the rest play out, without his hand in it. Allow Michael to go ahead and, as the angel had described it, let this entire, farcical episode be done with.
The stallion knocked at him again, down low and far too close to where there was a damned great hole in Lucifer’s thigh. The tinkling of tiny bells was evident again.