Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 41683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
But I refuse to let it win. I don't care what it takes. I won't let it win.
Chapter Nine
Reaper
"If I see the inside of one more Gods-forsaken church…" Malachi grumbles, nudging the toe of his boot at a crumbling bit of plaster as we pick our way through the third abandoned church we've checked. There aren't many more to go. People don't abandon their holy buildings often.
"Afraid you might be struck dead?" I tease, carefully combing through every room in the dilapidated building. I don't think it's been in use in this century. At least not by penitent parishioners anyway. Dirty needles, empty plastic baggies, and condom wrappers litter the sagging floors, making it clear that someone has been here. I don't think they were looking for the Christian God, however. At least not through traditional means.
"I would be, if I believed in their God," Malachi retorts, his grin wide and cheeky. His blue eyes spark with mischief in the dim lighting.
An ungodly bang echoes through the somber stillness of the church, rattling the tarnished stained glass and sending a shower of dust particles swirling in the air. The echo reverberates off the cracked plaster walls before settling into an ominous hum.
Malachi's massive body jolts as he spins around to face the direction of the sound, a startled yelp escaping his lips.
A low rumble of laughter bursts from my chest as I catch sight of Adriel standing nonchalantly beside the door he just slammed, unperturbed by the dust and debris floating around his head. His one black eye gleams with savage delight under his scarred brow.
"Did the big bad 'church ghost' scare you?" he taunts Malachi.
I howl with laughter.
"Drit og dra. Both of you." Shit and leave—go to hell. Malachi flips us off without missing a beat. His tone holds no real venom, though, only good-natured annoyance.
"I have no fear of hell." Adriel strides forward, dust motes dancing around him like a veil of shadows. "But perhaps the priesthood would better suit you since you're so afraid of it," he says to Malachi.
"Oh, I'm not afraid of hell," he taunts, his pointed gaze locked on Adriel. "I sit at dinner with it every night."
Adriel growls in response to the barb, though there's no malice in the sound.
"And I sleep with an angel," I say, grinning.
They both groan, making me laugh.
"Jealous assholes."
"Maybe I will quit and go be a priest," Malachi mutters after a moment, nudging at a pile of used needles with his boot. "It has to be cleaner than this bullshit."
"Good luck with that," I respond dryly. "You wouldn't last five minutes without cursing."
"And you wouldn't last two minutes without stabbing something," he parries right back.
"You're both idiots." Adriel shakes his head. "If God was up there, he'd cast the both of you out as soon as he set his eyes on your miserable faces. You're hideous."
"Well, damn," Malachi says without heat. "Why don't you tell us how you really feel?"
Adriel flashes him a lethal look, the corner of his mouth barely quirking up. "I've been telling you for millennia."
I eye him sideways, surprised at how calm he seems. It's different. New. Usually, he's cloaked in anger and steeped in rage. But today, he seems…lighter. As if he's finally found a little sliver of peace.
Abigail. It has to be Abigail.
He's barely left her side for the last few days. Neither has Damrion. The two of them still snipe and snarl, unable to get along. But spending so much time with her is healing pieces of him, pulling him back from the brink after millennia spent at war with himself.
It's damn good to see. He's been tormented and haunted long enough by what he endured in captivity. He deserves peace. If finally admitting to himself how he feels about the tiny Seer has brought him a measure of it, then good for him. I just hope his peace doesn't come at the expense of Damrion's.
Malachi opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can, a deafening roar shakes the old stone church, the reverberating echo slicing through the calm like a double-edged sword. The pained cry that follows sends ice into my veins.
As one, we pivot and charge towards the disturbance.
We burst into the old nave to find a dozen Forsaken advancing down the aisle, their silhouettes etched in harsh relief against the stained glass and stone. Dark magic pulses from their hands, coiling tendrils contorting like snakes.
Their eyes burn with an unholy light as they advance toward us, each step echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling. Their gaze flickers over Garrison—who is crumbled and bleeding on the filthy floor—with dismissive disdain before settling on us.
"I guess we found the right church this time," Malachi says dryly. His umber skin glows under the dim light seeping through the discolored windowpanes, making him appear much like a deity about to roll up his sleeves and mete out a little divine retribution.