End of Days (Penryn & the End of Days, #3)

by Susan Ee

Something is going on with my mother’s full approval that definitely needs supervising. Are they trying to recruit Paige into a cult? I feel no guilt about spying right now. I’m normally big on privacy, but I just need to make sure that there’s nothing . . . well, crazy going on. “I am here to serve you, Great One,” says the woman. “It’s okay,” says Mom to Paige. “She volunteered. We have a whole line of cult members who volunteered. They know how important you are. They’re willing to make sacrifices.” I don’t like the word sacrifices. I rush over to them.

The cult member looks at me awkwardly with her head still tilted to the side. “It’s true. I have been chosen. I am honored to nourish the Great One who has resurrected the dead and will lead us to heaven.” “Who wants to go to heaven anymore? There’s nothing but angels there.”

“Plagues?” I ask. “Why is everybody trying to make plagues?” “What’s an apocalypse without pestilence?” asks Josiah.

Josiah looks at me, then back at Raffe. “Does she need to be here?” “Apparently, she does,” says Raffe. “It turns out that she’s the only one I can trust to watch my back.”

“Uriel said Gabriel had gone insane, that he hadn’t actually spoken to God in eons, that he’d made up all the rules that God had supposedly commanded him to make. He said there was no reason why Uriel couldn’t be Messenger, that he could lie as well as Gabriel. So Uriel had him killed. Killed. He admitted it.”

I can feel the tension radiating from Raffe. How can he say no? This is his chance at getting his wings back and setting things right. He can have everything he wants. He might even become Messenger and save everyone from this apocalyptic mess. And then he would go home, never to return in my lifetime.

“So you’ll be back?” He looks at me with worry in his eyes. I know we’ve gone our separate ways before, but this time, it feels permanent. He’s about to reenter the angel world. And when he does, he’ll forget all about that Daughter of Man he partnered up with for a few days. He’s made it clear that he can’t be with me. “Is this goodbye?” I ask. He nods. We look into each other’s eyes. As usual, I have no idea what he’s thinking. I could make guesses, but they’d be fantasy. He leans down, and his lips hover a hair’s breadth from mine. I close my eyes, feeling the tingle of anticipation. Then he presses his lips to mine. His warmth spreads out from my lips down into my chest and stomach. Time stops, and I forget about everything else—the apocalypse, my enemies, watching eyes, monsters in the night. All I feel is the kiss. All I am is Raffe’s girl.

He brushes my hair out of my face, strokes my cheek. He looks at every part of my face as if memorizing it. A half smile forms on his lips. Then he drops his hand, turns around, and leaps into the air. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from calling him back. The October wind tugs at my hair. Dry leaves float by, lost and abandoned.

A hand holding a damp cloth reaches around me from behind and clamps down over my mouth and nose. The cloth reeks of something awful that shoots straight into my head and makes the world fuzzy. I try to struggle. I knew it was a trap. I just hadn’t realized the trap was for

My head feels foggy, and my nose is still full of a chemical scent. What happened? Oh, yeah, the cult . . . I put my hand up and touch my hair to make sure it’s still there. You never know.

I have more experience than most in figuring out what someone with a speech impediment is saying. Paige had a couple of friends with disabilities that kept them from communicating easily. It was her patience with her friends and her translations that finally allowed me to start understanding them. Now it’s second nature.

“You look human to me.” “Then you must be blind,” he says angrily. “Everyone else screams when they see me. If I drove off, where would I go? Who would I call my own? Even my own mother would run from me now.” There’s a world of sadness behind his angry voice. “No, she wouldn’t.” Mine wouldn’t. “Besides, if you think you’re the ugliest thing I’ve seen this week, boy, do you have a lot to learn about what’s going on out there.”

“If you don’t let me go, you won’t feel quite so human anymore. Being human isn’t about whether you fit in or look like the rest of us. It’s about who you are and what you’re willing to do or not do.”

“Did you really kill an angel?” he asks. “Yeah.” I’ve killed two.

“Everybody? You’d try to keep all of us alive?” “I meant my family. That’s hard enough. How would I even begin to keep everyone alive?” “If the only one who can kill an angel can’t do it, then who can?” It’s a good question, one that takes me a minute to come up with an answer. “Obadiah West can. Him and his freedom fighters. I’m just a teenager.” “History is filled with teenagers who lead the fight. Joan of Arc. Okita Soji, the samurai. Alexander the Great. They were all teenagers when they began leading their armies. I think we’re back to those times again, kid.”

“Bring them to us. We’ll mark the rest of you. Let it be known that we can be generous to those who serve us.” “Let it be known that they tore apart their last set of servants,” I say to the cult members.

Angels fly all over the sky and walk over the lawn that used to be a golf course. They begin gathering around the colored banners, looking like distinct teams. Many of the angels are chanting, “Uriel! Uriel! Uriel!” near the red-bannered booths like they’re at a football game. The second largest group gathers around the misty green booths and shouts, “Michael! Michael! Michael!” And a few others collect around the azure blue booths and begin shouting, “Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!” Most of the angels mill around in the sky or between the booths, as if they’re still deciding. But as Raffe’s supporters keep chanting, more soldiers join them and begin shouting his name. I’m so surprised that I stumble to a stop in the middle of the lawn. My guards have to shove me to get me to go again. “Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!” I hope he’s somewhere nearby, hearing his people shouting his name. He belongs here.

It’s pure chaos, but somehow everyone seems to know the rules. I’m guessing the winning team of each fight wins a vote for their favorite candidate. The archangel with the most number of winning fights must win the election. So their election isn’t just about the number of people behind you, it’s a matter of having the best fighters behind you.

SO FAR, IT’S a surprisingly close election. Surprising in that Uriel has been campaigning for so long, and Raffe and Michael haven’t even been here.

If only they knew that the sword that dominated their weapons is called Pooky Bear.

Everyone is chanting. “Trial! Trial! Trial!” Somehow I don’t think their idea of a trial and my idea of a trial are the same.

For a second, he looks angry and betrayed. Fear peeks through before he puts on his sneer again. His declaration of always being alone and unwanted seems to be proven over and over again. For an instant, I forget what a horrible being he is and I feel a flash of sympathy for him.

“What kind of a trial is this?” I ask, suspecting the answer. “A warrior’s trial,” says Uriel as he flies above me. “It’s more than you deserve. The rule is simple. The last one alive goes free.” The crowd cheers again, roaring their approval. “Try to make this entertaining,” says Uriel. “Because if it’s not, the crowd will decide whether the last one standing lives or dies.” The angels chant, “Die! Die! Die!” I guess that answers the question.

He nods to the hellions. There’s no glee in it, just a grim determination to survive. At least I can take some pride in knowing that he assessed me as the greater threat over these Pit hellions.

STOP!” Everyone turns to see who shouted that command. The tone is almost irresistible. I keep one eye on Beliel while trying to see what’s going on. Blood drips down into my eye, and I have to blink several times before I see what everyone else sees. There’s now a gap in the dome letting the light in. A pair of large snowy wings glides through, blocking out the sun. Raffe’s perfect form comes into view. He is both the Raffe I know and a terrifying stranger. He looks like a pissed-off demigod. I’ve only glimpsed him once in this perfect angel form. His wings are magnificent as they sweep the air behind him—white against blue. The angels all stare at Raffe. They hover, silent and still except for the slow beating of wings. A whisper echoes through the winged crowd: Archangel Raphael.

“I hear there’s an unsanctioned election going on,” says Raffe. “There’s nothing unsanctioned about it,” says Uriel. “And if you had been here, you’d know that. In fact, you are one of the candidates.” “Really? And how am I doing?” A couple of angels yell out in support of Raffe.

One person turns to move east. Someone follows him. Then another. And another, until the entire group is migrating. Wave after wave of resurrected claw their way out of the dirt. As soon as they can stand on their feet, they follow the crowd heading east. East, toward the Resistance camp.

Raffe looks at Uriel. “How convenient for you, Uri. Yes. I agree to a trial by contest.” Angels nod and echo. “Trial by contest.” As in winner takes all and is declared to be telling the truth? What are we, living in the Middle Ages?

“Fine,” says Uriel. “So be it. I call Sacriel as my second.” Everyone looks to the largest angel in the group and his enormous wings. “I accept,” he says. Raffe looks at the angels, gauging them. Who is loyal enough to back him as his second? There were angels who voted for him, but voting for him and dying for him are two very different things. “I’m flattered that you need the biggest, meanest warrior on your side to best me, Uri. Let’s see, how big a warrior do I need as a second to beat you and Sacriel? Hmm . . . I’ll take . . . the Daughter of Man. She should even out the odds.”

I still can’t believe he has his wings back. They look amazing on him. Perfect in every way, except for the notch that I cut out of his wing when I first met him. I assume the feathers will grow back in over time, and all traces of me will disappear off him.

I want to say something about his wings and thank him for keeping me alive, but I don’t want to be overheard. I can tell that he sees it all in my eyes anyway, just as I can see him wondering how the heck I got here. I suppose I have a special talent for showing up where I shouldn’t be.

“How many will Uriel have on his team?” I ask. “A hundred maybe?” says Josiah. “A hundred?” I ask. “Against the two of us?” “You’re not actually going to be fighting,” says Raffe. “No one expects it.” “Oh, so a hundred against just you.

“Uriel’s right,” says Raffe. “I don’t have my Watchers anymore. I can’t count on anyone stepping into their duties.” “The warriors still talk about them, you know,” says Josiah. “No group has come close to being the elite fighting team that the Watchers were. They’ve become legend.” He shakes his head. “What a waste. And all because of—” He looks at me with some hostility in his eyes and bites off whatever insult he was going to call Daughters of Men.

They both glance at Beliel. He’s swatting at the hellions who are squabbling near his shoulder. They fly away from him to hang on to the bars and stare at us. No, not at us. At my sword. The Pit hellions want to go home. However bad it was there, it had to have been better than being caged, waiting to be killed. Home. “What if we could go into the Pit and get the Watchers?” I ask. It’s an insane thought, one I wouldn’t consider if the entire human race didn’t depend on it. If Raffe could dethrone Uriel, then no more war, right?

“What if we could get the Watchers you remember?” I ask. I nod toward Beliel. “The Watchers he remembers?” Raffe looks back at me, and I see a spark of interest.

“You mean to tell me that I discovered a talent of your beloved swords that even you guys didn’t know about?” I pull as hard as I can on the cage bars. “You seem to bring out new and unimagined dimensions from both me and Kooky Bear.” “Pooky Bear.” “Right.”

The two hellions from the Pit back as far away from Josiah as they can.

I instinctively swing my blade to stop Beliel’s escape and end up skewering Beliel’s side. As he roars, Raffe’s hellion leaps onto my sword. It slides down the blade with Raffe gripping its leg. It disappears into Beliel. And Raffe, still hanging on to its leg, disappears right after it. Before I can blink, the hellion I’m holding dives down the sword as well, dragging me with it.

We fall through a darkness that seems endless. I turn to see Josiah’s stunned face staring down at me through a fast-closing tunnel. I shut my eyes, convinced that there are some things we humans aren’t meant to see. Josiah’s shocked face burns out of my mind as only one thought begins to dominate. We are going into hell.

I also feel like I’m baking in an oven. A very stinky oven cooking rotten eggs. I force myself to roll over and open my eyes. There’s really no time for recovery when you’ve just landed in hell.

I guess since I’m physically here, I might have jumped in time and space, but that’s too much for my brain to handle without exploding. Besides, I don’t have time to think about it. When my eyes adjust to the purple light, I see that Beliel stares in my direction with empty sockets. Beliel is blind.

“She’s a Daughter of Man, can’t you see that?” says Thermo. “If she’s a Daughter of Man, where’s her pack of hellions?” says a guy with black feathers and sharp eyes. “Where are her chains? Why does she look so healthy and whole?”

“Welcome to the hunting district.” “Is this the same as hell?” I ask. The one with black feathers shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s hellish. Why do you care if it matches your primitive myth?” “What do you hunt here?” I ask. The angel with the brown-and-yellow wings snorts. “We don’t. We’re the prey.”

“Oh, do excuse us for not introducing ourselves,” says the one with the brown-and-yellow wings. He emphasizes his sarcasm by bowing to me. “We are the newly Fallen. The Watchers, to be precise. And probably your executioners. Not that it’ll take more than one of us to do the deed. But you get the point. I’m Howler.”

I stand frozen. If these legendary warriors are afraid, what should I be feeling? I’m beginning to wish I had just kept my mouth shut about coming here. Being killed in a gladiator arena is starting to sound merciful now.

“They’re the Consumed. They’re the ones who didn’t make it through initiation. There’s a legendary feast that goes on with the Pit lords. The Consumed are the ones who were sacrificed for the feast.” He shakes his head. “We can grow back a lot of things, but not a whole body or even major parts.”

The Consumed cry out by the thousands to be included in a head whip for the chance to claim a new body.”

“You saved me out there,” he says. “I pay what’s owed, good or bad. Besides, I have a soft spot for Daughters of Men. My wife used to be one.” His voice trails off, and I can barely hear his last sentence.

I think about that for a minute. The hellion world? Not the Fallen world? The hellions and the Fallen do look very different. “They’re not the same species, are they?” “The Fallen and the hellions?” He snorts. “Don’t let anyone hear you even suggest that. Both sides would tear you to pieces and feed your bits to the Consumed.”

“This was the hellions’ world before the Fallen angels came? The hellions are the natives of the Pit?”