Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (48 page)

Zarachiel had assumed as much, but her words still pissed him off. He kept his jaw tightly shut so he didn’t say something he would later regret. Instead, he looked down the street, where Clark was crouched with his head in his hands. Zarachiel took a moment to settle his anger by scanning the area around Clark, ensuring there were no threats. When he looked back at Michaela, there was only a hint of anger in his voice. “What is it going to take before the holy angels come down here? How many people will have to die? How much worse will it have to get?”

Once, the answer would have come instantly to them. Once, their faith in the holy angels had been unflappable. But now they both had to truly think about the answer. “Priorities shifted for the angels when they learned that their immortality wasn’t so certain anymore. Any angel can die with the right sword laced with enough bone,” Michaela said quietly. If it still bothered her that her own wing bones could kill angels, she didn’t let it show. “I think they’ve put their own lives before the humans. That’s why they stay in Heaven, where it’s safe.”

“Even the other Archangels?”

“Selflessness is a lot to ask of someone.”

“Even an angel?” Zarachiel growled, his fists clenching.

“By now,” Michaela said, her voice sad, “I think there’s not much separating an angel from a human.”

Zarachiel didn’t comment on that. He didn’t even let himself think too much of it. A hatred for his kind that he’d never felt before welled up inside of him. He thought of Uriel sitting in Heaven, refusing to help Earth, and he nearly swayed, dizzy with rage. He was glad he’d stayed down here and refused to take back his wings. He didn’t want Heaven, and he refused any claim to it. He snorted in disgust and checked the area around Clark again.

“How is he doing?” Michaela asked, looking down the road at Clark.

Zarachiel thought about last night and what they’d done to Camille. Clark had seemed broken beyond repair afterward. Z couldn’t tell Michaela about the event because it felt like a betrayal to Clark, like he would be telling Clark’s most horrible secret without his permission. “I think we’re losing him,” he said instead, knowing it to be the ultimate truth. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it through this.”

“What do you mean?” Michaela sounded startled. Her gaze was hot on his skin.

“All of this is changing him. And not the same way it’s changing the rest of us. Honestly, I was shocked when he came back from the cave with Camille. I just knew he was going to sacrifice himself to save her. I really think he would’ve let Lucifer kill him if that’s what it took.”

“Z,” Michaela whispered.

“I know.”

“This is partly my fault,” Michaela said. “I abandoned him. I was a terrible friend.”

Zarachiel was about to disagree when Clark stood up and walked back toward them. There was something about his face, Zarachiel noted, that looked hollowed, like something vital had been pulled out of him, and all that remained was a walking husk. Michaela sucked in a shallow breath, as if she was noticing his haggard appearance for the first time. But this version of Clark was who Zarachiel had seen for days now. It’s why he thought they were going to lose him. Something that had made Clark so special during the war and the short peacetime afterward—whether it was his humor, his resolve, his strength, his friendship, his spark—had broken, and no magic could fix it. It was like he was dying right before their eyes.

Maybe that’s what it will take
, Zarachiel thought.
Maybe Clark will have to die for the holy angels to understand the consequences of their absence
. But that couldn’t happen, even if it would bring about their saving grace. Zarachiel promised himself then and there that no matter what, Clark couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Okay?” Zarachiel asked when Clark was close enough. The young man nodded, his hair flopping down over his eyes. He didn’t bother to push it back. “Michaela and I think it would be best to talk to Grace again. See if she could give us some more insight into the Loyalists.”

“Sure.” Clark shrugged. He handed the Chevelle’s keys to Zarachiel. “You can drive. I’m too tired.”

Zarachiel looked down at the keys in his hand as Clark walked away, heading back toward the car that they’d left in the carport again. Michaela met his eyes, her shock and worry evident. Zarachiel clenched the metal tight in his hand until the jagged edges bit into his skin. “We don’t have much time,” he whispered so only Michaela heard.

* * *

Clark and Zarachiel arrived back at the cabin well before afternoon. Grace was in the kitchen heating up soup for her and Camille. She looked up when Zarachiel and Clark came inside.

“Hey—” she started.

“Could you two maybe go the bedroom?” Clark asked, his voice empty. “I want to sleep.”

Grace looked over at Zarachiel, clearly worried that she’d done something wrong. He tried to smile at her to ease her concerns, but his own were too many. “Sure,” he said to Clark. “We can do that.”

“The soup is ready if she’s hungry,” Grace added, her voice barely more than a meek whisper.

Zarachiel quickly made a bowl for Grace and took her hand, leading her back to the bedroom. She followed after him with quick footsteps. When they were inside the bedroom with the door closed, she looked at Zarachiel. “What did I do?” she whispered, sounding obviously frustrated.

“Nothing,” Z assured her. He eased her back to the bed until she was sitting before he handed her the bowl. “We’re all just worn thin. The Loyalists were gone, and Michaela came back with news about the compound. A lot of innocent people died.”

“That’s horrible.”

“You should eat something.”

“I don’t think I can.”

Zarachiel sat beside her and took the bowl. He dipped the spoon into the soup and ladled up some of the creamy broth. Holding the spoon to her mouth, he waited until she finally took a dainty sip. He fed her a few more spoonfuls before he said, “I want to talk about the Loyalists a little more.”

Instantly, she tensed, her eyes meeting his. “I promise I’ve told you everything I know. I wouldn’t lie to you. I—”

“I know,” Zarachiel soothed, lifting another spoonful to her pink lips. She took it into her mouth after a moment, the metal clinking against her teeth. “But we were thinking even some small detail could help us out. Maybe something you noticed about them or overheard. It might seem unimportant to you, but it might help us find them.”

“Like what?”

“How did these guys even know each other? Where did they meet up when the plagues started?”

“Um…well, some of them were in some sort of club, like a motorcycle club, except none of them actually rode a motorcycle. Once the world started falling apart, they met some of the others by traveling and picking up stragglers. Only the people that Jimmy—the leader—approved of were allowed to stay on. It just grew as time passed.”

Zarachiel dipped the spoon back into the broth as he thought. It didn’t escape him that she’d just said the leader had to approve new additions, which meant Grace had been approved at some point. But that didn’t mean anything. Like she’d said, they’d only used her for sex. “Okay. So these guys like being on the road? Going from one camp to the next?”

“We were always moving and scavenging for fuel and food.”

“What did they talk about when they were drunk?”

Grace shivered. “They didn’t talk much when they were really drunk. Mostly they just liked to be with the women in the group. They would get…rough. We hated it when they drank.”

Zarachiel focused on scooping out the perfect bit of broth, keeping his movements smooth and controlled so she wouldn’t see how he wanted to crush the spoon in his grip until it was dust. “What about when they didn’t drink?” he asked, forcing his words to come out evenly. “What did they talk about then?”

“The angels. Always the angels. They wanted to learn their secrets. Well, your secrets, I guess. But mainly, they just wanted to kill the ones responsible for ruining the Earth and starting the plagues. They said they were the only ones left to make them—you—pay for what you’d done.” Grace seemed to remember something just then and she said quickly, “But I never heard them talk about your compound. I had no idea they even know about a group of humans who helped the angels.”

Zarachiel nodded, keeping his eyes on the soup. “Did they ever kill another human for not joining their cause?” he asked. Grace grew quiet, but Zarachiel knew something was brewing beneath the surface of her pretty face. She was remembering something, something painful. “You can tell me,” he coaxed.

“There was this church,” Grace said. “We stumbled over it by accident. The town was basically empty, but all the people that remained had gathered inside. The church was beautiful with white-washed walls and a pretty little steeple. The bells still rang every hour, tolling out this sad song. The Loyalists watched it for a bit, but when they heard the people inside praying for the angels and singing these hymnals…they barred the doors and burned it down.” Grace swallowed, looking pale. “With the people still inside. I tried to run away the first time that night. They found me quickly.”

From the way her face set into a blank expression, Zarachiel could guess what had happened to her when the Loyalists found her. The soup bowl shattered in his hand, and the liquid spilled down his legs. Grace jumped in surprise, but Zarachiel didn’t even notice the hot broth. He stood, kicking the shards away from the bed. He crossed to his duffel and pulled out his last pair of pants.

“Did the group ever separate?” he asked as he changed, keeping his back to her so she wouldn’t see his anger. He was trying to hold it in, but it was getting harder and harder. “Maybe a few of them went off to scout or scavenge on occasion?”

“Yeah, I guess so. They would always send out people to look through a new town before everyone came through in the cars and trucks.”

If they were sending out scouting parties, they would have to have a way to communicate. Zarachiel thought it through, trying to picture how a group that large would talk to each other. They would need something in each vehicle, he decided. But walkie-talkies were good for only a certain range, and batteries would be hard to come by. Any kind of communications would have to run off something other than radio or cell towers. “How did they communicate with the separate scouting groups?” he asked Grace.

“Um,” Grace said, her tone shifting. Zarachiel turned around and watched her face as she thought. “Me and the other girls stayed in this old RV.” Grace paused again. She kept her eyes on her hands. “But the guy driving it was always talking into this radio thing. Except it wasn’t the car’s radio or anything. They had mounted it into the car. It had this little mic you spoke into? They had like their own channel or something.”

Grace was obviously uncertain about the radio, but Zarachiel instantly understood. There was only one kind of radio that could be. He quickly buttoned his jeans and crossed to the window. It was sticky, but he managed to slide it up. It opened with a squawk.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find one of those radios, and I don’t want to wake up Clark. If they’re looking for me, tell them I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“What if something happens?” Grace hurried over to the window as he folded his tall body through the frame. It was a tight fit, but he managed. The drop to the ground was short with his long legs. He looked back at her through the window.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

With that, Zarachiel headed toward the woods, aiming for the interstate. He was more likely to find a HAM radio in a car than in a town, and he and Clark had seen lots of abandoned cars on the road. As he ran through the trees, ignoring the flashes of pain up his back, he thought about how good it would feel to kill every single one of the Loyalists. For Grace and those who’d been in the church. For any survivor who had ever crossed paths with the cult.

Along with the pain, the purpose gave Zarachiel a sizzling undercurrent of pleasure. He lived for this duty of helping others and making things right. He was built for it. He needed this pleasure as much as he needed the pain. All the angels should. They should be down here with him, working to fix these wrongs they’d made. But if he thought on that too long, a slinking darkness full of anger and bitterness tried to damper his pleasure. He shook his head and ran harder, jumping over fallen trees and ducking under low limbs. He wasn’t as sure-footed as he’d once been, but he moved fast enough. And soon, the burn in his muscles—however slight—masked his disgust with his fellow angels.

When he reached the interstate, he had to search for hours, but he stayed patient and thorough. He looked in every car, scanning the dashboards for signs of a clunky HAM radio installed. He might have been peering into grimy car windows for hours or days: it didn’t matter. When he eventually found what he was looking for, he busted out the car’s glass and settled into the seat. He wasn’t familiar with the device, but it didn’t take long for him to figure out how to change channels, jumping from static to static. He lost himself in that task too. Grace hadn’t known what frequency the Loyalists used, so he went through them all until he found chatter.

It was a message on repeat, like an emergency broadcast, but he could tell it wasn’t official. He had to listen for a moment before he realized the voice was talking in code. It sounded human enough and certainly male. Zarachiel leaned forward and listened.