Wings of the Wicked
Page 93

The corners of her lips curved into a dark, slight smile before she turned away and moved toward Bastian. She took the dagger from his hand and cut it deep into her own arm, into precisely the same spot as Bastian had cut me. He held the bowl of my blood up and let Lilith’s own blood pour into it. Power leaked from the mixture of our blood, creeping across the floor like rolling fog, sending every hair on my body standing on end.
“Blood of angel,” Lilith murmured as she exchanged the dagger for the bowl with Bastian. “Blood of demon. Continue the ritual.”
Without questioning, Kelaeno began chanting again, a new spell, different from the one that had given Lilith solid form. The Demon Queen stood in front of the sarcophagus and tipped the bowl over a small notch in the center of the lid, letting the blood pour. It followed grooves in the stone—up, down, left, and right, swirling, filling in the Enochian spell imprisoning Sammael.
Dread filled me. Not just simple fear, but the sensation of unreasonable horror overcame me, sucking away any desire to even feign bravery, sapping my energy like a black hole.
The blood filled the Enochian carvings entirely, and something heaved and hissed within the sarcophagus, as if a safe had been unlocked. I couldn’t look away.
Lilith’s high, smooth voice shot through my skull like a bullet. “Remove the lid.”
26
BASTIAN’S EXPRESSION WAS A MIXTURE OF EXCITEMENT and trepidation as he stood beside Lilith. Kelaeno and Merodach pulled the heavy stone lid away from the sarcophagus and set it aside. I wondered whether Bastian was, for an instant, regretting all that he’d done, if he was second-guessing his decision to release Sammael. But he did nothing, frozen, as I was, waiting for the beast to emerge. He swallowed, his throat moving up and down, his chest heaving, his gaze locked on the sight before him. I realized then that he was terrified.
“Bastian,” I called to him, trying to muffle my voice. He looked at me curiously and without any amusement on his face. “You can’t do this, Bastian. Please stop them.”
He measured me with his gaze, as if considering whether or not to take me seriously. “This is the only way.”
“Why do you want to destroy the world?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He shook his head. “We aren’t destroying the world to just destroy it. We’re going to rebuild.”
“Who says you will be able to control Sammael?” I shot back. “He’s too powerful. You don’t know what he’s really going to do! He’s too dangerous to be released, and you know that. You have to stop them!”
“I will not.”
“When I get out of here,” I snarled, “I’m going to kill you. You’re the reason my parents are dead, the reason the world’s gone to hell. I will kill you, that I promise.”
Through his fear, a smile broke, something dark and cruel, before he looked back to the sarcophagus. Blackness filled the open tomb like a void, like a doorway into nothingness instead of a mere coffin. The air throbbed as if it had a pulse, and then it was sucked into that void and rushed back out again as if a long, relieved breath was taken by some unseen giant within. Something stepped through the blackness and into the torchlight of the cellar with a flash of inky smoke that reminded me of the Grim. The beast was somehow feline in shape, with a long, sleek body, muscles rippling beneath a coat of dark slate fur. Its face was longer than a lion’s, more serpentlike, the golden eyes more slit, and it shook a heavy mane of bone spikes much thicker than the quills of a porcupine. It took one look at me and hissed, flashing strong but delicate-looking fangs. Its spiked mane flared, and its long, scaled tail lashed the air like a whip. It stepped stealthily to the side, and a second beast emerged behind it. The creatures were only slightly smaller than lupine reapers, but far more graceful. They were reapers of a rare breed, the leonine, which I hadn’t seen in thousands of years. They hissed and snarled and snapped at one another, their bodies fluid and moving like ripples on a black lake.
Something else stirred within the dark void of the sarcophagus, and an armored hand slid through, long, bony fingers curling around the stone edge. The black metal gauntlet attached to the hand gleamed like obsidian glass formed in the fires of Hell. More of the arm appeared, encased in a couter and rerebrace of the same strange metal. And then he emerged, his chest and shoulders covered in more of the gnarled, sharp armor, points and spikes cutting through the air. His eyes were gold—pure and gleaming metallic, the color deeper than pyrite. His hair was long, straight, and silver-white, and around his high, spiraling horns was a crown of bones. I knew through instinct that the small skulls and other bones were human and realized with horror that they were the bones of children.
As Sammael stepped completely free from the sarcophagus, he looked around with a bored expression on his sharp features. His skin was corpse gray, not white or blue, but the gray of decay. Spread from his back were the charred skeletal remains of what were once magnificent wings—the unmistakable wings of the wicked Fallen, fleshless bones burned and blackened from when he fell. They spread wide, the dry joints clicking and grinding.
I felt Gabriel seeping through the cracks in my amnesia, causing my human soul to stir, and then I was myself again—more Gabriel than Ellie. When I had seen Sammael last, he had been beautiful, radiant, his grace bright and true. This monster resembled nothing of my glorious brother.
Lilith stepped toward Sammael, lips parted and eyes widened. “Is it you, my love?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling. “It is truly you?”