I got what he was saying. “So I’m going to be exactly like him.”
Michael’s face was set, intense. “Not exactly. You don’t have to be like him, get me? But you’ll have the powers he did. I was made from the heat of the sun, Lucifer was made from the first rays of dawn and the death of the day, and Gabriel was woven from the light of the moon. When it rises, you’ll rise with it.”
It made sense. Every archangel, a primal power in themselves, was created from a different universal force. “Will I still be cursed with Nephilim rage?”
My teacher hesitated, just for a second. “I don’t know. I’m not going to lie to make you feel better about this. You could still have it and never know until it shows up again. But I feel pretty confident in saying that after giving the power a few centuries to settle in, it’ll vanish for good.”
Great. Just a few centuries to remain an inherent danger to my mate. No problem.
Michael reached up on the table, felt around with his fingertips until he found his tankard, and pulled it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he was finished, staring at me over the rim of the mug the entire time.
“Now let’s see what you can do with what you’ve got.” Michael slammed the empty tankard now. “Hold out your hands. It’d be easier if we were under the moon, but you should still be able to pull it right out of yourself.”
Unlike Melisande, Azazel, and Belial, I’d never had inherent magic. The Nephilim rage and placing the mate mark on Melisande were the closest I’d come to touching it, but one was innate, and the other a power that was brought about by sheer force of will.
I did as he told me, holding my hands in front of myself and feeling a little like an idiot sitting there with my fingers splayed open.
“Now reach for it,” Michael instructed. “It’s in there. The transmutation is weaving it into every cell of your body, turning you into the moon made flesh.”
His back-and-forth from drunk angel to ancient instructor was giving me whiplash. Moon made flesh, my ass.
I looked at my empty hands. Nothing happened. I didn’t feel so much as a twinge in my fingertips.
“Not from your fingers, kid.” He pounded his chest. “From in here. This is the core.”
Michael held out his hands like he was going to weave a cat’s cradle, but instead of strings, he seemed to pluck white-hot threads of light from midair, forming them into a ball.
Soon he held an entire miniature sun in his hands, the light warmer-toned, hotter and more vivid than Lucifer’s piercing golden rays.
“Pull from the core,” I muttered. I had no business messing with magic. Weapons had always been my forte, the place where I was not just comfortable, but nearly flawless.
I searched inside, feeling more foolish by the second. There was nothing but flesh and blood in my chest. My lungs, my heart…
I finally found it. It was almost shocking, a visceral sensation of something else curled up inside me like a snake in waiting, but it was a snake woven of moonbeams and lightning, cold and bright.
It slithered through me, making my veins itch as the power flowed towards my waiting fingertips.
“There it is!” Michael crowed, pounding me on the back so hard I almost fell over, which was saying something.
I opened my eyes, ignoring the cold sweat beading on my forehead.
It was nowhere near as bright as Michael’s magic, but it was light. As icy as the moon on a winter’s night, silver and silent, rippling between my fingertips in flashes and fading just as quickly.
It burned out quickly, the light vanishing, turning to vapor between my hands and dissipating completely.
I stared at the empty space between my fingers, my heart in my throat. That’d been my magic, some strange power I’d managed to pull out of myself.
It was a new hope that I wouldn’t completely fail her. If I could pull that light out again, I’d have something to fight with that wouldn’t pull me into that deep, dark place where all rationality and logic went out the window and only bloodlust remained.
“Do you still feel it?” the archangel across from me asked.
My hands might’ve been empty, but now that I’d touched the wellspring inside myself, there was no mistaking what it was. I’d know and remember the sensation of that icy, coiled moonlight forever.
I nodded. My hair fell over my shoulders with the motion, the soft black feather I always wore touching my cheek.
It wasn’t what I thought I’d be, but if the universe wanted this, I’d find a way to shoulder the burdens, through the good times and the bad.
15
Melisande
With a little careful poking and prodding, I maneuvered the last slivered piece of sword into place.
It was a sad-looking sight, but I breathed a sigh of relief. Every single shard was accounted for.
With that being done, I opened the bag wide and carefully poured all the pieces back in with a sound like tinkling metallic rain. If Wayland couldn’t fix the Sword, no one could, but even the lack of the ideal weapon wouldn’t stop me now that I had my sights fixed on the right place.
I looked down at my chest. It took a little searching, but I finally found the faint, glimmering string that hovered in midair, connecting me to Lucifer. As long as that tiny portion of the Chain existed, there was still a chance.
Azazel was nowhere to be seen as I swept through the arena, nor was Belial. Tascius was still with Michael- I felt his chain the strongest, tugging on the mark on my wrist. There was a faint sense of wonder coming through our bond.
As much as I wanted to interfere, staying away was best for him right now. He needed to be confident in himself, and interrupting his training was the worst possible way to encourage that.
“Belial?” I poked my head around the corner of the war room. It was empty, but a page had been left on the table.
I picked it up and quickly scanned the words. The new potential Ministers were vying for election this week- the Princes needed liaisons as quickly as possible, and the Brightside was hosting Lucifuge Rofocale today, a demon running a strident campaign for the job.
Both Belial and Azazel would be prowling the streets of Dis, ensuring the campaigns didn’t get out of hand. I was on my own for this one.
As independent as they allowed me to be, I was under no illusions that they wouldn’t all collectively murder me if I went out without watching my back. My wing was getting stronger, but it still needed to remain in the splinted bandages for another few days.
That meant weapons. Lots of weapons.
I had the ebonite dagger at my thigh, but I found the armory and jammed two more daggers in the tops of my boots, put one on a cord around my neck, and found one of Vyra’s needle-like hairpins, jabbing it through my twisted-up braid. A dark veil went over my head, obscuring the dead-giveaway violet tones of my hair.
Capheira gave me a sideways glance when I met her at the stable. “I know you hate the wastelands, so I brought you something,” I said, holding out a hand.
She turned her head aside, flickering like blue lightning, but deigned to climb out of her lily pond. Water splashed from her mane and soaked into my boots, but she made a grumbling noise of assent when I gave her a palmful of brown sugar.
A feeling of peace filled me as I saddled her and mounted up, heading into the Sixth Circle with the broken Sword at my side.