He snorts. “The Descended, or whatever, were full of shit. We avoided them because what they wanted was for us to risk further punishment by helping them get their powers back. They were obsessed with it.” He looks over, giving me a once-over. “Looks like they figured something out just fine without us.” A couple steps later, he asks, “What happened to the last one?”
“What?”
“Earlier, you said there were twelve Descended, but there should have been thirteen.”
It takes him a few seconds to realize I’ve stopped, and he turns around. I stand there while he holds up a hand to shade his vision from the sun.
“Twenty original Watchers,” he says. “Thirteen created the Nephilim, and seven passed along knowledge.”
“The stories passed down to us said there were twelve Descended and eight Fallen.”
His hand falls to his side, and he shrugs. “Further proof those assholes were full of shit.”
And suddenly, I’m starting to think they might have been.
Chaz leaves me behind, still heading in the opposite direction of the sun. His back glistens from sweat, the black angel wings tattooed across the span of his shoulder blades gleaming. I haven’t seen them before, and I almost smile. Both of us hiding in plain sight.
I rub the back of my neck, my stomach turning. Before I can think much about the tattoo that should be there, I hurry to catch up with him.
We walk a while longer before I quit trying to keep up with him. Each of his long strides spans two of mine, and my muscles are tired, my mouth dry. Chaz stops a hundred feet ahead of me. He doesn’t turn around, but he waits. Progress. Or so I think until I reach him and see why he really stopped.
Up ahead between two bushes sits a red-and-white cooler.
“You think—”
“Donny needs me alive,” Chaz says. “It’s in his best interest to hydrate the mortal.” His voice drops on the last word, and he makes his way to the cooler.
He tosses me a bottle of water, and I immediately twist it open. He pulls out another couple of bottles and closes the lid, so he can sit down.
“Cheers,” he deadpans.
I sip my water, watching him lean his elbows on his thighs and drink. He looks paler than yesterday, even after walking an hour in the sun. Nothing else has changed. His features are still sharp, his body sculpted, but that small detail makes him look more … human.
“It was for my sister.” I pause for any reaction from him, but he doesn’t even look up. Just tips back the bottle, his throat working to swallow, and then hangs his head between his shoulders, staring at the barren ground between his feet. “She’s dying—really dying.”
I want to say more, but he stands up and stalks toward me. He stops inches away from me, and I can still smell his body wash mixed with his sweat. Every other time he’s been this close, he’s wanted me even if he wouldn’t admit it. But now, his glare is cold enough to give me a chill in the desert. My breaths are shallow, his on my face.
“And now, so am I,” he says.
Then he walks away, setting two bottles on the lid of the cooler as he passes.
One a water, the other sunscreen.
By the time the sun starts to set behind us, we’ve been walking for hours. The temperature lowers drastically without the sun overhead, and I rub my bare arms. Blood-soaked or not, I regret leaving the sweatshirt behind.
“Here.” Chaz tugs the shirt out of his back pocket and holds it out for me.
Jesus. Déjà vu much?
But instead of arguing like last night, I pull it over my head. I leave my arms inside and wear the thing like a poncho. “Thank you.”
He nods.
“You don’t think Abaddon would go after Kai and Avery, do you?”
He spares me a sideways glance but ignores my question, and I sigh.
“Considering they’re your charges, I thought you’d be a little more concerned. I mean, if he kills them and then you somehow get your light back—” I cut off, startled when he jerks toward me.
“I will get my light back. And with the Demon of Destruction lurking around, possibly with a weapon to end me, you don’t think I have a contingency plan?”
He opens his hand, revealing a flat crystal in his palm. Kai’s image appears in the center. He and Avery are both on their couch, carryout cartons spread across the coffee table in front of them.
I run my fingers over the smooth surface, biting back the guilt for having possibly put them on Abaddon’s radar. “They’re safe there?”
“Untouchable. And soon, a switch will flip in Kai’s brain.” He snaps his fingers beside my ear. “He’ll whip out his phone, find Rosie the Babysitter in his contacts, and call my brother Rosdan.” He pulls the stone away and shoves it in his pocket. “I set it all up after Donny resurfaced. If Kai ever goes more than twenty-four hours without hearing from me, he sends up the alarm. I texted him last night, so it will be any minute now. Ros knows what to do, and once he tells Cass…” He pauses with a hint of a smirk. “Let’s just say, a pissed off Cass is the only being you need on your side.”
“Armaros and Kasdaye?” I ask, using the names I’ve known as long as his.
He nods, and I can’t help but smile. Papa told us stories about The Fallen every night until we were about eight. He meant them as a warning of how selfish and dangerous they were, using their charges to justify killing anyone who crossed them. Nyla and I refused to believe him, though, calling them our angels and making up our own stories. We’d divide them up—we thought there were eight, so it was fair. Armaros and Kasdaye were ones we would argue over and trade back and forth. But we each had one who was always ours without question. Nyla claimed Samyaza. My angel was Chazaqiel.
Of course, I thought he glowed, could control lightning, and would fall insanely in love with me the moment our eyes met.
“What the…” Chaz fixes on something in the distance. “Is that fire?”
When I turn, I see the faintest flicker. Small and barely visible against the serene purple backdrop of the fading sunset. The first sign of life we’ve seen since the cooler.
We follow the flame, the last of night falling while we walk. Once we’re closer, Chaz reaches back to move me behind him. I want to think he cares if I live or die, but the gesture seems to be more of a habit. The green smudge behind the fire begins to take shape. A tent. His hold falls away from my hip, so he can check it out. I stop beside a change of clothes, folded neatly on one of the logs spread around the campsite.
“Empty,” he says, flipping the flap back down. He picks up the paper from on top of the clothes and reads, shaking his head before he holds it out. “For you.”
“Me?” I take the note while he disappears into the tent.
Stay warm. And alive.
—H
I roll my eyes and let the paper flutter into the fire. It will take Hex more than a pair of yoga pants and a clean hoodie to buy my forgiveness.