Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (45 page)

“Hell, no. Not at all.”

Zarachiel slumped back in his seat. “I thought maybe it’s a human thing, or something.”

Clark shot another glance over at Z. “You and Uriel never…”

“No.”

Clark sighed heavily. He switched lanes and slowed down. The cars abandoned along the road were thicker here, and he had to weave his way through the tangled web. “Look, Z. Maybe I really can’t keep an open mind. But if I’m wrong and she’s really not shady,” Clark forced the words from his mouth, hating them even as he spoke them, “then maybe she
is
just looking for comfort. I don’t know. Trust me when I say I am
not
the expert on relationships.”

Clark thought of Camille and her obvious disgust toward him. He couldn’t imagine what had happened during her time with Lucifer. Back at the compound, she’d been really into him. He’d even thought she loved him. Had been almost positive of it. Maybe it was stupid of him, but he really thought that once he saved her from Lucifer, they could be happy together.

“She’s going to be okay,” Zarachiel said quietly, speaking the words toward his window instead of looking at Clark.

It took a moment for Clark to realize that Z had picked up on his dark thoughts. But that was just Z’s way. “Why won’t she let me help her? Do you understand it?”

If anyone would understand Camille’s resistance, it would be Z. Clark could have healed the fractured bones in his back long ago, likely ending the angel’s pain completely. He might have even been able to grow Zarachiel’s wings back if the Archangel had let him try. But he’d refused all of Clark’s help from the very beginning.

Zarachiel was quiet for a long moment as he watched the gray, barren scenery flash by. Finally, he spoke, “I understand the torture.” The words were quiet, almost a whisper. “She probably feels powerless, like something important has been taken from her. She couldn’t do anything to save herself, and for a Throne angel like Camille, that alone would probably halfway kill her. She needs to be in control, to be powerful at all times. That’s what her foundation is built on. Her wings weren’t taken, but she probably feels as if they were. Everything that made her an angel was likely stripped away as Lucifer beat her. She lost herself into the darkest depths of her soul, and she just hasn’t found her way out again. So she probably feels like it’s easier to die than to climb back out.”

Z’s response sounded like they weren’t talking about Camille anymore. But he and Camille had been through so much; their plights were so similar. Yet it still didn’t make sense to Clark. “But if I could use my power to heal her, then she wouldn’t need to find her way again. She’d be fixed.”

They were almost to the town by now, and Zarachiel was checking his gun. “The night before your trial,” the Archangel finally said, “Camille talked about how you fixed her wing and what it felt like. She said when you used your magic to heal her and bridge the gap between the broken bones, that it wasn’t really marrow and calcium healing those shattered parts of her—it was bits of you fusing her broken bones together again. She felt it when it happened, and she feels it with every move of her wings. She feels
you
. Maybe…” Zarachiel stared down at his gun like he couldn’t meet Clark’s eyes, which kept flicking between the road and Z’s profile. “…Maybe she’s just scared. Scared to have any more of you inside her, like her love for you is breaking her, making her lose herself even more because she can’t separate where you end and she begins.”

“Oh,” Clark said, shivering. He felt the truth of Zarachiel’s words like a blade through his chest.

Zarachiel looked up, his forehead creased with concern. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“No, I get it. Or at least, I get it now. Camille would hate that. She’d despise those parts of her wings as much as she loved them.” Clark kept his eyes on the road, watching for the exit. “I get now why angels shouldn’t love humans.”

“Clark—”

“—Because humans…” Clark took a deep breath. “Humans don’t understand love until it’s gone. Until they’ve lost it—”

“You haven’t lost her.”

“—And angels understand love too well. Enough to hate it. Enough to see it’s a weakness. Those two things can never meet in the middle. How can she love me when I didn’t value her love enough to recognize it earlier, but how can I recognize love when she hates me for it? How can that ever work?”

“I don’t know, but Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Camille. Loving her is the hardest of all, because she wasn’t made for it. War is her only purpose. So she attacks love; she wants to rip it from her body, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of it or that you two can’t make it work. It just means you have to try harder. You have to help her through the bad parts. Love her through them. Show her that you finally recognize her love for you.”

“I do love her,” Clark said. “I just didn’t realize it would hurt so much to see her hate me for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Zarachiel repeated.

The town was three miles ahead. Clark slowed the car and got off one exit before he needed to. He glanced over at Zarachiel and tried to smile. From Z’s expression, it wasn’t a very good attempt. “Don’t worry about it. Camille and I can never seem to get the timing right anyway. If I can just get her better, we can figure everything else out, even if that means she doesn’t want me anymore. But right now, let’s focus on scaring these guys straight.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Clark maneuvered the car down the overgrown, desolate back roads. Once they were inside the town’s limits, he slowed, looking for a place to park where the car would be concealed and far from the blast radius should they decide to blow the explosives beside the bar. After a moment of searching—he and Zarachiel scanning the streets and pointing out possible options—they spotted an old carport with an empty slot. Clark turned into the driveway of the townhouse and eased the Chevelle into the spot. They made quick work of getting ready: strapping their weapons to various holsters, slipping ammo clips into pockets, and throwing an old car cover over the Chevelle. Clark nodded at Zarachiel, signaling for the angel to take the lead.

They set off from the townhouse, winding their way through streets until they were in the downtown district. When they got close enough, Zarachiel took to the alleys and back streets, keeping his footsteps light. Clark constantly scanned the streets and rooftops for lookouts, but he didn’t spot a single one. The town felt eerily empty, not even a piece of trash blew across the road. The houses were dark, some with anti-angel graffiti, which looked like slashes of red blood blotted over the doors. Zarachiel and Clark exchanged an uneasy glance and hurried away from the houses.

They were approaching the bar from the front, coming along the streets perpendicular to the building, so they could see things head-on. It also meant they could be more visible to lookouts, but it was the best vantage point. Zarachiel led them, moving stealthily through the shadows and using cars and dumpsters for cover. It felt like an hour had passed by the time they come within eyesight of the bar.

Zarachiel drew to a stop, not bothering to hide behind a car, his eyes darting about.

“What is it?” Clark whispered, worried that they should be hiding a little better.

As if she’d been waiting for his voice, Michaela appeared beside them. One second the air was clear and empty beside Clark, and then the next, it was full of Michaela, her expression tense as she locked eyes with Zarachiel.

“They’re gone,” she said, her voice hollow.

“What?” Clark asked a little louder than he should have. He’d never considered that the Loyalists would actually be a threat, that they would leave and take their arsenal of explosives with them before Clark could arrive. He stood up from behind the car and looked around.

“The trailer with the explosives isn’t here,” Zarachiel said, confirming what Michaela had said.

“There’s a few of them left behind in the bar as lookouts. A handful of women too. The guys are drunk.”

“What if they’re on their way to blow something up right now? What if we were wrong? What if it is the cabin?” Clark was already turning to leave, ready to sprint back to the car when Michaela touched his arm.

“Clark…”

“What?” he practically shouted.

“It was the Descendants’ compound.”

There was a significant lag between Michaela’s words and Clark registering what they meant. He couldn’t make himself understand them no matter how much he rearranged the words. “Holy shit! Go there and warn them!” he said, finally getting it.

Michaela’s gaze shifted ever so slightly at Clark’s command. The navy blue of her eyes faded, and the corners of her mouth tucked downward, like she wanted to grimace, but she was holding it back for Clark’s sake. “I did,” she said. “I tried to warn them.”

Clark swallowed, the sound echoing down the empty street. There were no cars or trucks parked outside the bar. The building looked just as empty as all the others. “You tried?”

“The Loyalists must have left here during the night and gone straight to the compound. It was too late.”

“Too late?”

“Look, I have to get back for the souls,” Michaela said, her tone turning quick and efficient. “There were survivors, Clark. The east wing with the Nephilim didn’t look as damaged as the rest. I’ll find out about your mom as soon as I can, and I’ll let you know, okay?”

Clark barely got out a nod before Michaela disappeared again. She left so quick that it was apparent she wasn’t waiting on a response from him. Feeling numb, he turned to Zarachiel. “This is my fault,” he said. “I didn’t think the Loyalists were a big deal. We should’ve…”

Zarachiel put his hand on Clark’s shoulder, shaking him. “It’s not. We had no way of knowing when they were going to attack.”

“But if we’d come back last night—”

“Camille was our priority. We can’t be in two places at once. We all made our decisions: Camille was more important.”

“Michaela didn’t even tell us how bad it was.”

From the tight set of Zarachiel’s mouth, Clark figured out that she’d done that on purpose too. He wondered how close the Loyalists had gotten. How they could’ve slipped by the sentries posted throughout town. Unless Bailey had called the sentries back to deal with the aftermath of Lucifer’s attack. Clark sighed heavily. He really didn’t know how things could get much worse. He felt a weight on his shoulders that threatened to squash him into the cracked, faded pavement beneath his feet. A plastic bag blew across the street and caught on a car’s bumper; it reminded him of the remaining Loyalists in the bar.

“What should we do with the other ones?” he asked.

Zarachiel thought on it for a moment and said, “Let’s leave them. We want to get the Loyalists all at once. And it’s clear they’re coming back here. We don’t want to tip them off.”

Clark couldn’t decide if that made sense or not. A dense fog had descended on his mind, and all he thought about were the refugees and his mom. The war was over, but Clark couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever felt this defeated.

“Let’s go back to the cabin. There’s nothing we can do here now. We can wait for Michaela there.”

Clark nodded. He wanted to check on Camille, see that she was still breathing with his own eyes. Michaela would be busy for a while, and they really needed her special abilities to take down the Loyalists. There would be no more scare tactics. When they came back for the Loyalists, they would come back to kill them. But as they walked back to the car, Clark could only think that they were giving the Loyalists more time to destroy something else.

Chapter Four

C
lark came through the front door and immediately went to Camille’s side. With a tiredness that went beyond exhaustion, he sank to the floor. He checked Camille over, his hands testing the tension in her belly, which was getting worse again without the bloodletting. The bandages on her wings were clean. When he finally found the courage to look at her face, she was staring right at him.

Her eyes were duller, the green similar to a deep, still sea rather than their normal spitfire emerald. The flesh around her cut cheek was still red and irritated. Clark went to trace his finger along it, needing to touch her, but she turned her face away. She smelled dirty and bloody, used and battered. They should have washed her better, he realized. She would’ve wanted Lucifer’s smell off of her.

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice cracking, but stronger than it had been earlier. Her eyes flared with accusation.

“What do you mean?”

“With Maya!” Camille coughed, her chest heaving. She smelled like death—decay hidden beneath sickly sweetness. “Did you sacrifice her to save me?”

“No way!” Clark said hurriedly. “Come on, Camille. You know me better than that. Maya thought she had some connection with him. She wanted to go with him.”

“You let her!” Camille’s growing anger made her cough and struggle against the pallet. Sweat sprung up along her brow. “You shouldn’t have done that. He’s going to hurt her!”

Clark didn’t know how to explain it to her. There was no way to tell Camille that Lucifer likely loved Maya in his weird and twisted way, and he would never hurt her, even though he’d spent days torturing Camille. That wasn’t something that could be said out loud. She would take it to heart and think something was wrong with her that people always wanted to hurt her, or something equally devastating. Clark couldn’t handle that right now. She was already too far gone.