“Bran is just doing his job.” Nathaniel ran a hand over the stubble of his skull-shorn hair.
“You’re always just doing your job, aren’t you?” Saul jabbed Bran’s chest with his finger.
Bran took a step back. “Don’t touch me.”
“Or you’ll what?” Saul followed his retreat. “Get good old Uncle Nate to slap my wrist?”
“You need any help over there, just let me know.” Reuel kept right on playing his hand.
“This is a family matter.” Saul shifted his glare onto Reuel. “So fuck off.”
Reuel didn’t miss a beat. “Like I said, Nathaniel, you need me, I’m here.”
“Thanks.” Nathaniel sighed. “Bran and I can handle him.”
“Whatever you say.” Reuel went back to his game and Nathaniel was grateful for it.
“No one is
handling
me.” Saul shoved Nathaniel. “I am not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one,” Nathaniel snapped.
Bran touched Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Delphi is waiting.”
Nathaniel returned to the card table and rapped his knuckles. “Everyone out. I’m heading to work.” He arched an eyebrow. “Who’s with me?”
The other harvesters found ways to appear busy while they avoided his gaze.
“There’s one more collection due.” Bran raised his voice over the discontented murmurs. “You all know the rules. One collection made per harvester per day. That means one of you has to step up and—”
“I’ll take it.” Saul leaned toward Bran. “You’ve killed any chance for fun anyway.”
“I don’t think so.” Bran scrunched his face. “Your breath could peel paint. How much have you had to drink?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” His voice lowered. “I said I’d take the job.”
“Enough.” Nathaniel separated them, exchanging a look with Bran that said to humor Saul while they sent the others packing. Saul was a dirty fighter when he drank, and Nathaniel wasn’t in the mood to clean up the mess afterward.
“Never a dull moment around here.” Reuel caught the glance too. He stood and stretched his arms overhead. “If you’re, ah, headed out for the night, then you won’t mind if I…” His gaze lingered on an open pizza box and a picked-over basket of hot wings.
Nathaniel shook his head. “Take it.” He glanced at the others. “Same goes for the rest of you. Take whatever you want.”
By the time he got home, food would be the last thing on his mind.
Reuel took point and divvied up the spoils with good-natured ribbing. The same sleight of hand that earned him the dealer spot week after week also made his take-home pile grow taller with each helping he dished out. His hijinks earned him a rare smile from Nathaniel.
“All right, boys, let’s leave the men to their work.” Reuel shook out his wings and lifted his takeout boxes in salute. “This cute little thing moved into the apartment next to mine. I think I’ll see if she’s interested in a little ‘welcome to the building’ dinner for two. Hey, you got any more beer?”
“There’s another case in the fridge.” Nathaniel waved him on. “Help yourself.”
Reuel disappeared into the kitchen. He strolled out with a wink, a quart of chocolate ice cream, and two spoons. “You were done with this, right?”
Nathaniel sighed.
Reuel executed a shuffle step on his way from the room.
Leftovers clutched in hand, the harvesters ambled onto the second-story balcony. They formed a loose line from habit and took turns unfurling their membranous wings and leaping into the open sky. Soul cloth billowed in the air, clinging to bone where feathers and flesh once grew.
Once in the air, each harvester made a concentrated downward thrust, slashing open a rift with the copper dagger from their belts.
The individual portals swallowed them down, leaving Nathaniel alone with Saul and Bran, or as he had come to think of them, between a rock and a hard place.
The two were a study in opposites, and each was a bone of contention in his relationship with the other. The pair even stood at odds. Bran with his spine ramrod straight and shoulders back, Saul with a hip leaned against the sofa. Though today, it might be the only thing propping him upright.
Saul grunted as he straightened. “Let’s get this over with.”
Nathaniel pushed him back down. “We can’t let you go out like this.”
Red-rimmed eyes glared back at him. “I said I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Bran exhaled on a tired sigh. “You can barely stand. You’re in no condition to harvest.”
“Don’t tell me what condition I’m in.” Saul’s head swung his way. The thick shame in Bran’s voice ignited Saul’s temper between one heartbeat and the next. “You have no right to judge me.”
“I have
every
right.” Voice crackling with old fury, Bran pitched fuel on the fire.
Chest heaving and teeth bared, Saul challenged, “You have no idea what it’s like—”
“You’re right,
Father
,” Bran cut him off. “No one could possibly know
your
pain because you’re the only one who’s ever lost everything. Thank God you found salvation in the bottom of a beer bottle.” His jaw clenched and his voice graveled. “You were
not
the only one left alone. You are
not
the only one she left behind.”
Nathaniel grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t do this.”
But Bran wasn’t listening. “You didn’t even visit her grave. My flowers were the only ones there.” He shoved Saul’s shoulder. “How can you say you loved her so much, yet deny her even that small show of respect?”
“Because her soul isn’t there,” Saul bellowed as he rounded on Bran. “I have no use for a handful of bones and dirt. That is not my Mairi.” Saul launched his fist at Bran. “Your mother is not in some fucking hole in the ground.”
Nathaniel intercepted Saul and his jaw popped from the punch meant for Bran.
“Damn it.” Saul shook his hand. The sharp pain cut through his drunken haze, and his eyes cleared enough to focus with accusation in their depths. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Bran pushed Nathaniel aside. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” Nathaniel ignored his brother but met his nephew’s wounded gaze. “You just shouldn’t have to.” Not when being half human and half angel meant the Nephilim was no match for his father, for any of them, physically. Nathaniel rubbed his stiff jaw while keeping an eye on Saul. “You have had too much to drink. Go home. Sleep it off.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He lifted a hand in Bran’s direction. “Sorry, kid.” Gingerly, he made his way to the balcony and disappeared over the edge.
With his hands shoved in his pockets, Bran stared at the space his father had occupied. “You ever get tired of breaking us up?”
“We’re family.” Nathaniel clasped him on the shoulder. “We’re all we’ve got.”
Bran’s pained expression spoke volumes about his feelings on being lumped in with Saul.
“What do you want to do about a replacement?” he asked at last.
“I can ask if Reuel wants to earn his leftovers.” Nathaniel scratched his scalp. “I should have asked him to stay when I had the chance. He went straight home, which means he’s with his flavor of the week by now.” Saul wasn’t the only harvester who used a mortal woman to while away his hours, which meant he and Bran had few choices, and none were appealing.
Exhaustion made Bran slump while old grief turned him quiet, introspective. Conversely, the argument with Saul left Nathaniel wired on adrenaline. “I’ll handle them both.”
“It’s against the rules,” Bran said with less conviction than before.
“It’s not the first time a harvester has covered someone else’s collection.” Nathaniel doubted it would be the last. “We’ve wasted more time arguing than it will take to do the work.”
“If Delphi asks…”
“He won’t have a reason to.” Nathaniel reached for the shears at his hip. “Once darkness falls, the soul pits will have their donations and I’ll be home in bed.”
Bran gave him a tired look. “One day you’ll have to stop covering for him.”
“I know.” He’d been telling himself the same thing for ages.
The rift spat Saul above a rainy field in North Scotland. Through the haze, he spied a gnarled tree reaching its spindly branches over a small graveyard. Bran wanted him to visit Mairi’s grave, so visit Mairi’s grave he would. He’d been here once before, a long time ago. He wondered who had died that three headstones rose from the muck. Daffodils marked the smallest grave as hers.
Mairi’s dutiful son had left her bones an offering. How quaint.
Bran didn’t understand. No one understood. That mound of dirt was nothing, meant nothing.
Saul’s head fell back on his shoulders. Cold rain pelted his face as he glared heavenward.
There was his Mairi. Her soul was trapped behind Aeristitia’s golden gates.
His fists clenched. If it took the final breath of his existence, he would see her freed.
He was close, so close to finding a way to bring her back. A willing body to house her soul could be found with ease. Obtaining her soul… tethering her soul… those were the hard parts. If Nathaniel allowed him to borrow the shears, Saul could… But Nathaniel would never say the words to transfer their power to him or use them in any way except the manner Delphi intended.
Time, a smidgen more time was what he needed. He wasn’t prepared for Mairi yet. He could wait a little longer. One day Nathaniel would need help, and Saul would be there. He’d be ready.
Through the film of alcohol numbing his brain, Saul decided to leave Bran proof of his visit.
Evidence guaranteed to send his darling son tattling to his dear Uncle Nate.
Crossing to the headstone bearing Mairi’s name, Saul kicked it hard enough the stone split in two. He hefted the top portion and threw it as far as his strength allowed, then snatched the roses and beheaded them. When that wasn’t enough, he ground them into the very dirt Bran seemed to believe represented his mother. Panting through the rush, he stared at the other two headstones. It shocked him to read his name engraved on one and Bran’s upon the other. Fitting, he supposed.
All Saul’s dreams had died with Mairi. He only wished he could say the same for their son.
“I grow tired of waiting, Saul.”
Saul clamped his hands over his ears.
“Get out of my head.”
“I will not wait much longer for results,”
the mental voice hummed.
“Come to me. Now.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
A lightning bolt pierced Saul’s shoulder, dropping him to his knees.
“I bade you come, and you will heed my call.”
Their connection crackled into silence. Saul braced his forehead on the ground until he could breathe again. How the hell Azrael had learned to tap into the harvest bond, Saul didn’t know.
Then again, he was sure being the Angel of Death came with perks.
Saul’s wings unfurled and hung limp around him. Holes gaped in the fabric. He’d be lucky if his wings held him now. Perfect. He hissed a curse when his wing crackled as they opened.
“Saul.”
The single word rang with warning.
Saul palmed his knife and carved a rift. He tumbled headlong into Hell, the one place Azrael couldn’t reach him telepathically or otherwise. Oh, he’d pay for this indiscretion. He always did.
Today it was worth the punishment awaiting him once he returned topside.
The crack of whips faded, their stings healed. Knives, ropes, chains all left wounds he could heal. Eventually. What he was about to see was worth the price soon to be taken from his flesh.
Scalding air ripped his first breath from his lungs. His lips chapped, tongue dried as he panted. His eyes itched and burned. He blinked. It didn’t help. Once his vision adjusted to the heat mirages cast about him, he began walking. He used the black mountain range in the distance as his guide. When he reached the base of the northernmost peak, he slid through a tight crevice.
His ache for Mairi clouded his thoughts until he knew only one sight would appease him.
He entered a valley ringed by mountains. A cave loomed ahead with an arched entryway. From its mouth poured pale-skinned creatures. Their eyes were the same bloodred as the skies overhead. They had all been human once. Their souls had been mortal as well. No more. They were immortal, ravenous beasts with a single thought—to feed. Flesh or souls, it didn’t matter.
Azrael had done this. Saul had helped.
The angel was building an army.
Saul, well, he was learning the process. If souls could be stuffed into corpses and reanimated to make this army, then a soul could be placed within a host body and Mairi could be reanimated.
Resurrection was possible. These creatures were proof of that. But Azrael’s process was flawed. Saul rubbed his face. He was missing something; a vital ingredient had been overlooked.
Azrael allowed Saul’s experiments. Saul demanded perfection while Azrael was pleased with the slavering beasts. Saul had agreed to help Azrael on the understanding Azrael would teach him the secret to reviving Mairi. Though Saul followed the steps he’d been taught, he suspected a few were missing. Was Azrael holding out? Did he not know? Centuries later, Saul still wasn’t sure.
Anger boiled within his chest. He was so close, but this was not the way. He would not let Mairi be reborn into the horror of this form. She would be revived as perfect as she had been in life.
“Come to see your handiwork?” a cool voice called from a ledge overhead.
“Has there been any change?” Saul glanced up, catching the ruffle of black feathers.
“None.” The seraph confirmed Saul’s fears. “This batch has soul-lust, just as the others do.”
“I would not use that crevice if I were you,” a second voice warned. “It has been far too long between feedings. Your wings are in no shape to save you should your creations decide your soul is on the menu.” He paused. “Mention that to Azrael. We will guard only as long as we are safe.”
“Have there been more escape attempts?” Saul hoped not. He’d hate to thin their numbers.
“One a day,” the first seraph answered. “They are testing the valley for weak spots. We rest here because this is the only entry or exit. This is where they will come. Your scent lures them to us now.”