ABADDON
I amangry that my brothers have driven Hannah-consort from the room. I want her back. I want to roar at her to return. Or better yet, chase her to her bedroom, tie her to the bed, and feed her the last bits of food from the tip of my claw.
She does not even look back at me as she leaves.
The fury that burns low in my belly feels like hellfire, not that of the angels. But for once in my damned life, I manage to stay still.
I swallow my rage. For as much of a fool as I am beginning to realize that I am, I do see this: I am pushing her away even as I aim to draw her near.
But the fury bubbles nearer the surface because I do not know how to change it.
I am a monster. I was built to conquer through destruction, pestilence, and death. I am a despicable creature. There is no solace to be found in my arms, and yet I cannot—willnot—give her up.
Even as I watch her walk away from me.
As soon as her footsteps fade on the stairs, I turn my attention to my brothers. On them, at least, I don’t have to hold back.
“You,” I snap at Remus, pointing a clawed finger at his smirking face. “Give me your twin. Now. I need Romulus to scry.”
Fire flashes in Remus’s eyes. He’s always hated relinquishing control, but I don’t have time for his ego.
“Do you want to lose her?” I demand. “Hannah encountered someone the day she left the dungeon. A man who gave her clothing and took her into his cottage.”
Remus shrugs with infuriating casualness. “So?”
I surge toward him, barely restraining myself from wrapping my hands around his throat. “Thing razed the nearest village two centuries ago. I’ve maintained a hundred-mile perimeter ever since, giving plague to anyone who dared come close. There should be no one out there. No cottage, no hermit, no place to run.”
“Maybe you’ve gotten lazy,” Remus taunts.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you—Ihaven’t.” My voice drops to a dangerous growl. “Which is why I need your twin to scry and find out what the hell is going on.”
For a moment, Remus’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. Then his eyes roll back, his face goes blank, and his head performs that sickening one-eighty turn that never fails to disturb me.
Romulus blinks awake, immediately accessing their shared memories with that creepy upward eye movement that makes my skin crawl.
“Lovely to finally have you join us,” I say once he’s oriented. “Now call the angel runes.”
Romulus stretches, reacquainting himself with control of their body. “I haven’t scried in over two centuries, brother.”
“It’s like riding a bike; it’ll come back to you.” I clap him on the shoulder, then squeeze. “Hannah was right about one thing. We’ve all been rotting down there too long. Time to live again. Which means being ready for whatever threats might be coming for what’s ours.”
Romulus pulls away with that calculating look he’s perfected over the millennia. “Don’t pretend this is for our collective good. You’re being predictable again—taking the path that serves your desires. Just like always.”
The accusation stings because it’s partially true, but before I can respond, he claps me on the back. “But your predictability is oddly comforting, brother. And yes, if there’s something out there that might threaten what we now have to protect, we need to be ready.”
We move to the open half of the hall, giving Romulus space to spread his magnificent wings. His tail lashes as he begins chanting in the bell-like angelic language that few of us bothered to learn.
Watching him work brings back memories of the day Father created the twins. Each experiment had been more disastrous than the last, but Father’s ambition wouldn’t be denied. When he first saw Romulus emerge from the creation basin—beautiful, winged, perfect—he laughed with pure joy.
Then their head spun, revealing Remus, and Father’s joy turned to rage. The first thing my brother experienced in this world was being beaten for the crime of existing.
Father’s “gift” to them was the spirit of War—eternal conflict for control of a single body, bringing spite and enmity wherever they went.
It hasn’t been easy for any of us. But watching Romulus now, I feel something I haven’t experienced in centuries: shame for my own role in their suffering.
I’m the eldest. In this cold universe, if not each other, who else do we have? I should have protected them instead of believing Father’s lies about strength and weakness.
Wind begins to whip around Romulus, white-blue runes appearing between his outstretched hands. They glow brighter, cutting through realms?—
