“Both?”
Michael stepped in through the shattered window, and Gabe blinked, glancing between them incredulously. “Dramatic entrances Mike? Are you taking drama lessons from his royal heinous?”
“If I never heard you speak again, it would be too soon,” Michael said, his voice low and laced with threat.
“He certainly seems to be takingassholelessons,” Foster muttered.
“No, that was a few millennia ago,” Gabe laughed. And then suddenly he was on his back. The insanity of the situation finally sank in, and he continued giggling despite the heavy weight on his chest.
“You have some fuckingnerve,” Michael had his throat in both hands, slowly and painfully tightening his grip until Gabe could no longer pull in a breath, let alone laugh. “Was it worth it, Gabriel? To steal my face to feed your unrequited desires?”
“Michael!” Luce grabbed him by the shoulders but couldn’t budge the bulk of muscle hell-bent on choking the life from the smaller angel. “Mikha’el, you need to let go!”
Foster was stunned. He had met Michael on few occasions, and he knew there was a past between his father and the other man. Although he couldn’t say he knew Michaelwell, he hadcertainly heard stories of his feats. This was completely out of character for the stoic, noble man he’d heard about. It was enough to make him hesitate, but not to render him useless.
Instinctively, Foster brought his hands up, as if he was going to grab the warrior by the arm. Instead, he felt something stirring within, guiding his movements. He closed his fists, and Michael reared back as if he’d been struck, grabbing at his chest with both hands. Foster blinked. Was that because of him? Interesting. He threw his hand to the side as if shoving open a curtain, and Michael flew backwards across the room, knocking into Lucifer and bringing them both to the floor of the trashed hospital room.
“Very interesting,” Foster murmured, looking at his palms curiously. It would seem Gabriel was right; he was much stronger now. A sense of cool detachment settled over him as he looked at the three men sprawled on the floor. There was too much drama happening here. He needed to get away and find somewhere that he could think.
“Son,” Luce tried once more, seeing the intent to flee clearly written on his son’s face. “Please, you need to see what we have seen. It will make everything clear to you.”
“I think things are clear enough, actually.” Foster arched a brow. “You claim Gabe has done something horrible and is using me for some nefarious purpose. I think it’s interesting that you only show your face in my life once I start growing stronger, and suddenly you want to be father of the year.”
“It has nothing to do with—” Luce started, but Foster spoke over him.
“In the same vein,” the demigod said, turning to where Gabe sat looking back at him curiously. “It is true that I’ve almost died twice in as many days under Gabriel’s guidance.”
“Son, I can explain everything.”
“Don’t call me son.” Foster turned sharply back to Luce. “I still don’t consider you my father.”
He walked toward the open window, gripping the empty frame and peering over the edge. In the courtyard below, he could see the chaos of their ceremony had drawn the attention of what seemed to be the entirety of the local police department.
Drawing on his new reserves of power, Foster carefully cloaked himself in glamour that would render him sightless to mortals. Even to those of Divine blood, he appeared as a simple shadowy outline of himself.
“Don’t follow me,” he demanded, and stepped out the same way Luce and Michael had come in, vanishing from their sight entirely.
Foster was in turmoil. It would likely have been worse if he could actively feel it. It was like there was a glass wall between his conscious mind and his emotions now. He knew he had done something horrible, and a part of him regretted it. The rest of him was drowning in the wash of power flooding his system, unable to truly feel the grief and pain. It was horrifying, in a strangely detached way.
He needed to ground himself and work out the full capabilities of his new power. There was one place he could think of that would fulfill both of those needs, and he made a beeline for his apartment building.
The charred exterior was even more depressing in daylight. Despair and a pang of longing rolled beneath the barrier that separated him from his emotions, and he strained towards them, desperate to feel something,anything.
Foster ducked under the yellow ribbon and crossed the grass, sodden with runoff from the fire hoses. Everyone who made it out had abandoned the foreclosed property, and they were probably busy looking for new places to live. The gaping hole in the building’s façade that had once housed the front door beckoned, and he stepped inside as if answering a siren call—dazed and a little uncertain, but unable to stop moving forward.
His feet, guided by muscle memory, stilled outside A2 as he had done every time he passed for the last week. Familiar guilt beat at the glass divide, and the waking Foster felt relief that it couldn’t reach him for once. He turned, dull-eyed, and started up the stairs. They creaked and strained but held even as his feet brought up little clouds of ash.
He paused on the landing of D floor. A shard of agony broke through the glass barrier, and he found himself looking at the soot-blackened door of D3 for a very long time, clutching his chest and gasping for breath. When he was able to fight back the threatening swell of panic, he nearly ran up the last flight of stairs.
E floor was always a bitshoddy.Being the fifth floor meant that when the landlorddidsplurge and schedule a yearly cleaning—coincidentally when the city would be scheduling inspections—the cleaners would always be worn out by the time they reached his landing. They’d show their faces, do a quick sweep and wipe the walls with an already well-used rag, then hurry back down to disappear for another 364 days. He often wondered how the building’s condition might have been improved had there been an elevator.
Regardless, he was used to the run-down state of his building. The flame-licked edges of the wallpaper peeling from the drywall were new, and unfortunately the threadbare carpet was no longer just filthy, but also alternately soaked and singed. Foster sighed and smoothed back a piece of hideous, flakingpaper. An electric jolt went through his gut, and he tensed so hard that his hand punched through the weakened drywall.
“No...” He snatched his hand back, pieces of broken plaster raining down on the ruined carpet. A dark blue mark like an ink stain spread across his palm, though it was vanishing before his eyes.No, no, no, no.
A mark like this was a glaring indicator that someone had been casting destructive magic recently, leaving a physical stain only visible to those with Divine power. Foster knew it hadn’t been him—all magic he worked was within the walls of his heavily warded apartment, to prevent any interference in his process.
A thought brushed the back of his mind, a fleeting glimpse of a memory, and he shoved it down under the glass with his emotions.No, nope, not going to happen.He refused to even consider that possibility.
