He took another shaky breath, focusing on Gabe and the steady, grounded cadence of his voice. Once again, a woman he loved lay dying and Gabe was his only lifeline. Once again, his father was nowhere to be found. The irony was like salt in the wound.
A few long moments of stilted breathing in response to gentle murmuring, and Foster had calmed enough to regain his composure. He scrubbed at his damp eyes with frustration, hating the display of weakness but hating the situation more.
"Foster," Gabriel said, and the subtle trace of steel in his voice had Foster bracing himself before the other man couldeven continue. "The time has come to do what needs to be done. I’m sorry to be so direct, but you must stop being stubborn."
Foster could almost feel his eyes bugging out as he opened his mouth to protest, but Gabriel kept on. "You are the closest thing I've ever had to a son. You may feel weak right now, but I know your true strength. And you are strong enough to give this woman the release she needs.”
Silence stretched. Foster refused to speak, turning over those words that were like so many knives in his heart and whatever was left of his soul. How could Gabe be suggestingthat, of all things, right now?
"Look at her, Foster. She's in unfathomable pain. Nearly half of her body has been melted off. Her wounds are oozing blood and Jehovah knows what else. The agony must be excruciating.” He paused, studying the young demigod. “Surely you can’t be cruel enough to let her endure for the sake of your selfish desires. You're not yourfather, after all."
Foster fought back another heave at the sucker punch statement.
“Fuck you,” he finally managed to croak, but there was no heat behind it. Gabe was right, and it fucking sucked. “I don’t want to kill her, Gabe.”
“Foster,” the response was sad. “She’s beyond saving.”
No. She couldn’t be, she wasn’tallowedto die. He would fight all of Heaven himself to prevent it.
“What would she want, Foster? To suffer in pain for hours until she’s eventually called home in the end? Or to go peacefully through your mercy right now, and give you something back in exchange?”
His frantically beating heart stilled at this, stuttered, skipped a beat, and kicked back in harder. To trade one life for another…it made him feel dirty to consider it. He flashed back in his memories, to a tiny body laid ever so gently on a ritualpentagram, to the sticky, wet slide of her blood against his fingertips.
He could feel the echo of those tears in the trails of damp salt on his cheeks now.Mercy… it was a concept dependent on perspective. Sra. Delgado’s ventilator whirred and clicked, breathing for her while she lay unconscious.
It sent him back to another bedside he had cried beside, fifteen years ago. The woman in that bed had been pale, not charred, covered in a sheen of feverish sweat instead of bandages. But once again, he was about to lose a woman he cared deeply for.
Carmen was old, and she lived alone. She always tried to take care of him despite her bad hip and dwindling health. Is this what she would want? To be... set free? To help him one last time?
Gabe’s hand closed on his shoulder again. “You know what you should do, son.”
Foster hung his head, tears redoubling. He had no idea what heshoulddo, but he knew, deep down, the choice he had already made.
Chapter Twenty
The path Sachiel had marked out wound languorously through the city, and Michael cursed the other man for his laissez-faire demeanor. He was ninety percent certain there was a more direct path, and he would’ve accused Sachiel of leading him on a wild goose chase if he didn’t know the Fallen had always been meandering and relaxed, even when he needed to be serious.
Eventually the trail led him into an alley between a deli and a barber shop. Michael scanned the grime-streaked brick walls of the alley. Pops of color peeked through in broad swirls and what might be letters, but unless the graffiti contained some secret code, it wasn’t going to make this any less of a dead end. There were no doors, no archways. He quickly swept the ground and affirmed that no, there were no trap doors or manholes hidden under the piles and bags of garbage, either.
“Dammit Sachiel,” he groaned. First he leads him on a ridiculous path, wasting his time and energy, and now he’s expected to what? Walk through solid brick?
No. He had to stop, center himself. He was the best tracker Heaven could claim, and he was better than this. If he could focus…he could find the entrance. The golden angel steeledhimself for what he needed to do. Drawing a dagger from its sheath strapped to his thigh, he weighed it carefully, then slashed it quickly over his forearm.
A twinge of pain, a spray of golden blood, but nothing he couldn’t bear. Already the pain dulled, and the flesh began to knit over the shallow wound. That was fine; he only needed a small amount of blood. Dipping his index finger into the shimmering gold, he went down on one knee and began to carefully trace symbols onto the slimy pavement, trying to ignore the potential sources of years of layered residue.
Getting a general sense of direction or following a trail was one thing. That was like echolocation, telling him which way to move. But when the trail died out, the only option left was to dig deeper and peel back the layers of interference, until he could expose the living memories embedded in the fabric of reality.
The simple sigil relied mostly on the blood of the caster to determine its strength, and he finished it quickly. Almost instantly, trickles of magic echoed back to him, a testament to his skills as well as the recency of the trail. A small smile danced over his lips.Still got it.
Closing his eyes, Michael did not sink back down into the void of his senses but instead pulled at the edges of the magic spreading through the alley. Unlike tracing someone’s steps by the feel of the magic alone, his fingers trailed lightly through the air, reaching along invisible threads as if there was a rope there, guiding him deeper into the alley. Flickers of images teased the corners of his vision, a scene like a movie clip forming in his mind.
A hidden door, here in the back wall. And to open it… Suddenly, there was a flare in the connection. The difference was as drastic as overpowering a candle by turning on a lamp. The image shattered before he could make out the method of entry, and Michael cringed.
A man stood before him. A man he knew well, which was unfortunate. Despite his long hair, pulled into a low tail at his nape, and the layers of jewelry and black leather he wore, this was no common punk. This was a fellow immortal, one who was every bit as deadly and nearly as powerful as Michael, if more inclined to work in the shadows than on the front lines. When Balthazar chose to show himself to you, it was already too late to run.
“Come on, Mikey,” his voice was like smoke over stone, smooth with a touch of roughness, and he looked distinctly displeased despite the pleasant tone he attempted. His false smile was betrayed by the hard anger in his gaze. “You should know better, really. My Eyes see everything, and we’re very careful about monitoring our borders.”
Michael said nothing, his hands hanging still at his sides but within reach of the dagger he had re-sheathed. The other man clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at him.
