Set them free, fallen, the Throne commanded.
The angel stared at Andras and Patrick with its many eyes, bright enough to burn out optic nerves, the edges of its fiery wheel that spun and spun raging like the surface of the sun. The only reason Patrick didn’t go blind was because of Andras. Human eyes with human vision, yes, but the demon was still in control, capable of filtering out the damage.
Fear coursed through Patrick, and it wasn’t his—too ancient, too heavy, too filled with bitterness of a long-lost celestial war. The foreign emotion suffocated his thoughts as Andras faced off against an angel floating in a void that threatened to swallow the Great Lawn and everyone in it whole. Beneath that heavenly being stood Jono with Fenrir, the massive wolf unimpeded by Ginnungagap.
The Throne drifted closer, burning like a star.Leave the mortal flesh which does not belong to you, or I will break you out.
Andras had taunted Patrick in whispers and screams that the demon would never let him go. For all the demon’s hellish tenacity, when faced with a furious angel and an equally furious god wielding a primordial void, Andras did what all demons did.
The Great Marquis of Hell fled from the light.
Andras ripped his presence out of Patrick, and every single shred of the demon that pulled free left acid behind. Patrick screamed, as much from Andras fleeing as from the angel singing in his ears at a level that threatened to permanently deafen him.
Patrick crashed to his knees, body uncoordinated, like a puppet with its strings cut. His nerves buzzed as if he’d been shocked by a Taser. Maybe the aftermath of a demon leaving would be different if he’d willingly accepted Andras the way Estelle had, but Patrick would choose a bullet to the brain than being a meatsuit for a demon every time if that was the choice given him.
The soulbond snapped to life, flooding his soul with Jono’s presence again. The sensation made him gasp, its return almost as painful as its absence. Patrick slumped forward, breath stuttering in his lungs as he tried to get his hands to work, to brace himself for the fall, but his fingers barely twitched. Everythinghurt, and he could feel himself falling as if from a great distance, thoughts still not quite connected to his body.
“Patrick!Patrick!”
Wade’s frantic shout cut through the bone-aching sound of the angel’s voice. Red-scaled hands caught him by the shoulders before his face hit the ground and he broke his nose. He was yanked against a too-warm body, strong arms wrapping around him. Patrick would never tell Wade, but in that moment, the scent of fire was too close to the taste of hell for him. He sucked in a breath anyway, twitching through the aftermath of being himself—andonlyhimself—again.
“I have him!” Wade yelled.
Chaos erupted with his shout.
Flashes of negative light burst around them as more and more demons left their hosts. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut against the heavenly light, finally able to clench his hands into fists, control coming back one muscle at a time. The cascade of sensation left him with a headache that skirted migraine level, but he forced himself to breathe through it.
The angel had finally quit singing, but even those few seconds of listening with human ears and no demon in his soul to block the sound left Patrick wanting to puke up his guts. Then fiery heat erupted over his head as Wade roared, spitting flame at someone he couldn’t see.
Patrick forced his eyes open, spots dancing across his vision. He tried to orient himself, but everything spun horribly for a moment when Wade dragged him backward with preternatural speed, hands never letting him go. When they settled again, Patrick leaned over and got furiously sick.
“Fucking angels,” Wade muttered. “Fuckingdemons. Should’ve tried to eat him.”
“You’d be complaining for weeks about the taste in your mouth. No, thanks,” Patrick mumbled.
Wade pulled him into a tight hug, as much as to hold on to him as to ensure Patrick didn’t face-plant into vomit. “You’re back. Oh man, you sound like you again.”
Patrick spat out the bile coating his tongue to clear his mouth, still breathing the sour stench of it, but it was better than tasting hell. “Yeah.”
Wade batted at one of Patrick’s hands, opening up his fingers. Then something heavy and familiar was pressed against his palm, and Patrick stared down at the hilt of his dagger, the silvery words of prayers drifting across the matte-black blade.
“I kept it safe for you.” Wade’s voice pitched low, sounding small and bitter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”
Patrick curled his fingers around the hilt of the dagger, the world steadying around him. He reached up with his other hand to shakily pat Wade’s arm that was still wrapped around his chest.
“I wouldn’t want them to have you,” Patrick said.
“But—”
“It’s not your fault, and it never will be.”
“Okay.” Wade tightened his hold a little. “I found a new bakery by my apartment. They have really good cupcakes. I’ll buy you some.”
“Sure.”
A streak of orange and black skidded to a stop in front of them, snarling furiously at a pair of wolves trying to get past Emma’s shifted form. Sage’s tail lashed back and forth before she launched herself into the fray, claws flashing as she took down a pair of god pack members.
“We need to get you out of here,” Wade said, dragging both of them to their feet. He slung Patrick’s arm over his shoulder, easily taking Patrick’s weight.
