Page 144

Under a mess of auburn hair was a face that at first glance seemed young, and then older than one could imagine. A face that age did not touch, and despite the smile, an inhuman and vicious one. Around each of his wrists was a bracelet of raw red flesh, as though he had been manacled for many years. In his eyes were twin burning red flames, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to scrape against her eardrums.

“I am Azazel,” said the Prince of Hell. “I am the lord of the deserts, master of warcraft. I taught the angels who rebelled against Heaven the art of warfare, and humanity the way of weapons. I guard the sword of Lucifer. I corrupt the world.” His burning gaze went to Ash. “And who are you? You are nothing, a human puppet. But you were meant for a throne, and you will sit upon it and do the bidding of the lords of Hell.”

The last words came out as a fiery, terrifying hiss that prickled Dru’s skin as if she had passed through the heart of a flame. They were words that demanded obedience not just to Azazel but to a force as great as Heaven—its mirror opposite. Dru half remembered something Azazel had said to her at the revel, about angels white with terror, and she felt that terror in her bones.

Ash. She chanced a quick look at him. His eyes were blazing, his face paper white. With fear or fury, she didn’t know; all she knew was that if he attacked Azazel, he wouldn’t survive the next five seconds. “Ash,” she whispered. “Give me Phaesphoros.”

Ash didn’t respond, didn’t look at her. He said, “Your words offend me, Azazel. I thought that we were meant to be allies. This is hardly how you speak to an ally.”

Azazel laughed. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn.” His voice was slippery as fresh blood. As he spoke, Dru felt Ash turn toward her, pressing something quickly into her hand.

The hilt of Phaesphoros.

“If your plan is to be obedient,” said Azazel, “then you will discover that those who court the good opinion of the Princes of Hell find much to reward them. Riches, perhaps? Royalty, you already have. Women—?”

Phaesphoros sang in Dru’s hand as she thrust it forward, pointing the tip at Azazel. “All right, Beezlewad,” she said, “that’s enough out of you.”

“Beezlewad?” Azazel looked incredulous. “You are stupid enough to insult me, Nephilim? You think you can harm me with that—that toothpick?”

“No,” Dru said, “I don’t think that.” And with a swift movement, she was behind Ash, her right arm wrapped around him, her free hand raising Phaesphoros to his throat. Ash’s eyes widened; she knew he was playacting, but his shock seemed real. “Ash will not be your puppet Prince. He will not sit on this throne doing the bidding of your brothers. I will see to that.”

Azazel hesitated. Then: “You could never hurt him,” said the flame-eyed demon. “You wouldn’t.”

“She absolutely would,” Ash said, and she could feel him as he spoke, feel the vibration of his words through the blade she held. She wished she didn’t have to press it so tightly to Ash’s throat, but Azazel had to believe her capable of killing him. She tried to read Azazel’s expression, the look in his eyes—

But he was staring past Dru, his expression disbelieving. Dru, keeping the sword blade steady, turned very slightly to follow his glance.

Something that looked almost like a shadowy tunnel had opened in the air behind her. It made a hissing sound, like acid eating through metal, and for a moment she wondered if it was Azazel’s doing. But from the look on his face, this was something else.

Light grew inside the tunnel, illuminating the shadows. Now it was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. She could see darkness and at the end of the darkness, two small figures.

One of the figures was surrounded by a bright nimbus of golden light, like an angel. The other figure was reaching out to her. They were getting closer, growing larger in her vision. She could see that the one farther back, wearing the crown, was Kit, and the one with the outstretched hand was—

“Ty,” she whispered. She heard Azazel curse. Ty was so close now, in a moment she’d be able to reach him. Grasp his hand. With a swift movement, she removed the blade from Ash’s throat and slammed it into the sheath on his back. As he turned toward her, the look on his face shocked her.

She said, “Ash—”

“Move,” he said, and shoved her toward Ty. Light and darkness flashed inside the tunnel, stippling Ty’s face with shadow, but it was still Ty, still her brother. She reached out a hand, her fingers almost touching his.

A terrible sound came from behind her. She half turned and saw that Azazel was climbing down the steps from the throne, but he no longer looked as he had. He was changing into something she could barely force herself to look at—something with a segmented body, a blind, toothy face, and scabrous green skin. Ash was backing up, almost colliding with Dru, a look of nauseated horror on his face.

“Dru!” Ty cried out, lunging forward as far as he could without leaving the tunnel. “Take my hand! Now!”

With one hand, Dru seized hold of the back of Ash’s tunic. With the other, she grabbed hold of Ty. She felt Ty lace his fingers through hers, and then the tunnel was contracting, pulling them inside, taking them all with it. Azazel and the throne room vanished as darkness surrounded and lifted Dru, carrying her and her companions back to the mortal world.

It felt like falling, as if Dru were still tumbling toward the Hudson River on that night when Ash had saved her at Pandemonium. She reached out, but there was nothing to hold on to: Everything was moving darkness until she hit the ground hard.

Breath knocked out of her, Dru sat up, gasping. The first thing she realized was that she was in the middle of a street. It was night, and a fine misty rain was not so much falling as drifting. It softened all the ugly edges of the mundane world, all the things that struck her now as harsh and unnatural: lampposts glowing with bright electric light, road signs (which were, she noted, in German), steel pay stations for parking, metal grilles over the doors and windows of closed shops.

Ash had fallen alongside her; he rolled quickly to his feet. He was already wet, splashed with dirty water, watery blood running from his damp clothes into the gutters. His green eyes flicked around warily, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Dru couldn’t help but stare at him. Not because it was astonishing that he was here, in the mortal world, though that was true. But because as she looked at him, she seemed to see not just Ash as he was now, alert, bloody, narrow eyed, but mirror versions of him, a bewildering mix: Ash smiling, Ash turning toward her, Ash with his face in his hands, Ash with a long cut on his cheek…

She stared, realization starting to dawn, until Ty collided with her, pulling her into his arms; over his shoulder, Dru could see Kit watching them, an oddly distant light in his blue eyes. He was taller than she remembered, his face a little thinner; like Ty, he was in gear, and she could see battle runes on his hands, his neck.

Unlike Ty, there was a large golden crown circling his forehead. Dru recognized the faerie workmanship immediately: The crown bore a pattern of leaves and thorns so naturalistic that they would have looked alive if they had not been such a bright gold.

For a moment, overwhelmed, she buried her head against Ty’s shoulder. He didn’t always want to be touched, but when he did, he gave the best hugs. He rubbed her back, and when he drew away it was slowly, his hands on her shoulders, steady and warm. He looked down into her face, and she allowed herself finally to feel a profound sense of relief. Ty was exactly as she remembered—she hadn’t lost years of mortal life while she was in Faerie.