Shattered Walls (Seven Archangels Book 3) Read online

  “You tried to double-cross your employers.” Michael opened his hands. “None of them are particularly charitable with regards to failure or treachery. You knew what you were doing. That’s a dangerous game, and sometimes you lose it.”

  Hastle jumped to his feet, wings spread. “I had a plan! You screwed up everything for me, but it would have worked! Don’t you understand?”

  Michael tilted his head. “You were going to build a weapon of your own, and then what? Become the most powerful sub-sub-sub-demon under one of the most powerful sub-demons on the Maskim?”

  “And then use it on myself!” Hastle shouted. “I didn’t need much! Just a little more and I’d have had enough to build my own permanent sphere and seal myself inside! They’d never have found me. That thing would have been undetectable, and I’d have disappeared. No one would even have noticed, and the only ones who did notice wouldn’t have been able to report it because saying anything would have tipped Satan off.”

  Michael’s feathers stood on end. Behind him, Saraquael projected horror. “But…you’d never have been able to get out.”

  “I’m in Hell!” Hastle’s eyes glistened with angry tears. “Do you think it matters where I am? Hell is inside me, but I never want to deal with those others ever again! The noise, the back-stabbing, the maneuvering, the hatred! When I went out there to pick off the last of the Sheol material, it was so quiet, and I realized that’s what I wanted. I don’t care if I can’t ever get out again. I’m already trapped!”

  Michael couldn’t relax his wings. He turned aside. “It didn’t matter. You couldn’t have kept that material anyhow. They’d have found it again and broken it open.”

  “Not if they didn’t think it was missing. They thought it had fizzled away into nothing, so why look for it?” Hastle’s voice broke. “Please, Michael. Give me back the rest of my stuff. Seal me inside it. After that, I don’t care what you do to it. Drop it into the Lake of Fire. Entomb it in the ice fields. I don’t care.” Hastle was crying now. “They’re going to torture me. It’s never going to end. Isn’t Hell enough? Please, Michael.”

  And Hastle didn’t even know Asmodeus was planning a long, long reckoning. Michael fought to look unaffected. Hastle was manipulating him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t being honest, though. It just meant he wanted something and had no idea how else to get it.

  Michael shook his head. “After the stunt they pulled, Belior and Asmodeus aren’t going to be on the Maskim anymore. How could Satan trust them again?”

  “Satan never trusted them in the first place!” Hastle’s fists clenched. “He’ll use their uncertainty to tie him closer to him, and they’ll sacrifice me in a second. Michael, I need that Sheol material.”

  Behind him, Saraquael spoke with an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “There isn’t any more. It’s all been changed.”

  Hastle crumpled back to his knees, then wrapped his arms and wings around himself. He projected despair.

  And then: Just let me stay here.

  It wouldn’t work. Michael knew that: at the Second Coming, Hell was going to be sealed off, and even if he stayed for now,Hastle would be ejected back into Hell then. Eternity was a long time. It almost didn’t matter how long he hid if he was going to be spending eternity beaten and tortured by his humiliated superiors.

  Folding his arms, Michael stared at the floor.

  Saraquael’s voice was quiet. “I have a suggestion.”

  Hastle didn’t even raise his head. Michael’s shoulders sagged. “Let’s hear it.”

  For Saraquael’s plan to work, Hastle had to cooperate, and he must have been telling at least some of the truth about wanting to disappear, because he answered their questions and even demonstrated some of the technique he’d used in Belior’s employ. Saraquael sat in the far corner, spinning light filaments into coils while Hastle criticized his technique and Michael sat, praying. Please, please, Father, if this isn’t your will, if this offends you, please let me know. But Hastle…Hastiel…this doesn’t interfere with your justice.

  And then, after miles of coil and three different types of weaving, Michael snuck back into Hell, Danel at his side in a black uniform. They slipped in and lost themselves in the upper caverns, worked their way through the lower ones, bypassed the Lake of Fire and entirely skipped the areas of impenetrable darkness.

  In the ice, Michael drilled for what felt like miles, a fist-sized hole directly downward through the ice layers. They were nowhere near the lab Belior had used, but the wind blasted them with the same ferocity, and bits of ice pelted any parts of them they’d left exposed. Danel stood with his wings clasped around his body.

  Michael got to his feet, brushing the ice off his gloves. He looked at Danel, who met his eyes.

  The wind was too violent to speak. Danel opened his hands and revealed a palm-sized cocoon. Melded into the fabric of the cocoon was a Guard woven by Saraquael, braided with a Guard from Michael and an emotional repulsion from Hastle. It was the same technique their enemies had used to create the tunnel between Hell and Creation. With Hastle’s input only on the inside, none of the demons would be able to detect it when they searched. If someone came close by accident, they’d want to leave it alone. And at the very center was the soul of Hastle himself.

  Only one step remained.

  Danel handed the cocoon to Michael, who crouched over the shaft he’d cored through the ice. When after a few minutes he still hadn’t let it go, Danel squatted at his side and held his hand on Michael’s. He pressed his forehead to Michael’s temple, and Michael felt him praying. He joined in the prayer, and then, when the cocoon slipped from their hands into the long icy shaft, they together followed it with a gentle heat to seal the ice tube behind it.

  Michael wrapped his wings around himself, and Danel wrapped his wings around Michael, and although the wind howled, the pair of them stood silent in the lashing sleet.

  Mary looked up from kneading bread to see a girl: short, blonde, and bedecked with earrings.

  “Remiel! You’re safe!” Mary rushed to her and embraced her, and Remiel snuggled against her: so warm, so soft. She squeezed Remiel, then held her at arm’s length to investigate. She was wearing the same clothing she had been when Satan had taken her, but no smoky smell clung to her.

  Remiel beamed at her. “It’s all right, Kecharitomene! We’re all fixed up.” She grabbed her by the hand and tugged her to the courtyard. “Come see!”

  Remiel was playing up the little kid routine, and Mary chuckled as she let Remiel take her out to the courtyard. Blinking in the daylight her eyes fell first on Zadkiel, and then on—

  Her son! She rushed to him, and he took her into his arms. Him. So warm, so present, so alive. She reveled in the feel of him, his realness and his love. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered. “You’re always here with us, but I’ve missed hearing you, talking to you.”

  “I know.” Jesus kissed her on the top of her head, and he held her tighter. “Just a little longer.”

  Mary ought to ask Zadkiel if she was all right, ought to invite them in and offer them hospitality, ought to do so many things, and she put them all out of her head because right now she just wanted to stay where she was forever.

  Finally Jesus relaxed his hold, and with reluctance she stepped back. She looked into his face, and it felt so good to see him again. That last look had been so many years ago, and whatever she saw today would have to hold her for more long years. She swallowed hard. “How long will you stay?”

  Jesus said, “A couple of my angels wanted to thank you for your help. I decided to accompany them.”

  Zadkiel reached for her, and it surprised Mary that she was still blind. But she’d said as much—it wasn’t a side effect of the weapon that had blinded her, but the deal she’d struck with God. Of course that would still be in force. Mary took Zadkiel’s hand, and Zadkiel suddenly smiled. She looked more relaxed than she’d been the entire time of her stay. “Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” Zadkiel
bowed her head. “We appreciate your sacrifice and the protection you gave.”

  Remiel bowed and gave her own thanks, but Mary could barely concentrate on them. She reached again for Jesus’s hand, noticing as she did how he still bore the nail marks through his wrists. Would those ever go away, or were they the jewels of his Kingdom, a permanent brand showing his right to the Kingship?

  Jesus said, “You were baking bread.”

  Mary’s head picked up. “Would you like some? No one bakes bread like your mother.”

  Remiel laughed out loud, and Mary rushed to the kitchen, took one of the warm loaves, and brought it out to Jesus along with a cup of wine mixed with water. After praying over the food, Jesus sat with her in the courtyard to eat, and while she sat at his side, Remiel and Zadkiel told her how they’d finally been freed of the shrapnel.

  Mary rested her hand on Zadkiel’s. “You were grieving too?”

  “Apparently.” Zadkiel gave a self-conscious laugh. “God summoned me before the throne afterward, and I’m going to be on furlough with Him in adoration while we get all this worked out.”

  Jesus said, “And Mom, as my own special thanks, I want to offer you a gift.” She waited, and he said, “Whatever you want. Ask for a reward, and I’ll give it to you.”

  Reeling, Mary realized what that meant. God saying He would give you anything meant…anything. Make me Queen of the Universe would be perfectly reasonable, as would, Give me eternal youth. She could ask for the wisdom of Solomon or for the restoration of Jerusalem from the Romans.

  What had Belior said? That God wouldn’t refuse her anything? And here she was actually in that position. It was insane.

  But that was how temptation worked, after all. God’s enemies had to tempt you with good things because nothing else would have appealed. Good things you shouldn’t have, or maybe shouldn’t have yet. What had Belior offered her? The ability to heal. Brilliance in preaching. Knowledge of everything. All good things, but not things she should have had from his hand.

  She’d refused, but now she could have them anyway.

  At last she broke the silence. “So many people come to me, asking for help. It’s not just Remiel and Zadkiel. Your Church needs so much right now, and so many people have asked for prayers, asked for advice, asked for assistance.” Mary wrung her apron in her hands. “I do for them whatever I can, but I can’t do the most important.” She reached for Jesus’s fingers, avoiding the wound on his wrist. “So the favor I’d ask is this: when people come to me for help, please, lead them to you. Don’t let them stop with me. I’m your mother, and I guess that counts for something, but I want you to give them the grace that leads to you because you’re my Savior also. ”

  “Let it be done.” Jesus leaned forward to kiss her, and she tried to savor his nearness and not cry, not now, not until he left again. “Be steadfast,” he whispered. “It’s only for a little longer, and then there’s our Eternity.”

  “I want to be with you.” Her voice broke. “Don’t let me leave you. Not even in the smallest ways.”

  “You will be with me in Heaven. You have my promise.” He squeezed her hand once more, and when she looked up, he was gone.

  Remiel and Zadkiel remained, and Remiel snuggled close to her. No doubt about it: she had definitely made herself younger than before. Zadkiel put her arm around both of them, and Mary tried to keep the warmth of Jesus’s presence in her heart for as long as she could after he’d gone.

  “Key!” A young girl’s voice penetrated the courtyard stillness, and all three of them looked up. Shortly they were swamped with girls: the fisherman’s daughters as well as the daughter of the household. Zadkiel was laughing, and it turned out she had a bag with her that Mary hadn’t noticed, and it contained a completed net for their father. The girls climbed over Zadkiel, asking her for a story, and Zadkiel agreed.

  Remiel pressed a heavy container into Mary’s hands. “It’s the wine made from honey. I promised you a jar, and here it is.”

  Mary wrapped her fingers around the ceramic, and she looked down at it in her lap. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  Remiel folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Long enough to intercept and debate with a former magician who’s en route to this house right now.”

  Before Mary could react, the youngest cried out, “Daddy! Daddy, Key finished the net for you!” and she brought her father over to them, half pushing and half tugging.

  The widowed fisherman inclined his head, then kissed Mary on both cheeks. He said, “I wanted to thank you for helping with the girls. They’ve been telling me the stories you’ve shared with them about your god.” His cheeks were flushed, and then he added, “I was wondering if you could tell me some of those stories too.”

  Mary’s heart thumped, and she prayed. Thank you. She closed her eyes and let the sunlight warm her face, and she felt God’s presence warm her heart. Thank you, and thank you again.

  Keep reading!

  I’ve got an excerpt of another novel, The Wrong Enemy, following the credits. Think of this as a Marvel movie. You wouldn’t want to miss out on the Easter eggs.

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  Excerpt: THE WRONG ENEMY

  By Jane Lebak

  No one knows why Tabris, a guardian angel, killed the child he vowed to protect. The boy Sebastian got into Heaven, but the angels don't understand why Tabris isn't in Hell. Instead God's given him a second chance.

  Another assignment. Another guardianship.

  Although he struggles to help this new child, a ten-year-old girl named Elizabeth, Tabris can't escape what he did with Sebastian. Elizabeth's co-guardian doesn't trust him at all, which makes sense because even Tabris doesn't trust himself. Everywhere he goes, the angels all know what he's done, and the only angel who seems to want him is a friend from long ago, now a demon.

  Shame and guilt follow Tabris like a shadow, but it's only the memory of the dead boy, and even though Sebastian still needs him, Tabris cannot face him. After what he's done, there's no way he can make it right. But his bright spirit is growing darker, and the other angels have realized that if Tabris can't accept the mercy he's been given, then he's going to fall forever.

  One

  Raguel waited at the back of the Judgment Hall to hear the verdict passed on the boy’s soul: Heaven. He nodded as he registered the word, but without rejoicing as he should have. Based on the expressions of the other witnesses, neither was anyone else. Half the angels in the room watched the boy as he leaped in delight and hugged the angel at his side, but the larger number studied the angel who stood at the back of the hall, Tabris.

  Tabris had not reacted to the echoing verdict. Staring only at the chains binding his wrists and securing him to the floor, he stood like a horse at a hitching post. Only once did Raguel see him look up, struggling to get a glimpse of the boy before the other angels crowded into his line of sight, but then they’d taken him away, and Tabris said not a word.

  Two Archangel guards flanked Tabris, one wearing a thousand-mile stare and the other struggling against grief. Everything about their posture read duty to Raguel, broadcast without words in their alert stance, the readiness of their weapons, their raised chins. Between them, Tabris seemed smaller,
slumped, his two-toned wings touching the floor. With a shudder, Raguel realized at least one of the guards had probably been his friend.

  They had no idea how to act. And rightly so. Angels didn’t usually take one of their own into custody.

  In the wake of the boy’s removal, motion animated the hall. Some celestials left, but many more took seats on the benches in front of and to the right of the judgment throne. The intensity of the Father’s light heightened to a brilliance that made Raguel gasp, but Tabris brought up his wings as a shield.

  God, have mercy. He looked again at Tabris, and the words cycled in his mind, a prayer tinged with dread when he considered what would happen next.

  One of the Archangels glanced at the other, and Raguel felt them exchange an unspoken question.

  He flashed to the trio, reappearing there the same instant he vanished from the previous spot. He had the highest rank of any present—one of the Seven Elite as well as the officer in charge of all guardian angels—and at his appearance, both Archangels saluted. Tabris recoiled and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  With a gesture, Raguel made the chains disappear. The Archangel with the thousand-mile-stare snapped to and looked at Raguel with relief, but the other guard protested.

  Raguel said, “He can’t run anywhere. And unless God damns him, he’s still one of us. Don’t forget that.”

  Tabris shivered. Even with the chains gone, he didn’t move.

  Raguel reached out with his emotions to reassure Tabris, a communication process angels use more efficiently than words, but Tabris retreated from his soul’s projection.

  Uneasy, Raguel advanced to the long table at the front of the room and leaned his muscular form on the edge to await the next phase of the trial. With raised wings, he inspected the broken angel. Then, sighing, Raguel turned toward God’s throne.

  One of the angels sounded a Shofar, and the room came to attention. The pair of guards escorted Tabris to the fore.