End of Days (Penryn & the End of Days 3)

‘I return to my family and try to keep us all alive.’

‘Everybody? You’d try to keep all of us alive?’

‘I meant my family. That’s hard enough. How would I even begin to keep everyone alive?’

‘If the only one who can kill an angel can’t do it, then who can?’

It’s a good question, one that takes me a minute to come up with an answer. ‘Obadiah West can. Him and his freedom fighters. I’m just a teenager.’

‘History is filled with teenagers who lead the fight. Joan of Arc. Okita Soji, the samurai. Alexander the Great. They were all teenagers when they began leading their armies. I think we’re back to those times again, kid.’

27

We weave sedately through the abandoned cars on the road. Occasionally, I see people scurrying away when they spot our car. It must be a strange sight, seeing a luxury caravan cruising down the road. Not that everybody hasn’t already picked an expensive car to try out, but that phase mostly ended in the first couple of weeks. After that, it was all about keeping a low profile.

The miles pass as I try to figure out how and when my escape should happen. We’re moving too fast for me to jump out of the car. Just as I decide that I won’t be able to make a run for it, we slow to a stop.

There’s a roadblock of cars up ahead.

At first glance, it looks like a mutated, multi-angled scarab grown to fill the entire road. The cars are artfully laid out to make it seem as if it were happenstance, but my intuition tells me it’s probably tactical.

My driver reaches down and pulls up a pistol. I don’t have my sword on me, so I’m on my own.

I casually check the back door to see if I could make a run for it. But before I can make a move, men with guns emerge from behind the cars. Homemade tattoos are scrawled across their necks, faces, and hands. A street gang.

They come at us with bats and tire irons. One of them swings a tire iron into the windshield with a thunderous slam that makes me jump in my seat.

The glass turns white with a million cracks around the impact area but leaves the rest intact.

Baseball bats pound on the hood and doors. The gang spreads out to attack the other cars. The shiny perfection of our antique Rolls-Royce is turning into a demolition derby car.

The passenger window of the car in front of us rolls down before the men can reach it. The black barrel of an Uzi submachine gun sticks out of it.

I duck my head just as the gunfire begins. The rat-tat-tat of the Uzi is deafening even with my palms against my ears.

When it stops a few seconds later, all I can hear is the ringing in my ears. A train could be rolling by outside my window and I wouldn’t know it right now.

I peek my head up to see what’s going on. Two cult members with shaved heads and sheet dresses – one man, one woman – stand beside our car, holding matching Uzis and scanning the area.

Three men lie bleeding on the road. One fell beside a spontaneous roadside memorial. These street shrines have cropped up all over since the Great Attack. Photos of lost loved ones, dried flowers, stuffed animals, handwritten notes pouring out words of love and loss.

Fresh blood glistens on a framed photo of a smiling girl with a missing front tooth.

I had always assumed the roadside memorials were for people who died because of angels. Now I wonder how many of them died because of other people.

The other attackers are nowhere to be seen.

After a few seconds, the cult members hop into the two largest cars in the roadblock. They drive slowly into the dead cars, shoving them out of the way like tanks to create a path for us. When they finish, they jump back into their classic cars, and we keep driving.

By the time we arrive at the aerie, I can feel the fear rolling off the driver. He’s more afraid than I am, which is saying a lot.

We pull up to the side of the hotel’s main building. It looks more like a country estate than a hotel, with its sprawling mansion, golf course, and large circular driveway. There are guards posted there, looking official.

My stomach turns icy at the thought of being in this place again. The last two times I was here, I barely got out alive.

The cars stop, and the cult members get out. One of them opens my door like a chauffeur, as if he expects me to step out like a lady attending a party. I slide to the far side of the car and crouch in the corner. It’s pointless to run with so many angels, but I don’t have to make it easy for them.

I kick the guy who leans in to pull me out. Now they’re starting to look embarrassed as well as scared. Eventually, though, they open the door I’m leaning against and drag me out kicking and screaming.

It takes four of them to do it, and I’m glad to see that my driver is not one of them. The guy holding me is trembling, and I don’t think it’s because he’s afraid of me. Whatever it is their new religion tells them about the angels, they must know that they’re violent and merciless.

‘We’ve brought the girl to be exchanged for your promise of safety,’ says Tan Head.

The guards assess me. Their eyes look like they were chiseled out of stone – emotionless and alien. The feathers on their wings ruffle in the breeze.

One of them motions for us to follow him to the main entrance.

‘You can either walk or we can drug you and drag you there,’ says Tan Head.

I put my hands up in defeat. They let me go but stand only an inch away, blocking my path in every direction but toward the aerie. We walk along the circular driveway to the main entrance, with every angel posted on the rooftop and balconies watching us.

We stop in front of the double glass doors. One of the guards goes inside. We wait in silence under the predatory gaze of far too many warriors. The cult people rush to the trunk of one of the cars and heft the sword out. It takes two of them to drag it across the driveway toward us.

Then the glass doors open, and several angels come outside. One of the newcomers is Uriel’s footman, the one who helped him get ready for the last party.

The men bow deeply to the angels. ‘We’ve brought the girl as promised, masters.’

The angel lackey nods at the guards who then grab my arms.

When they lay the sword in front of Uriel’s footman, he says, ‘Kneel.’

The men kneel in front of him like prisoners awaiting execution. The angel marks their foreheads with a black smear.

‘This will ensure your safety from angels. None of us shall harm you so long as you have this mark.’

‘And the rest of our loyal group?’ asks Tan Head, looking up at the angel.

‘Bring them to us. We’ll mark the rest of you. Let it be known that we can be generous to those who serve us.’

‘Let it be known that they tore apart their last set of servants,’ I say to the cult members.

The men glance at me fearfully, looking worried. I wonder if they knew about the massacre that happened here.

The angels ignore me. ‘Continue the good work, and perhaps we’ll allow you to serve us in heaven.’

The men try to bow deeper, pressing themselves onto the ground. ‘It is our honor to serve the masters.’

I would make a gagging noise if I wasn’t so scared.

They shove me into the building. My sword scrapes the pavement as an angel drags it behind us.

28

Inside, the lobby is crowded and roaring with noise, every inch of standing space bursting with angels. Either they’ve all come indoors or

their numbers have swelled overnight.

They must be gathered for the election. That would explain the angel host we’d seen flying this way.

The crowd parts to let me through.

It must be the sound of the sword dragging behind me that catches everyone’s attention. They all stare as we pass. I feel like a witch being paraded through town. I guess I’m lucky they’re not throwing rotten tomatoes at me.

Instead of going into a room, they take me through the building and out onto the lawn where the massacre happened. They’re putting me on display for all angels to see.

There are still patches of dried blood on the terrace. Apparently, there’s no one left to clean up after them anymore. The place is a mess. Confetti and costumes litter the ground, and for some reason, the grass is churned up like an army had randomly gone through it with shovels.

Signs have sprouted up over the lawn. The last time I was here, there was only one booth, but now there are booths everywhere. They seem to be grouped in threes – red, blue, and green. I can’t read the symbols on the colored banners, but I recognize Uriel’s from when Raffe pointed it out to me. His is the red banner.

The other two banners in each booth cluster are azure blue with symbols that are curved lines and dots and misty green with dashed lines that flow both thick and thin. Even though I can’t read them, I like them better than Uriel’s, which is all angles and screaming in red.

Angels fly all over the sky and walk over the lawn that used to be a golf course. They begin gathering around the colored banners, looking like distinct teams. Many of the angels are chanting, ‘Uriel! Uriel! Uriel!’ near the red-bannered booths like they’re at a football game.

The second largest group gathers around the misty green booths and shouts, ‘Michael! Michael! Michael!’

And a few others collect around the azure blue booths and begin shouting, ‘Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!’

Most of the angels mill around in the sky or between the booths, as if they’re still deciding. But as Raffe’s supporters keep chanting, more soldiers join them and begin shouting his name.

I’m so surprised that I stumble to a stop in the middle of the lawn. My guards have to shove me to get me to go again.