Michaela wished she were dead, because for the second time, she fell through the air with Molloch’s hands tight around her throat. Her eyes bulged, and her body convulsed from lack of oxygen. She couldn’t see Molloch through the hair over her face, but she recognized the way he tried to kill her.

They would hit the ground just like they had the first time. Michaela waited for the impact, waited for the air to rush back into her lungs. When it did, it was instant relief. Her hair fell away from her eyes, and she saw.

It wasn’t Molloch who stared back at her with empty, dead eyes. It was Gabriel. He fell off her with the sound of her wing pulling out of his back. She had killed him.

Her screams filled the cavern as his feathers floated away.

“Michaela, wake up!”

Hands shook her body, radiating a warm, sticky pain through her back. It pulled her further out of the dream, and she looked up into a wild mixture of blue and pink. Michaela blinked until her vision cleared. The person shaking her was a human with blue eyes and bright, fluorescent pink hair.

“Oh, thank God, you’re awake. I thought you were dead until you started screaming, which was freaking me out, by the way. I’m Clark. Clark St. James, Descendant of Enoch, knight in shining…”

Clark’s mouth moved, but she was watching the air around him with a dream-like focus. It moved in shining, swirling motions.

“What are you?” Michaela asked before her vision grew blurry and reduced everything to blues, pinks, and flashing lights.

“Oh man, you have brain damage. I’m Clark. C. L. A…” she heard the human say before the blurriness gave way to a shuddering blackness.

Then she was lost in the darkness once again.

Michaela groaned.

Clark slept propped against the far wall, but his eyes flashed open, red and puffy, at the noise. Slowly, he stood, watching as Michaela stirred. Her body was buried beneath layers of mildewed blankets, her back wrapped with tight bandages. Her eyes were heavy lidded and full of pain.

“Who are you?” The words came out achingly slow and quiet.

“Clark St. James,” he said. Michaela licked her lips. “Do you want some water?” Clark asked.

Michaela nodded. Her eyes fluttered closed as if she couldn’t hold them open any longer. Clark crossed the room to his pack and pulled out a canteen. He was surprised to find his hands shook slightly as he worked to unscrew the lid. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he walked back to Michaela. He told himself it was perfectly normal to be intimidated by the first fully conscious, talking angel he’d met.

“Here.”

Clark kneeled, easing a hand behind Michaela’s head to lift her up. Her skin gave off a chill that worried him. He brought the canteen to her lips, and she took a long drink, letting the water spill from her shaking lips. The canteen was empty when she finished.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Are you hungry?” he asked, walking back to his pack.

Michaela shook her head, wincing.

“I’m starving,” Clark mumbled, rummaging through candy bar wrappers and potato chip bags. He came up empty.

“You found me in the cave, right? You’re a Descendant.”

Clark made a noncommittal noise as Michaela weakly looked around the room.

“Where are we? How long have I been down here?” Michaela asked. Her voice was still raspy even after all the water she had drank.

Clark hesitated. “A Descendant safe house a little east of Lexington,” he said. It wasn’t a complete lie. It wasn’t the exact truth either. “You’ve been sleeping for a couple days.”

“A couple days? That’s too long. Is Gabe here? I need to see him.” She stared at him expectantly, making Clark uncomfortable. He hadn’t thought about this part. His mouth opened and closed a few times as if he actually had any idea what to say.

“What about the others? Are they here too?” Michaela pressed.

Clark stayed quiet. He shifted under her unwavering attention. His eyes slipped away to the one window in the room. He cleared his throat.

“Where is everyone? Why are we alone?” she asked. Her voice grew smaller and weaker until she whispered, “What’s going on?”

“A lot has happened, Michaela,” Clark answered tentatively. He pulled the one rickety wooden chair a few feet from the cot and sat, straddling the back of the chair.

She closed her eyes, but not before he saw the tears pooling. She turned her head away and murmured, “Where is Gabriel?”

She looked too broken to be an angel. Beneath the layers of blankets and her dirty hair, she seemed frail and failing. Her skin was so pale that Clark detected a glint of gold underneath. It probably looked magnificent in the sunlight but just made her appear even sicker than she was in the dim light of the cabin.

“I don’t know,” he started, unsure if she was strong enough yet to hear the truth.

“Please.”

Clark jerked up from the chair and paced away. He was completely outside his element. He would have killed for a drink. His mouth was like cotton, his tongue a lead weight in his mouth.

Don’t say anything, he told himself. If he opened his mouth, he might say something stupid and mess everything up. He turned back around. Her eyes were the palest of blues behind the sheen of tears.

“They say you planned the rebellion. That you knew what was, like, happening or something. Now, don’t look at me like that, okay? I’m just the messenger. My dad, the Keeper, told me all of this. Anyway, the Aethere took control of Heaven. They told the Descendants that you and the other Archangels had fallen,” he blurted. He couldn’t make himself shut up. His words ran together. “But the other Archangels are missing, so no one knows who is actually fallen.” Clark sucked in a deep breath. “The Aethere say the Archangels helped you plan the rebellion. There was talk that they knew where you were hiding. Gabriel was brought before the Aethere.” He ran out of steam. “They sent him to Hell.”

Clark watched Michaela warily. Every emotion had slipped from her face, leaving nothing behind but a blank mask. Clark wondered if she had heard anything he said. He waved his hand in front of her face.

She unfroze. Her gasp was like a dam breaking, like she had forgotten to breathe. Her fists clutched the edges of the cot. “So he’s not here?”

“No,” Clark said slowly. “He’s in Hell.”

“He’s not coming?” Her eyes begged him, like Clark could produce Gabriel out of thin air. It broke his heart.

“No one is coming, Michaela.”

The tears finally came and were immediately uncontrollable. Her body convulsed with sobs muffled behind her hand. The cot rattled as she folded in around herself.

Clark reached out a hand, letting it hover in the air, unsure. “Michaela?”

He stood, letting his hand fall when her sobs grew into tortured, muffled shrieks. He drew back, retreating through the door and out the cabin. He sat on the steps and stared at the stars while he listened to her wrenching cries.