“Welcome to the Jungle” permeated the depths of Clark’s dream. Groggily, he tried to understand the sound. His eyes drooped heavily from a fitful sleep full of nightmares about Seraphim. Only when the phone vibrated off the bedside table and crashed to the floor did Clark understand the meaning of the ruckus. In a tangle of sheets and pillows, Clark stumbled from the bed, and scooped the phone up.

He glanced at Michaela, watching to make sure she didn’t wake as he rounded the edge of her bed. She was stretched out, laying face down on the bed with a single, thin sheet bunched at her hips. Her back was bare, exposed to allow the bubbling burns to heal beneath the cool air of the wobbling ceiling fan. Her arms were splayed out at her side. She didn’t wake. She hadn’t moved for hours.

Clark tip toed the rest of the way out of their new motel room and closed the door quietly behind him. Only then did he look at his phone’s screen. He froze. It was his father.

If he waited any longer the call would go to voicemail. His finger swiped across the screen before he stopped himself. “Hello?”

“Clark.” Isaac exhaled in a huff, like he was surprised Clark answered.

“What do you want?” Clark asked, not unkindly, but he was definitely suspicious. He waited, drumming fingers across his ribs. His foot danced against the stained, cracked concrete. From the interstate, a semi-truck’s horn blared. The smog settled at the back of his throat, tickling like a cough.

Isaac cleared his throat. “I need to talk to Michaela.”

Clark needed a moment for his father’s words to sink in. Isaac knew he was with Michaela, but somehow, Clark wasn’t surprised. He rolled his eyes to the motel’s overhang as he grappled for a response. His father waited patiently for the first time in years. Clark looked back to the motel door and then back to his phone, wondering if he was still dreaming.

In the end, he only managed a stunned, “What?”

“I know you’re with Michaela,” his father said evenly, calmly. His tone only confused Clark more. “I know you found her in the cave that night. It’s okay, Clark.”

“Um, okay?” Clark said, unsure what to think. It was early in the morning, but the parking lot started to stir. Truckers and late night workers pulled in to the Waffle House across the road. Clark heard voices in the neighboring rooms.

“I’m not mad,” Isaac said, like he thought Clark might be worried about that. “But I need you to let me talk to Michaela.”

“You can’t,” Clark said, still bewildered.

“Why?” Isaac asked sharply. “She’s still with you, right?”

“Yeah. But she’s in bed, healing. There was an explosion…” Clark pictured his father tapping an expensive ink pen into the thick cherry wood of his desk. A tumbler of scotch was probably condensing from the ice and the warm Kentucky air coming through the open window behind his father’s desk. A half-smoked cigar likely burned in an ashtray.

“Is she okay? How badly was she injured?” Isaac pressed.

“I guess the burns were pretty bad—”

“You guess?”

Clark narrowed his eyes, preparing for a fight. His hackles rose instinctively. “I’m not a doctor, but I would say for an angel, a few third degree burns aren’t a big deal. She’s sleeping now. Her back is almost healed already.”

Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Don’t repeat me. You know how that pisses me off. I need you to bring her here,” Isaac said.

Clark frowned. “Here?”

“Damn it, Clark, what did I just say?” Clark heard Isaac pause to fortify his patience before he went on. “Bring Michaela back to the compound.”

“The comp—” Clark stopped himself. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring her there. Everyone is hunting her. You are hunting her.”

“I know. But there is something she needs to see. You and I will keep her safe, Clark. I will make sure she is protected.” Isaac reassured him.

“How can I believe you? How do I know you won’t turn her as soon as we pull in?”

“Clark, on your mother’s grave, I swear I won’t do anything to hurt you two.”

At that, Clark was silent a long moment. He battled with wanting to believe his father and a strong disbelief that Isaac would ever go against the Descendants. But Isaac never mentioned Iris, and he certainly wouldn’t swear on her grave if he didn’t mean it. Clark could at least figure out what had happened and let Michaela decide.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asked. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the rusty bar of the second floor’s railing.

Isaac didn’t answer for a moment, like he debated telling Clark. Finally, he said, “It’s Zarachiel. He was cast out of Heaven…They took his wings.”

“Did he fall too?” Clark asked, wondering why this was such a big deal.

“No.” Isaac’s voice was very careful, controlled. “He didn’t fall.”

“But he was still holy! How can they cast out a holy angel? And take his wings?”

“We are dealing with a very different type of holy angel, Clark. The Aethere want to make a point. They are so fervent for this Purification, they don’t care who is hurt along the way,” Isaac said.

Clark’s gut clenched. His grip on the rail tightened until the flakes of rust painfully scraped his palm. He released the bar and looked at his hand. Angry red lines slashed across his skin. “Is he alive?” Clark asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Clark heard the hesitation in Isaac’s response. “Okay,” Clark said.

Isaac released a heavy breath. “Good. Meet me in the cherry orchard.” Clark was about to hang up when Isaac added, “Clark, there is something else.”

A moment later, Clark went back into the hotel room with a sinking heart and a churning nausea in his stomach. He quietly closed the door behind him. Michaela hadn’t moved. He sat his phone beside the television and wondered what he was going to do. Restlessly, he raked his hand through his scraggly hair. Soft fuzz grew on the sides of his head, framing the shaggier part of his fading pink Mohawk.

He crossed to Michaela’s bed and crouched beside her. Her eyelids twitched. The breaths from her parted lips were cool and even against his face.

“Michaela, wake up.” Clark reached over and poked her arm. He kept poking until she stirred.

She blinked slowly. The corners of her eyes were crusty, her eyelashes clumped together. A dirty lock of hair fell into her eye. She groaned.

“It’s Zarachiel. Something’s happened.”

She moved her arm to brush the hair out of her face. Clark rocked back on his heels and silently regarded her. When Michaela lifted her face off the bed, impressions of the sheet lined her cheek. “What?” she croaked.

“Abel threw him out of Heaven.”

Michaela rose onto her elbows, grimacing. “How do you know?’

“My dad called,” Clark answered simply. “He wants you to go to the Descendants’ compound.”

Blearily, Michaela shook her head. “I need to stay here. We have to figure out what Cassie is doing.”

Clark had known Michaela would say that. He had agreed to his father’s request only because he knew Michaela would refuse to leave Charleston. Then Isaac had told him about Abel’s message. Now, he wasn’t so sure what Michaela might decide.

“Abel left you a message.” Clark looked down to the faded, dishwater gray carpet. “He wrote it on Zarachiel.”

Michaela remained quiet for a long moment. She turned, facing the opposite wall, and pulled a shirt over her head. It stuck to places on her back, but she yanked it over them. The pain must have been severe, because she took a moment to steady her breath.

“What did it say?” she asked finally. Clark looked up and met her eyes. “What did it say?” she demanded.

“It said, ‘Are you proud?’”

Clark watched Michaela, but he already knew how she would react. Her eyes darkened to the familiar shade of navy blue, and her face paled with fury. The shadows stirred at her feet, bunching and gathering, twining over her bare feet. They rose up her legs, their darkness a shuddering contrast to her pale skin.

“What does he mean?” Clark asked quietly, looking away from the darkness. He knew angels could conjure both light and darkness, but Clark didn’t think Michaela knew she was doing it.

“He thinks this war is a game. Win or lose. He thinks I punished angels to prove points. He thinks my reign was about fear and blood and ripping apart angels. He’s referencing when I took Lucifer’s wings. He wants to know if I approve of the job he did. He’s an idiot.” Michaela turned away and picked up their duffel of meager supplies and clothes that they kept packed and ready by the door. The shadows fell from her legs and lay normal on the ground once again.

“What was your reign about?”

Michaela looked back at Clark, who rose from the floor. Her hand was on the doorknob. “It was about keeping my head above the water. There was nothing ‘pure’ about it.” Michaela opened the door. “Let’s go.”