“You, bitch!”

The steel-toed, thick-soled boot smashed into the side of Michaela’s face. Her nose flattened with a sickening, wet crunch. Blood, warm and bitter, poured into her open, gasping mouth. She rolled, dodging another blow to her face, causing it to land solidly against her ribs.

Michaela struggled to shift away from Zarachiel as the hits kept coming. The plastic on the floor twisted around her legs, making her stumble and slide. She fielded them until she saw who attacked her.

The angel backlit by the morning sun wasn’t familiar. The shoulders were narrow; collarbones pointed like sharp razors into the sky. Michaela saw the short, black hair cut into a symmetrical, no nonsense bob. When she saw the hollowed cheeks, the slashing cheekbones, and almond shaped eyes, she finally knew.

“Uriel,” Michaela gasped. “Stop.”

Uriel reached down, grabbing Michaela by the shirt and hair. “You’re not the boss of me anymore,” Uriel whispered. With a mighty heave, Uriel flung Michaela into the wall with such force, her body crashed through the wooden slats. She slammed into the ground on the outside of the shed, her body jarring like tumbling bricks.

Michaela struggled to her knees when Uriel came at her again. The punches and kicks rained down, but Michaela did not fight back. Guarding her head, wrapping her arm around her ribs, she waited for Uriel to stop.

Clark shouted in the distance. “Michaela!”

A car door slammed, but that was it. From there on, Michaela only saw the slashing, raging anger on Uriel’s face. Michaela found it surprisingly easy to sit there, taking the hits one after the other. She welcomed them, to an extent even enjoyed them, because ultimately she deserved them.

“Uriel, you’re on Descendant property, and I have to ask you to refrain from royally beating the hell out of your General.”

“She isn’t my General anymore,” Uriel spat, but she quit hitting Michaela.

Michaela cracked open an eyelid. Uriel towered over her with bloody fists clenched at her sides. Isaac was the one who had spoken. Clark must have called him when he saw Uriel, which made Michaela wonder how long Uriel had been beating her. She sat up, wincing at the pain.

“That’s an interesting point,” Isaac responded like he was discussing the next election. “And I guess that technically you are right, Uriel.”

Clark crouched beside her. “Are you okay?” Concern etched wrinkles onto his young face, his blue eyes worried. He rubbed his hand across her back, supporting her as she got her legs underneath her. Michaela turned and spat the blood from her mouth when she stood.

“Why are you here?” Michaela asked Uriel.

Uriel spun to face Michaela. Her eyes were cutting. “Why?” Her words were a guttural sound behind her snarling lips. “Why do you think I’m here, Michaela?”

“No,” Michaela cleared her throat. She still tasted blood, but thankfully the only thing broken was her nose. “I meant how you found out about Zarachiel.”

Uriel narrowed her brown eyes until they were nearly reptilian. “An angel falling through the sky is hard to miss, and gossip spreads fast.”

“You’re more than welcome to go see him,” Isaac said, gesturing to the toolshed.

Uriel turned her gaze of hatred on him. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Keeper. He is mine, and I will do as I please.”

Isaac put his hands up in surrender. “We assume he was dropped on the compound on purpose; his fall was too direct. He is hurt pretty badly. We could only do so much to help him,” Isaac said, but Uriel ignored him.

“How does it feel?” Uriel asked, directing her words to Michaela. Uriel’s eyes were hateful and sinister. The morning sun was bright, illuminating Uriel’s wings and vengeful eyes.

“What do you mean?” Michaela asked carefully.

Uriel laughed. The sound was sharp and rang hollow in the dewy air. “I mean, how does it feel to know you are responsible for hurting everyone you once loved?”

“Hey, now,” Clark defended.

“Was this part of your plan all along?” Uriel asked.

“Of course not, Uriel,” Michaela said shakily.

“Then what was it?” Uriel sneered. She pointed to the toolshed. “Because if this wasn’t your plan then maybe it should be, because you’re doing a much better job of killing us off than you are of saving anyone.”

“Uriel,” Isaac said cautiously.

“How does Gabriel feel being stuck in Hell?”

An overwhelming wave of guilt washed over Michaela. She knew exactly how he felt, and neither of them had paused long enough to mourn Zarachiel’s fate.

“What about the rest of us forsaken from our homes? What about Molloch?”

“He was a fallen,” Michaela said, her voice quiet.

“So he deserved to die?” Uriel shouted.

“Of course not,” Michaela said, but Uriel didn’t listen.

“You are pathetic. I don’t know what you were trying to do, but you only made things worse. I honestly have no clue why you are bothering with this ridiculous façade. They call you a traitor, a murderer, but aren’t you exactly those things? Didn’t you do exactly what they say you did? You may not have invited the fallen, but ultimately you still betrayed us.”

“I’m doing this to help you. To prove your innocence so that you and the others can return home,” Michaela’s voice was unsteady, and she detected its underlying tremor.

“Thanks, Michaela. You have helped us so much.”

Michaela shrank away. She wished she could fold into herself and disappear. Uriel was right. Michaela had only hurt the ones she wanted to help.

“That’s enough,” Clark said sharply. Finally, the Archangel Uriel acknowledged the human Descendant. “I said, that’s enough, and I mean it.” Michaela had never heard such authority in his voice before.

With one last glare at Michaela, Uriel turned and stalked into the darkness of the toolshed without a backwards glance. The door creaked shut behind her.

“Well, isn’t she just a beaming ray of sunshine?” Clark said. “Are you okay?”

Michaela spat more blood. She felt like a drain had opened inside her, and she was dirty water swirling around it, sinking and spinning until she was lost to its depths. Michaela understood why Uriel was angry and spiteful. She was right—it was all her fault.

“I think it would be best if you both stayed here a few nights until Uriel leaves,” Isaac said. “I can get you both into the compound. You will be safe in there.”

“The tunnels?” Clark asked. He turned to Michaela. “There’s miles and miles of empty, deserted tunnels that run beneath the town. They go all over the place and always end in the compound.”

“Yes. We will use the tunnels to get you inside,” Isaac called over his shoulder.

Clark shifted Michaela’s arm onto his shoulders to help her walk. “I’ve got it,” she said, moving away from him.

“Quit bitching, and let me help you.” Clark’s grip tightened as they walked toward Isaac’s truck. Michaela gave in and leaned heavily against his side.

“There. Isn’t that better?” He opened the passenger door and helped Michaela ease inside. He got in next to her, handing her a handkerchief from the dashboard of the truck to wipe the blood from her face.

“Ready?” Isaac asked. He turned the engine over, and Johnny Cash crooned about prison blues over the old 8-track player.

The truck bounced along the farm roads, jostling Michaela’s injuries and putting her in a foul mood. Nearly a half hour later, Isaac pulled over on the side of a gravel road that ran parallel to the compound. The peach orchard was behind them, and the small town center was less than two miles ahead.

Isaac got out of the truck and walked over to an abandoned fruit stand on the side of the road. He waited until Clark helped Michaela out of the car and joined him next to the sagging building made of plywood with crudely drawn fruit shapes adorning the sides.

Isaac ducked inside, avoiding the cobwebs that swung above his head in the morning wind. The sun was already in the sky, and Michaela saw people milling about the town. No one paid any attention to the blue Ford parked on the side of the road as Clark and Michaela followed Isaac inside.

Isaac, flashlight in hand, waited by a set of stairs leading below ground. Michaela didn’t bother to ask questions. She followed them quietly down the steps into the tunnel smelling of wet earth. Clark glanced quickly at her a few times, likely worried about her fear of being underground after being in the cave. But Michaela wasn’t afraid. She was just broken.

She wished they wouldn’t, but Uriel’s words kept replaying in her mind. Uriel was right; Zarachiel’s injuries were her fault. Just like Gabriel being Hell was her fault. If she thought hard enough about it, everything was her fault. Just like Uriel had said. Even the pain of her healed broken nose popping into place didn’t shake the trance she was falling into. She was lulled by the words that kept repeating in her head.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

It took them a while to navigate the oftentimes rocky, sometimes muddy, terrain of the tunnel. Michaela manage to limp on her own most of the way, only taking Clark’s hand when she slipped. Her mind created a numbing fog that settled like a thick cocoon around her, trapping in her depression and guilt.

Nearly an hour later, they reached a heavy wood door. Isaac pushed the door until it screeched open on its rusty hinges. Dust shifted in the air as they walked into the narrow hall of the compound. The stone walls were moldy and dank. Clark coughed, batting his hand at a spider web.

“No one comes down here?” Clark asked.

“No, you will be safe,” Isaac said. He pointed toward the first room along the hall. “Here you go.”

The room had two cots, blankets, two changes of clothes, and some food. A single lantern cast a warm, dim glow over the room. A rat scuffled along the back wall.

“I got it ready last night. I figured you wouldn’t be leaving as soon as you thought.” Isaac watched Michaela like he expected her to say something, but she didn’t register his words.

She drifted into the room like a hobbling ghost. Bypassing the food and cot, she settled against the far, dark corner’s wall. The stone was ice cold against her damaged back. She drew her legs beneath her shin and stared vacantly at the stone floor.

She remained there, in that exact position, without eating or drinking or sleeping for an entire week.