New, Current Release: No Shadows Fall.
Since "No Quarter," book one of The Archangel Chronicles was given away as a freebie for one hour today as part of Dreamspinner Press's TweetAway extravaganza, here is the information about the latest installment of the series, "No Shadows Fall."
"No Shadows Fall" was released late October and picks up directly from where "No Surrender, No Retreat" left off. To get all the books in the series, click here.
No Shadows Fall.
Blurb:
Newly bonded Archangels Michael and Gabriel are torn from their idyllic island retreat by the singing of hymns heralding stunning news: Gabriel’s ancient foe, Semjaza, has escaped from his prison in the stars and now seeks revenge and utter conquest.
With the wisdom of Archangel Raziel to guide them and help coming from the most unlikely of quarters, Gabriel and Michael join with the Brotherhood of Archangels to hunt Semjaza down and finish him once and for all. Because Semjaza's return to Earth doesn't threaten just Gabriel and his loved ones-it threatens the whole of humanity.
But even more danger lurks in the shadows, threatening the Brotherhood from within. If Gabriel and Semjaza finally face each other in single combat, will Gabriel survive the contest, or will Michael lose his one true love?
Sequel to No Surrender, No Retreat: Book Three of The Archangel Chronicles.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
THE earth shuddered violently as he slammed down onto it. The force of his landing created ripples, which spread out like waves, making the desert sands fly upward and the few spindly trees shake as the tremors surged outward from the epicenter. He flared his wings, shielding himself from the waves of sand that soared out from him, red and gritty, obstructing vision for miles.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, savoring the feel of it in his lungs and the taste of fresh, clean air and sun-kissed sand on his tongue. Getting to his feet and pushing back his waist-length, white-blond hair, the angel looked around at the featureless plain that spread for miles in every direction.
He knew this land, knew it as well as he knew the back of his hand. It had been eons since he had walked here, and in that time, the land had changed from a lush, green paradise to this red-and-yellow dustbowl, denuded of the beauty he remembered so well. It saddened him to see, for the Middle East was his kingdom, and it should not be an unlovely desert.
His name was Semjaza, and he had not set foot on Earth since before the dawn of time. The planet had changed a lot, and he had observed it all from his prison among the stars, unable to do anything other than watch as mankind had set out from the beautiful city of Eden, the capital of his nation, and began to colonize the world. He had been unable to stop the wars of man that had overtaken his kingdom, tearing it apart into small countries that spoke a language that was a bastardization of his own tongue. He had grieved so much for the destruction of his lands, but mostly for the loss of it, the fact that it had been wrested from his benevolent rulership and given to humanity to do with as it saw fit. It was akin to giving an angry toddler a ball made of the finest crystal and not stopping the child from chipping it, changing it, dirtying it.
Semjaza wrinkled his nose and sneered. He was free now, free to reclaim what was his and bring terrible retribution down upon those who had wronged him. First on that list was Gabriel, the Archangel who had imprisoned him in the constellation of Aquila and left him to rot out there in the stars. The other Archangels would be dealt with later, after he had freed his people, the Grigori, locked in Hell. If necessary, Semjaza would confront Lucifer himself. He, Semjaza, was the true ruler, after all, and more a king than any other of angelkind.
He squared his shoulders and brushed sand from his chest. He had things to do, and he was determined to achieve his goals. Nodding once to himself, Semjaza started walking. The sand was hot, and it singed his bare feet, which were unused to variances in temperature or climate. The midday sun was like a hammer overhead, and Semjaza conjured a cloud to float above him to shield him from the worst of the sun’s effects as he walked to the destination he had chosen quite specifically.
Ur, the once proud city of the ancient world, the ziggurat standing tall and imposing, appeared in the distance, and Semjaza smiled. He would go down into the caves beneath Ur and find suitable raiment, take sustenance from the stores he knew would still be there, and then go to the door that led to the passageway that would take him into Eden. Once he was in Eden, he would release his Grigori and take back the Middle East as his own, and rule as he had before Gabriel had locked him away.
He would get his wife too. Ishtahar would not deny him. She never had, and now he was free of that cursed constellation of Aquila, Semjaza was confident that she would return to his embrace and to the role of his High Priestess and consort. She was immortal, so it was only fitting that she would be his once again. And his sons, his two beautiful sons who had been spared Uriel’s blade and death, he would find them and bring them home, establish them in proper positions in his new government, and bring about a new, wonderful, benevolent world.
He’d kill Remiel, too; that went without saying. Remiel had defiled Ishtahar with his unwholesome puppy love, and Semjaza would grant him no mercy for that sin. He should have dealt with Remiel before the Archangels had taken over Eden, but he had foolishly believed that Remiel’s love of his own kind would outweigh his childish crush on Ishtahar. Well, that betrayal would not be overlooked either, and Remiel would pay for what he had done, for daring to love a woman who belonged to Semjaza, Prince of the Grigori and King of Eden.
Semjaza’s smile widened as he walked toward Ur. However, the smile faded as he got closer and saw the damage and attrition centuries of time and neglect, and then decades of war, had caused. The once proud and beautiful city was now nothing more than pitted rock, the marvelous ziggurat ground down by weather and human weapons.
“Hey!”
Semjaza turned at the shout, quirking an eyebrow as he took in the figure of the human male striding purposefully toward him. The man wore the odd green-brown-and-tan-colored clothing that identified him as a military man, and he held a strange-looking weapon in his hands.
“Who are you?” the man asked, pointing his weapon at Semjaza. “How did you get here?” His accent was peculiar, unfamiliar.
Semjaza tilted his head to one side, gazing thoughtfully at this individual. It would be an easy thing to reach out with his power and stop the human’s heart, but that would also alert others something was wrong if there were humans waiting for this one. He understood the language the human spoke, the language called English, for he’d studied it during his confinement. So he smiled at the man and decided to try guile rather than violence. If guile failed, then it would be violence.
“I am Semjaza,” he said, “and I came from the stars.”
The human’s eyes narrowed, and there was a clicking sound from his weapon. “I repeat. Where did you come from and who are you?”
“You do not believe me.” Semjaza sighed. These modern humans were so skeptical of simple miracles. He remembered that from his observations.
“I’m going to have to take you into custody,” the human continued. “You’re in a restricted zone under the command of the US government.”
“I do not concern myself with governments, US or otherwise,” Semjaza said in a frosty tone. “I will tell you this only once. Leave. Now.”
“It’s you who’s leaving,” the human said, moving closer. “In a prison van.”
The word “prison” made Semjaza freeze. He had not escaped one prison to exchange it for another. “You silly child,” he said. “You will regret this.”
“Hands on your head,” the human ordered, raising his weapon and pointing it at Semjaza.
Semjaza laughed. “You think to give me orders? Foolish mortal.” He shook his head. “You are doomed.” With that, Semjaza twitched his index finger, using his power to break the human’s neck.
The human dropped to the ground, and Semjaza stepped over the body and walked into the opening that had once been the gateway into Ur.
He was relieved to discover that while the city above the ground had become a ruin, the cellars and storage holds beneath it were untouched. Indeed, as the earth groaned in complaint as Semjaza conjured open the door that led down into the basement, it seemed as if no one had entered the many rooms and corridors since the twenty-fourth century before the birth of The Son.
Semjaza patted the wall with one hand as he descended the shallow stairs into the basement, using a thought to close the door that had admitted him. When he returned to his kingdom, he would restore Ur. Perhaps Azazel would accept the city as a gift and govern it in Semjaza’s name. Semjaza decided to ask Azazel about it as soon as he saw him.
Walking quickly, Semjaza moved along the corridors, going into the rooms to find clothing, food, and water. The food had been protected by magics of the Grigori, and Semjaza was pleased to find everything as it had been so many centuries before. He ate a meal of dried fish and salted beef, olives and dates, and flat bread dipped in olive oil, and then he dressed in plain, undyed linen trousers and tunic and pulled on a black coat over the top.
Footwear was different, Semjaza realized, as the sandals he was so familiar with would be ineffective in the world above. He cast an incantation, taking the footwear from the dead human above, and examined the socks in wonder before shrugging and pulling them onto his feet. The boots were even more curious than the socks and made of tough leather that seemed to be reinforced with steel in the toes. Amused, Semjaza chuckled as he pulled on the boots and laced them up.
Once he had dressed and eaten his fill, Semjaza took a small jug of iced water, stored and protected by the magics of his old friend Gadreel. Gadreel had been gifted with far-seeing and Semjaza silently applauded his old friend for taking the precautions he had in order to protect the basement of Ur and its contents.
Semjaza moved through the rooms, seeking out one room in particular, the treasury. Finding it, he smiled to himself as he gathered up the long gold chain of his office and the gold ring set with garnets and diamonds that was the seal of his royal house. After sliding the ring onto his left ring finger and slipping the chain over his head, Semjaza then picked up a piece of braided leather thong and wove it between his fingers.
The man above had had short hair, and Semjaza considered that. While he was loath to cut off his long, white-blond tresses, perhaps it would be prudent to tie it back or braid it. He cast another spell, and the magic braided his hair in an elaborate and elegant long braid with the leather thong.
That done, Semjaza gazed at his reflection in a mirror made of polished brass. Yes, he looked just as handsome as he had before his imprisonment. Ishtahar could not resist him, for he was her true love and the father of her children. Once she saw him and how handsome and powerful he was, his talent for magic and his angelic power undimmed by time and imprisonment, she would rush to him and beg forgiveness for straying.
Of course, he would forgive her. He smirked as he gazed at his reflection. After he had punished her, naturally; for such behavior as hers-allowing Remiel to lay his hands upon her and hiding her children-could not go without some kind of punishment, but it would be swift, and he would be merciful. It would show his followers what a benevolent ruler he was. It would also show the humans, the tiny children that had evolved from clay, just how magnificent he was.
The monsters would flock to his banner too. Semjaza stretched languidly, smoothing his hands over his hair. The vampires were eager for power, and he would give them a few human witches and wizards to turn into blood drinkers. That would bind the vampire clans to him. The shape shifters wanted lands of their own, and so he would give them that, governed, of course, by one of his own. It would certainly be preferable to the meager and secretive existence they had now.
Pleased, Semjaza sent out his power, reaching for the familiar signature of his own choir. It was not a random Grigori he was seeking, however; it was Azazel, his second in command, his best friend, his long-lost comrade. He missed Azazel terribly, missed his wise counsel, his witty jokes, his interest in the arcane arts, and his talents with governing and warfare.
Azazel was in the human city of Paris. Semjaza chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the chamber that contained all the wealth of Ur. He would go there, but first, he would open the door to the passageway to Eden.
Semjaza walked down the long corridors toward an arched doorway with a huge stone door. The door was closed, and the inscriptions in Sumerian that were carved into it told of the day that the anointed one would come and open Eden to the world once more. Confident that he was that anointed one, Semjaza put his hand on the door and pushed.
It didn’t budge.
Frowning, Semjaza used both hands, and then leaned his shoulder against it, shoving with all his might. The door remained closed. Growing angry, Semjaza unleashed his power on the door.
It remained stubbornly closed.
Semjaza glared, reaching out again with his power, not attempting to open the door so much as trying to identify the reason it remained shut to him. The cause came as a shock, and he stumbled back.
Raziel, Archangel of Mysteries and Secrets, had closed it and sealed it with his own blood. Only he or the anointed one could open it again, and even more alarming, by trying to force it, Semjaza had triggered a spell that Raziel had hidden within the very stone, and alerted the Archangel to his exact location.
Swearing in Aramaic, Semjaza teleported, departing Ur and cloaking himself with his magic and his power. Angry and frustrated, Semjaza went to Paris.
SEMJAZA tried not to gawp like an unlettered country bumpkin as he walked down the Champs-Élysées. Paris was like no city he had ever seen, not even Eden. The lights and the color, the noise, the people… it was as if all the life in Eden had moved to this one city in the middle of Europe. The Arc de Triomphe was magnificent, Semjaza thought, and he decided to have one built in Eden as soon as possible.
The Eiffel Tower, though… Semjaza could not stop himself from staring. Lit up by a myriad of lights so it seemed to glow like a twinkling jewel set in a living crown, the structure awed him. The ingenuity that had gone into designing and maintaining such a beautiful edifice was not lost on him. Semjaza stared for a good half hour, lost in his contemplation of the brilliantly lit Eiffel Tower illuminated against the night sky.
Finally, he shook himself and resumed walking, listening to the snippets of conversation as he passed the humans going about their evening business. He could feel Azazel was close, and he was eager to see his old companion, but he did not want to appear impatient. He wanted to savor this, his first time walking in a modern city.
The language these humans spoke was called French, he learned, and he became proficient in it by leeching the lexicon of the language from their minds and listening to them talk. By the time he rounded a corner and entered the small café from which the sense of Azazel’s presence came, he was as fluent as a native speaker.
Azazel was alone, seated at a small table in the back corner of the café. He was nursing a glass of red wine, and his expression, as Semjaza approached, was a mixture of disbelief and joy. As Semjaza drew close, Azazel leapt from his seat and wrapped his arms around Semjaza in a hug.
Laughing softly, Semjaza hugged Azazel back. It had been so long, and he was overjoyed to see his good friend once more.
“I had scarce dared to believe it was true,” Azazel said, pulling back enough to look closely at Semjaza’s face. “I felt you land, my liege. I did not know if you were free by your design or by Gabriel’s.”
Semjaza laughed loud and long at that. “By my design, old friend. Gabriel would hardly set me free, now, would he?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Azazel said with a chuckle. “Come, sit, and take a glass of wine with me.”
Semjaza sat in the chair opposite Azazel and smiled as Azazel took his hand in his own.
“I missed you very much, your majesty,” Azazel said.
“Please, just Semjaza for now.” Semjaza gave Azazel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “There will be time for titles later when we put the world to rights and take back what is ours.”
There were tears in Azazel’s eyes. “I never lost faith,” he said, his breath hitching as he spoke. “I never stopped believing you would return. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”
Semjaza smiled. “I am glad to see you too, Azazel. I have learned much during my confinement, but I confess that walking these streets and listening to these children of clay-these humans-speak their languages is far different from observing from above.”
“Did you have any trouble? I mean, how did you do it?” Azazel’s voice was full of wonder.
“I studied, I watched.” Semjaza chuckled. “Are we not The Watchers, Azazel? Was that not our first occupation? So I did exactly that and watched the scientists and learned men who studied the stars, and I took their teachings to heart. I used my magic and their knowledge to break the bonds of confinement and open a small window between the Celestial bars of my cell.” He smirked, feeling superior to the mortals. “A mortal scientist would no doubt scoff at such a thing. But then, a mortal scientist does not have the abilities that I do.”
“I confess I do not understand.” Azazel shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re finally free.”
“As am I, old friend.” Semjaza nodded to the waitress who brought glasses of wine, and when she was out of earshot, he went on. “Tell me, how are the rest of our choir?”
Azazel sighed. “Not well. Many are in Hell, as you know. Those few of us who managed to escape and remain free are fewer now. Some gave up hope and willed themselves to cease to exist. Some went insane and were killed by Archdemons under Lucifer’s orders. Only myself, Kokabiel, Penemuel, and Baraqiel remain free and sane.”
Semjaza’s expression grew sad. “I am sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “I would have freed myself earlier if I could.”
“It is not your fault, your majesty.” Azazel smiled a bit. “We knew that the situation would not be quick to resolve itself and that it would take time. We understood this. So, we have hidden ourselves and waited for this day to arrive. I pretend to be an advisor to the leader of this country, working in the field of weapons development for the military. Kokabiel is in Belgium, a country that borders this one to the north, working with astronomers there. And Baraqiel is with him, the two of them working together on the science of the stars. Penemuel works at the British Library in the land called England. I have not seen him for some years.”
“We must call Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel to join us,” Semjaza decided. “There is much to be done, and we need to gather our strength.”
“Your will be done,” Azazel said, inclining his head. “I will contact them now.”
“Excellent.” Semjaza sipped his wine, watching Azazel out of the corner of his eye as the other angel’s gaze grew distant. Semjaza could feel Azazel’s thought reaching out, hidden carefully from all save their own choir as he spoke to Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel. After perhaps ten minutes, Azazel’s eyes cleared and he smiled.
“They come. They will join us here in Paris in the morning. You would honor me by staying at my home tonight, Semjaza.”
“Thank you.” Semjaza smiled. “I accept your offer of hospitality.”
“What do you plan to do first, now that you are free?” Azazel asked.
“I plan to find my sons and my wife,” Semjaza said, toying with his wine glass. “I plan to free our choir who are languishing in Hell. And then I plan to take back Eden and the lands called the Middle East and rule them as I did before. Finally, but by no means the least, I plan to kill Archangel Gabriel.”
Azazel smiled. “An excellent set of plans, my liege.”
“I rather thought so myself.” Semjaza raised his glass. “To victory and vengeance.”
Azazel raised his glass as well. “To victory and vengeance.”
“So”-Semjaza stretched out one leg beneath the table-“tell me of our people. Tell me what I have missed while I was imprisoned.”
Azazel pursed his lips for a moment, then spoke. “There is not much to tell that you would not have already seen, sire. There was a war; it ended not long ago. It came about because Shamsiel, driven mad by his incarceration in Hell, sold his feathers to a human who sought to raise armies from Gehenna to do his bidding and take over the world. The war lasted seventy years. Much has changed because of it, but these children, the humans, are tenacious and determined to rebuild.”
Semjaza sighed. “I grieve for Shamsiel. He was misguided in his actions, although I can understand that he was not in his right mind. I take it that he was killed because of what he had done?”
Azazel nodded. “I understand that he was taken to Lucifer himself and thrown into the Lake of Eternal Fire.”
Semjaza shuddered. “An unseemly end for a Grigori.”
“What’s done is done,” Azazel said, toying with his wine glass. “Sire, might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Your raiment is not… it will draw attention. If you wish to remain concealed from gossip that could reach the ears of the Archangels, I would recommend that you seek different attire.”
Semjaza chuckled. “I shall be guided by you, old friend. You understand these things better than I. I intend to confront the Archangels, but that will be at a time of my choosing. How do they fare, that most sanctimonious of all the choirs of Heaven?”
Azazel took a deep breath. “Gabriel and Michael are lovers,” he began, “as are Uriel and Raziel. Samael remains alone and aloof, Haniel lives in the land called India. Metatron spends more time in Heaven than on Earth, and Tzadkiel has a home in the land called America. I do not know for certain, but I suspect that he is involved with his two lieutenants, Sophiel and Brieus. Raphael stays in London or Crete with his lover, Israfel, the Angel of Music. Raphael was lately rescued from a kidnapping-two Archdemons and some humans sought to sell angelkind to wealthy humans. The plot was foiled, so the Archangels have done one useful thing. We are not made to be servants and slaves.”
Semjaza snorted at that. “Indeed not. Humans are to serve us, not the other way round. Continue.”
“Of course, sire.” Azazel paused to gather his thoughts. “Remiel also has a house in the land called America,” he said cautiously. “Ishtahar, your wife, spends a lot of her time working with damaged humans who are protected by Agrat bat Mahlat.”
Semjaza gave a small, fond smile. “My beloved was ever attentive to the needs of the less fortunate. My sons, Azazel. Tell me of my sons.”
“Ahijah spends much of his time in the South American lands,” Azazel reported. “He keeps to himself but visits occasionally with his mother. He has grown into a fine Nephilim. Hiwa is… difficult.” Azazel sighed. “Currently, I believe he is in prison in Russia. He has some standing with certain crime syndicates in that land. Semjaza, be careful with Hiwa. He is… angry.”
“Too angry to speak to his father?” Semjaza raised an eyebrow.
“I… yes.” Azazel cringed a little. “He created wards to keep myself and the others away from him. He wants nothing to do with his family. He speaks to his mother from time to time and to his brother even less, but the rest of us… no, he wants nothing to do with us.”
“I will go see him,” Semjaza declared. “After I have spoken with our friends. And then we will make plans and set them in motion.”
Azazel bowed his head. “As you decree, sire.”
“Where is Ishtahar living when she is not assisting Agrat?”
“In the town of North Canaan, Connecticut, sire.” Azazel sounded relieved to be no longer talking about Hiwa. Semjaza wondered just what his eldest son had been doing to cause such a reaction in his old friend.
“Canaan?” Semjaza quirked an eyebrow. “What a droll choice of name. Canaan is in Israel.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it was,” Azazel amended. “It’s gone now. So much of the land that we knew has gone or changed beyond recognition. I do not know why the Americans chose to call their town North Canaan.”
“Interesting.” Semjaza lifted his glass and drained it of the contents. “We will speak of these and other things later. Now, I think we should see to more appropriate raiment so that I may move easily around the world.”
Azazel bowed his head once more. “Of course, sire. I will take care of everything.”
Semjaza smiled beatifically. “I know you will, Azazel. I have great faith in your abilities.”
“Your majesty honors me,” Azazel said.
“Come.” Semjaza stood. “Let us take care of my appearance.”
AFTER hours of what seemed frivolous pampering, during which Semjaza found himself laughing often, Azazel took him to the penthouse apartment he owned in Paris. It was in a quiet part of the city, an older quarter that was full of narrow streets and ancient buildings, some dating back to the times of the Romans. Azazel’s building was in the style he called Art Deco, and there was something about the elegant, curving sweeps in the artifices and design that teased at Semjaza’s mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It continued to puzzle him as Azazel led him to an old elevator with an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed the bronze button that took them to the top floor. Only when the elevator opened up into Azazel’s home, the corners of the rooms rounded and the ceilings decorated with elaborate frescoes in soft hues, did it come to Semjaza.
“Your home,” he said, turning in a circle and taking in the space, “it is Eden.”
Azazel smiled. “As close to Eden as humans could ever come, sire.”
“It is remarkable.” Semjaza looked at the tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, bordered by dark wooden frames that curved around each other. “Remarkable and beautiful.”
“Please,” Azazel said with a smile, “make yourself at home. I had the housekeeper make up the room at the east end of the hallway for you.” He gave Semjaza a respectful bow and walked off, leaving Semjaza alone in the elegant entry hall.
From the direction that Azazel had walked came the sound of machines, and Semjaza drifted down the corridor, pausing to gaze at priceless paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Nothing was overdone here; it was all tasteful and beautiful, and Semjaza felt very much at home. He paused on the threshold of a room full of equipment he could not begin to understand, watching as Azazel pressed buttons and typed on keypads. He could feel the discreet swirl of Azazel’s power as well and smiled to himself as he watched.
“I am creating papers and an identity for you, my liege,” Azazel said without turning. “You will need these things to move around freely.”
Semjaza nodded, even though Azazel was not looking at him. “I understand. What is to be my identity to satisfy the curious?”
“You are Doctor Shem Ya’azhar, professor emeritus of Middle Eastern antiquities and history at the University of Aleppo. You were born in Iraq, in Bagdad, in the middle of the Seventy Years War and fought for a time before returning to studies. During an attack on the University of Damascus, where you finished your degree, most of the buildings and records were destroyed, so you have new ones made from partial records.” Azazel turned and shot Semjaza a grin. “It is a part of the world that we have used for our own identity papers before, with great success.”
“I see.” Semjaza laughed softly. “I suppose that I would be an expert in such a field, after all.”
“Quite so, sire.” Azazel inclined his head and returned to his machines.
“Later, you must teach me how to use these devices,” Semjaza said. “Now, with your permission, I would like to explore your home.”
“Of course.” Azazel turned again. “As I said, my lord. My home is yours. You are most welcome here.”
“Thank you, Azazel.” Semjaza paused. “One thing. What happened to your family? After Eden?”
Azazel sighed. He turned away from Semjaza, and his face became wreathed in shadow. “They died, my liege. My children, my two beautiful sons and my three sweet, innocent daughters were slaughtered by Gabriel during his genocidal destruction of our offspring and their offspring. My wife was killed, drowned, actually, in the flood that Uriel unleashed at Hashem’s command, to cleanse the planet.”
Semjaza’s hands clenched into fists. “They shall be avenged,” he said in a low growl. “I promise you, old friend.”
Azazel nodded once. “Thank you, sire.”
Semjaza opened his mouth to say more, but the set of Azazel’s shoulders indicated that this was not the right time to discuss such a tragic subject. He nodded instead and quietly stepped back, closing the door to the room behind him in respect for Azazel’s grief.
Closing his eyes, Semjaza took a deep, slow breath. He had seen it all from his prison among the stars. Gabriel, his sword burning with the pure white flame of Archangel power, slaughtering thousands of innocents because God had so ordered him. Uriel, gathering up one human-Noah-and his family, and one male and one female of every creature and plant on the planet, building a large ship to carry it all, and then making it rain for forty days and forty nights. Raziel, taking his book of secrets and mysteries and hiding it, far away, out of sight of even Semjaza. And Michael, Michael who had stood back and watched and said nothing, shed no tears for the lives that Gabriel had taken, those lives that were kin to angelkind through their fathers. Raphael too, had done nothing, and Remiel had saved Ishtahar and hidden her with the last clans of the monsters in the high places of the world.
All gone, all dead. Nothing but memories in Semjaza’s mind and soul. He let out his breath and opened his eyes. Soon, there would be a reckoning. It was well overdue.
Squaring his shoulders, Semjaza resumed his exploration of Azazel’s home and forced himself not to think about grief and loss.
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"No Shadows Fall" was released late October and picks up directly from where "No Surrender, No Retreat" left off. To get all the books in the series, click here.
No Shadows Fall.
Blurb:
Newly bonded Archangels Michael and Gabriel are torn from their idyllic island retreat by the singing of hymns heralding stunning news: Gabriel’s ancient foe, Semjaza, has escaped from his prison in the stars and now seeks revenge and utter conquest.
With the wisdom of Archangel Raziel to guide them and help coming from the most unlikely of quarters, Gabriel and Michael join with the Brotherhood of Archangels to hunt Semjaza down and finish him once and for all. Because Semjaza's return to Earth doesn't threaten just Gabriel and his loved ones-it threatens the whole of humanity.
But even more danger lurks in the shadows, threatening the Brotherhood from within. If Gabriel and Semjaza finally face each other in single combat, will Gabriel survive the contest, or will Michael lose his one true love?
Sequel to No Surrender, No Retreat: Book Three of The Archangel Chronicles.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
THE earth shuddered violently as he slammed down onto it. The force of his landing created ripples, which spread out like waves, making the desert sands fly upward and the few spindly trees shake as the tremors surged outward from the epicenter. He flared his wings, shielding himself from the waves of sand that soared out from him, red and gritty, obstructing vision for miles.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, savoring the feel of it in his lungs and the taste of fresh, clean air and sun-kissed sand on his tongue. Getting to his feet and pushing back his waist-length, white-blond hair, the angel looked around at the featureless plain that spread for miles in every direction.
He knew this land, knew it as well as he knew the back of his hand. It had been eons since he had walked here, and in that time, the land had changed from a lush, green paradise to this red-and-yellow dustbowl, denuded of the beauty he remembered so well. It saddened him to see, for the Middle East was his kingdom, and it should not be an unlovely desert.
His name was Semjaza, and he had not set foot on Earth since before the dawn of time. The planet had changed a lot, and he had observed it all from his prison among the stars, unable to do anything other than watch as mankind had set out from the beautiful city of Eden, the capital of his nation, and began to colonize the world. He had been unable to stop the wars of man that had overtaken his kingdom, tearing it apart into small countries that spoke a language that was a bastardization of his own tongue. He had grieved so much for the destruction of his lands, but mostly for the loss of it, the fact that it had been wrested from his benevolent rulership and given to humanity to do with as it saw fit. It was akin to giving an angry toddler a ball made of the finest crystal and not stopping the child from chipping it, changing it, dirtying it.
Semjaza wrinkled his nose and sneered. He was free now, free to reclaim what was his and bring terrible retribution down upon those who had wronged him. First on that list was Gabriel, the Archangel who had imprisoned him in the constellation of Aquila and left him to rot out there in the stars. The other Archangels would be dealt with later, after he had freed his people, the Grigori, locked in Hell. If necessary, Semjaza would confront Lucifer himself. He, Semjaza, was the true ruler, after all, and more a king than any other of angelkind.
He squared his shoulders and brushed sand from his chest. He had things to do, and he was determined to achieve his goals. Nodding once to himself, Semjaza started walking. The sand was hot, and it singed his bare feet, which were unused to variances in temperature or climate. The midday sun was like a hammer overhead, and Semjaza conjured a cloud to float above him to shield him from the worst of the sun’s effects as he walked to the destination he had chosen quite specifically.
Ur, the once proud city of the ancient world, the ziggurat standing tall and imposing, appeared in the distance, and Semjaza smiled. He would go down into the caves beneath Ur and find suitable raiment, take sustenance from the stores he knew would still be there, and then go to the door that led to the passageway that would take him into Eden. Once he was in Eden, he would release his Grigori and take back the Middle East as his own, and rule as he had before Gabriel had locked him away.
He would get his wife too. Ishtahar would not deny him. She never had, and now he was free of that cursed constellation of Aquila, Semjaza was confident that she would return to his embrace and to the role of his High Priestess and consort. She was immortal, so it was only fitting that she would be his once again. And his sons, his two beautiful sons who had been spared Uriel’s blade and death, he would find them and bring them home, establish them in proper positions in his new government, and bring about a new, wonderful, benevolent world.
He’d kill Remiel, too; that went without saying. Remiel had defiled Ishtahar with his unwholesome puppy love, and Semjaza would grant him no mercy for that sin. He should have dealt with Remiel before the Archangels had taken over Eden, but he had foolishly believed that Remiel’s love of his own kind would outweigh his childish crush on Ishtahar. Well, that betrayal would not be overlooked either, and Remiel would pay for what he had done, for daring to love a woman who belonged to Semjaza, Prince of the Grigori and King of Eden.
Semjaza’s smile widened as he walked toward Ur. However, the smile faded as he got closer and saw the damage and attrition centuries of time and neglect, and then decades of war, had caused. The once proud and beautiful city was now nothing more than pitted rock, the marvelous ziggurat ground down by weather and human weapons.
“Hey!”
Semjaza turned at the shout, quirking an eyebrow as he took in the figure of the human male striding purposefully toward him. The man wore the odd green-brown-and-tan-colored clothing that identified him as a military man, and he held a strange-looking weapon in his hands.
“Who are you?” the man asked, pointing his weapon at Semjaza. “How did you get here?” His accent was peculiar, unfamiliar.
Semjaza tilted his head to one side, gazing thoughtfully at this individual. It would be an easy thing to reach out with his power and stop the human’s heart, but that would also alert others something was wrong if there were humans waiting for this one. He understood the language the human spoke, the language called English, for he’d studied it during his confinement. So he smiled at the man and decided to try guile rather than violence. If guile failed, then it would be violence.
“I am Semjaza,” he said, “and I came from the stars.”
The human’s eyes narrowed, and there was a clicking sound from his weapon. “I repeat. Where did you come from and who are you?”
“You do not believe me.” Semjaza sighed. These modern humans were so skeptical of simple miracles. He remembered that from his observations.
“I’m going to have to take you into custody,” the human continued. “You’re in a restricted zone under the command of the US government.”
“I do not concern myself with governments, US or otherwise,” Semjaza said in a frosty tone. “I will tell you this only once. Leave. Now.”
“It’s you who’s leaving,” the human said, moving closer. “In a prison van.”
The word “prison” made Semjaza freeze. He had not escaped one prison to exchange it for another. “You silly child,” he said. “You will regret this.”
“Hands on your head,” the human ordered, raising his weapon and pointing it at Semjaza.
Semjaza laughed. “You think to give me orders? Foolish mortal.” He shook his head. “You are doomed.” With that, Semjaza twitched his index finger, using his power to break the human’s neck.
The human dropped to the ground, and Semjaza stepped over the body and walked into the opening that had once been the gateway into Ur.
He was relieved to discover that while the city above the ground had become a ruin, the cellars and storage holds beneath it were untouched. Indeed, as the earth groaned in complaint as Semjaza conjured open the door that led down into the basement, it seemed as if no one had entered the many rooms and corridors since the twenty-fourth century before the birth of The Son.
Semjaza patted the wall with one hand as he descended the shallow stairs into the basement, using a thought to close the door that had admitted him. When he returned to his kingdom, he would restore Ur. Perhaps Azazel would accept the city as a gift and govern it in Semjaza’s name. Semjaza decided to ask Azazel about it as soon as he saw him.
Walking quickly, Semjaza moved along the corridors, going into the rooms to find clothing, food, and water. The food had been protected by magics of the Grigori, and Semjaza was pleased to find everything as it had been so many centuries before. He ate a meal of dried fish and salted beef, olives and dates, and flat bread dipped in olive oil, and then he dressed in plain, undyed linen trousers and tunic and pulled on a black coat over the top.
Footwear was different, Semjaza realized, as the sandals he was so familiar with would be ineffective in the world above. He cast an incantation, taking the footwear from the dead human above, and examined the socks in wonder before shrugging and pulling them onto his feet. The boots were even more curious than the socks and made of tough leather that seemed to be reinforced with steel in the toes. Amused, Semjaza chuckled as he pulled on the boots and laced them up.
Once he had dressed and eaten his fill, Semjaza took a small jug of iced water, stored and protected by the magics of his old friend Gadreel. Gadreel had been gifted with far-seeing and Semjaza silently applauded his old friend for taking the precautions he had in order to protect the basement of Ur and its contents.
Semjaza moved through the rooms, seeking out one room in particular, the treasury. Finding it, he smiled to himself as he gathered up the long gold chain of his office and the gold ring set with garnets and diamonds that was the seal of his royal house. After sliding the ring onto his left ring finger and slipping the chain over his head, Semjaza then picked up a piece of braided leather thong and wove it between his fingers.
The man above had had short hair, and Semjaza considered that. While he was loath to cut off his long, white-blond tresses, perhaps it would be prudent to tie it back or braid it. He cast another spell, and the magic braided his hair in an elaborate and elegant long braid with the leather thong.
That done, Semjaza gazed at his reflection in a mirror made of polished brass. Yes, he looked just as handsome as he had before his imprisonment. Ishtahar could not resist him, for he was her true love and the father of her children. Once she saw him and how handsome and powerful he was, his talent for magic and his angelic power undimmed by time and imprisonment, she would rush to him and beg forgiveness for straying.
Of course, he would forgive her. He smirked as he gazed at his reflection. After he had punished her, naturally; for such behavior as hers-allowing Remiel to lay his hands upon her and hiding her children-could not go without some kind of punishment, but it would be swift, and he would be merciful. It would show his followers what a benevolent ruler he was. It would also show the humans, the tiny children that had evolved from clay, just how magnificent he was.
The monsters would flock to his banner too. Semjaza stretched languidly, smoothing his hands over his hair. The vampires were eager for power, and he would give them a few human witches and wizards to turn into blood drinkers. That would bind the vampire clans to him. The shape shifters wanted lands of their own, and so he would give them that, governed, of course, by one of his own. It would certainly be preferable to the meager and secretive existence they had now.
Pleased, Semjaza sent out his power, reaching for the familiar signature of his own choir. It was not a random Grigori he was seeking, however; it was Azazel, his second in command, his best friend, his long-lost comrade. He missed Azazel terribly, missed his wise counsel, his witty jokes, his interest in the arcane arts, and his talents with governing and warfare.
Azazel was in the human city of Paris. Semjaza chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the chamber that contained all the wealth of Ur. He would go there, but first, he would open the door to the passageway to Eden.
Semjaza walked down the long corridors toward an arched doorway with a huge stone door. The door was closed, and the inscriptions in Sumerian that were carved into it told of the day that the anointed one would come and open Eden to the world once more. Confident that he was that anointed one, Semjaza put his hand on the door and pushed.
It didn’t budge.
Frowning, Semjaza used both hands, and then leaned his shoulder against it, shoving with all his might. The door remained closed. Growing angry, Semjaza unleashed his power on the door.
It remained stubbornly closed.
Semjaza glared, reaching out again with his power, not attempting to open the door so much as trying to identify the reason it remained shut to him. The cause came as a shock, and he stumbled back.
Raziel, Archangel of Mysteries and Secrets, had closed it and sealed it with his own blood. Only he or the anointed one could open it again, and even more alarming, by trying to force it, Semjaza had triggered a spell that Raziel had hidden within the very stone, and alerted the Archangel to his exact location.
Swearing in Aramaic, Semjaza teleported, departing Ur and cloaking himself with his magic and his power. Angry and frustrated, Semjaza went to Paris.
SEMJAZA tried not to gawp like an unlettered country bumpkin as he walked down the Champs-Élysées. Paris was like no city he had ever seen, not even Eden. The lights and the color, the noise, the people… it was as if all the life in Eden had moved to this one city in the middle of Europe. The Arc de Triomphe was magnificent, Semjaza thought, and he decided to have one built in Eden as soon as possible.
The Eiffel Tower, though… Semjaza could not stop himself from staring. Lit up by a myriad of lights so it seemed to glow like a twinkling jewel set in a living crown, the structure awed him. The ingenuity that had gone into designing and maintaining such a beautiful edifice was not lost on him. Semjaza stared for a good half hour, lost in his contemplation of the brilliantly lit Eiffel Tower illuminated against the night sky.
Finally, he shook himself and resumed walking, listening to the snippets of conversation as he passed the humans going about their evening business. He could feel Azazel was close, and he was eager to see his old companion, but he did not want to appear impatient. He wanted to savor this, his first time walking in a modern city.
The language these humans spoke was called French, he learned, and he became proficient in it by leeching the lexicon of the language from their minds and listening to them talk. By the time he rounded a corner and entered the small café from which the sense of Azazel’s presence came, he was as fluent as a native speaker.
Azazel was alone, seated at a small table in the back corner of the café. He was nursing a glass of red wine, and his expression, as Semjaza approached, was a mixture of disbelief and joy. As Semjaza drew close, Azazel leapt from his seat and wrapped his arms around Semjaza in a hug.
Laughing softly, Semjaza hugged Azazel back. It had been so long, and he was overjoyed to see his good friend once more.
“I had scarce dared to believe it was true,” Azazel said, pulling back enough to look closely at Semjaza’s face. “I felt you land, my liege. I did not know if you were free by your design or by Gabriel’s.”
Semjaza laughed loud and long at that. “By my design, old friend. Gabriel would hardly set me free, now, would he?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Azazel said with a chuckle. “Come, sit, and take a glass of wine with me.”
Semjaza sat in the chair opposite Azazel and smiled as Azazel took his hand in his own.
“I missed you very much, your majesty,” Azazel said.
“Please, just Semjaza for now.” Semjaza gave Azazel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “There will be time for titles later when we put the world to rights and take back what is ours.”
There were tears in Azazel’s eyes. “I never lost faith,” he said, his breath hitching as he spoke. “I never stopped believing you would return. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”
Semjaza smiled. “I am glad to see you too, Azazel. I have learned much during my confinement, but I confess that walking these streets and listening to these children of clay-these humans-speak their languages is far different from observing from above.”
“Did you have any trouble? I mean, how did you do it?” Azazel’s voice was full of wonder.
“I studied, I watched.” Semjaza chuckled. “Are we not The Watchers, Azazel? Was that not our first occupation? So I did exactly that and watched the scientists and learned men who studied the stars, and I took their teachings to heart. I used my magic and their knowledge to break the bonds of confinement and open a small window between the Celestial bars of my cell.” He smirked, feeling superior to the mortals. “A mortal scientist would no doubt scoff at such a thing. But then, a mortal scientist does not have the abilities that I do.”
“I confess I do not understand.” Azazel shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re finally free.”
“As am I, old friend.” Semjaza nodded to the waitress who brought glasses of wine, and when she was out of earshot, he went on. “Tell me, how are the rest of our choir?”
Azazel sighed. “Not well. Many are in Hell, as you know. Those few of us who managed to escape and remain free are fewer now. Some gave up hope and willed themselves to cease to exist. Some went insane and were killed by Archdemons under Lucifer’s orders. Only myself, Kokabiel, Penemuel, and Baraqiel remain free and sane.”
Semjaza’s expression grew sad. “I am sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “I would have freed myself earlier if I could.”
“It is not your fault, your majesty.” Azazel smiled a bit. “We knew that the situation would not be quick to resolve itself and that it would take time. We understood this. So, we have hidden ourselves and waited for this day to arrive. I pretend to be an advisor to the leader of this country, working in the field of weapons development for the military. Kokabiel is in Belgium, a country that borders this one to the north, working with astronomers there. And Baraqiel is with him, the two of them working together on the science of the stars. Penemuel works at the British Library in the land called England. I have not seen him for some years.”
“We must call Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel to join us,” Semjaza decided. “There is much to be done, and we need to gather our strength.”
“Your will be done,” Azazel said, inclining his head. “I will contact them now.”
“Excellent.” Semjaza sipped his wine, watching Azazel out of the corner of his eye as the other angel’s gaze grew distant. Semjaza could feel Azazel’s thought reaching out, hidden carefully from all save their own choir as he spoke to Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel. After perhaps ten minutes, Azazel’s eyes cleared and he smiled.
“They come. They will join us here in Paris in the morning. You would honor me by staying at my home tonight, Semjaza.”
“Thank you.” Semjaza smiled. “I accept your offer of hospitality.”
“What do you plan to do first, now that you are free?” Azazel asked.
“I plan to find my sons and my wife,” Semjaza said, toying with his wine glass. “I plan to free our choir who are languishing in Hell. And then I plan to take back Eden and the lands called the Middle East and rule them as I did before. Finally, but by no means the least, I plan to kill Archangel Gabriel.”
Azazel smiled. “An excellent set of plans, my liege.”
“I rather thought so myself.” Semjaza raised his glass. “To victory and vengeance.”
Azazel raised his glass as well. “To victory and vengeance.”
“So”-Semjaza stretched out one leg beneath the table-“tell me of our people. Tell me what I have missed while I was imprisoned.”
Azazel pursed his lips for a moment, then spoke. “There is not much to tell that you would not have already seen, sire. There was a war; it ended not long ago. It came about because Shamsiel, driven mad by his incarceration in Hell, sold his feathers to a human who sought to raise armies from Gehenna to do his bidding and take over the world. The war lasted seventy years. Much has changed because of it, but these children, the humans, are tenacious and determined to rebuild.”
Semjaza sighed. “I grieve for Shamsiel. He was misguided in his actions, although I can understand that he was not in his right mind. I take it that he was killed because of what he had done?”
Azazel nodded. “I understand that he was taken to Lucifer himself and thrown into the Lake of Eternal Fire.”
Semjaza shuddered. “An unseemly end for a Grigori.”
“What’s done is done,” Azazel said, toying with his wine glass. “Sire, might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Your raiment is not… it will draw attention. If you wish to remain concealed from gossip that could reach the ears of the Archangels, I would recommend that you seek different attire.”
Semjaza chuckled. “I shall be guided by you, old friend. You understand these things better than I. I intend to confront the Archangels, but that will be at a time of my choosing. How do they fare, that most sanctimonious of all the choirs of Heaven?”
Azazel took a deep breath. “Gabriel and Michael are lovers,” he began, “as are Uriel and Raziel. Samael remains alone and aloof, Haniel lives in the land called India. Metatron spends more time in Heaven than on Earth, and Tzadkiel has a home in the land called America. I do not know for certain, but I suspect that he is involved with his two lieutenants, Sophiel and Brieus. Raphael stays in London or Crete with his lover, Israfel, the Angel of Music. Raphael was lately rescued from a kidnapping-two Archdemons and some humans sought to sell angelkind to wealthy humans. The plot was foiled, so the Archangels have done one useful thing. We are not made to be servants and slaves.”
Semjaza snorted at that. “Indeed not. Humans are to serve us, not the other way round. Continue.”
“Of course, sire.” Azazel paused to gather his thoughts. “Remiel also has a house in the land called America,” he said cautiously. “Ishtahar, your wife, spends a lot of her time working with damaged humans who are protected by Agrat bat Mahlat.”
Semjaza gave a small, fond smile. “My beloved was ever attentive to the needs of the less fortunate. My sons, Azazel. Tell me of my sons.”
“Ahijah spends much of his time in the South American lands,” Azazel reported. “He keeps to himself but visits occasionally with his mother. He has grown into a fine Nephilim. Hiwa is… difficult.” Azazel sighed. “Currently, I believe he is in prison in Russia. He has some standing with certain crime syndicates in that land. Semjaza, be careful with Hiwa. He is… angry.”
“Too angry to speak to his father?” Semjaza raised an eyebrow.
“I… yes.” Azazel cringed a little. “He created wards to keep myself and the others away from him. He wants nothing to do with his family. He speaks to his mother from time to time and to his brother even less, but the rest of us… no, he wants nothing to do with us.”
“I will go see him,” Semjaza declared. “After I have spoken with our friends. And then we will make plans and set them in motion.”
Azazel bowed his head. “As you decree, sire.”
“Where is Ishtahar living when she is not assisting Agrat?”
“In the town of North Canaan, Connecticut, sire.” Azazel sounded relieved to be no longer talking about Hiwa. Semjaza wondered just what his eldest son had been doing to cause such a reaction in his old friend.
“Canaan?” Semjaza quirked an eyebrow. “What a droll choice of name. Canaan is in Israel.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it was,” Azazel amended. “It’s gone now. So much of the land that we knew has gone or changed beyond recognition. I do not know why the Americans chose to call their town North Canaan.”
“Interesting.” Semjaza lifted his glass and drained it of the contents. “We will speak of these and other things later. Now, I think we should see to more appropriate raiment so that I may move easily around the world.”
Azazel bowed his head once more. “Of course, sire. I will take care of everything.”
Semjaza smiled beatifically. “I know you will, Azazel. I have great faith in your abilities.”
“Your majesty honors me,” Azazel said.
“Come.” Semjaza stood. “Let us take care of my appearance.”
AFTER hours of what seemed frivolous pampering, during which Semjaza found himself laughing often, Azazel took him to the penthouse apartment he owned in Paris. It was in a quiet part of the city, an older quarter that was full of narrow streets and ancient buildings, some dating back to the times of the Romans. Azazel’s building was in the style he called Art Deco, and there was something about the elegant, curving sweeps in the artifices and design that teased at Semjaza’s mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It continued to puzzle him as Azazel led him to an old elevator with an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed the bronze button that took them to the top floor. Only when the elevator opened up into Azazel’s home, the corners of the rooms rounded and the ceilings decorated with elaborate frescoes in soft hues, did it come to Semjaza.
“Your home,” he said, turning in a circle and taking in the space, “it is Eden.”
Azazel smiled. “As close to Eden as humans could ever come, sire.”
“It is remarkable.” Semjaza looked at the tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, bordered by dark wooden frames that curved around each other. “Remarkable and beautiful.”
“Please,” Azazel said with a smile, “make yourself at home. I had the housekeeper make up the room at the east end of the hallway for you.” He gave Semjaza a respectful bow and walked off, leaving Semjaza alone in the elegant entry hall.
From the direction that Azazel had walked came the sound of machines, and Semjaza drifted down the corridor, pausing to gaze at priceless paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Nothing was overdone here; it was all tasteful and beautiful, and Semjaza felt very much at home. He paused on the threshold of a room full of equipment he could not begin to understand, watching as Azazel pressed buttons and typed on keypads. He could feel the discreet swirl of Azazel’s power as well and smiled to himself as he watched.
“I am creating papers and an identity for you, my liege,” Azazel said without turning. “You will need these things to move around freely.”
Semjaza nodded, even though Azazel was not looking at him. “I understand. What is to be my identity to satisfy the curious?”
“You are Doctor Shem Ya’azhar, professor emeritus of Middle Eastern antiquities and history at the University of Aleppo. You were born in Iraq, in Bagdad, in the middle of the Seventy Years War and fought for a time before returning to studies. During an attack on the University of Damascus, where you finished your degree, most of the buildings and records were destroyed, so you have new ones made from partial records.” Azazel turned and shot Semjaza a grin. “It is a part of the world that we have used for our own identity papers before, with great success.”
“I see.” Semjaza laughed softly. “I suppose that I would be an expert in such a field, after all.”
“Quite so, sire.” Azazel inclined his head and returned to his machines.
“Later, you must teach me how to use these devices,” Semjaza said. “Now, with your permission, I would like to explore your home.”
“Of course.” Azazel turned again. “As I said, my lord. My home is yours. You are most welcome here.”
“Thank you, Azazel.” Semjaza paused. “One thing. What happened to your family? After Eden?”
Azazel sighed. He turned away from Semjaza, and his face became wreathed in shadow. “They died, my liege. My children, my two beautiful sons and my three sweet, innocent daughters were slaughtered by Gabriel during his genocidal destruction of our offspring and their offspring. My wife was killed, drowned, actually, in the flood that Uriel unleashed at Hashem’s command, to cleanse the planet.”
Semjaza’s hands clenched into fists. “They shall be avenged,” he said in a low growl. “I promise you, old friend.”
Azazel nodded once. “Thank you, sire.”
Semjaza opened his mouth to say more, but the set of Azazel’s shoulders indicated that this was not the right time to discuss such a tragic subject. He nodded instead and quietly stepped back, closing the door to the room behind him in respect for Azazel’s grief.
Closing his eyes, Semjaza took a deep, slow breath. He had seen it all from his prison among the stars. Gabriel, his sword burning with the pure white flame of Archangel power, slaughtering thousands of innocents because God had so ordered him. Uriel, gathering up one human-Noah-and his family, and one male and one female of every creature and plant on the planet, building a large ship to carry it all, and then making it rain for forty days and forty nights. Raziel, taking his book of secrets and mysteries and hiding it, far away, out of sight of even Semjaza. And Michael, Michael who had stood back and watched and said nothing, shed no tears for the lives that Gabriel had taken, those lives that were kin to angelkind through their fathers. Raphael too, had done nothing, and Remiel had saved Ishtahar and hidden her with the last clans of the monsters in the high places of the world.
All gone, all dead. Nothing but memories in Semjaza’s mind and soul. He let out his breath and opened his eyes. Soon, there would be a reckoning. It was well overdue.
Squaring his shoulders, Semjaza resumed his exploration of Azazel’s home and forced himself not to think about grief and loss.
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