Becca Fitzpatrick: Silence

“A mind-trick?” the angel scorned. “Don’t bother. Make the call,” he commanded. “If she walks free in the next two minutes, I’ll kill you quickly. Anything longer than that, and I will rip you apart, one piece at a time. And trust me when I say I will enjoy every last scream you utter.”

“Can’t — kill— me! ” Hank sputtered.

He felt a searing pain erupt across his cheek. He howled, but the sound never made it past his lips. His windpipe was crushed, vised in the angel’s grip. The raw, burning pain intensified, and all around, Hank could smell blood mixed with his own perspiration.

“One piece at a time,” the angel hissed, dangling something papery and drenched in dark liquid over Hank’s whirling vision.

Hank felt his eyes widen. His skin!

“Call your men,” the angel ordered, sounding infinitely less patient.

“Can’t — talk!” Hank gurgled. If he could only reach the panic button …

Swear an oath to release her now, and I’ll let you talk. The angel’s threat slipped easily into Hank’s head.

You’re making a big mistake, boy, Hank fired back. His fingers brushed his pocket, slipping inside. He clenched the panic device.

The angel made a guttural sound of impatience, ripped the device away and hurled it into the fog. Swear the oath or your arm goes next.

I’ll uphold our original deal, Hank returned. I’ll spare her life and bury all thought of avenging Chauncey Langeais’s death if you’ll bring me the information I need. Until then, I vow to treat her humanely—

The angel slammed Hank’s head against the ground. Between the nausea and pain, he heard the angel say, I’m not leaving her with you another five minutes, let alone the time it will take me to get what you want.

Hank tried to peer over the angel’s shoulder, but all he saw was a fence of gravestones. The angel had him on the ground, blocked from view. His men couldn’t see him. He didn’t believe the angel could kill him — he was immortal — but he wasn’t going to lie here and let himself be mutilated until he resembled a corpse.

He curled his lips and locked eyes with the angel. I’ll never forget how loud she screamed when I dragged her away. Did you know she screamed your name? Over and over. She said you’d come for her. That was the first couple of days, of course. I think she’s finally starting to accept you’re no match for me.

He watched the angel’s face darken as if with blood. His shoulders shook, his black eyes dilated with rage. And then it all happened in stunning agony. One moment Hank was on the verge of blacking out from the white-hot pain of his pummeled flesh, and the next he was staring at the angel’s fists, painted with his blood.

A deafening howl thundered out of Hank’s body. The pain exploded inside him, nearly knocking him unconscious. From some distant place, he heard the running feet of his Nephilim men.

“Get — him — off — me!” he snarled as the angel tore at his body. Every nerve ending raged with fire. Heat and agony leaked from his pores. He caught sight of his hand, but there was no flesh — only mangled bone. The angel was going to shred him to pieces. He heard grunts of effort from his men, but the angel was still on top of him, his hands raking fire everywhere they touched.

Hank swore viciously. “Blakely!”

“Pull him off now !” came Blakely’s gruff command to his men.

Not soon enough, the angel was dragged away. Hank lay on the ground, panting. He was wet with blood, pain stabbing him like hot pokers. Slapping aside Blakely’s offered hand, Hank climbed with effort to his feet. He felt unstable, swaying and intoxicated with his own suffering. By the gaping stares of his men, Hank knew he was a horrific sight. Given the severity of the wounds, it might take him an entire week to heal — even with the enhancements of devilcraft.

“Should we take him away, sir?”

Hank dabbed a handkerchief to his lip, which was split open and hung from his face like pulp. “No. We have no use for him locked up. Tell Dagger the girl is to have nothing but water for forty-eight hours.” His breathing was ragged. “If our boy here can’t cooperate, she pays.”

With a nod, Blakely turned from the scene, dialing on his phone.

Hank spat out a bloodied tooth, studied it quietly, then tucked it in his pocket. He fixed his eyes on the angel, whose only outward sign of fury came in the form of clenched fists. “Once again, the terms of our oath, so there’s no further misunderstanding. First, you will earn back the confidence of fallen angels, rejoining their ranks—”

“I’ll kill you,” the angel said with quiet warning. Though he was held by five men, he no longer struggled. He stood deathly still, his eyes black orbs burning with vengeance. For one moment, Hank felt a pang of fear strike like a match inside his gut.

He strove for cool indifference. “—following which, you will spy on them and report their dealings directly to me.”

“I swear now,” the angel said, his breathing controlled but elevated, “with these men as my witnesses, I will not rest until you are dead.”

“A waste of breath. You can’t kill me. Perhaps you’ve forgotten from whom a Nephil claims his immortal birthright?”

A murmur of amusement circled his men, but Hank waved them to silence. “When I’ve determined you’ve given me enough information to successfully prevent fallen angels from possessing Nephilim bodies this coming Cheshvan—”

“Every hand you lay on her I will return tenfold.”

Hank’s mouth twisted into a suggestion of a smile. “An unnecessary sentiment, don’t you think? By the time I’m through with her, she won’t remember your name.”

“Remember this moment,” the angel said with icy vehemence. “It’s going to come back to haunt you.”

“Enough of this,” Hank snapped, making a disgusted gesture and starting back toward the car. “Take him to Delphic Amusement Park. We want him back among the fallen as soon as possible.”

“I’ll give you my wings.”

Hank stopped his departure, not sure he’d heard the angel correctly. He barked a laugh. “What?”

“Swear an oath to release Nora right now, and they’re yours.” The angel sounded haggard, giving away the first hint of defeat. Music to Hank’s ears.

“What use would I have for your wings?” he retorted blandly, but the angel had caught his attention. As far as he knew, no Nephil had ever torn out the wings of an angel. They did it among their own kind now and then, but the idea of a Nephil having that power was quite the novelty. Quite the temptation. Tales of his conquest would sweep through Nephilim households overnight.

“You’ll think of something,” the angel said with increasing weariness.

“I’ll swear an oath to release her before Cheshvan,” Hank countered, smothering all eagerness from his voice, knowing that to reveal his delight would be disastrous.

“Not good enough.”

“Your wings might make a pretty trophy, but I have a bigger agenda. I’ll release her by the end of summer, my final offer.” He turned, walking away, swallowing down his greedy enthusiasm.

“Done,” the angel said with quiet resignation, and Hank released a slow breath.

He turned. “How is it to be done?”

“Your men will tear them out.”

Hank opened his mouth to argue, but the angel cut him off. “They’re strong enough. If I don’t fight, nine or ten of them together could do it. I’ll go back to living beneath Delphic and make it known the archangels tore out my wings. But for this to work, you and I can’t have any connection,” he warned.