would kill her at last. This angel she had never seen, controlled by another gone mad from centuries of grief.
Then, out from the angel’s throat plunged a strange blade—an iridescent copper, shadows shifting across it. Blightblade, Eliana thought, shaky and reeling. Fountains of blood spurted from the angel’s neck. The blade tore free, and the body twitched, then fell hard. Empty now, nothing more than a corpse.
And over it stood Simon in imperial black, his scarred face streaked with blood and grime. His expression was furious. A dark cloak lined with crimson fell to his knees, and across his torso cut a red sash like a bloody smile.
His bright-blue gaze found Eliana’s, locked on for one blazing instant. Something metallic crashed behind her. She turned, still unsteady on the ground, still woozy, but Simon was faster. He darted in front of her, blightblade in one hand, revolver in the other, and shot three angels as they leapt for her. All three copper bullets struck under their chins, where their helmets left them vulnerable.
There is a door in the far wall, the Prophet instructed. Narrow and plain. White stone. Run to it now. Remy will follow. I must protect him. They are confused, but that will end soon.
It was as if someone had turned the world inside out. Eliana blinked, searching the plaza, while above her Simon fired shot after shot. Out of bullets, he flung his gun aside and drew another from the belt at his waist. I must protect him, the Prophet had said. Because now, Simon was the one drawing their ire. Simon, the Emperor’s favorite.
When Eliana found the Prophet’s door, a sick heat rushed down her body. A moment ago, the door had not been there—she was sure of it. Thick swaths of blood, both red and blue, slashed across its surface.
Now, Eliana!
Eliana pushed to her feet, searching for Remy. More cruciata were slinking over the walls. They tackled the angels, lashed them with their tails.
In their midst, Jessamyn fought a single angelic soldier. She swung her sword at him; their blades crashed together and locked. The angel swore at her, the ripples of his fury ricocheting through the plaza. Eliana knew that look. He was trying to get at Jessamyn’s mind but couldn’t.
Her skin prickled. A hidden door. A thwarted angel.
The Prophet was everywhere.
The angel fighting Jessamyn spat a curse in Lissar. Eliana had come to know the word well. Corien shouted it at his servants, often flung it like a knife into Eliana’s mind. The Prophet had translated it for her. It meant whore.
Jessamyn bared her teeth at her attacker. Sweaty strands of red hair had come loose from her braid and clung to her neck. “My name,” she shouted, her voice cracking, “is Jessamyn.”
The angel shoved her to the ground and raised his sword. Eliana looked away before it could fall.
Simon was running toward the Prophet’s door, an unconscious Remy slung over his shoulder. He locked eyes with Eliana’s. “Go, now!”
Eliana ran for it, but she saw at once that there was no latch. Her power rose like the heat of an explosion. She punched her fists toward the door, castings ablaze inside her clenched fingers.
The door shattered. Shards of stone went flying. Beyond it, narrow stone stairs descended into darkness.
Eliana ran toward them, choking on clouds of white dust. Once Simon passed over the threshold with Remy, she whirled back around and flung her palms at the door. Rock and dust reassembled in seconds, flying back into a solid wall of rock, sealed tight against the city beyond.
In the darkness, Eliana heard only her own ragged breathing, her own pounding head. The tunnel had swallowed all sounds of battle.
She found Remy slung over Simon’s shoulder, cradled his cheek in one hand, and held her other before his mouth. A faint puff of hot air, then another. He was breathing. Weak with relief, she stepped back, away from the heat of Simon’s body. They stood for a moment, the silence thick and scorching between them. Eliana’s castings threw a faint golden light across the scarred lines of Simon’s face and the iridescent blightblade still clutched in his hand, dripping blood.
Eliana glanced at it. “Is he in there?” she said tightly.
“No.” He would not look at her. “I tried long ago. He’s too strong for blightblades. They can’t hold him.” Simon flicked the blade a little, as if scorning it. “It’s the other angel in here, the one whose body he momentarily took possession of