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Jareth takes a step back, shock registering on his face. “You…killed a seraph?”
“Yes.” I opened my eyes to the gray expanse of Limbo. “And now I remember why.”
29. Remiel
The address Cassia had given me burned a hole in my pocket, a scrap of paper that felt heavier than the celestial steel at my hip. I left with the taste of regret and failure in my mouth, the memory of Cassia’s undoing fresh.
But I was a moth to her flame. I wanted to fix her.
The path led me away from the city center’s grandeur and down to the water’s edge, where the Vltava’s waters bled into a narrow dark artery of the Čertovka. The Devil’s Canal. Fitting.
The air here was thick with the scent of stagnant water and old stones, the mist clinging to the Grand Priory Mill’s waterwheel like a shroud. The building I sought was unassuming from the outside, a nondescript gray warehouse that blended into the gloom of Kampa. But the moment I stepped across the threshold, the world shifted.
I expected the cluttered, dusty chaos of a specter’s den—jars of ectoplasm, ancient scrolls, and the smell of dried herbs and decay. Instead, I walked into a cathedral of sterility. The interior was a shocking white, illuminated by a sourceless light that left no shadows. Gleaming steel tables stood in precise rows, and strange machines with glass hearts pulsed with a rhythmic, low thrum. The air smelled sharp and metallic—the scent of magic being dissected. It was a laboratory, one that belonged to a future not yet written.
And there, standing amid the pristine horror of his own creation, was not a specter.
Serion.
The seraph slowly turned as the door clicked shut behind me. He wore a white clinical linen coat, unblemished by the city’s grime. His hands were gloved in latex that gleamed under the harsh lights. He did not look surprised. Not like a fugitive hiding from the tribunal’s wrath. He looked like a man interrupted in the middle of a holy sacrament.
“Remiel,” he said, his voice devoid of fear. “You are earlier than calculated. I expected the demon to keep you occupied for at least another hour.”
I recoiled, the shock hitting me like a physical blow. “You.” The word was a growl, a vibration in my chest. “Malakar sent me to find you. He said you were missing. That you had gone silent.”
“Malakar says what is necessary to maintain the narrative,” he replied, turning back to a tray of instruments arranged with surgical precision. “I was never missing, Guardian. I was working. And silence is a requirement for work of this magnitude.”
The pieces slammed together in my mind. The warded house. Lysanthe’s abduction. The “experiments.”
“You’re working with him,” I said, stepping forward. My hand found the hilt of my blade. “You’re working with the vampire sire.”
Serion sighed. “Collaboration would be the right word for it. Valden provided the raw materials. I provided the method. We are attempting to solve a problem that has plagued Heaven since the beginning of time: the instability of the hybrid soul. The intersection of light and darkness.”
“You tortured her!” I roared, anger rising in me like a tide of molten gold. “You dissected a living soul!”
“A dead soul. And I cleansed it,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with a cold blue fire. “Or I attempted to anyway. The vampire child was…resilient but ultimately flawed. Her structure could not hold the purification. But the other one…the angel…shows promise.”
“Cassia.” The name tore from my throat.
“She is the crucible. And this”—he gestured to the sterile room, to the machines now humming with hunger—“is where we will perfect her. Or unmake her. It matters little which, as long as the data is preserved.”
“And Malakar knows,” I whispered, the horror of it hollowing me out. “Michael knows.”
“Who do you think authorized the budget?” Serion smiled, looking righteous, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. “Did you think you were sent here to stop me? Oh, Remiel. You were sent here to ensure the vampire didn’t overstep his bounds. The fail-safe. The watchdog. Not for the angel. For the experiment.”
The betrayal was total. I wasn’t a guardian. I was a tool—used to facilitate the torture of the woman I loved.
I didn’t think or strategized. I just exploded.
A blur of motion, I charged him, drawing my blade in a single arc. The celestial steel sang as it cut the air, aiming for his neck.
He didn’t flinch. He just raised a hand, and a wall of solid light materialized between us. My blade struck it with a thunderous clang, the impact jarring my arm to the shoulder.
“Predictable,” Serion sneered. “You always were too emotional for an angel. Too close to the mud.”
He flicked his wrist, and the wall of light shattered outward, blasting me backward. I hit one of the steel tables, denting the metal. Instruments clattered to the floor in a cacophony of steel.
I scrambled up, ignoring the pain in my spine. “You are a monster,” I spat, my wings threatening to burst from my back.
