“She broke away to go to Neha’s palace atop the hill.” His mother had wished to have a private conversation with the Archangel of India. “I see her now.”

“Neha flies with her.”

Several others arrived at that instant. Including Aegaeon. “I hear my son is part of your court, Raphael,” he said, his feathers a deep sea green that flowed into blue and his face a harder, craggier version of Illium’s—no one would’ve accused the Hummingbird of deceit had her son been full grown when Aegaeon disappeared into Sleep.

That he was Illium’s progenitor was impossible to miss.

“Illium is one of my Seven.” Raphael forced himself to be civil; if there was to be a confrontation, it belonged to Illium.

“Wild still is he?” Aegaeon’s eyes gleamed with laughing pride. “Always playing tricks, my son.”

“You will excuse me. I must greet my mother.” Raphael had to get away from the angel before he punched him. Not many people aroused such primal anger in Raphael, but Aegaeon stood in first place.

Both for what he’d done to the Hummingbird, and what he’d done to Illium. As if they had no more importance to him than any other angel in his harem. Raphael would never forget finding the Hummingbird’s mischievous, laughing boy curled up in a heap behind a tumble of rocks, crying in heartbroken silence. Aegaeon had left without warning, with no care for the small heart that worshipped him.

He came to a stop near where Caliane and Neha had landed. “Mother. Neha.”

Neha gave a nod of acknowledgment, but her eyes were on the fog. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes.” A heavy sense of oppression, a near-physical touch. “Is it causing weather changes in your territory?”

“My weather scientists say it has to do with how the fog is disrupting the ground to sky flow in Lijuan’s land.” Dressed in the faded leathers of a warrior, she spoke to Raphael without anger, her only focus the dark fog. She didn’t seem aware of the thin snake wrapped around her left wrist, a living bracelet in tones of dark orange and copper.

Caliane was dressed much the same except that her hair was out while Neha had braided her own. The three of them moved to the edge of the fort roof. The others soon joined them.

“Did any of you fly over China on your way here?” Neha asked.

“It was not on our route, but Zanaya and I deliberately detoured there,” Alexander said.

“We have sent mechanical devices that fly and take pictures above the fog,” Neha said, “but they can only go a certain distance before their energy runs out. Did you see anything unusual during your flight?”

“Darker patches in certain sections.”

“It seemed thicker,” Zanaya added, “more viscous.”

“The mechanical devices also sent us such images.” Neha’s face was thinner than Raphael was used to seeing, her bones sharp.

“Has anyone come out of the territory since the fog descended?” Michaela’s voice, her body held with a familiar languidness where she stood next to Titus. “My sentries have reported none on the Mongolian border.”

“I have had no new refugees,” Caliane said.

“Nothing alive has crossed this border,” Neha said. “Not even a bird. The ones on this side are now avoiding it, as if they have heard the death screams of their fallen brethren.” She pointed down. “My people would normally clean that up, but I wanted you to see.”

Raphael’s blood went cold at the sight that awaited: a row of birds, all fallen at the edge of the fog. Tiny corpses that told a story of cold, sudden death.

“How long between contact and death?” Astaad asked, a smear of dust on his sleeveless black tunic.

“As far as we can tell, it is instantaneous.” Neha looked to Caliane.

Raphael’s mother nodded. “The birds touch the fog and they drop, already dead. It is not the fall that kills them, that we have determined. Smaller animals, even snakes, have been found dead with their heads just inside the fog and bodies outside.”

“Enough.” Antonicus stepped back from the group on that single contemptuous word and spread out his wings. “It is time I do what must be done—I am not a child to be scared by ghost stories. I will see you all after I return from speaking to this Lijuan who believes herself a goddess even over immortals.”

The Ancient lifted off. He’d initially intended to fly to the part of the fog over Lijuan’s stronghold before he dropped down, but that would put him far from sight and they needed to know what would happen to an archangel who flew into the fog.

Antonicus had finally agreed to do a short flight into the fog within their line of sight, rise up to show them he was well, then make his way to the coordinates of Lijuan’s former stronghold—in that at least he’d accepted assistance, and was wearing a watch that would help him find the correct location. He also wore a small camera on his left shoulder that would transmit images back to a unit that sat to one side of the roof.

Antonicus crossed the border. No one spoke. Not even when the Ancient reached the test location deep within the fog area but still visible to them.

He lifted an arm, and Neha raised hers to show him they could see him. That hadn’t been guaranteed given the darkness, but enough torchlight leached out that far to make Antonicus a clear silhouette.

The Ancient flew down into the fog.

One.

Two.

Three.

No one looked at the transmitted images; those were being recorded, could be gone over at will.

Four.

Five.

Antonicus should’ve emerged by now.

“He’s dead,” Neha said, not coldly but with the conviction of belief.

An arm erupted out of the fog, the fingers locked into a tight fist. It was followed by a head, then a torso, then wings, and suddenly, Antonicus hovered over the spot where he’d gone in. Raphael’s gut clenched against the hard punch of relief. If the Ancient could survive this, they had a chance against Lijuan if—when—she made war on the world.

Antonicus wobbled, his wings dipping this way then that.

“What is he doing?” Michaela asked, but Raphael was already lifting off.

Stay here, he told the others. He flew on wings of white fire across the short distance.

Antonicus was attempting to fly toward him, but his wings were listing heavily and he was halfway back inside the fog when Raphael reached him. Grabbing his visible arm, Raphael fought to stop Antonicus’s momentum from dragging them both down into the darkness.

44

Raphael’s arm jerked in his shoulder socket, and then he had control, Antonicus’s weight less than he’d expected. Raphael hauled him out. The Ancient’s face was skeletal, his eyes glistening orbs infected with lines of liquid black.

Raphael had been hit by the same energy once, had gone blind from it before the wildfire forced it out. Seeing Antonicus’s wings crumple, he shifted his hold so the other archangel was in his arms.

He was light. So light. His clothes hung off his frame, his dark brown hair thinning in the wind before Raphael’s eyes. “Hold on.”

The archangels gathered on the roof parted for them. Raphael landed in the center, placing Antonicus on a plush blue rug Neha must’ve had brought up. Kneeling down beside the other archangel, he placed his hand on Antonicus’s chest and said, “I am going to attempt to fight this infection.” He thrust wildfire into the Ancient.

Antonicus’s eyes burst with light from within before the black retreated to reveal the gray of his irises. “Death,” the injured archangel rasped. “It is pure death.”

The liquid black began to creep again. Raphael pulsed more wildfire into his system; Antonicus clutched at his hand as the bolt arced through his body. His eyes cleared once more.

“What did you see below the fog?” Neha asked from the fallen angel’s other side. “The recorded images are blurred by severe movement.” She closed her hand over Antonicus’s.

Raphael noted the contact, noted also that the infection—or whatever this was—didn’t seem to be crossing over. At the same instant, he saw that Antonicus’s wings were turning black from the edges in. The Ancient’s primaries began to curl inward. One detached to lie on the rug. Favashi had shown similar symptoms, though she hadn’t been as far along. He calculated rapidly as Antonicus began to speak.

“No life. No lights,” he rasped. “Death.” Liquid black crawled over his irises.

“Raphael.” Caliane’s hand on his shoulder.

Raphael spoke directly to Antonicus. “I could kill you. The wildfire is a blunt weapon designed to attack Lijuan’s power and you’re riddled with it.”

“It is killing me anyway.” Antonicus coughed and what came out was a thick black slime—his insides being liquefied in front of them.

Raphael thrust two more bolts of wildfire into the Ancient. The second surge crackled all over him in a violence of white-gold and electric blue, clearing his eyes and putting a shine back in his skin, and for a moment, Raphael thought they had defeated Lijuan’s brand of death.

Then the signs of Lijuan’s poisonous power surged back faster and more virulent than ever. It covered his irises, ran through his skin, blazed across his wings. Further jolts of wildfire had no effect.

Titus crouched by Antonicus’s head and put a hand on his shoulder in a grip that told the archangel he wasn’t alone. Raphael held on to Antonicus’s left hand as Neha held on to his right. The others all crouched down, their wings trailing on the dusty roof, and together, they watched the final breaths of an archangel who had lived millennia, only to be brought down by a death that was beyond anything this world had ever seen.

“He is gone,” Caliane murmured when Antonicus’s breath had ended, no sign of a heart beating in his chest, and his skin holding a putrid greenish cast. It was a decaying corpse that lay before them in place of a powerful Ancient who had blazed with life and arrogance only an hour ago.

“We must burn him—we do not know what he carries in his blood.” Neha’s words might’ve been harsh, but it was with a gentle touch that she reached out to close the Ancient’s staring eyes.