Sweat dripped into Madigan’s eyes as his muscles screamed at him to rest. How long had it been since angels swooped down like, well, avenging angels with their flaming swords, intent on killing every last nephilim of his new home? It had to be hours because the sun was high, though it offered no relief from the frigid cold that seemed to have seized the city since they’d flown at dawn.
“Madigan!” Bren shouted behind him. “Back up. We need to pull back.”
A blazing sword swung much closer to Madigan’s face than he was entirely comfortable with before he jerked out of the way. The same pattern had been repeating for hours. Run in. Fight. Fight. Fight. Get exhausted. Fall behind the next line of battle-ready warriors. Rinse and repeat.
He pushed his will out and sent a now wingless angel tumbling from the sky. Madigan tried very hard not to let the screams of fear bother him.
“Madigan!” Cross snapped.
Madigan pulled his wings tight and plummeted several dozen feet before opening them up and turning back toward their safe zone. Immediately, he was bracketed on either side by his men.
“Just rest your wings,” Bren commanded, taking one side while Cross took the other.
Grateful for their intervention, he sagged into their embrace.
“You okay, beautiful?”
He nodded. “Tired,” he mumbled. The shouting behind him grew in intensity and he tensed.
“Easy,” Cross murmured, petting his sweaty back. “We’re good.”
“Good” didn’t feel good at the moment. “Good” felt like hell and damnation raining down onto their backs from angles that Madigan didn’t even know existed.