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.
