To Hell and Back by L.B. Gilbert

Chapter Forty-One

“Wake up, witch,” Michael boomed.

Valeria jerked up in bed. “Wha—”

The archangel was in her room, his wings stretched so the tips brushed both walls.

“It’s time.”

He tilted his head at her, examining her nightgown—a threadbare shift made out of his old robes.

She pulled the equally tattered coverlet over her chest. “Time for what?” she asked, tacking on a ‘my lord’ after a few more sleepy blinks.

“Our preparations are at an end. We cast the spell today. By tonight, we will be on Earth, the people’s suffering at an end.”

“Oh,” she said dumbly.

He smiled at her beneficently before dropping a bundle at the foot of the bed. “I have had Slank prepare a gown for you for the occasion. It’s only fitting that you look your best when our people welcome us home, their true rulers.”

Our people?She bit her tongue to keep from pointing out his slip.

“I’ll get dressed at once.”

She joined him in the library a few minutes later. He glanced up, giving her an appraising glance. The dress Slank had brought her was the color of dried blood. It had long sleeves and a full skirt that went down to her ankles, but it was made from a lightweight cloth that didn’t weigh her down.

“Thank you for the gown. It’s lovely.”

“Well, I can’t have you wearing the rags you’ve been traipsing about in when we get there.”

Since he’d provided all the clothes, she blinked but didn’t comment. Valeria spent the rest of the morning shlepping books and supplies out into the garden where Michael had decided to cast his door-opening spell.

The archangel wasn’t using chalk or salt—nothing so plebeian. His medium was the dried residue of the many potions she’d helped him mix.

He drew the circle and sigils himself, robbing her of the chance to sabotage them by making a small mistake. Superfluous after she’d carried the gear and supplies, she made herself invisible, watching him draw.

His rune work was genius, combining the powerful symbols in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. The intricate work should have been laborious, but the symbols spilled from his hand fluidly, expertly. Her unease grew the more work he did.

Circles appeared within circles, one for focus, and one for enhancement. Valeria squinted at a series of smaller ones set in the inner layer. Were those reflections? My mirror. Michael was going to use it to bounce his power off her, reflecting it and repeating the cycle. Each one boosted the energy until it could rip a hole in the world.

Mierda. There was a very good chance this was going to work. Michael was immortal. He’d had an eternity to learn, to plan.

“Here, girl,” the archangel said, reaching to take her hand. He guided her inside, directing her to place her feet in one of two clear spaces.

“This may sting a little,” he said, “but you can’t break eye contact.”

Reaching up, he tilted her chin until she met his quicksilver eyes, the touch lingering. It may have been her imagination, but she thought this contact was gentler than the first time she’d met him. That along with his slip earlier gave her some hope that her stolen ability was affecting him.

Maybe.

By now, a human would have been obsessed to the point of stuffing pillows with her hair. Just to be sure, she sent another pulse along the small bit of contact.

“I’ll try not to burn out your brain in this effort,” he said, raising his hands.

“What?” That was a possibility?

Michael didn’t reply. The wind had picked up, roaring around them. The angel’s robes lifted, fluttering around him as if they had a mind of their own. Her hair was in her eyes. Risking movement, she pulled it behind her ears, wondering if the runes would be wiped away by the fast-moving air.

They didn’t budge. The runes had sunk into the ground, glowing blue-white as if they were hot.

If she touched one, would she burn? Not a theory you want to test. Not that she could move at this point. Whatever Michael was doing was starting to build, making itself felt in steady, ever-increasing surges.

Valeria looked down at her arms. The fine hair on them stood on end. When she asked him what she was supposed to do, the angel only had one instruction.

“Don’t speak. No big movements. Just hold your position and leave the rest to me.”

“That doesn’t sound hard,” she muttered.

He’d given her a pitying glance and walked away. She knew why now.

The pressure in her stomach came at her from Michael, smacking her first in the stomach only to rebound from her core back to him. Then the cycle repeated, the intensity building steadily until the force was punching her with bruising strength.

Her nerves began to ache, and strands of energy became visible between her hands as if she were being filled with lightning. Unable to stop herself, she began to scream. But no sound came out—only energy. Brilliant white light spilled out of her eyes, her ears.

Michael’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear anything. Then her vision started to whiten out. The archangel’s frown was the last thing she saw.