Michael had never lingered over thoughts of his own death. It had not occurred to him—prior to Mallory revealing that she had killed him—that he might one day meet such a permanent demise. He was the son of God’s greatest and most feared adversary. He was the only and most beloved child of Satan. His powers were so great that Hell itself opened to him as if its gates were a wilted flower and his face the sun. He had come and gone so effortlessly, and taken two of Hell’s denizens with him, as if to prove that he did as he pleased and not even his father could stop or hinder him.
The faith he had in himself was so immense that the fear he should have felt for the angels who called Preya home was but a dull throb in his chest. They had threatened him—he was sure of that—and still, he did not tremble or show them even a glimpse of distress. The Archangel whose named he shared had defeated his father, had thrown him from the great heights of Heaven and down into the deepest pits of Hell. Michael knew that he was near, and that he would perhaps wish nothing more than to see the defeat of his fallen brother’s child. If the time came for them to stand face to face, he would stand with his head held high. He would not even flinch.
Mallory was nothing to him. She was a speck of a person. A name without a face, a girl he had sworn to kill in revenge. But here, now, with her standing before him, her form took clarity and she started to become something real, something tangible, something that might possess the strength it would take to do him harm.
Setting Fenrir down beside him on the bench, Michael contemplated Mallory from behind dark lashes and shining blue eyes. He stretched leisurely, like a big cat who couldn’t be bothered to rise fully in greeting. “Mallory,” he answered, his voice lilted, his mouth curving up into a smile.
He nodded to the space beside Fenrir. “Sit. Tell me about yourself.”