Page 77 of The River of Hatred

I take a shaky breath and gently place my hands over the hole in my friend’s body. I can feel his warmth against my sweaty palms. I haven’t healed anything more than a scrape in months. Still, focusing on the ether in Mike’s blood is second nature. First, I stem the worst of the bleeding, sealing off the torn vessels causing the blood loss. He’s already lost enough. But I need to make sure I leave enough circulation to keep the flesh alive.

Careful. Careful, Lana.

“We need to get him to Syriniana.” That’s Mike’s Father.

“Let Lana do her thing, she’s good at this.” And that’s Kevin.

I hear their conversation as if from a great distance, not letting the emotions in their voices penetrate into my awareness as I focus on Mike’s flesh, manipulating it into pushing the offending object out. I feel every sharp, bent, and broken edge of the bullet, misshapen from the high-velocity impact against Mike’s lean body.

The projectile scratches my friend’s flesh as it reverses the path it took and nears the surface, fresh blood sprouting in its wake. I hear Nephithar’s alarm, but – again – don’t let it rattle me. I close those new lacerations and continue directing Mike’s body into expelling the bullet. Resistance stops once it leaves the enclosure of its target’s body and I distantly hear the plinking sound of it falling to the warehouse’s dirty floor.

I feel my energy flagging, but there’s only the matter of knitting the top layers of muscle and skin together again. I can do that.

“He isn’t breathing!” Nephithar yells, pulling my consciousness out of Mike’s body.

“Shit, Lana, let me turn him over.” Kevin pulls me back and I fall onto my ass, watching helplessly as the two males turn Mike onto his back again. He’s not breathing and his lips are getting a blue tinge.

Fuck, it didn’t hit his lungs, his lungs are fine, it must be blood loss, fuck, fuck, fuck, I don’t know if I have the strength to help his body produce more, I can’t lose my friend because I’m not strong enough, what was the point of selling my soul if I’m. Not. Strong enough!

My ears start ringing, the sound increasing in volume as Kevin tilts Mike’s chin up, listening for a moment before starting chest compressions.

My heart picks up speed like I’m running a sprint. Like I’m running from that golem again. Only no one’s here to save me this time. I’m helpless. I’m useless.

“Lana, his blood needs oxygen. Lana? Lana!”

Chapter 37 – Ithuriel

Syrin sits on a chair next to her son’s empty bed, her head in her hands. I’ve never seen an angel in that pose before, but then, I’ve never seen an angel feeling the emotions of a mother.

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. I cannot remember ever feeling this drained. Jessica retired to the room we share with Sariel, but I refuse to move from this bedside.

“Stop looking like someone died. You’re bumming me out.”

Mike shuffles out of his ensuite bathroom, leaning heavily against his friend, Lana. His body has been through a lot. And Lana doesn’t let the mortal out of her sight.

When we met up with the other team in the middle of the warehouse, Kevin was attempting to resuscitate a deathly pale Mike, and Lana was holding his hand, doing her best to help keep the mortal’s blood circulating. I wasn’t in the best of shapes either, but I rushed in to assist. Together we brought the mortal back to life and his waiting mother.

Syrin smiles now, helping the redhead tuck Mike back into bed. “We’re just tired, darling,” she says before kissing the top of his nose. Mike’s face scrunches up and he opens his mouth to say something, but the rest of our faces turn toward the entrance and I can hear it audibly close with a click of his teeth.

“What is it?” he asks in a whisper.

“An archangel,” Lana says just as quietly. I want to tell her there is no need to whisper – Saraqael would have heard her from across the neighborhood.

The door opens soundlessly to a golden male in ornate armor. Saraqael looks as he did the last time I saw him, months ago, when I set out on this adventure, not knowing it would change me forever.

“You found us,” Syrin says while I’m still searching for words.

The ancient angel lifts a gilded eyebrow. “We have always known where you are, Syriniana.”

The archivist presses a hand against her chest. “Then why has no one come to punish me for leaving?”

“You lost Heaven’s light for a life with a demon from Hell. Is that not punishment enough?” the archangel asks, taking a few steps closer and eyeing Mike with a curious glint in his sunshine-colored eyes. “Is this your issue?”

The young mortal snaps out of the daze the archangel’s appearance put him in and straightens up in bed. “Don’t condescend to my mom, archangel zaddy. We’re doing just fine without Heaven.”

The corner of Saraqael’s lip twitches. “Clearly,” he says, tone flat. “And who will answer for the death of the dozens of Cambions the Council was led to believe needed to be saved?”

“That would be me,” Nephithar says from the doorway. “They attacked us with their dishonorable weapons and very nearly killed my son.” The demon’s growled words raise every hair on my body with their pain and anger.

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