Page 1 of Michael
CHAPTER1
Michael
The white coathangs loosely in my grip as I enter the on-call room, drained after an intense thirty-six-hour shift. That last-minute gunshot wound I attended topped off a perfect weekend, packed with action. Took me back to my war days as a field surgeon—not Afghanistan, but 1944’s Leningrad.
The trauma surgeon in me thrives on stab wounds, broken bones, and stitches. But saving countless lives of righteous mortals satisfies the archangel warrior in me tenfold. I couldn’t ask for more.
My coat slips to the floor the second I reach the bathroom. Lazily, I rid myself of my blood-smeared green scrubs. A quick peek in the mirror tells me I should shave the stubble that darkens my face. I lean closer, smoothing my hand across my grazing chin. Nah. Shaving can wait.
I bring my bare shoulder forward and glimpse my back in the mirror. It’s taken centuries getting used to not seeing my wings, but the sigils inked on my chest and arms remind me of who I am.
A sigh escapes me as I hit the shower. Instant relief takes over me when a torrent of cool water splashes on my back, and crystalline rivulets trickle down my shoulders, refreshing my taut, muscular chest.
My shift’s over. A tendril of panic curls into my stomach as I realize I’ve got no plans for the evening. The sole idea annoys me, and a growl lingers in my throat. Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I press my hands on the black-tiled wall and lower my head, giving my back a good stretch until the water’s cold enough that I start to feel numb.
Clueless about what I’ll do with my life for the following hours, I turn off the shower, grab a towel, and wrap it hastily around my waist.
I wipe off the mirror’s mist with a quick pass of my hand and grab a toothbrush. And while I’m brushing my teeth, my stare sweeps the room through the reflection.
A flat-screen TV, a mini-fridge, a decent-looking bed… I can’t help being amazed. This on-call room is as lavish and spacious as a Ritz hotel suite—a far cry from my lodgings on any of my war tours.
My sister’s touch gleams behind the hospital’s design. Gabrielle is the artist in the family. She would’ve made an exceptional doctor, like my brothers Raphael and Uriel, who, like me, chose medicine when we stepped into this century in the mortal world. But not Gabrielle. No, she’d cross us just for the fun of it and become an architect… We’ve not spoken in decades.
“You look like shit, Michael,” a hoarse voice says.
A glower twists my face. There’s no need to look back. I’d recognize that snarky mouth anytime.
“Fuck you, Uriel,” I mutter. My jaw clenches tight as I grab a fresh set of navy-blue scrubs and slip them on.
Finally, I glimpse my brother through the mirror. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, wearing an unbearable grin. “I don’t thinkDadwould approve of your language.” Covering his mouth with a finger, he pauses in deep consideration. And after a moment, he adds, “And it’s Uri now, remember?”
The frown on my brow deepens. “Fine. What do you want, Uri?” I turn around and lean back, resting both hands on the sink’s stone rim.
My brother’s expression hardens. “I want you to stop—overworking—yourself,” he utters with firmness.
I lower my head, shake it a bit. My brother is, and always will be—God bless his soul—a fucking busybody.
“Brother, I’m fine…” I mumble.
“Have you slept at all?” he insists, moving closer. It’s the condescension in his tone that irks me. I am Michael, the chosen warrior of God. It wasIwho led the war in heaven and vanquished the devil to the Underworld… Where does Uriel get off scolding me like this?
My shoulder bumps against his as I move past him, heading towards the door. The quicker we end this conversation, the better. “I just need a cup of coffee.”
“Michael.” He cuts me off at the doorway. “For all your angelic might, this is still a mortal body.” His hand lands on my chest. He wants to say more, but wavers. “Ever since…”
I knit my brows, a wordless plea for silence. “Don’t,” I utter. “Just…” I swallow hard.
“No. This time we’re going to talk about it.” He’s adamant. “Ever since Charlotte walked out on you, you’ve been acting out.”
“That was ages ago,” I mumble.Literally. We dated back in 1910. She cheated on me with a mortal guy.
But Uriel won’t listen. He continues his speech, impassioned as I’ve seldom seen him. “I said nothing when you enrolled in the human war of 1914.”
I sweep a hand across my forehead, seconds away from exploding. “That was the Great War,” I tell him in the rawest tone possible. “You know, World War I?” How could I not fight such evil? Now I’m being a pain in the ass. Deliberately.
“AndWorld War II,” he continues, unbothered. “A dozen civil wars followed. Then Korea, Vietnam, Iraq… Michael, you haven’t stopped since.”
“I said I’d stop,” I rebuff, every inch of me stiff with anger. “That’s why I built this.” My hand waves in the air, showing off the place like I’m a fancy realtor. “Angelstone Community Hospital was entirelymyidea.”
