Page 7 of Uriel
It’s all real.
The fluorescent lights overhead blur into halos. The room tilts sideways, the floor seeming to lurch beneath my feet. I hear Raphael’s voice, suddenly alarmed:
“Emilia? What’s wrong?”
I try to respond, but my tongue feels like lead in my mouth. My knees buckle, and I’m vaguely aware of strong arms catching me as the world fades to black.
My last coherent thought is a hilarious observation: I’ve just fainted in the arms of an archangel. Mom would be so proud.
CHAPTER 7
Uriel
I pacethe length of my office, each step measured and precise, a futile attempt to impose order on the chaos swirling in my mind. Azrael’s words echo relentlessly: a prophecy, a union, the fate of the world hanging in the balance. And at the center of it all, Ms. Thornton and myself.
Preposterous. Impossible. Absolutely out of the question.
I halt before the window, gazing out at the city skyline. Los Angeles sprawls before me, blissfully unaware of the cosmic drama unfolding within these walls. How can I possibly be expected to... to...
I can’t even bring myself to think it.
A knock at the door interrupts my brooding. “Come in,” I call, smoothing my features into their usual impassive mask.
Michael enters, his brow furrowed with concern. “Uri, what are you doing locked away in here? We need you! It’s madness outside—Ramírez is all but fuming over the extra hours, a social worker fainted in pediatrics, there’s serious damage in the OR. I’ve been assured it’s nothing structural, but…”
“Do you mean Emilia?” I blurt. “Is she alright?” My fingers cling to the desk’s edge. My heart races beyond control. I realize then, I need her alive—the whole world does.
Michael flinches, confused. “Yeah… Raphael’s with her now, but?—”
“Great. Everything’s fine,” I cut him off, perhaps too sharply. “Ms. Thornton is likely just overtired from the day’s events. I’m sure Raphael has the situation well in hand.”
Michael’s eyes narrow, studying me with that insufferable perceptiveness of his. “What’s going on?” he asks.
I remain silent.
“You’re hiding something, brother,” he adds.
I turn back to the window, unable to meet his gaze. "Don’t be ridiculous."
“Uri...” His tone softens. “Whatever it is, you know you can trust us. We’re family.”
For a moment, I’m tempted. To unburden myself, to share this impossible task that’s been thrust upon me. But then I imagine their reactions—Michael’s earnest encouragement, Raphael’s insufferable teasing. No. I cannot bear it.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do—calls to make. I’ll get out there as soon as I can.”
Michael lingers a moment longer before sighing in defeat. “Alright. But I’m here if you need me.”
As the door closes behind him, I slump into my chair, crushed by the burden of my secrets. I cannot do this. Iwill notdo this. Prophecy be damned, I am Uriel, Archangel of Chastity. I will find another way to avert this crisis.
Just then, my phone chimes with an incoming message. It’s from an unknown number, but the content makes my blood run cold:
“Tick Tock, lovebirds. Hell waits for no one. You have 4 days, 23 hours, and 17 minutes. Better start practicing those wedding vows! —A.”
As I stare at the message, a tremor shakes the building—stronger than any before. Books tumble from shelves, and in the distance, I hear the wail of sirens.
It seems the choice may no longer be mine to make.
With a resigned sigh, I reach for my phone. There’s only one being who might have answers—loath as I am to contact him. I dial the number, one I haven’t used in millennia.
