Flaming Dove by Daniel Arenson

grief filling him. I've killed her, he thought, dread like ice along his spine. And Raphael will kill me.
    "The underground hive is collapsing," he said. "Angor is dead."
    The earth finally ceased its trembles, and the dust began to settle. Several marble columns had fallen, and a Roman aqueduct lay cracked and toppled, rainwater trickling from it.
    Nathaniel spat. "Good. And the half-breed too, I hope. You're better off without the girl, sir."
    Michael glared at the wingless angel. "Watch your tongue, lieutenant. I keep my own counsel as to who is an ally. Help me dig. She might still be alive."
    Nathaniel bowed his head, and Michael ran to the bomb shelter where Laila had entered the hive. Her wolf was there, already digging at the tunnel, howling, his claws tossing aside stones and ash. Michael and Nathaniel joined the wolf, digging, rolling back boulders. The wreckage filled the tunnel.
    "She's dead, sir," Nathaniel said, soaked in sweat and blood, ash sticking to the stubble on his face. "The entire hive's collapsed. She couldn't have survived that."
    "Then we'll find her body," Michael snapped. Damn it. How would he explain this to Bat El? For whatever reason, the young angel loved her demonic half-sister. Michael could already imagine the look in Bat El's eyes when he returned dragging Laila's body on a litter. Her blue, teary eyes would be full of anguish and accusation. You killed my sister, those eyes would say, because you were too cowardly to face Angor yourself.
    Sweat soaked Michael as he dug. Volkfair howled mournfully. Damn.

Chapter Seven

    Standing on the Crusader fort's wall, Beelzebub stared south along the beach. Caesarea lay miles from here, but fallen angels had sharp eyes. When the distant city trembled, Beelzebub frowned. A dark cloud rose from those ruins, heading back to Jerusalem. Demons fleeing, Beelzebub knew.
    So Laila succeeded. The columns of fire sizzled away over Caesarea, and the ash settled over the ruins. She defeated Angor. Beelzebub took a deep breath. A hundred shades perched around him, staring at the distant city with him.
    The time would come, Beelzebub knew with a sigh, when he'd have to deal with Laila. Sooner or later, he would have to send Zarel on the hunt, or face Laila himself. But not yet, he thought, patting a demon that growled beside him, perched upon the walls like a gargoyle. Not yet. Let's see how things play out. He had Laila's sister captive. He could use that to his advantage. It was always better, he thought, to do things the smart way, rather than the rash, violent way.
    He walked down the stairs to the courtyard, where dented helmets and shattered swords still lay in the dust. Five thousand demons manned the walls and chambers, and five thousand more flew around the fort in circles. Michael would be unable to retake this fort, and that, Beelzebub reminded himself, was what mattered now. Let his brother keep Caesarea. Let him parade Angor's bones in the courtyards. He, Beelzebub, had the fort and Bat El, not a trifle prize.
    You haven't won this war yet, brother.
    He walked across the courtyard between more demons and entered the fort's main hall. He was tired. He was often tired these days, and his head hurt. He thought back to the old days, twenty-seven years ago, when he first rose to Earth, commander-in-chief of Hell's forces. Back then, fire had wreathed him, burning in his eyes. He had been a figure of black menace, rising from flame, bat wings always spread, fangs always bared; the horror everyone expected him to be. But that was a long time ago. These days, he hadn't the will to be frightening, and some days—like today—all he wanted was a glass of wine to warm his bones and a woman to warm his bed.
    The thought reminded him of Bat El. A slow smile found its way to Beelzebub's face, tickling the corners of his lips. Laila might have joined Michael. Angor might be dead, and Caesarea lost. But not all was grim. With Bat El around, he might enjoy his stay