Author's Note: Greetings gorgeous Chapelites, just a quick note to say a big thank you to my wonderful friends ScarletteDrake & Amy-Sharp this week - Scarlett for rescuing me from a plot hole so big that not even a 100-strong rescue team, a pack of sniffer dogs, 5 helicopters and Bear Grylls could have helped save me and Amy for persuading me that sometimes my ideas aren't quite as insane or ridiculous as my mind tries to convince me they are.

Thank you, Chapelites, as always for your patience, for reading and for being just bloody brilliant xxx

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"No offence, but you look bloody terrible."

And he did look terrible, like someone who hadn't known the joys of sleep for many moons, like someone who had witnessed the most awful of things and was changed irrevocably because of it. His eyes spoke of terrors unbridled and of pain undiminished.

"I guess death doesn't become us all," he said with a wry smile that softened the sharpness of his cheekbones and brought light to the darkness that lingered in his expression. His gaze flickered over me, prompting him to arch one dark brow. "You look ... different." He nodded to the glow emanating from my hands that had dimmed to the faint hum of fireflies on a summer's night.

"Oh yeah," I said self-consciously, clenching my fists as if it would douse the light. "I'm positively glowing, huh?"

He reached out with a hand that tremored weakly and hooked a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Well, I think it suits you. Like Dorothy when she found her ruby red slippers."

"Hmm, except this isn't Kansas and it sure as hell isn't Oz, either." I glanced around, hearing the anguished whispers pouring out of each painting, my eyes finally coming back to rest on him. There were so many things I wanted to say. So many things I wanted to ask. But I knew that now was not the time. Whatever he had known about Lucius' fate was not important right at that moment. He was here and that was all that mattered although I hated to see how haunted he looked. Hated the thought of him trapped in that painting, enduring an endless waking nightmare, to be used over and over again as a pawn against me.

"I'll make him pay, Garrick. For everything he did to you, I'll find a way to make him pay."

"Lucifer?" He shook his head. "Believe it or not, he never did a thing to me. At least, he never once raised a hand against me or hurt me in any way. In fact, the times he spoke to me, he was actually very ... courteous, for want of a better word. Always the perfect gentleman."

"You're kidding me, right?" Yet as soon as I said it, I really had no doubt that every word Garrick said was true. I suspected what Lucifer was capable of in how he dealt with his demons, but how he dealt with everyone else? Somehow it just didn't seem his thing to torture us, not physically anyhow.

"Mind games and temptation are where his skills lie," Garrick said, echoing my thoughts. "I honestly believe that he would have considered any personal acts of violence towards me to be very bad form." He perfected a posh English accent in clipped tones that brought a smile to my lips. "No," he continued. "Whenever he came here it was to debate, to discuss, to try to sway my mind with perfectly executed argument and persuasive rhetoric. Never to hurt me. He's quite the tormentor, a true master of his game, but he torments the mind and the soul, not the body. And he's quite the conversationalist."

"Careful, you sound as if you might even like him."

He laughed softly, but I could see a wariness in his face, something that told me he wasn't quite as comfortable talking about this as he seemed.

"You of all people should know that you can't but like him. You don't want to. You know you shouldn't. But the fact is that Lucifer is very likeable indeed. That's his power, Megan. After all, if he was a hateful creature, why would anyone willingly take his hand and pledge themselves to his cause? Yes, I liked him and in all honesty, I almost found myself looking forward to his visits. Rather him then them." He practically spat the last word, his nose wrinkling with distaste and a hatred that seemed to flow from him like a black tide.

"They were the ones," I whispered, my throat tightening with rage. "They hurt you. Asbeel hurt you."

Garrick flinched on hearing the name, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected the demons to start streaming out of the walls.

"Never get on the wrong side of a demon, Megan. Never let it get personal. It's one thing to spend an eternity here, another to become a demon's plaything. They bore easily, you see, when they have heard someone's screams for a thousand times, they tire of it, it's not that exciting to them anymore, so they hunt for a new victim and move on. Well, if you're lucky, that is. But if they have a vendetta against you, if they want to make you pay over and over again, they'll never bore of that particular game."

He trailed off and a multitude of haunted memories played out on his handsome features and I drowned in the guilt.

"I'm sorry, Garrick. I'm sorry you had to endure all this because of me."

He looked sharply at me. "Megan, trust me, you don't have the monopoly on pissing off demons. Turns out I'm quite skilled at that myself. Even here they have their affiliations and Asbeel happens to be affiliated with one particular demon who doesn't like me very much, because as far as he is concerned, I double-crossed him. Actually, I didn't just double-cross him, I tricked him and then laughed at him. I led him to believe that I would give him what he wanted and then practically spat in his face."

All at once I understood. How could I not? I had been there after all.

"Drachmann," I said and he nodded. "You tricked him into thinking you would trade Lucius and then went back on the deal."

"Yes," he replied grimly. "Harper told me I would pay for that, didn't he? And God, have I paid. Drachmann's made sure of that."

"Who is he, Garrick? Who is Drachmann really?"

"His real name is Yeqon, one of the Fallen who encouraged the Watcher angels to mate with human females. I suppose you could say he was at the start of this all. Without him there would be no Nephilim, no Lost children, no Lucius or maybe there would, I don't know. Sometimes these things just find a way to happen eventually. But Yeqon, he's a real special kind of demon, maybe even the worst of them all. He covets the flesh more than anything and has a particular fondness for possession. According to Lucifer, Yeqon spends more time in the bodies of humans than he does here. He did come here once though, I don't think he could resist setting the standard that Asbeel had to follow and follow it he did, to the absolute bloody letter. Yeqon's grievance against me became Asbeel's. I'm an impudent, disobedient piece of worthless nothing, apparently, and much more besides. They're quite taken with me, albeit in the worst possible way."

Anger simmered dangerously below the surface. I wanted them to be here now. I wanted to rip them to pieces. I want to crush them into nothing.

"Well, I'm going to enjoy becoming quite taken with them. If they think their revenge campaign is brutal, they haven't seen what I can do yet."

The voice didn't sound like mine, it was tight and bitter and so full of venom that if I hadn't realised it was me, I might have recoiled from the malice that drenched every syllable. Garrick didn't recoil from it, but his eyes held mine for a little too long, as if he was searching for something and not much liking what he found.

"What?" I said, almost irritably.

"Nothing," he replied with a smile that tremored as weakly as his hands had. "Nothing at all. Never piss off an angel, right?"

"Right. Anyway, come on, let's go. We aren't done here yet." Clambering to my feet, I offered him my hand and pulled him to stand, looking into the shadows that stretched out ahead of us. "How far back does this place go? How many paintings are there?"

"Probably too many to count in the time that we have. They'll be coming soon. We've definitely outstayed our welcome already."

Goosebumps rose on my skin at his ominous warning. He was right. I had no doubt that the demons knew I'd made it through the mirror. It wouldn't be long before they found us. I had to do something. I had to at least slow them down while we searched the Great Gallery.

Warmth bubbled in my hands, an instinctual tugging that reached under my skin, warning me... reminding me. My head snapped towards the blackened door. I could do something. I knew I could. It wouldn't stop them forever but it would buy me the time I needed.

Walking over to the door, I smiled as my eyes ran over the thick, black mulch that seemed to shudder and pulsate, almost as if it sensed my intent.

"You might want to cover your eyes, just in case," I warned Garrick, who just looked at me in confusion. "Trust me on this one."

Placing my hands flat on the glistening wet surface, I ignored how disgusting it felt and called upon the searing heat to rise, to spring forth from my palms, which it did, slowly at first but then with a rush of energy that almost sent me flying backwards. I steadied my feet and held firm, pressing harder against the door as the power streamed from my hands. The fire spread fast, radiating out in a circle from the place where I touched, consuming the blackness even to the ends of the veiny tendrils that reached out either side of the door, until every part of it was engulfed in an intense blistering light. Still I remained, hearing the hiss and pop of the mold, hearing it scream as if it was a living thing burning in the inferno and then finally, when I knew it was done, I released my hold, stepping back to admire my handiwork. The intensity of the fire died, but the glow remained, not enough to blind, but still strong enough to make Garrick continue to shield his eyes from the glare.

He stumbled backwards a little, squinting at me through the gaps in his fingers as I turned and walked towards him.

"What the actual fuck, Megan," he gasped. "How in the hell did you learn to do that?"

I grabbed his hand. "Long story. And not a particularly happy one at that. Hopefully that'll hold them off, for a while at least."

We began to walk towards the shadows, with me leading the way, Garrick trailing slightly behind but gaining more pace and more strength with every step.

"Tell me something," I said while we walked briskly through the gallery, scanning the paintings as we passed each one. "Each person seems to be trapped in a particular setting. Why the asylum for you? I'm assuming the intention isn't exactly sentimental?"

"Another form of torment, of course. Can you imagine being imprisoned in a place you love for eternity, but that place becoming something that you associate with eternal pain and suffering? That place you loved, a place where you once felt safe, becomes a living Hell. All those memories you had of being there, any good times, are all tainted, washed away until you grow sick of the sight of it. Until you hate it almost as much as you hate them."

I stopped dead, my hand tugging on Garrick's.

"What? What is it?" he asked, his brows furrowing with concern.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," I confessed, feeling suddenly quite stumped and quite lost at the thought of it. "What kind of place would be an archangel's living Hell? This place could be endless, how are we meant to find Michael when I don't even know where to start?"

Grabbing the back of my neck, Garrick pulled me closer. I leaned into him, inhaling his scent, taking a second to bathe in the familiarity of his embrace, needing it so badly, needing him. Not in the way I needed Harper, of course, but needing him all the same, because Garrick always gave me something tangible to hold onto, always kept me on track when I needed it most and by God, did I need it now.

"You'll know," he whispered gently. "You'll know it's him because he is you. You'll know it's him because although your memory fails you now, your heart will not. Follow your instincts. Be what he made you to be. If you stay true to that, then you will find him, I have no doubt about that."

I shook my head in amazement. "You have too much faith in me, you always did."

"We seek faith in those who light the way in the dark. You have always brought light to the darkness for me, Megan Garrick. That, I'm glad to say, will never change."

I nodded, before exhaling a deep sigh and pulling away from him to stare hard into the impenetrable darkness.

No. Not impenetrable. Never impenetrable.

Garrick touched a hand to my shoulder and leant close to my ear. I could feel his breath tickle lightly, warmly, on my neck.

"Light the way, Megan," he urged.

And so I did. Raising up my hands, I marvelled at the sight of the glow as it strengthened once more, banishing the closest shadows and sending them scuttling away to the furthest corners so I could see the geometric black and white pattern of the floor tiles, all the way up to the perfectly arched ceiling above. As in the ballroom before, painted cherubs decorated the frescos and they covered their eyes from the light or stretched and yawned as if I had woken them from the deepest of slumbers.

Further and further in we went, Garrick and I, and behind us the darkness converged like a flood until all I could see was the fiery light radiating from the still-glowing door that grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Faces loomed in each painting as the light touched each one. They screamed and wailed, cajoled and pleaded. Some on their knees, hands clasped together in desperate prayers, tears streaming down their cheeks. Some as furious as the man who had beat at the floor with his fists. Some so wholly lost, no doubt imprisoned here for so long that I could not even fathom their suffering, barely even flinched as the light found their prison. Walking past them seemed like an act of torture in itself, as if I was somehow complicit in the demons' heinous crimes against these souls. I could only imagine how my presence here had flared hope in the hearts of those who languished in each painting, only to then to snatch it away, like the cruelest of tricks.

The journey seemed endless and just when I started to wonder whether maybe Lucifer had played a trick of his own and I was walking a path that held nothing but darkness and screaming faces, up ahead, the light picked up something other than walls of never-ending canvases.

I hesitated, motioning for Garrick to stop and pushed out with the light, feeling the heat blossom in my arms all the way up to the elbows. The beam intensified, stretching forwards, seeking, searching.

And then, there it was.

Up ahead, instead of another painting on the wall, there was a floor-to ceiling wrought-iron gate that curved outwards, barring the way to what looked like an arched annex. The black iron bars glistened in the light, similar to the Chains of the Abyss, a shimmering malevolent thing designed to bind and imprison. Stepping closer I could see that it was indeed an annex, set back in the wall, with small high alcoves either side where black candles lined the ledges, thick globules of wax dripping down either side like pregnant drops of oil.

I held out my hands and pushed the light further into the annex as far as it could go, and there, with the base of the simple bronze frame at head-height, hung a large painting revealing a scene in which I had once found myself. I'd walked there, that is after I had fallen prostrate on the ground, convinced that the sun would burn me to cinders and discovering, to my great relief, that I was in fact, quite safe from its searing touch. Quite safe, that is, apart from the Devil who had offered me his hand and helped me to my feet.

It was the garden in Purgatory. The garden where I had walked side by side with Lucifer. The garden where he had once walked side by side with Michael.

The painting of course, although expertly executed, couldn't quite capture the beauty nor could it quite convey what a blissful bubble of peace and tranquility it really was. In fact, the longer I looked at it, the more uneasy I felt – offended, even, that someone would even attempt to recreate something that could never, should never, be duplicated.

"Is this it?" whispered Garrick, his tone low with reverence as if we were standing at a church altar. "Is this Michael's prison?"

"Yes," I replied. An insistent tugging flared under my skin, a strange yearning burned in my veins, a jubilant relief pounded in my temples. Yes. This was the place.

"How do we open these gates?" Garrick said, reaching out a hand to touch them.

"Don't!" I hissed, grabbing his wrist. "Don't you touch them." My gaze flickered over the slick blackened bars. "You need a key to open them."

"You have got to be kidding me?" Garrick cursed. "So where the bloody hell is the key?"

I grinned. "Here," I said, waggling my fingers. "I'm the key. These gates can only be opened by an archangel. Turns out I happen to carry one of those with me wherever I go."

"Oh," Garrick said, looking at me with admiration. "You're like a Swiss army knife. Only better. And minus the corkscrew."

Shaking my head at his quip, I gritted my teeth and pressed my palm against the lock. The metal resisted, trying to force my hand away, the repellent shove only encouraging me to push back harder and with two hands then instead of one. The energy burst out in vigorous pulses, slamming into the gates and making them shake. Still they fought against me and my arms began to tremble with the effort, sweat forming upon my brow, a dull ache rippling across my shoulder blades. Closing my eyes, I focused on the lock, pushing as hard as I could. In my head, I saw the light intensify, ballooning outwards in a ball of dazzling radiance, running along each bar, turning what was once black into a hot incandescent white. A loud crack echoed around the annex and my eyes flew open, stunned to see that the lock had indeed broken and the gate was now open.

Garrick lowered his hands from shielding his face and whistled in awe. "Not sure I will ever get used to seeing that. That's some truly remarkable gift he gave you."

Pushing the gates open wide, I stepped cautiously into the annex. The black candles flickered into life, making us both jump and causing undulating shadows to dance gracefully across the walls. It felt different in here, the air seemed lighter, fresher almost, as if the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle was drifting from the painting and saturating the annex with its delicate perfume. And it did feel like we were standing in a church and when the first distant bang resounded through the Gallery, I had an urge to put my finger to my lips and silence the offender for disturbing the tranquility.

"Okay, hate to worry you but I think there's somebody at the door," Garrick warned dourly.

"I know. We have some time yet. Not much, but it should delay them for a while longer."

Moving closer to the painting, I wondered how many times Lucifer had visited this place. Wondered whether he'd spoken with Michael here, carrying on the debates he so loved to have with his celestial brother. Had he taunted him? Mocked him for his predicament? Had he felt sadness that it had come to this? A touch of grief, even? He did love Michael after all, that I knew for certain. Words are always easily spoken, but I couldn't deny that he did love him – I'd felt it and knew that whatever I felt for him back, came from somewhere deep inside, from something that had always loved Lucifer, no matter what terrible things he had done. Something that would always love him, no matter what terrible things he would do in his bid to be free and rise up again.

Bang. The door again. Louder this time.

I ignored it, scanning the colourful canvas. Where was he? Where was Michael? Nerves tickled in my stomach. Blood pumped furiously inside my skull. I was suddenly struck with the urge to run. I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to find the being that had created me. I wanted to be her again, little naïve, blind-to-reality Megan Walden. I wanted to wander in a world full of designer clothes and expensive restaurants and Egyptian-bloody-cotton-sheets. I wanted ignorance and meaningless things. This was too much. This was too big. 

A hand grasped mine, squeezed, the thumb lightly brushing my knuckles.

"Overwhelming, right?" Garrick said, as I turned to look up into his face. God, how I never wanted to be without that face again!

"Yes," I whispered.

Lifting my hand to his lips, he planted a small soft kiss on my knuckles where his thumb had gently soothed the skin and then he drew his head back slightly, his eyes sparkling with a keen interest as he examined the soft glow that seeped out from between my fingers.

"You can't turn back now."

"I know," I said, my voice firm and resolute. "And I won't. I came here to see this through and that's what I intend to do." I turned back to the painting, studying the scene inside the frame. "He's here somewhere. But ... where?"

Stretching up on tiptoes and using my hand to brace myself against the wall, I strained to study the image closer. Everything seemed so still and if it wasn't for the flurry of a couple of birds in flight, I would have thought it was an ordinary painting – a perfect portrayal of a landscaped garden on a summer's day. And then I caught it, a slight movement amongst the tree-line on the far side, not like the dark shadowy figures I had seen when walking there with Lucifer, but something else entirely.

A figure appeared, so small at first it was hard to make out, but soon I could see that it was a man, actually quite tall, and walking slowly, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a simple cream tunic top with linen-look trousers and from what I could see, he was bare-footed as he walked on the thick, lush lawn. His hair was a tousled ash grey-blonde and long – all the way down to his shoulders. He sauntered close to the trees, stopping every now and then to bend down and examine something on the ground, a flower maybe or plant of some kind.

"Megan," Garrick said in whispered awe.

"I know." I swallowed hard. "I know."

I reached up with one trembling hand, overcome suddenly with that awful gut-wrenching yearning again. One minute consumed by the need to flee and now addicted to the very sight of him, as if all the demons in Purgatory couldn't get me to tear my eyes away, I touched my fingertips to the canvas and just as my touch had roused the first painting's inhabitant, the man did look my way. His hands fell to his side and for a moment, we just stared each other. A wave of familiarity rocked me, as if I was looking at my own reflection in a mirror, despite the fact that the man and I clearly looked nothing like each other. I felt the connection instantly, an invisible rope stretching between us, binding me to him and I was overwhelmed suddenly by the urge to cry. Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision momentarily before I wiped them away with the palms of my hands, taking long laboured breaths as I did so.

I needed to stay calm. I needed to stay ... detached. I'd had it all worked out. I'd known exactly what I was going to do, but now, standing here and watching the man that had created me clasp his hands behind his back again and begin to walk in my direction, I knew that staying detached was probably going to be the hardest thing I'd ever had to do.

I stepped back as he approached, bumping into Garrick who stood behind me, slack-jawed in dazed astonishment as he stared up at the painting. Without looking at me, he grabbed my hand again, whether to steady my nerves or his, I didn't know but I was glad for the gesture, even though I knew his support might very well turn out to be short-lived.

Michael, the great warrior, the great protector, general of the Army of God and, my creator, stopped not far from the invisible barrier that kept this world and his apart. Up close, I was surprised to see, not the flawless, beautiful complexion as did grace the face of Lucifer, but the skin of an older man, perhaps mid-to late forties in human years, weathered and marked and with a faint scrub of grey beard. The ash-grey streaks in his hair were stronger than I had first thought and his hands, large and strong, gave the impression of someone who had spent most of his life toiling in a field or working some hard manual labour. His eyes though, the deepest of blues, set under a heavy blonde brow, were the oldest thing about him and in them I saw age infinite, a place in which the oldest of answers existed, a place where wars had been fought and lives had been created and snuffed out with the click of a finger. He was beautiful, but it was a beauty that came with wisdom and knowledge, a beauty that transcended flesh and bone, not a beauty that came from an exquisitely-sculptured face and enviable style.

I couldn't speak. Any words I had hoped to form, lay motionless in my throat, unable to gain substance or meaning. Any thoughts in my head had deserted me. All I could do was stare, as he stared back at me.

After a few seconds, Michael stretched a hand outwards to touch the invisible barrier, but seemed to be unsure of the gesture and quickly lowered it, clenching it into a fist by his side. He regarded me with a solemn, soul-aching gaze that threatened to crush my heart and tear my resolve into pieces.

"Child," he said.

His voice was deep and soft, with a delightful gravelly tone and all at once I remembered it and wondered how on earth I could ever have forgotten the sound. It was like the constant thrum of rain on a windowpane. The rush of the wind blowing through the trees. A sound you could never forget – should never forget. 

"Has it been so long?" he continued. "You are a woman now. Of course, yes, time slips by so slowly here. Blink and twenty years pass in the mortal world. Still, I did not expect you quite yet but you have undertaken a transformation that I could never have predicted. Who did take what was mine and tried to claim it for his own?"

His gaze shifted to Garrick, who squeezed my hand so hard I feared for the bones within.

"Not you," mused Michael, the lines at the corners of his eyes stretching and deepening as he smiled at the vampire by my side. "Not you, but one connected to you by blood. Blood passed down from the Guardians of the Lost. Night creatures with the most sacred of tasks to uphold. Thank you, son of Benjamin, beget of Ezekiel. My gratitude to you and yours is as infinite as the skies above my head, not only for your tireless dedication to such a weighty mission, but for protecting my child so that she can stand before me now."

If Garrick did know of Benjamin's role as Guardian or had any part in it himself, he didn't say, instead remaining struck mute and like stone beside me, but Michael's reference to it kicked hard in my gut, as did his claim upon me.

"But I'm not your child, am I?" My voice came from nowhere, spurting from my mouth so suddenly that it even surprised me to hear it.

Michael raised a blonde brow, but the humour in his expression did not fade. Instead, he shot me a look of such affection that I almost regretted my outburst.

"Not in the physical sense, no, you are not. But forgive me for the terms of endearment. One gets so used to them. Father, brother, child. And I am not so cold a being that I cannot look upon the face of one beget of my spirit and feel nothing. You are – if I can borrow a phrase from the mortal world – quite a chip off the old block, I must say."

I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that I was nothing like him, that I could never be like him, but instead I said nothing, torn apart inside by a multitude of emotions, each one fighting to take control. As if sensing my struggle, Michael nodded, the smile replaced by a more serious countenance.

"You have questions, that much I can see. So be it." He shrugged. "Ask, but ask quickly because time is pressing."

Another bang resounded through the Gallery and another. Bang, bang, tick, tick. 

Time. No time. And so many questions.

I took a deep breath. "How did you come to be here? You're an archangel. Your power is unquestionable. Sister Agnes told me that your coming to be here was a fixed moment in time, something that was always destined to happen, but how can that be? You must have been able to do something? You must have been able to prevent it somehow?"

"Yes, a perfect place to start. My ch - ...Megan," he corrected himself. "Life is comprised of a sequence of eventualities, good and bad. Most of these you will influence yourself and are wholly dependent on the choices you make and of course, on the choices of those around you. Some you may avoid, if you are fortunate enough to make the right decisions that is, and then there are those eventualities that are inevitable and which cannot be influenced."

"But why? If everything else is left to influence, why must there be these fixed moments in time that have to happen? What's the point?"

"Why, to bring balance of course. And whilst they might not bring balance to your life, for you might be left to question why fate has dealt you such a poor hand, they will bring balance somewhere else, to someone else. That is no consolation I understand, but alas that is the way of things, it is how it has always been and how it will be forever more."

"But there must be something you can to do to stop a fixed moment from happening? I mean, if you know it's going to happen, you can change course, prevent it somehow?"

"It is a rare skill to predict the future and only those cursed with the power of foresight can possibly know what events in life are predestined and what events can be influenced. However, even if you did know and attempted to somehow prevent it from happening, you might be fortunate enough to delay it, but it will happen eventually. You may try to struggle free from the hands of fate, but you will soon learn that the more you struggle, the tighter it will squeeze you in its grasp." He made a grabbing gesture with his hand, closing it into a tight ball. "Herod was always going to order the Massacre of the Innocents, Judas was always going to betray Jesus, and I was always going to be punished for breaking celestial law."

"Are you saying that this is a punishment?" I said, gesturing to the painting.

Michael nodded.

"And you knew this would happen? How?"

"My brother, Gabriel the messenger. He came to me and told me that he had foreseen my fate, that I would be bound for fifty mortal years for my crime."

"But you're an archangel, surely you could have done ...I don't know...something?"

He chuckled then, a rich warm sound that enveloped me like the snuggest of blankets, a sound I didn't want to be comforted by, a sound I didn't want to enjoy in the slightest.

"Even we archangels cannot put ourselves above the laws of creation, the very foundations upon which we were created, the very foundations upon which all life was created." He looked away for a moment, a flicker of sadness passing across his face. "There are many rules to abide by, Megan, and all transgressions are punishable by celestial law. Not even I can escape that."

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. "But you are God's right hand ... angel. General of His Army. How could He allow this, knowing that Lucifer plans to rise up and challenge him? Where are the other archangels? Why are they not burning this place to ashes to set you free?"

"Ah, spoken like a true warrior. I should not debase myself to feel such a thing as pride and yet I do feel it. The answers are this, Megan: one, that our Father not only refuses to believe that Lucifer has the means or the power to challenge Him now that he is outcast, but still loves him so that he does not want to believe he would dare to challenge him a second time. Do you think it was such an easy task for myself and my brothers to persuade Him that Lucifer was not to be trusted the first time he plotted against Him? It was only Lucifer himself who, with monstrously inflated ego, revealed his true intentions which then convinced our Father to finally act, even though it did break His heart to do so. Secondly, our Father did allow this because it was His judgement that decreed I should be punished."

"But, why?" I gasped. "What could you have possibly done to deserve this?"

He sighed, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. "Alas, as much as it pains me to confess, I was outwitted and outplayed by Lucifer at every turn. That, I suspect deserves punishment enough, as after all this time, I should have learned to play his games far better than this, but I arrogantly believed that I could win our battle of wits, after all, had I not defeated him once before? But arrogance was not my crime – merely cause and effect that resulted in my committing of the crime in question. Purgatory is a complex and challenging place, Megan, with its own laws that are based on the delicate system of divine Judgment. I sit in Judgment upon all that would enter our Father's Kingdom, authority behest upon my head by God himself, and it rests upon my decision as to who shall ascend and who shall remain. Lucifer, of course, and the rest of his Fallen army, strive to subvert the system, tempting those living and dead to seek not the Hallowed Gates and it is his right to claim those unworthy for his own. That was the agreement after he spent his one thousand years in chains. Of course, he will argue that he has no choice in the matter and that Our Father merely wishes to be rid of those he deems unworthy, but let not that argument sway you, for the more that follow him, the more he rubs his hands in glee as his army strengthens. However, there are those that are preordained in terms of who shall claim them - another example of how this world was created to achieve perfect balance. And my crime? I claimed one that was not mine to claim. I claimed one that should never have been allowed to ascend."

Bang, bang, bang. I was running out of time. How long before they found a way through?

"And for that you were imprisoned?"

"Yes. Lucifer took great delight in petitioning our Father, protesting that I had taken matters into my own hands and broken the one law that kept our world in constant balance. He was right, of course. I had threatened the very foundations of light and dark in my bid to keep this one soul out of Lucifer's clutches and I'd had no right to claim him because he was never destined to be mine. Our Father had no choice but to punish me and so He banished me to Purgatory, to serve fifty years here – fifty years, I might add, that Lucifer tells me is paltry compared to his sentence – and in doing so, He gave Lucifer the perfect opportunity he needed to put all his chess pieces into place. I tried to tell Him, naturally. I tried to convince Him that Lucifer was plotting against Him, but whereas I thought Him blind to Lucifer's ambitions, our Father thought me obsessed with Lucifer. My brother had worked tirelessly for many, many years, rebuilding his image, serving out his sentence, convincing those who cast him out that he had accepted his lot in life and ready to do the duty our Father had bestowed upon him. My protests would not be heard and were becoming more than tiresome. It seems that my obsession bordered on a personal vendetta. And then Lucifer played the one card he knew would win him the game. He threatened to take the one soul he knew I could not let him claim. The one soul whose entire bloodline existed to protect the one thing that Lucifer needed to open the Gates and unleash his unnatural army upon the world."

I felt my heart sink lower than I ever thought possible, felt the blood within my veins like I had never felt it before. Its history, its origins. The full awful truth of my bloodline was far more horrifying than I had ever believed.

"Benjamin," I whispered. "You claimed Benjamin."

Garrick exhaled a small, anguished moan on hearing the name. "You granted him absolution? You gave him peace?"

Michael turned his steady gaze upon Garrick, his weathered face suddenly looking so much older, the exhaustion seeping from every pore. "Yes. I had no choice. If he had succeeded in claiming Benjamin, Lucifer would have sought to pervert the bloodline, he would have used Benjamin to influence those who had inherited his task. He wanted the Guardians for himself, he wanted to enlist them to his cause and then nothing would stand in his way of destroying the Lost child. Of course, his main aim was not to claim Benjamin, but to remove me from power and that he did succeed in. Benjamin was not mine to take and I shouldn't have claimed him."

"Why not? He was a Guardian; why couldn't you claim him?"

"Because he was a vampire," Garrick uttered softly. "And vampires don't belong in Heaven."

I stared hard at Garrick for a second. "But that's bullshit!" I turned back to Michael who was looking at me, one brow raised in amusement. "I saved a vampire! I saved Gina. Doesn't that mean I broke celestial law?"

"Yes, that you did. But Lucifer couldn't petition our Father as he didn't dare risk your opposition at the time. Gina was of little consequence to him anyway and he needed you on side. He needed you to think he was capable of compassion and understanding, because as with all those beget of my spirit, he seeks to win you over, to divert you from your one true path. He let Gina go without protest but the facts are that she should never have been allowed to ascend. She was a night creature and all night creatures must remain here. That is the way of things."

I had known it, of course. A little seed of doubt had always been there, but I had buried it deep, throwing layer upon layer of murky justification upon it, convincing myself that what I'd done with Gina had been right. But I think I had always known. Even when I had sobbed to see Caelan taken from me, somewhere deep inside I had understood that letting the demons take her was just how it was meant to be. Vampires are killers. We are transgressors of the laws of life and death. Our existence upsets the delicate balance upon which the world was created. How could we ever expect to seek peace from ascension? We spend our undead years dwelling in darkness and in darkness is where we are destined to remain. I squeezed Garrick's hand and pulled him closer.

"So, there you have it, Megan. My crime confessed," Michael said with a shrug. "Having no choice but to protect the bloodline, I broke the one law I was meant to uphold and now, here I am."

"Without you to protect them, surely Lucifer could have attempted to subvert the bloodline anyway, with or without Benjamin on his side?"

Michael gave a wry smile. "And try he did and was almost successful I might add. The Garrick bloodline is strong; stronger than most night creatures', that is for certain. A sense of noble justice runs through your veins. Perseverance in the face of extreme adversity is part of who you are, of who you all are. But not even night creatures can avoid the suffering of love and grief and where there is one, there is always the other. Lucifer knows this only too well and he also knows that one of the first rules of war is to divide and conquer. Divide your enemy's army. Split them into two with grief, doubt and hatred and you weaken them from the inside."

Garrick gasped. "Harper. You're talking about Harper, aren't you? Jenny was killed so that Harper would turn his back on the bloodline!"

"Yes. Weaken the army and you win the war. Of course, not even Lucifer or myself could have predicted that Jenny's death would actually set in a place a sequence of eventualities that would heal the bloodline of the Guardians." His eyes fell upon me and he looked at me then with a warmth and affection that I was starting to find maddening. "Sometimes the puzzle of life surprises even me. Just when you think you may never find that missing piece, it fits so perfectly into place. Balance will always find a way."

The next bang resounded so loudly through the Gallery, that the bars of the black gate rattled slightly in the frame and the tiny candle flames flickered.

Michael's gaze drifted upwards and he tilted his head slightly as if listening for something.

"It is almost time, Megan. The bind you set in place cannot withstand the assault for much longer. You have done well, child. You have succeeded where so many others have failed. Come now, take my hand. Free me from this place and we shall defeat Lucifer's army together and seal the gates forever more."

He held out one large, weather-beaten hand and I stared at it for a moment, feeling the inner yearning practically screaming at me to do as he said. I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to take it so fucking much because I knew as soon as I did, I would find the one thing I had been searching for my whole life, the one thing I had always thought I could never have. I would finally have everything I had ever wanted. I would find my home. My family. Right there, in the palm of his hand, is where I existed. Where I was supposed to be. 

"Megan," he said and I blinked slowly, my eyes drawn back to his. I saw the impatience there. A hunger for release. A hint of irritation. A slight flicker of panic. And all at once I remembered. Instead of his hand, I saw a tiny pale one. Instead of his eyes, I saw bright blue ones, framed under wispy white-blonde hair.

"No," I said.

I took a step backwards. His face darkened, his mouth tightening at the corners.

"Megan," hissed Garrick beside me. "What are you doing?"

"No," I said again, louder this time as I locked eyes with Michael. "Not until you promise me. Not until you promise me that no harm will come to Lucius. I want the boy protected. I won't kill him. I won't do it and I want you to swear right now that you won't either. Now you give me your word or as far as I am concerned, you can either live out the rest of your punishment inside that painting or you can find your own bloody way out, because I sure as hell am not going to help you."