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Uriel feels the tip of Lucifer’s sword pierce through his meatsuit. The blade slices through muscle and bone, and Uriel’s borrowed throat gurgles with blood.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But there’s still me.”
Anna.
Her hand is cool on this skin he’d come to think of as his own.
Uriel feels his life-force slip out of his grasp, bits of light coming loose from his soul like crumbs.
He is dying. He is unafraid.
Something closes around his grace and rips it away.
It is the worst pain he has ever felt. Uriel’s soul howls.
And then it is snuffed out.