Michael felt the air snap around him as though a thousand whips rushed by his face. The power crackled into his hand, took shape, he could feel it there: Purpose given to him by his Father. Power that came only when it was needed.
“They come,” he told the others, “I can feel them.”
“Let them come,” Medea whispered, and Michael glanced at her.
The power he felt was nothing compared the power that surrounded her now, the crackling he had felt had been her doing. She looked so young now, like the young girl who had commanded Jason to cut her brother into pieces and throw him into the sea. He could see it in her now. Her hair moved of its own accord, twining around her and upwards like some living cloud of darkened magic.
“There!” Achilles exclaimed, pointing.
Michael had often wondered how Zeus’ agents fought, three of them as they were, and today that question was answered. Even as Achilles lifted his hands there was a crackle of energy and then his hands were filled, handguns, but somehow with blades as well. The air was thick when they came into sight, to the naked eye human men and women, armed to the teeth.
“Stay with me!” Jessica hissed, clutching at his arm.
“I will keep you safe,” he swore and let the Sword of God form in his hand, “stay low.”
Jessica crouched, on hands and knees.
“Give over the Sighted and the Dreamer and we will let you be!” the leader of the Horde called.
“How about...‘no’?” Hector retaliated, “return to your master, demon.”
“Or what?”
“Or I will render you back into the dust,” Michael shouted.
“We will not bargain. Give us the girls or you die.”
“Give it your best shot,” Achilles suggested.
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