Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 29

 

  The nature of the “unpleasantness” was now only too clear. The Council had been aware of the rogues’ identities from the start; it had seemed politic to pass the information across. And they’d know that only a rogue – in this case, Nate – could have helped the half-angel with her near-disastrous attack on the gate. As a result, the traitors had escalated themselves out of being a matter that could be taken care of quietly, and into one that merited a public statement. The Council would have drawn the rogues to them easily enough; one of the most annoying things about the Twelve was how their psychic call tugged on you, like it or not.

  Gazing at the traitors, Raziel wondered why they stayed imprisoned in their chained human forms – and then realized uneasily that the Council had something to do with that too. In a subtle undercurrent that he’d missed before, he could feel them working together to exert some kind of mental hold on the captured angels, preventing them from shifting.

  The traitors stood motionless before the Council, awaiting their fate. The cathedral had fallen utterly silent; beside him, Charmeine sat unmoving. The Twelve didn’t speak, but a heavy energy was gathering, crackling with power. Gradually, Raziel sensed their mental hold on the prisoners reverse itself, so that now it forced them into their more vulnerable divine forms. Knowing what it meant, they were resisting with everything they had – faces grimacing, muscles straining. Raziel squirmed slightly. He didn’t mind watching the traitors’ deaths, but the Council’s display of power was. . . unsettling.

  A dark-haired angel named Elijah was the first to succumb. His angel form appeared in a rush, its winged figure darting upwards as he tried to escape through the ceiling. A quick mental feint from the Council and Elijah shuddered to a halt mid-air, wings flapping feebly like an insect pinned to a card. His halo began glowing, brighter and brighter – too bright, it was throbbing, trembling under the pressure – and then it exploded into silent fragments. Elijah’s scream echoed through the cavernous building as he was torn to pieces. . . and then there was silence again as the remnants of his ethereal self drifted towards the ground.

  Raziel winced – as Elijah died, it felt as if a small piece of himself had been torn away. The Twelve’s energy was even stronger now, pulsing through the cathedral like a heartbeat. With an anguished cry, several others lost the battle and erupted into their divine forms. The Council showed no strain in dealing with all of them at once. As their halo-hearts burst one after the other, the remainder of the prisoners followed in a helpless torrent, taking to the air amidst the shining shards that were now falling like snow. Screams echoed; angelic bodies writhed. Raziel gritted his teeth as the pain of death after death clawed at him. Beside him, Charmeine’s face was emotionless but pale.

  When the last executed angel had faded from view, the Council shifted and lifted upwards. Their wings moved slowly as they hovered, turning to face their audience. Raziel just managed not to shield his eyes. The divine bodies of the First Formed were painfully bright, their features impossible to make out as they burned blue-white before their audience. A thought came like psychic thunder, twelve voices speaking at once: This is how we deal with traitors. We are sure you all understand.

  Raziel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It was typical of the Council: using a necessary execution such as this one as a helpful little aide-memoire as well. He didn’t have to look behind him to know how sick the expressions were of the First Wavers who had been on his side.

  The Council stayed aloft for almost a minute, silently making their point. Finally they touched down again and rippled back to their human forms. Though they didn’t look at Raziel, he abruptly felt singled out, as pinned to his seat as the rogue angels had been in the air. Still speaking psychically, the many-toned voice that was both one and twelve rumbled through him:

  Raziel, may we see you alone, please?

  The meeting was short and to the point.

  Half an hour later, Raziel sat alone in one of the cathedral’s downstairs conference rooms, staring at the gleaming wooden table; the tasteful decorations; the silver water pitcher that had an arched, graceful angel as the handle. He had done all of this; he had made it all happen – and apparently, if he was very, very good and did exactly as he was told, he might be allowed to keep it for a little while.

  Or not.

  Impotent anger clenched his fists. No. They weren’t going to get away with this – not after all his hard work; not after all he’d done in this world and still planned to do. He wouldn’t allow it. He would not.

  “Raziel?” Charmeine had appeared; she stood in the doorway.

  “Shouldn’t you be off doing lackey work?” he said bitingly. He shoved his chair back and rose, striding for the door.

  She shut it with a soft click and leaned against it. “If anyone goes checking psychically, that’s exactly what they’ll see,” she said. “For your information, I’m currently going through your email account upstairs, while the Twelve talk to some of your First Wave chums. ”

  He snorted. “Aren’t you noble? As if that’s not exactly what you were just doing. ”

  Charmeine gave a mild shrug. “It helps to have visual details in mind when you’re creating psychic decoys. And let me guess,” she went on. “They’ve told you about their plan to only recognize those angels in power who they’ve appointed themselves. ”

  “Good guess,” snapped Raziel. “And those they don’t recognize will be dealt with as traitors. ” He swore and raked a hand through his hair. “Why couldn’t this have happened a few years from now? I’d have had enough of a power base by then to take them on, to constrain them in some way—” He stopped, aware that he was saying far too much.

  He could feel Charmeine’s sincerity again; her anger at the Council. “I really am on your side, Raz,” she said softly. “You can trust me. ”

  He slumped against the table, tapping his thigh as he tried to think. Just as Charmeine had said, the Council had apparently known about his schemes for months. They’d informed him that plans were already in place for them to make a state visit to Mexico City soon, where they’d appoint an angel of their choosing to be head of the new cathedral there. Then, once they returned, they’d decide his fate. The implication was clear: he should spend the time in the interim mulling over his wrongs and deciding whether or not he wanted to be their poodle for the rest of eternity.

  He glanced at Charmeine, wondering if it was she who’d betrayed him. She’d known enough about his plans here, and could have guessed the details he hadn’t told her. But it could also have been almost any of the First Wavers – several had become increasingly greedy in their demands of late. He supposed he should have dealt with them more diplomatically, played them along until he could get rid of them. But who would have thought they’d go crying to the Council?

  “So what now?” asked Charmeine. “Are you going to toe the line?”

  Enough of these games. Raziel rose in a quick motion; he gripped her head in his hands and kissed her harshly, shoving her up against the wall. Open to me, he thought. Her arms twined around his neck as she responded. Using the connection their past history gave them, he delved deep, deeper into her mind, probing her roughly. He could feel her slight tremor as she allowed him in, opening up layer after layer to him, until there were no more to be explored.