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Finally Raziel raised his head, frowning down at her. Her black sweater was askew on her bare shoulder; her white-blonde hair still lay sleek and perfect. He’d seen only that in return for her help, she wanted to share power with him in this new world. He’d have expected nothing else.
“Well?” Charmeine was a touch paler than usual, but her voice was steady.
“All right,” he said, letting go of her. “Maybe it wasn’t you – and maybe you’re actually sincere, for a change. ”
“Of course I am,” she said intensely. “I hate them as much as you do; I always have. So will you answer my question now?” She rested against the wall without adjusting her sweater; he could see the firm upper swell of one breast.
Raziel’s lip curled. “No, I’m not going to toe the line,” he replied. He sat on the table again and shoved at the water pitcher, sending it sliding across the dark, shining wood. “I’ll play their game for now – but that’s all. ”
“That’s what I thought,” said Charmeine with quiet satisfaction. She traced her finger along the door jamb, watching its movement musingly. “They’re overconfident, you know. You really did delve me completely, but they only think they have. It hasn’t even crossed their mind that the oh-so-sacred family energy might not be enough of a connection for them to get everything. And meanwhile, I’ve picked up a few things myself. ”
Raziel studied her. “Such as?”
“Such as, I don’t think it’s ever seriously occurred to them that someone might want to take them out. ” Her eyes met his; she smiled. “They’re a little concerned about the security risk here from non-devout humans, that’s all – at home, we’ve been hearing stories about Angel Killers, and now there’s been that episode with the half-angel and the gate. But other angels wanting to destroy them, given the possible consequences to us all? No, never. They’d never even suspect it. ” She shrugged. “Still, the way I see it, this is a fresh new world, and we need a fresh new start. And we can never have that as long as the Council is around. ”
Raziel had been thinking the same thing. To hear it put into words, and to feel the passion behind them psychically, gave him a stirring of dark excitement that was like a rich red wine.
If the First Formed died, all angels would die: it had been drummed into them since the beginning of time. And much as Raziel hated to concede it, in their home world this was almost certainly true. But things were different here – the ether in this world was thinner; it was why angels had to feed from humans instead of the ether itself. The truth was that no one really knew what would happen if the Twelve were killed here, rather than at home.
The dominant view was that the exact same result would occur: without the First-Formed’s energy, all angels would die. Yet there were other possibilities too. The most enticing of them was that if the Council were killed here, then only the Council would die. Hardly anyone believed this – seeing the Council as indispensable to their existence was second nature to most angels – but Raziel had by now spent so much time in this world that it seemed a real possibility to him. Angels were still linked here, but not as strongly as back home; the thin ether made their bond weaker too. If the assassination of the rogues had happened in their own world, he knew he’d still be reeling from the pain of it; not here. As far as he could tell, the Council’s deaths shouldn’t necessarily mean the deaths of them all.
As other likely outcomes flickered past, Raziel shrugged mentally. None of them concerned him very much. Even the potential risk to the human world seemed a chance worth taking, when the single constant in every scenario was the death of the Council. And he himself would most likely be executed soon enough anyway, for he had no intention of succumbing to their rule. So if the risk paid off, it would pay off big – and if it didn’t, he wouldn’t be around to catch the blame.
“You do know what you’re saying, I suppose,” he said finally, regarding Charmeine as she stood against the door.
“Yes, I know. ” Charmeine’s eyes were alive with challenge. “Are you a gambling man, Raz?”
The question was how.
Late that night, Raziel sat at his desk in a black silk dressing gown, catching up on his emails while he considered the problem. Several messages included links to news stories; he’d learned almost the moment he’d switched on his computer that the half-angel’s mother and aunt had been killed in an arson attack. Good – it saved him the trouble of doing away with his damaged ex-lover himself. For of course Miranda couldn’t have been allowed to stay alive, now that he knew her identity and that he was the thing’s father. The possibility that his secret might get out was sickening.
Around him, the wooden-panelled room was sedately opulent – a plush grey carpet, antique books and furniture, and, in the daytime, a soaring view of the Rocky Mountains. In his bedroom nearby slept Jenny, the devout who’d sat by his bedside while he was unconscious. Raziel had been gratified to discover just how attractive she was when she’d returned with the other ejected humans after the Council’s departure earlier – crying and throwing herself worriedly into his arms – and how delectable her energy tasted, after days of not being able to feed at all. Once alone with her, he’d plunged his hands deeply into the turquoise lights of her aura and drunk and drunk, leaving her swaying on her feet but wide-eyed with wonder. Her body was no less delectable, as it turned out – made even more so by the fact that the Council had made its disapproval about this sort of thing clear in their meeting. Raziel felt much more himself again now; more able to deal with the problem at hand.
Unfortunately, there was no easy solution. Though the Twelve could be killed like any other angels, their powers of psychic control over their brethren were far stronger than he’d suspected – as the mass execution today had illustrated so well. An angelic army, even assuming he could raise one, would fare no better than the traitors. No, what was needed were more. . . conventional means.
Mexico City.
Remembering the strange glimmer of knowledge that had come as he showered earlier, Raziel frowned. And now he recalled that the moment in the shower hadn’t been the first time. He’d had a sense of the girl while he was lying unconscious too – had known then that she and Kylar were in a tent together, near the Mexican border. What was going on?
Clicking a few buttons, he brought up the Church of Angels website. It still showed the girl’s image on its home page: blonde and smiling, her green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. His daughter. Picturing Jenny lying asleep in his bed, Raziel’s mouth twisted wryly. If he thought for a second that such a perverse fluke as Willow Fields could ever be repeated, he’d volunteer himself for death-by-Council immediately. No, the anomaly had clearly been something to do with Miranda, rather than himself, though finding out exactly what it had been was impossible now.
What he could find out, though, was how he knew where the girl was. He relaxed back against his leather chair, then closed his eyes and went searching, allowing any knowledge to come as it would. Images of the moments in the cathedral before the Second Wave had arrived began drifting past. The long line of acolytes from all around the country, kneeling in homage before the gate. A girl’s screams. Willow’s startled face when she realized her disguise had been seen through; her mad dash to the gate, with her angel self flying overhead. Himself, blocking her angel from its task and feeling the disconcertingly familiar energy as their wings and auras had touched.
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