Page 112
A shame about the cathedral though. He circled it once on his way to the Torre Mayor, taking in its ornate, ancient lines and the golden angel newly gleaming at its peak. Once the interior damage caused by the rioters had been repaired, it would have been a fitting place of worship indeed. Still, it was satisfying to know that Tyrel was about to have such a prize snatched away from him.
Why Raziel, that’s rather dog-in-the-mangerish of you, he thought, and chuckled as he flew on to the Torre Mayor. It rose up over the city, its green glass curves reflecting the clouds.
At exactly three-fifteen, Raziel landed on the building’s helipad, touching down at its precise centre. The view from here was no better than when flying, but it was still pleasant to change to his human form and survey the city with his hands behind his back, feeling the wind lick at his hair and suit jacket. He’d pondered for some time before deciding what to wear. Even a gatecrasher wanted to look his best – especially if the clothes he put on might be either the last thing he ever wore, or the outfit in which he’d finally take leadership. At last he’d decided on a dark grey, almost black suit, with a rich purple shirt, open at the neck.
When Raziel finally received the psychic call from Charmeine, he’d long since become bored with the view and started to pace about the helipad. He stopped in his tracks, pulse quickening as he felt the unmistakable pull of her energy. “About time,” he murmured.
He shifted to his angel form and glided into the glass portion of the building. The plan was for him and Charmeine to be in an adjacent room when the shootings took place, so that they could properly savour it. Feeling the Twelve’s deaths would no doubt be painful if he survived, but Raziel was looking forward to it anyway, with a dark anticipation. Every death-pain would mean that another of the Twelve was gone.
He cruised over the VIP floor, taking in the lavish afternoon reception: waiters gliding about with silver trays; a high, slanted glass ceiling overhead; a crowd of excited-looking humans. Some of the Twelve’s angelic entourage were there too, feeding from starry-eyed victims, and Raziel smiled to himself. Don’t look like you’re having too much fun; you’ll get into trouble.
Letting the tug guide him, he flew through a tall white wall.
A slam of energy, a binding, as if several invisible nets had been thrown on him at once. Instantly he felt like a cartoon cat, frantically trying to back-pedal in mid-air. Because Charmeine wasn’t alone in the room: the Council were there, seated at a long conference table.
“Raziel,” said Isda mildly. “How good of you to join us. We were looking forward to seeing you in your cathedral again, but this is even better. ”
He struggled to free himself, but the psychic bindings drew tighter with every wing-stroke. Down below, a broken-looking Charmeine stood slumped against the wall, wearing a short black dress, her face wet with tears. The Twelve sat in a row down one side of the long table, male and female angels alternating, with Isda at the centre. They all stared up at him dispassionately, as if he was of no more interest than a trapped moth.
As their energy slowly reeled him in, Baglis, another of the Twelve, spoke, his resonant voice echoing through the high room. “We were most surprised to hear of your plans for us, Raziel. However, your friend Charmeine doesn’t seem quite certain of all the details. Perhaps you can help. ”
They kept him a foot or so off the floor, making him hover though every movement of his wings was agony now. Raziel’s eyes met Charmeine’s; she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. So the Council knew there was a plot – but what exactly might still be hidden.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said aloud, then cried out as a dozen mental whips scorched his mind.
“Oh, we think you do,” said Isda. “Charmeine, as it turns out, is very good at hiding things – but I rather imagine you’ll be easier to delve. ”
There was a knock at the door. It opened a cautious crack, and a human attendant stuck her head in. “Excuse me, Señora Isda – but it’s time for the private audiences. Shall I send the first group in? It’s the one from Mexico City University. ” She didn’t even glance at Raziel; in his angel form, he was as invisible to her as air. Remembering that this first group was the AKs, Raziel shoved the knowledge away as hard as he could.
“Just give us a few minutes, and then send them in,” directed Isda.
Once the attendant had withdrawn, Isda sat back in her seat, her gaze fixed on the mentally-trussed Raziel as he hung suspended before them. The faces of the Twelve were bland. “You don’t seem to have taken our warnings about moderation and angelic dignity to heart, Raziel,” she said on the psychic level. “Such a shame. ”
He cried out again as he felt himself shifted by force into his human body. The sensation was exceedingly unpleasant. “Conspiring to assassinate us is treason,” continued Isda as a chorus of psychic voices joined hers. “And we will get all the details out of you before your execution. For now, watch and learn while we show you that it’s possible to feed without getting carried away with gluttony. ”
Trapped in his human form, Raziel felt just as ensnared as before, as if he’d been bound from head to toe. He stood weakly against the wall, keeping the surface of his mind as impassive as possible. Underneath, he was fuming. At least he had a ringside seat for what was about to occur – and oh, was he going to enjoy it. He watched the door, thankful that he was out of direct view. He only prayed that neither Kylar nor Willow would see him until it was too late.
The Twelve shifted to their angel forms and lifted up in a fiercely-burning row, glowing even brighter as they lowered their frequency so they could be seen by humans. And like a tiny, apologetic tendril, Charmeine’s thought came creeping into his mind: I’m sorry, Raz. They delved me when I wasn’t expecting it. I just couldn’t hold them off any more.
Raziel shrugged mentally; it was too late to do anything about it now. Then the door opened, and a group of six young adults filed in – three males and three females.
Where was Kylar? Raziel only just managed to restrain the leaping thought. Were these the assassins, or not? He reached quickly for his connection to Willow. It was gone.
She knew. His pulse rate doubled, and Isda gave him a sharp look. He writhed under the sudden pain of her psychic probe – and knew that, this time, he hadn’t managed to hide the group’s identity. The awareness of the humans’ intentions rippled ominously through the Twelve, their expressions never changing.
Looking nervous, the team faced them, blinking from the glow. A tall black woman with exquisite features and masses of long braids nodded to the Twelve. In Spanish, she said, “Good afternoon; we’re from Mexico City University. It’s an honour to—”
She broke off, startled, as the Twelve swooped forward in a rush. “Now!” she cried, ducking back.
A few AKs fumbled; others grabbed their weapons smoothly and started firing. The room erupted into flapping wings and exploding light as the first bullets found their targets. Raziel could feel the Council’s stunned fury that their move hadn’t caught the AKs more off guard; that they were actually being destroyed by humans, of all creatures. Standing so close meant the pain juddered at Raziel like machine-gun fire as some of the silenced bullets hit their targets. Yet it was his mind, more than his body, that was under assault. He’d always assumed it was the physical connection with the First Formed that was the vital one – but as one after another of the Council members erupted into nothingness, Raziel knew it was the mental connection that would destroy him. He could feel his mind starting to buckle. The Twelve were leaving the world. It couldn’t be. The angels would be adrift without them, for ever adrift.
Angel Fire Page 112