“I confess I do not understand.” Azazel shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re finally free.”
“As am I, old friend.” Semjaza nodded to the waitress who brought glasses of wine, and when she was out of earshot, he went on. “Tell me, how are the rest of our choir?”
Azazel sighed. “Not well. Many are in Hell, as you know. Those few of us who managed to escape and remain free are fewer now. Some gave up hope and willed themselves to cease to exist. Some went insane and were killed by Archdemons under Lucifer’s orders. Only myself, Kokabiel, Penemuel, and Baraqiel remain free and sane.”
Semjaza’s expression grew sad. “I am sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “I would have freed myself earlier if I could.”
“It is not your fault, your majesty.” Azazel smiled a bit. “We knew that the situation would not be quick to resolve itself and that it would take time. We understood this. So, we have hidden ourselves and waited for this day to arrive. I pretend to be an advisor to the leader of this country, working in the field of weapons development for the military. Kokabiel is in Belgium, a country that borders this one to the north, working with astronomers there. And Baraqiel is with him, the two of them working together on the science of the stars. Penemuel works at the British Library in the land called England. I have not seen him for some years.”
“We must call Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel to join us,” Semjaza decided. “There is much to be done, and we need to gather our strength.”
“Your will be done,” Azazel said, inclining his head. “I will contact them now.”
“Excellent.” Semjaza sipped his wine, watching Azazel out of the corner of his eye as the other angel’s gaze grew distant. Semjaza could feel Azazel’s thought reaching out, hidden carefully from all save their own choir as he spoke to Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel. After perhaps ten minutes, Azazel’s eyes cleared and he smiled.
“They come. They will join us here in Paris in the morning. You would honor me by staying at my home tonight,
Semjaza.”
“Thank you.” Semjaza smiled. “I accept your offer of hospitality.”
“What do you plan to do first, now that you are free?” Azazel asked.
“I plan to find my sons and my wife,” Semjaza said, toying with his wine glass. “I plan to free our choir who are languishing in Hell. And then I plan to take back Eden and the lands called the Middle East and rule them as I did before. Finally, but by no means the least, I plan to kill Archangel Gabriel.”
Azazel smiled. “An excellent set of plans, my liege.”
“I rather thought so myself.” Semjaza raised his glass. “To victory and vengeance.”
Azazel raised his glass as well. “To victory and vengeance.”
“So”—Semjaza stretched out one leg beneath the table—“tell me of our people. Tell me what I have missed while I was imprisoned.”
Azazel pursed his lips for a moment, then spoke. “There is not much to tell that you would not have already seen, sire. There was a war; it ended not long ago. It came about because Shamsiel, driven mad by his incarceration in Hell, sold his feathers to a human who sought to raise armies from Gehenna to do his bidding and take over the world. The war lasted seventy years. Much has changed because of it, but these children, the humans, are tenacious and determined to rebuild.”
Semjaza sighed. “I grieve for Shamsiel. He was misguided in his actions, although I can understand that he was not in his right mind. I take it that he was killed because of what he had done?”
Azazel nodded. “I understand that he was taken to Lucifer himself and thrown into the Lake of Eternal Fire.”
Semjaza shuddered. “An unseemly end for a Grigori.”
“What’s done is done,” Azazel said, toying with his wine glass. “Sire, might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Your raiment is not... it will draw attention. If you wish to remain concealed from gossip that could reach the ears of the Archangels, I would recommend that you seek different attire.”
Semjaza chuckled. “I shall be guided by you, old friend. You understand these things better than I. I intend to confront the Archangels, but that will be at a time of my choosing. How do they fare, that most sanctimonious of all the choirs of Heaven?”
Azazel took a deep breath. “Gabriel and Michael are lovers,” he began, “as are Uriel and Raziel. Samael remains alone and aloof, Haniel lives in the land called India. Metatron spends more time in Heaven than on Earth, and Tzadkiel has a home in the land called America. I do not know for certain, but I suspect that he is involved with his two lieutenants, Sophiel and Brieus. Raphael stays in London or Crete with his lover, Israfel, the Angel of Music. Raphael was lately rescued from a kidnapping—two Archdemons and some humans sought to sell angelkind to wealthy humans. The plot was foiled, so the Archangels have done one useful thing. We are not made to be servants and slaves.”
Semjaza snorted at that. “Indeed not. Humans are to serve us, not the other way round. Continue.”
“Of course, sire.” Azazel paused to gather his thoughts. “Remiel also has a house in the land called America,” he said cautiously. “Ishtahar, your wife, spends a lot of her time working with damaged humans who are protected by Agrat bat Mahlat.”
Semjaza gave a small, fond smile. “My beloved was ever attentive to the needs of the less fortunate. My sons, Azazel. Tell me of my sons.”
“Ahijah spends much of his time in the South American lands,” Azazel reported. “He keeps to himself but visits occasionally with his mother. He has grown into a fine Nephilim. Hiwa is... difficult.” Azazel sighed. “Currently, I believe he is in prison in Russia. He has some standing with certain crime syndicates in that land. Semjaza, be careful with Hiwa. He is... angry.”
“Too angry to speak to his father?” Semjaza raised an eyebrow.
“I... yes.” Azazel cringed a little. “He created wards to keep myself and the others away from him. He wants nothing to do with his family. He speaks to his mother from time to time and to his brother even less, but the rest of us... no, he wants nothing to do with us.”
“I will go see him,” Semjaza declared. “After I have spoken with our friends. And then we will make plans and set them in motion.”
Azazel bowed his head. “As you decree, sire.”
“Where is Ishtahar living when she is not assisting Agrat?”
“In the town of North Canaan, Connecticut, sire.” Azazel sounded relieved to be no longer talking about Hiwa. Semjaza wondered just what his eldest son had been doing to cause such a reaction in his old friend.
“Canaan?” Semjaza quirked an eyebrow. “What a droll choice of name. Canaan is in Israel.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it was,” Azazel amended. “It’s gone now. So much of the land that we knew has gone or changed beyond recognition. I do not know why the Americans chose to call their town North Canaan.”
“Interesting.” Semjaza lifted his glass and drained it of the contents. “We will speak of these and other things later. Now, I think we should see to more appropriate raiment so that I may move easily around the world.”
Azazel bowed his head once more. “Of course, sire. I will take care of everything.”
Semjaza smiled beatifically. “I know you will, Azazel. I have great faith in your abilities.”
“Your majesty honors me,” Azazel said. care of my appearance.”
“Come.” Semjaza stood. “Let us take
AFTER hours of what seemed frivolous pampering, during which Semjaza found himself laughing often, Azazel took him to the penthouse apartment he owned in Paris. It was in a quiet part of the city, an older quarter that was full of narrow streets and ancient buildings, some dating back to the times of the Romans. Azazel’s building was in the style he called Art Deco, and there was something about the elegant, curving sweeps in the artifices and design that teased at Semjaza’s mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
&n
bsp; It continued to puzzle him as Azazel led him to an old elevator with an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed the bronze button that took them to the top floor. Only when the elevator opened up into Azazel’s home, the corners of the rooms rounded and the ceilings decorated with elaborate frescoes in soft hues, did it come to Semjaza.
“Your home,” he said, turning in a circle and taking in the space, “it is Eden.”
Azazel smiled. “As close to Eden as humans could ever come, sire.”
“It is remarkable.” Semjaza looked at the tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, bordered by dark wooden frames that curved around each other. “Remarkable and beautiful.”
“Please,” Azazel said with a smile, “make yourself at home. I had the housekeeper make up the room at the east end of the hallway for you.” He gave Semjaza a respectful bow and walked off, leaving Semjaza alone in the elegant entry hall.
From the direction that Azazel had walked came the sound of machines, and Semjaza drifted down the corridor, pausing to gaze at priceless paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Nothing was overdone here; it was all tasteful and beautiful, and Semjaza felt very much at home. He paused on the threshold of a room full of equipment he could not begin to understand, watching as Azazel pressed buttons and typed on keypads. He could feel the discreet swirl of Azazel’s power as well and smiled to himself as he watched.
“I am creating papers and an identity for you, my liege,” Azazel said without turning. “You will need these things to move around freely.”
Semjaza nodded, even though Azazel was not looking at him. “I understand. What is to be my identity to satisfy the curious?”
“You are Doctor Shem Ya’azhar, professor emeritus of Middle Eastern antiquities and history at the University of Aleppo. You were born in Iraq, in Bagdad, in the middle of the Seventy Years War and fought for a time before returning to studies. During an attack on the University of Damascus, where you finished your degree, most of the buildings and records were destroyed, so you have new ones made from partial records.” Azazel turned and shot Semjaza a grin. “It is a part of the world that we have used for our own identity papers before, with great success.”
“I see.” Semjaza laughed softly. “I suppose that I would be an expert in such a field, after all.”
“Quite so, sire.” Azazel inclined his head and returned to his machines.
“Later, you must teach me how to use these devices,” Semjaza said. “Now, with your permission, I would like to explore your home.”
“Of course.” Azazel turned again. “As I said, my lord. My home is yours. You are most welcome here.”
“Thank you, Azazel.” Semjaza paused. “One thing. What happened to your family? After Eden?”
Azazel sighed. He turned away from Semjaza, and his face became wreathed in shadow. “They died, my liege. My children, my two beautiful sons and my three sweet, innocent daughters were slaughtered by Gabriel during his genocidal destruction of our offspring and their offspring. My wife was killed, drowned, actually, in the flood that Uriel unleashed at Hashem’s command, to cleanse the planet.”
Semjaza’s hands clenched into fists. “They shall be avenged,” he said in a low growl. “I promise you, old friend.”
Azazel nodded once. “Thank you, sire.”
Semjaza opened his mouth to say more, but the set of Azazel’s shoulders indicated that this was not the right time to discuss such a tragic subject. He nodded instead and quietly stepped back, closing the door to the room behind him in respect for Azazel’s grief.
Closing his eyes, Semjaza took a deep, slow breath. He had seen it all from his prison among the stars. Gabriel, his sword burning with the pure white flame of Archangel power, slaughtering thousands of innocents because God had so ordered him. Uriel, gathering up one human—Noah—and his family, and one male and one female of every creature and plant on the planet, building a large ship to carry it all, and then making it rain for forty days and forty nights. Raziel, taking his book of secrets and mysteries and hiding it, far away, out of sight of even Semjaza. And Michael, Michael who had stood back and watched and said nothing, shed no tears for the lives that Gabriel had taken, those lives that were kin to angelkind through their fathers. Raphael too, had done nothing, and Remiel had saved Ishtahar and hidden her with the last clans of the monsters in the high places of the world.
All gone, all dead. Nothing but memories in Semjaza’s mind and soul. He let out his breath and opened his eyes. Soon, there would be a reckoning. It was well overdue.
Squaring his shoulders, Semjaza resumed his exploration of Azazel’s home and forced himself not to think about grief and loss.
Chapter Two
GABRIEL was in shock.
He didn’t protest as Michael hauled him to Tzadkiel’s apartment. He heard them speaking without really listening to what they were saying. Everything sounded far off, distant, as if he were underwater. He continued not to protest as Michael, his hand still in Gabriel’s, moved them from Tzadkiel’s home to Remiel’s.
Remiel’s house was a sprawling farmhouse in the country, the closest town being North Canaan. Any other day, Gabriel would have laughed, would have found the connection between the New World of America and the Old World of the Bible delightful.
Not today.
On the doorstep of Remiel’s home, Gabriel came to an abrupt halt. He needed to think, to process.
Michael frowned, turning to face Gabriel, concern written all over his face. “Da bao?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet. I just... I need a minute to think.”
Michael’s frown deepened. “Are you certain?” “Aye. Walk with me?” “Of course,” Michael said at once.
Gabriel gave him a small, relieved smile and turned, walking toward the fields, Michael falling into step beside him.
Head down, Gabriel turned the events of the last several hours over and over in his mind. Shock gradually gave way to incredulity. Semjaza had escaped from his prison in the stars, escaped an Archangel-warded jail cell. He had freed himself and come to Earth, all unknown to the Archangels until Aquila called to Gabriel, and Michael had reported to the others in the Brotherhood.
How had he done it? Gabriel couldn’t figure it out, and it was frustrating. That prison had been made to be secure. Evidently, it wasn’t as strong as he’d thought. The incredulity and frustration slowly gave way to anger, and as Gabriel, with Michael at his side, topped a low hill, he let loose a string of invective that made Michael gape at him in surprise.
“Gabriel!”
“Michael, don’t scold me.” Gabriel was shaking, suddenly so angry that he couldn’t believe he was still coherent. Rage burned through him, the rage that made him what he was, rage he felt because Semjaza had escaped. Gabriel could only imagine what Semjaza planned, and he was worried—those plans would most likely not be pleasant.
As Michael remained silent, Gabriel swore again, unfurling and furling his wings in agitation.
“I can’t believe he managed it,” Gabriel muttered as he reached the limits of his swearing vocabulary. “I don’t know how he managed it.”
“Neither does Aquila,” Michael said.
“No, and that doesn’t sit right either. Fuck!” Gabriel scrubbed his face with both his hands and turned to face Michael. “He’ll want revenge. He’ll want Ishtahar back. He’ll want all kinds of shit, and because his ego’s the size of all of Asia, he won’t believe he can’t have it.”
“I know,” Michael said. He reached out to touch Gabriel’s arm, his dark eyes full of compassion.
“And!” Gabriel waved his arms in annoyance. “We just got bonded! We should be at home, having loads of sex and cuddling! Not dealing with more crap, especially not from Sem-bloody-jaza!”
“Gabriel, breathe.” Michael moved closer, placed both his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders, and gently squeezed. “Shouting will not achieve anything.”
“It makes me feel better,” Gabr
iel grumbled. Then he sighed and shook his head, deflating. “I know. I just feel so damn helpless, yeah? I don’t like it. I don’t like this century, period. Most of it —the bits not involving you—has been shit.”
“Language. And I appreciate the sentiment, but there has been much that is good this century thus far.” Michael reached up to run his fingers through Gabriel’s hair. “Consider, da bao. We have spent time with our Brotherhood, more than we would usually. That is a good thing, is it not? We have stopped some very bad people from doing very bad things. And you have enjoyed yourself killing demons, I know you have.”
Gabriel smiled a little sheepishly at the last. “Aye, well, can’t deny that one, me. I’m made to kill, after all.”
“Gabriel,” Michael said with a frustrated sigh, “you kill, yes, but it is not all that you are. You are much more than a killer of demons.”
“Aye, true. I killed the Nephilim too.”
Michael raised his head and gazed Heavenward. “God give me strength,” he muttered, and then he looked at Gabriel again. “No, Gabriel, I do not mean that. You are a killer, yes. You are, if you wish to put it in such crude terms, a genocidal maniac when pushed. I have never seen your equal with the blade, and you are flamboyant and confident in battle, which inspires your troops to fight with more bravery and courage. But you are not just a killer.”
“What am I, then?” Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. He knew he was sulking, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. In the back of his mind, he knew that Semjaza’s escape had unsettled him deeply and shaken him more than he liked to admit.
Michael, however, smiled and touched Gabriel’s cheek with warm fingers. “You are loved, my Gabriel. You are beautiful—your human form is very handsome and very desirable. Your true form is blinding to me because it is purity and light and love. You are kind and compassionate. You help others without giving any thought to yourself. You are generous and you are wise.
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