PROLOGUE: The Large White Room
The summer breezes could not have been more perfect if they were reined in by a stage queue. It was as if they had been captured in a jar and let out in controlled bursts by some mysterious machine. Yet, they were natural. They smelled nice; of lilacs and growing, wild things. They carried in the warm scents of the green outdoors through the wide-open white-framed parlor windows. And, for that, the angels were very grateful.
Angels, but only in the loosest sense of the word. While the real heavenly host was surely scowling upon them, these unintended side-effects of the natural order reclined in plush white couches and imbibed copious amounts of expensive food and alcohol. Their unhealthy and slothful habits had been tended to for some time now, and they had grown quite accustomed to these sorts of lazy summer afternoons. The butlers hurried in and out at their command. The satin curtains were loosed and he wind flung them about in drifty hazes.
The whole parlor was white; white wood floors, white wood walls, white fabric on the couches, white drapes and curtains over the open windows, white faux rug spread through the middle of the floor. Through this misty screen of color, everything else about these angels was made unapparent and redundant—for they, in fact, were the room. They were no less a part of the room than the couches. The feathers from their wings sometimes caught in the wind. A hanging one would be gently ripped off and tossed out the window by the breeze. Catch in the rosebush outside. Black and grey and red and brown and all sorts of colors. Spread out in wide, proud arcs.
They weren't usually allowed to show their wings off. Not in public, anyway. But it felt good to stretch them out in the parlor, especially on good days like this one.
"Somebody, pick a record," One of the women ordered sweetly, with just the slightest hint of venom in her delicate tone. She paused and pushed the red hair out of her thin face before gesturing to the opalescent vintage record-player in the corner of the room, sitting atop a carved wooden table. "I'm bored."
"You go off and pick the record, sweetheart," A male voice chimed in, scathing and mutely accented. Its owner had collected himself against the far wall, between two windows. Middle-aged, but still retaining his youth. The hint of a smirk had been carved into his skin. "If you're so bored with yourself, you pick the music. I couldn't be bothered to do it even if I wanted it, too."
"Balthazar," A stern man put in, "Mind your manners."
"Oh, my apologies, Michael, I forgot you were in the room. One should always be respectful in the presence of ladies, right, Gabriel?"
The one named Gabriel, reclining on the long white couch with his brown wings spread underneath him in oblique shapes, made an approving gesture with his right hand, smiled, but said nothing. He neglected to even open his eyes.
Balthazar crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. Despite his complaints, he too was bored.
"I want to stretch my wings," He complained aloud.
"Not allowed," Michael interjected, "Somebody will see us."
Balthazar mocked him idly, "Not allowed, somebody will see us. You and your damned rules."
"It's for your own good, Balthazar. Stop causing trouble."
The red-haired woman had, at this point, risen to the balls of her feet and crossed over to the record player on her own. She flipped through the dusty jackets and albums before finding something that vaguely amused her, removing it from its cardboard case, and placing it on the turn-table. Horns and faint orchestra noises rose from the gramophone caustically.
"Anna, turn that garbage off," Balthazar started, "Put on something we can dance to."
"No," She rebuked, "I gave you a chance to put on something you liked. Now, you have to listen to what I chose."
At this, Michael nodded in approval. Balthazar rolled his eyes, but argued no further. She had a point this time. Anna returned to her chair and sat once again, with her wings draped over the arms.
When someone finally spoke again, interrupting the peaceful and dull silence, it was Gabriel. He opened one eye and glanced at Michael, who returned the gesture with a frown from his place on the coffee table.
"Hey, bro," Gabriel sneered.
"What is it, Gabriel?" Michael muttered, not enthused.
Gabriel pushed himself upright, using his elbow, and slicked back his hair again before continuing. "That's funny," He sarcastically said, "I remember everyone else saying they were going to be here. I wonder where they all went off to."
"Raphael and Lucifer went off to the gun range for practice." Michael responded.
"Oh," Gabriel drew out his reply, "I bet that's going just fantastically."
"They'll get along." Michael paused before adding, "In public."
Balthazar joined in again, offering his input on the matter. "And, with some aggressive persuasion from father." He waved one of his hands grandly, "Uriel is probably mucking about with the boss-man. Maybe sucking up to daddy. There's a few of us downstairs. Dad knows, Castiel is probably drinking his brains out."
"It's dangerous for him to be out by himself," Michael sighed.
"I'm not volunteering," Balthazar chuckled, "Sounds fun and all, but I'd rather get a good hour's stretch in before dark."
There was another pause. Anna's foot swayed slightly underneath the hem of her dress to the tune of the music, and she let a wearied sigh fly from her parted lips. The trumpets fumed carefully from the horn of the gramaphone. It was very peaceful in the white room.
A flutter of curtains and wings. Black feathers tossed around the room in currents and eddies. A medium-height man in a trench coat fumbled through the window and collapsed in the center of the floor, breathing raggedly.
"Oh, look," Balthazar groaned, "Here's the prodigal son, now."
"Save it, Balthazar." Castiel mumbled from the shag carpet, "Leave me be."
Gabriel heaved himself from the couch in an instant, brushing off his clothes and snatching a half-eaten bar of chocolate from the sidetable before stooping to grab and shake at Castiel's shoulder. He gave Balthazar a trivial look.
"This guy needs 20 CC's of fun, stat," Gabriel joked, "We're losing him!"
"Stop it, you lot." Anna snapped.
"She's right. This is bothersome." Michael insisted.
Balthazar ignored them. "When's the next party? Do you think he can hold his own until then?"
"I think he can," Gabriel smirked.
Castiel remained half-consious on the floor. He mumbled to himself about the richness of human nature and was utterly unnaffected by its delicacies.
In his head, the music played louder, and there were the sounds of a great and fantastic party. Colors and women and men locked together in courtship and booming speakers and great times and far-away places. All of these things flung together by one word. "Party".
Boss sure did know how to throw a good party.
