Chapter Forty Nine

Audiat's hands deftly dive in between the chords of a loom. Her brow is crooked and her eyes are narrowed with concentration – she lifts up her lips in a determined scowl as she winds the yarn together, humming low in her throat as she does so. The evening sunlight seems to turn her hair gold, and adds specks of chocolate and pink in her eyes.

Bryon sits, watching her like a loyal dog at his master's feet, his bronze eyes sparkling just as bright as hers. The cloak's silky folds drape over him like a blanket. Propped up on one of his arms, he lounges over the bed's crisply made sheets, not stirring or doing anything to distract her – Bryon does nothing but stare, his expression as sweet and soft as honey. He smiles as he does so, the sort of dopey, lovesick smile that makes my heart ache with the pure adorableness of it.

Eventually, though, Audiat does catch onto his suspicious behavior – as she lifts her head, the smile fades, and he composes himself slightly, shifting back into that locked-lipped benevolent face I know very well.

Curiously, Audiat sets her spool of yarn down in her lap to meet his gaze.

"Why are you staring at me?" she asks, smiling slightly.

Bryon shrugs coyly with a twinkle in his eyes.

Audiat's brow creases. Her lips prick back, and a single hand flies to her mouth. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

Bryon throws back his head with laughter. "Yes. But that wasn't what I was staring at."

Again, Audiat seems puzzled. After dislodging whatever had been wedged between her teeth, her hands fly up to the buoyant curls bouncing frizzily around her face. "Do I have paint in my hair?"

"Right again." Bryon's smile grows only bigger. "But that's still not what I'm staring at – you're not very good at this."

"Well, then, what is it?" Audiat huffs, dragging her hands through her hair in an attempt to flatten it. "Did I do something wrong in the pattern? I'm no good at weaving, am I?"

"You're absolutely perfect." Bryon's grin grows a tad softer, his gaze reverting back to its dopey glow. "Actually, that's what I'm staring at, Audie. You're absolutely perfect. Right now. The way you are."

Audiat looks taken aback, as any woman would be after receiving such a compliment from such a man. Flustered and uncertain, she bows her head into the itchy coils of her loom – catching the light among their soft, dark red feathers, her wings anxiously fidget on her back. It only takes a moment of awkward behavior before she ducks behind the loom entirely, shielding herself from Bryon's loving gaze.

"Thanks, thank you, I'm acting odd!" she calls after a second, sticking her head up over the loom like a prairie dog from a hole. "You surprised me is all. I'm not having a heart attack. I thought for sure that I had something on my face. Thought I was going to get teased. By the way, I love you. Don't give me a heart attack, though, alright?"

"I almost had a heart attack when I saw you earlier today." Bryon lets his head fall onto the bed and allows his arms to dangle over the side. "Just like this." He sighs heavily. "I don't want today to end."

"Or tomorrow to begin," Audiat begins, nodding slightly to herself.

The transition from one scene to another feels different this time – sharp and bladed, as if I'm a worm on a hook being tossed into an ocean of dreams. I gasp, for a second maintaining the reality around me, the dark room with moonlight staining the twisting dreamcatchers, before I slam back into the sea.

Lucius is perhaps the first thing I notice in the dream.

The evening sun streaks his fluffy white hair with gold. He's crouched over a little damp garden set in a clearing in the middle of the woods, like a fantasy story, with a cottage set atop a hill in the distance, a plume of smoke coiling up from its chimney.

Perhaps it's because he's younger than I've ever seen him, more a toddler than a child with puffy cheeks and bright, excited eyes that he's so adorable to me – or perhaps it can be accredited to his alarmingly colorful clothing, opposed to the stark white of his usual outfit.

The demon plays in the dirt like a little human child, getting mud up to his shoulders as he trowels into the soil. He keeps squeaking, "Is this deep enough? How about this?" and looking up to a figure draped in shadows at the base of the tree. It takes me a second to recognize a teenage Bryon leisurely flipping through pages of his book, smiling and shaking his head to the little demon.

"Is this deep enough?" Lucius crows, looking up with a grin, having somehow received muddy war paint all over his face.

"Another scoop or two oughtta do it." Bryon shuts his book and sidles over, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. "Here, let me –"

"No!" Lucius howls. "No, I wanna!"

"Alright, alright, don't get all tied up." Smiling cheerfully, Bryon lifts his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. "I'll grab your mother's flowers. Don't dig the hole too deep, or else you'll bury the stem, too."

The last comment seems to have sprung from the way Lucius shovels importantly at the dirt, undoubtedly digging too deep for whatever precious flower they're planting in the vegetable garden. But Bryon doesn't truly seem to mind, either, smirking in amusement at the child swamped in dirt. So long as the leaves of a plant stick up, I suppose they'll survive.

As Bryon leans down to pick something up, assumedly Lucius's mother's flower, a bronze blur shrieks and flies at him. After initially slamming into his chest, it rapidly coils several times around his neck like a scarf. Grunting in surprise, he stumbles backwards, a hand flying towards the little reptile shivering around his throat. Instantly recognize Belle's quaking form, I become all the more rapt with my dream.

"Theobella!" Lucius squeaks, shooting to his feet, eyes shining with realization. Belle whistles in surprised recognition, perching atop Bryon's head and looking down at Lucius. She's even smaller than she is in present day – if she folded up all her long limbs and slender tail, she could fit in a teacup.

Panting, another person stumbles into the picture, her eyes wild. I feel myself going cold in my sleep. The person urgently stumbling forward, the one with a hand outstretched towards Belle, is me.

The impact is slow. It's me, I realize, slamming into Bryon in a desperate attempt to get to Belle. It's me, curling my hands around Belle, and clutching her tight against my chest, like a treasured possession I may never release. It's me.

Clad in an old-timey bodice and trousers, aged in my mid-twenties, I look like a female warrior from a bad medieval film. My hair isn't cut short, which would be preferred in a battle type situation, but long and bound in a braid. It seems as if I'm a rather frazzled, panicked peasant from the Dark Ages. Bryon obviously thinks so too as stumbles backwards, brow furrowed critically, looking at me with a judgmental expression. Carefully, he maneuvers himself between Lucius and I.

"Who the hell –"

His head snaps up and away from me, eyes blowing wide with panic. Nostrils flaring, he shoves even Other Me behind him as yet another warped person staggers from the woods – Raffe.

Except… it's not quite Raffe.

Some gut instinct tells me that in this crazed world, this isn't Raffe, not as I know him. But I don't think it's the Raphael that this version of Bryon knows, either. The crazed gleam in the Other Raffe's eyes frightens me, the mad pull at his lips sends a tingle down my spine. If I'm correct and this is neither of the versions of him we'd grown separately accustomed to, it makes him all the more deadly.

It seems Other Me has the same instinct to flee I feel writhing in my stomach. Cradling my arms around Belle, she paces slowly backwards, limbs shaking but gaze remaining steady trained on Raffe.

Lucius actually does flee – with a screech, he dashes the moment Raffe stumbles through the brambles, yipping like a frightened puppy, screaming out for his mother to run as he scales the cottage-topped hill.

Bryon drops into a crouch, as if to engage Other Raffe, but the strange monsterlike version of the angel I know bats him aside as easily as a kitten would a ball of yarn. With a single blow to the stomach, Bryon slams against the tree, groaning as he slides down the bark and curling around his gut.

Other Raffe turns to Other Me and Belle. The little dragon shrills in terror, diving into the Other Me's bodice and watching between the lacings as Other Raffe stumbles closer like a zombie. She whistles lamentingly in terror as he draws closer and closer. The Other Me seems frozen – she keeps shaking her head in disbelief, a single tear tracing down her cheek, watching as our angel stumbles forward blindly, his lips peeled back in a lunatic's toothy grin.

My heart goes cold.

As far as I know, there's only one person that could turn Raffe bat-shit crazy, and, the more I think about it, the more likely it is.

At last, Raffe gets within punching distance, and his face contorts into an even crazier expression, his nose wrinkling with glee. And, as he shivers with the thrill of the kill, Belle shrieks with the fury of cornered prey, and flies from the Other Me's bodice.

It's almost as she's twirling around Raffe's body in that rapid manner of hers, when she keeps whirling around like a tornado, scaling up his legs and his torso until she reaches his shoulder to perch and squeal and giggle. But instead of going around and around his torso, with an animal's bellow, she dives through him.

Her nose digs into the skin of his hips and splits out from his back, narrowly missing the delicate spinal cord erecting him in the tunnel she digs in his flesh.

And she continues doing it.

Fast, deadly, efficient. Through the belly and out through the ribs, snapping now and then as she goes. Her hard, beaklike nose I'd grown to overlook is like the tip of a needle, helping her to drive through muscle and organs alike, even cleaving ribs and vertebrae apart. Her mane and feathers allow the blood to slide around her, like a sleek knife.

A perfect predator.

With a final sort of blow, Belle emerges from the center of Raffe's throat, creating a massive puncture wound in his windpipe. She lands gracefully on the ground, not turning back to look at her handiwork, the lifeless body of a angel peppered with puncture wounds the size of half dollars. Spraying blood from her body, shaking like a dog with water matting its fur, she hops over to Other Me, curling around her feet.

Other Me stands, mouth agape, at the angel who'd toppled like an old stone statue, still and unmoving. I struggle to understand what'd happened – had this happened? Did Belle do this, in a time when both Lucius and Bryon were young? Is this really me? Really Raffe lying dead on the ground?

Only I realize with a bloodcurdling twitch of his fingers that he's not truly dead.

Even being punctured in and out the way Belle had mercilessly done is not one of the ways Raffe said could kill an angel.

She should've eaten his heart.

Other Me turns to flee, but her foot catches in the hole Lucius had dug, and she slams against the wet dirt.

Slowly, his mad grin spreading over his face again, Raffe rises, lifting his wings to block out the sun as he takes a staggering step towards Belle and I.


I'm sorry, Penryn.

With a clumsy snort, I jerk awake, recoiling backwards so that my head hits the railing. The moonlight dapples the room through the balcony windows and the panes of stained glass, illuminating the languished twists and turns of the dreamcatchers in the night. Blinking rapidly, I try to make sense of the blue and bronze eyes staring back at me from the other side of the pillow. Paige stirs against me, a reminder to stay quiet – even though she can snore through a thunderstorm, it's difficult for her to go back to sleep should she wake up.

"What?" I hiss softly.

I'm sorry you got sucked into my nightmare. That's never happened before. It really does screw you up, getting older and maturing, all these new quirks and bodily functions. I hope I don't have to sleep alone from now on – the dark isn't always friendly.

"Wait." Blinking repeatedly, I scrunch my brow, faint remnants of the terrifying dream whispering in my memory. "Wait. That was your nightmare? That… 'dream' I just had?" I pause. "How?"

If I knew, it wouldn't have been shared between the two of us. …I will admit, my head was against your cheek – the proximity of cerebral forces and the intensity of my nightmare when compared to your mellow dream might've had something to do with it.

"Those are awfully big words," I notice, screwing my brow, studying the little dragon curled up beside me on Audiat's pillow, her scales lain gently against her body in a flowing calico cascade. "…And what was up with that dream, anyway? That wasn't… that wasn't… it was just a dream, right? Nothing real about it? …Are you alright, Belle?"

Belle lowers her gaze.

"Belle?"

I'm scared, Penryn.

"Scared?" I repeat. Then, recalling the maddened grin, I understand suddenly. "Oh. Oh. Belle…" I reach out and brush her mane back with one finger, smiling gently at her. "Belle, sweetie, Raffe'd never hurt you."

Belle begins to quiver, shaking like a child in the shadow of a brute. With elegant twists of feathers, she buries her nose between her wings. You don't know that. You heard Ogden. He… he could turn back at any time. He's killed thousands of Nephilim – you and I, we'd be no different!

"He won't lay a hand on you, no matter what mood he's in." Softly, I curl my hand around Belle's body and scoot her closer to me. "Do you know why?"

Belle snorts through her shivers, making the sound staggering and uneven. Her little nostrils flare, and her tail wraps further around her until it's clutched between her two front paws like a security blanket. Obviously not.

"He loves you." I stroke at her neck and massage her little wings, causing her grip on her tail to lessen. "He'll never admit it, of course, but he does. He loves you too much to ever, ever hurt you. Alright?"

But, Penryn… From between her wings, Belle looks up at me, eyes big and reflective like pools – I see myself there, hazed in either blue or bronze. What if I hurt him? Or you?

Again, I find myself confused. "What do you mean?"

I'm growing, Penryn. Growing up. And I'm scared of that, too. I – I'm not sure what I am. I'm different than them. I can feel it. And, eventually, don't even normal Nephilim start snapping? Biting the hands that feed them? Belle whines softly, covering her face with a wing. I don't want to hurt you or Raphael. I'm scared that I'll turn into a monster, Penryn. So scared.

A monster – like the one diving in and out of Raffe's body, ripping him up from the inside out.

"You're not going to do that," I assure her firmly, laying my hand against her softly bobbing cheek. "Do you know why?"

Obviously not.

"Because you obviously love him." I ruffle her mane affectionately. "The same logic applies, baby. You love each other, so you won't do anything to hurt each other. It's the way things work out here in the real world." I sigh softly, careful not to rock Paige's head. "For better or for worse."


In the corner of my eye, I watch Raffe fidget with his suit as he slips the crisp black jacket over his shoulders, carefully easing his white wings through the slits in the back. The dark color of the fabric accents those gorgeous white feathers in a way that makes my heart constrict.

I pet Paige's hair from her face and kiss her sleeping forehead, bidding her sweet dreams silently – her nap should end before any angels might want to barge into this apartment, and Bay had been instructed to take her away to the human camps in an hour, anyway, and look after her until they're called back.

The humans had relocated for the most part, putting themselves well out of the way of any dragon-horse battle that may occur. Thinking to the hour arising so soon, my stomach squirms – until he'd reached the foot of the mountains separating us from them, Bryon had done a sloppy job fighting the Horse. Apparently, even now, he's only standing his ground by the skin on his teeth. If a single one of his moves is miscalculated or misjudged, the Horse should have every capability to take him out.

And, as I rise and face Raffe again, I see that he, too, is stressing out about it, too. There are too many variables that could go wrong for his liking – Hugo and I are already dressed up in neat little servant costumes, ready to serve Audiat's banquet, but Paige sure as hell isn't, and, as soon as possible, I'm supposed to go help Metatron hound Jane from the library and hide her junkies. What if there's a hole in Audiat's detailed description we have no explanation for? What if Uriel blabs? What if he has photographic evidence of Raffe's wingless state? Audiat had said she'd found and destroyed the evidence of Laylah's procedure, but could she have missed something?

Will he be able to control himself, seeing Uriel again?

Sensing all his answerless questions and knowing the way they tend to torment any one thinker, I walk over beside him and throw my hands around his waist, meeting his eyes through the mirror. Raffe's lips twitch, but he doesn't quit fiddling with his tie.

"You'll do fine," I whisper into his back, peeking over his shoulder.

Raffe's hands drop from his tie to top my own. "I know I'll do fine," he murmurs. "I'm worried that you'll do something stupid. Or maybe Audiat. Hell, maybe even Josiah. Then I'll have to do something stupid to save you, Evil Queen."

"I don't know where I'd be without my Knight in Feathered Armor." I pause for dramatic effect. "Oh, that's right, safe in a human camp, surrounded by people I can trust. I can take care of myself, Raffe. You don't need to worry about me, of all things, when you're there on the front line."

Again, Raffe's lips twitch, but he doesn't seem eager to continue the conversation. "I heard you talking with Belle last night," he says softly, eyes flicking over to where the little dragon bats at a cat toy on the kitchenette's counter. "What was she dreaming about?"

I bury my face into his shoulder blade, unable to decide upon a good, non-stressing reply to that. "…You don't want to know."

He sighs heavily, leaning his head back so that his neck rests on my forehead. "Actually, I do. Thank you for telling her that I… that I'd never hurt her. It's true."

"It's funny, the way you are around that Nephilim," I chuckle, meeting his eyes in the reflection again. "Like I'm seeing a different version of you."

Raffe studies me without emotional response, turning to face me instead of looking at me through the mirror. His eyes are as dead and flat as river stones. "I'd never hurt you, either, Penryn." His hands tighten around mine. "You know that, don't you?"

I nod into his shoulder.

"Good." Gently, he pulls my hands off of him, twirling me around so that I'm looking up into his eyes. Holding me only by my fingers, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles, Raffe leans his head down to me. "Because if things go well, that's the last time I'm going to be able to tell you that. Your uncle is cutting me loose after this banquet, so to say. Alright?"

Smiling halfheartedly, I shift my hands so that they're holding his. "I would never hurt you. You know that. But…" I hesitate. "Raffe, I've got to go help Metatron with Jane… I can't stay much longer…"

"Of course." Raffe releases my hands with unnatural briskness and turns back to the mirror, straightening his perfectly flat tie for the millionth time. "Don't let that bitch take a chunk out of you."

"Don't let Uriel take a chunk out of you," I call back, rolling my eyes. "Bye, Belle, sweetie."

The dragon whistles and pops in farewell, although she looks confused, as if she's unsure whether or not to follow me, or maybe even why I'm leaving. Glancing in a panic from Raffe to me, she pops questioningly, shifting her weight obsessively on the table.

Waving one last goodbye towards the little Nephilim and then pecking Paige on the forehead once more, I stride quickly out of the room, unable to glance at Raffe.

The moment I enter the hallway, I'm glad that Audiat keeps no makeup that I could've dolled myself up with. Determined to keep my tears from overflowing, I blink forcefully, curling my hands into fists, and set off down the hall.


Sighing, Metatron snaps shut the last book in the pile, staring reproachfully at the pile yet to be shelved. Setting the book down in its respective bin, Metatron gingerly pulls off her pair of immaculate gloves and sets them in their drawer, unwilling to use them to pull a musty, slobbery dog away from a computer.

Just as she shuts the drawer, a great chorus of wails beacons out from the junkie corner of the library, perhaps indicating another flood of "mental ecstasy" from their master. However, as the ruckus continues, their cries only getting louder and disturbing to the few she-angels calming their nerves with words, Metatron grumbles to herself.

"I'm coming, shut the hell up!" she shouts over their elegiac moans. "This is a library, you swine!"

The blood drains from Metatron's face as she pops her head around the mountains of books and takes her first look at what awaits her beyond the safe boundary of her desk.

Lying on its side, the white devil of a she-wolf pants heavily, its eyes glazed and distant. As if the Devil itself whips her around in its maw like a chew toy, spasms shake her body, sending her paws twitching and kicking. A tail lashes wildly about. Drool flies through the air, its foamy droplets spraying over her circle of mourners.

"What the hell," she whispers, rising up above the desk, looking at the wolf with awe.

"Uh, Metatron?" Amongst the sea of sleek bookshelves and inked adventures, a figure with eyes ringed in red blemishes creeps forwards. Penryn. That'd been the child's name. "What's going on?"

"Interesting question." Metatron briskly approaches the writhing wolf, silently gleeful with each of her spastic twitches. "Give me a second. Obviously, there's something wrong in her brain. Maybe she saw too much. I've heard rumors about people getting anvils dropped on their heads when they learn too much, like some divine punishment – perhaps this is the real-life equivalent of that."

"Stop sounding so happy," Penryn scolds, cautiously circling closer to the wailing she-angels. "You're going to upset them more."

"Well, maybe I'll upset them so much that they'll take their tears elsewhere." Metatron delights in this idea as Penryn kneels before one of the most conscious looking ones.

"Do you know what happened?" Penryn asks gently, with an air of expertise that only comes from prior interactions with madwomen. She rubs the angel's back comfortingly, her fingers roving the taut muscles between her wings. "Could you feel anything with your mind link thing? Can you feel her now?"

Numbly, the she-angel turns, staring at Penryn with unseeing eyes. "There was something else," she rasps. "A presence of some sort. It came in and… suffocated her! It's pressing down on her! Release! Release! She cannot breathe!"

"Unfortunately, she's breathing just fine," Metatron sighs. "That's not the problem."

"Is it like…?" Penryn cocks her head to one side, seeming deeply troubled. "Like she's being suppressed by this… other presence? Her mind has been sedated, like she can't think because of it? Like a buzz in your ears so loud you can't hear anything but the buzz, but in your brain?"

The she-angel's head jerks up. Feeble hands grip at her arm desperately, and her pale, milky eyes blink repeatedly. "Yes!" she gasps. "Yes, yes exactly!"

Something fearfully akin to dread glints in the girl's dark eyes as she turns to Metatron once more. "I think I've seen this before."

It's similar to my attack, no?

Metatron jumps, stumbling backwards, her eyes trained on the tiny creature perched on the top of one of the hanging LED lights. Though the creature couldn't possibly be jet black, the shadows turn it so, make its wings more sickles than limbs as they rest above its head, and turn the talons curling over the edges into pure ivory. The only break in the perfect black is the searing gaze of two discolored eyes as they blink slowly, delicately, like an animal afraid to lose sight of prey.

"Yes, actually," Penryn whispers. "It is."

Strange, isn't it? Like a coil of brass, the creature twists down to the ground, disappearing in the darkness of bookshelf before Metatron can identify more than the flash of copper scales. This world is full of surprises. It could be that monster. Or it could not be. We don't know, do we?

"I guess not." Metatron's eyebrows pinch upwards. "What'll happen to the mutt, then?"

Hmm. Good question. More a shadow than an animal, the creature slinks closer. It remains yet to be seen. I've never been able to hold another thinker down like this for so long. She might suffer permanent brain damage. She's not going to regain any sliver of herself until she's let go, and, meanwhile, it'll all deteriorate. I wonder if she can be controlled?

But before the creature can continue on its monologue, Jane spasms terrifyingly, her eyes wide open, lunging upwards with an alarmed bark – for a moment, Metatron believes the wolf's torture to be over. But she falls back and slaps the floor like a fish again, groaning softly this time, quivering more than twitching.

Interesting. Its glowing eyes swivel from the wolf to Penryn. I suppose this means you don't have to help get rid of her. What might be merciful is bashing her head in. I suppose this means you can return to Raffe…?

Within the course of several angelic blinks, the creature's feral fear factor diminishes, allowing it to become almost heavenly – its eyes shine with a candid blend of adoration and hope, and a smile seems to prick at the corners of its lips as it steps into the sunlight with a prance like a kitten's.

"No." Cautiously, Penryn rises to her feet, eyes locked on the little dragon's. "No, I think Raffe needs some time to clear his head. I'm going to… go find Hugo… or something."

Of course. From the creature's sides spring two feathered wings, held above her almost like a shield – perhaps the miffed tone blanketed over its words is Metatron's imagination, and perhaps she had been simply imagining the sinister glint in its eyes earlier. Another time, Penryn. Good luck with Hugo… or something.


Dinner, though usually populated with many different, varied conversations about the smallest of things, is rather quiet – instead of discussing the oddity of having an ice maker and a water spout attached to a refrigerator, which had been last night's conversation, she-angels speak in hushed voices. Though she's usually the only one in the clique that'd built itself around Hugo and I to be comfortable with silence, Maion is the only one that attempts to spark any conversation at all. A sort of glum aura hangs in the air like tar.

Hugo isn't eating at my side, but he's not staring soundlessly down at his soup like Metatron; he's frantically sketching away on one of his sketchpads, trying to capture the wings around him on paper so that, in a quiet moment, he can work on perfecting his own metal wing creations.

One by one, around the cafeteria, heads lift, as if detecting a sound. I swivel towards the balcony, same as everyone else around me, and shift uncomfortably in my little maid's getup. Had the hour arrived? What is everyone waiting for?

Outside the balcony door, a bird call sounds.

But it's a fake bird call, like there's a boy scout perched just outside the door and hoping to lure a turkey out from its nest.

And, all around me, she-angels begin chirping back, their cries all just as bad. Hugo lifts his heads and glances around with annoyance at the din of bird calls, shoots me a long-suffering look, and then returns to his work.

Silencing all at once to allow the bird caller from outside to cry out again, the she-angels settle on the edges of their seats, their glum faces lighting up like Christmas trees. The bird calls from outside grow louder and louder until suddenly, Audiat burst in through the doors, shrieking like a sparrow.

In one collective rush, all the she-angels frantically chirp back, bolting towards Audiat like swarms of ants to sugar. I laugh with surprise as they wrap her up in a massive group hug, plugging up the entrance to the cafeteria doing so. They bob up and down excitedly. They slap the broads of their wings together in something I can only assume is a high five. They giggle and laugh and grow denser and denser around Audiat until the little she-angel disappears entirely.

"She's so funny," Hugo chuckles to himself. "Heart of the aerie, Bryon used to call her. Looking at that, can you disagree?"

"Okay!" Amongst all the flailing of wings, an adorably tiny pair begins shaking violently. "Okay, enough, girls! We've got a job to do!"

Not caring that she's wearing a dress, Audiat painstakingly flaps above the hug group, hovering over their heads. Her face is split in a huge grin, and, being in her vicinity for the first time, I notice two things: she is indeed fantastically pretty, and that she is much, much smaller than I'd assumed her to be, even after seeing her beside normal sized human beings in dreams. Somehow, it had computed as Bryon height dwarfing her, not as a truly tiny scale herself.

"Ladies, chug down that soup or take it with you, you know what to do!" she crows, grinning beatifically. "Push these tables aside and bring out the banquet furniture! The men will be here any moment, hop to it!"

Hugo nudges me with his elbow. "That's our cue; we've got to go find Emilio in the kitchen. He'll debrief us."

"You want me to hold those drawing?" I whisper to him, already beginning to fold one of his blue prints up along its crease lines.

"Here, I got it," offers a cheerful, melodic voice. Swooping in like a dove, Audiat's pale arms scoop up the remainder of pencils and papers up in her arms. Startled by her sudden appearance, I stumble backwards, watching as she struggles to keep a pen from slipping off of a notebook. Catching the runaway writing utensil with her wing, she grins, cradling her feathers around herself to catch any more escapees.

Grinning from over a page dedicated completely to the use of downy feathers on wings, Audiat walks bow-leggedly towards Hugo. "My little boy," she croons softly, eyes a sweet blend of red and brown. "Oh, you've grown so big. Look at you! Taller than me… It's not that much of a standard, I know, but my! I thought you were going to be my size!"

"Now, why would you think that?" Hugo chuckles, his weary eyes aglow with adoration. "I was never a fat baby, so you don't have that excuse."

"Well, you weren't a fat baby when Bryon was looking out for you," Audiat corrects with a sly grin. "I spoiled you rotten."

"I hope that wasn't a past tense I heard there," Hugo says playfully, pulling on one of her curls.

"I should think not," Audiat giggles, but her cherry eyes turn to me, and widen suddenly. "Oh, my! You're Penryn?"

I nod wordlessly, smiling hesitantly.

She squeals like a child, jogging in place giddily. "You look so much like your grandmother it's shocking! Plus, you have your uncle's ears, no? Hugo, doesn't she have her uncle's ears?"

His eyebrows shoot up, and surprise takes the place of the amorous amusement that'd been consuming his gaze. "You know, you're onto something. Not that you or Bryon have very conspicuous ears, but they're the damn same." His eyebrows scrunch. "Hey, wait a moment, how do you remember what –"

"Oh, no." Audiat ducks her head behind the notebooks. "Here comes Titaniel. That bastard always wants first dibs on seats… form a shield around my wings as we very carefully sneak over to the kitchen."

Hugo grabs my arm and moves me into position, earning himself a furtive slap. Audiat confidently leads the way towards the kitchen as best she can, what with her face being buried into pencils. I wince as she continuously trips over a swivelly chair that chooses to only roll far enough away to allow Audiat the thoughts of freedom before it trips her again, and gentle guide her with her forearm, moving her carefully around the rolly chair of doom.

As Hugo and Audiat both push aside the doors to the kitchen, I take one glance back at the angel Audiat had called Titaniel – and immediately wish I hadn't.

Tall, muscular, and brawny, with skin as black as pitch and wings whiter than white, he's a paragon of a nightmare bringing the little children terror. I can't make myself picture Raffe bringing utmost destruction down upon my people, can't see him standing with an inferno raging around his feet, and, had I not been shown, I would've struggled seeing him with a blade at a Nephilim's throat – but this monster doesn't even seem angelic. Like a machine. Like an animal. I stand, frozen, until his blazing searchlight eyes fix on me. Their color is intensely blue, almost neon bright. As they focus upon me, becoming brutal and suspicious, I turn on heel and bustle through the doors, into Audiat's awaiting embrace.

Gasping with surprise, I feel her little arms nearly snap all my ribs before releasing me. "Stay away from that angel," she whispers to me, eyes wide. "That's the most likely one to become Black Wolf. And you don't wanna be the one that becomes his clockwork beauty."

"And for reasons beyond fairy tales." The shadows seem to extend hands after Emilio after he slips from their shrouding folds, as if reluctant to see him go. "Wrath of God at least feels emotion – wrath, obviously. That one has none. He got a bullet through the head last time the angels descended, and instead of killing him, it gave him brain damage and cut off most of his emotions. Angels have the most bizarre anatomy, don't they?"

"She got the point, Emilio," Audiat tsks, shaking her head. "Do you believe she goes around hooking with every man with wings? Or maybe you were hoping. Well? Were you, hot shot?"

I resist giggling at the way Audiat had quite simply removed one of the legs on Emilio's rocking chair – he gapes like a fish out of water for a few seconds, before snapping his jaw shut and sniffing indignantly.

"You know what I meant," he says stiffly, rolling his eyes. "We need to focus. Bryon is not doing so well. He's trying to slow the Horse's advance through the mountains as much as possible, but according to the most recent report I've heard, the humans did a terrible job evacuating the area. His biggest worry isn't the monster snapping for an artery but the humans he's frantic about not squishing."

"Oh, dear." Audiat blinks several times, then turns to Hugo. "Can you alert Raphael about that? Tell him to speed up things?"

Hugo taps his temple. "Done."

"Oh, good." Audiat sighs cheerfully. "Mental things are so easy, aren't they? So, everyone here knows that, as soon as he roars, Raffe's going to deliver a snappy line about Nephilim and then bolt to the door?"

"I do now." Glancing around Hugo, the kitchen staff begin to become interested in the workings of the bizarre cluster of people strung before their doorway – a few clear their throat to get past, but many just stand and watch. Alarmed by this, I study the kitchen, wondering if things will leak out, and if any of these people are spies for Obi like Dee-Dum.

"Don't worry, this place is secure," Hugo assures, seeing my expression. "We'd suffocate these guys if it were any more so. No one can hear through that wall right there. Maybe through the doors, but with the ruckus the she-angels are sweeping up out there? Not likely."

"We're very loud," Audiat giggles. "But we need to focus, just like Emilio reminded us. Emilio, you're combing the countryside yourself, aren't you? Making sure that Ogden doesn't screw this up?"

Emilio smiles with only slight hesitation, but I see the resentful fire light up inside is eyes. "No, I'm making sure everything stays alright inside the aerie."

"Bryon's saving you up for something big," Audiat notices, cocking an eyebrow. "He sure doesn't want you to break your neck just yet, does he? Oh, well, better luck next time! Listen, I've got to go – they're finishing up out there."

Taking a folder of Hugo's work and a pen before she slips through the doors, Audiat waves once, and is gone in a flash. All that remains of her is the lingering scent of cinnamon.

"So good to see her again," Hugo chuckles, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting back his head, as if liberating himself to enjoy the moment. "But Penryn, we'd better follow her example. You and I both know that Pigeon-Bat's gonna need our support. Besides, do you really want Audiat setting up silverware? No one will be allowed to have even butter knives."

Before agreeing to anything major, I turn to Emilio. "You're going to be alright, right?"

Emilio shoots me an agonized sideways glance. "Why wouldn't it be, Penryn?"

"You seem…" I hesitate, searching for a word to accurately describe his difference in posture, in composure. "…Tense. Are you alright?"

"I want you and Sparky out of this place alive." Emilio's eyes are like a shark's – dead and cold. "However, there are many things that can go wrong, too many for my liking. If something were to happen to either one of you, I would hold myself responsible, and Lord Almighty knows I've got enough grief on my hands. So leave me alone and get to your stations."

"You know, I really wasn't siding with Penryn on this one until you said that." Hugo tilts his head to one side. "You feeling okay?"

Emilio launches into several zesty Spanish curses. "For God's sake, get out there! Is it that difficult for you to figure out? Everyone on edge now that Ogden spun the board game around. Now go!"

Landing a hand on my waist, Emilio shoves us both towards the door, and moodily prowls off. Hugo rolls his eyes, offering his arm out to me.

"Oh, wait." Pausing abruptly, Hugo's coppery gaze follows Emilio's retreating form. "Oh. I know what's got his knickers in a bunch. Today was his sister's birthday. I remember hearing Bryon talking about how it would be difficult for him to get over that – everything going on makes you forget about little things like that."

"Oh, no," I sigh, watching him stride off. "Poor Emilio. I'm worried about him. He's a good guy, really. I think he really does care about us."

"Of course he does. Everyone loves me." Hugo pushes aside the doors and guides me through, which would've been sweet of him if they hadn't closed on my heel. "Oh, wow, look at this. The she-angels don't fuck around."

The old, wooden table centered in the middle of the room replaces all the crappy lunchroom eating areas that'd been there originally. The lighting had been dimmed, instead using candles on the table, on floor-based prongs, and on a few wires hanging from the high ceiling that look like they could shred through feathers. Already, fancy plates and elegant silverware adorns the dark wood. Two other human servants hastily dash around positioning flowers inside red glass vases on the table.

Sulking in the shadows, only the eyes of Titaniel are visible. His gaze seems to linger on me before flicking elsewhere, the dreadful chill his presence creates even worse than Lucius's. I shiver belatedly. If this is Black Wolf… Black Wolf when he was an angel… then I'd rather be in a room with Lucius. The worst Lucius can do it poke and snicker.

"So, remember." Hugo glances my direction. "Quiet professionalism. Curbed expression. Meet gazes only when absolutely necessary. Do as little to draw attention to yourself. Don't spill wine down Josiah's front, he'd probably not appreciate that. Got all that – Wait, shh, here come the bastards."

"Don't shush me," I whisper to him, releasing his and shuffling away until we're at a comfortable distance.

"I shush who I want," Hugo retorts, eyes flashing comically. "Shh."

"Hilarious," I murmur back, pulling the little napkin thing I'm supposed to drape over my arm from my belt and placing it where it's supposed to be.

The he-angels all land in one congregated force, their wings folding in perfect synchronization, like a gay dancing unit gone rogue. Heading the movement indoors is Uriel, and quick in his wake are a bunch of other angels I don't recognize, all with the magnificent warrior builds and cascading levels of silky feathers along their massive wings.

My heart coughs as Uriel approaches like the vicious leader of a wolf pack. Fears of recognition had seemed petty earlier when I'd soothed Raffe's nerves – now, the endless cycles of different methods of torture he'd test on me, how this particularly brutal archangel might treat me should he remember my face, whirs through my mind. Admittedly, he doesn't look quite the same without the glittering women flanking him – if anything, their replacements, two burly warriors with fists as big as watermelons, make him seem even more deadly, but in a less suspenseful, more belligerent manner.

Towards the back of the group, Josiah lopes, his hand slung in his pockets. Eyes downcast as if shamed to even be present, to even walk amongst the warriors, he quietly mulls, following each and every whim.

"Oh, hello!" Audiat prances forward with a friendly jiggle of her wings, allowing them to almost float behind her like trails of bubbles. "You came earlier than expected! As I'm sure Titaniel will be able to tell you" – a not so friendly shaft of ice enters her voice – "I didn't poison your platter. His services weren't required. I have to admit, I'm touched you think that I'm such a sly villainess."

Just as Audiat's genuine smile had frozen into ice, Uriel's false one melts into genuine. "It's not so much you that I'm worried about," he apologizes, holding out a hand for her to shake. "There are rumors that these Nephilim can turn into humans." My skin chills as Uriel's eyes sweep towards Hugo and I, lingering delicately, as if issuing a silent threat. "If these beasts are truly out for angel blood, one can never be too careful."

Taking Uriel's hand abruptly and shaking it enthusiastically, Audiat successfully refocuses the archangel's attention. "Oh, silly," she giggles, shaking her head from side to side in a long arch. "You know I'm better at that. Anyway, how would a Nephilim be able to sneak its way under Raphael's nose? They'd have to be hella sneaky." The heartfelt cadence in Audiat's giggle might not be all a façade.

"True." Uriel's eyebrow lifts cockily, a slight flower of frost returning to his expression. "Then again, he doesn't have much of a talent for picking up the scents of rats, either. Forgive me for being a bit wary."

"He is quite trusting, isn't he?" Audiat agrees warmly, eyes sparkling, as if she delights in their hidden game. "Especially with his men. A betrayal from him is absolutely heartbreaking – and when I say that" – she steps slightly closer – "I mean that whenever I see him like that, I want to break a heart."

"Let's save the innuendos for tonight, darling," Uriel chuckles, turning his gaze away from Audiat. "You're getting so confrontational with this..." His voice quiets. "I prefer subtly, dear."

Beside me, Hugo's muscles constrict, his body going as tight as a bow string. Though maybe it's a figment of my imagination, but Josiah's gaze seems to lift from the floor ever so slightly, as if provoked by Uriel's threats more than Audiat herself.

"Oi, Titaniel!" Audiat turns around, grinning broadly. "You never did tell Uriel and his little gang – did I poison their drink? Slip a hex bag inside their napkin? Put a curse on their spoon?"

"No." Launching up from the shadows and walking with an agonizingly slow gait back to Audiat, Titaniel studies her for mere seconds before his attention is drawn elsewhere. Nodding towards the banquet table, he adds, "But you did dish out butter knives instead of anything used for actual cutting."

Audiat huffs with true indignation. "Are you saying that slicing butter doesn't count as actually cutting something? What would you describe it as, then?"

"Audiat, please, it's just butter."

A tingle of electricity runs through me, and, slowly, as not to attract any attention from the birds of prey, I turn my eyes to Raffe – so silently, he had landed, that I hadn't even noticed his arrival. His beautiful snowy wings seem to close deliberately, as if he's flaunting them before Uriel, arcanely mocking his enemy's failures. Blue eyes glinting with simmering confidence, he adjusts his suit, pulling it just into place. With a smile that could knock a woman out cold, he approaches with even, natural strides.

"Don't you ever degrade butter," Audiat hisses beneath her breath, bristling like a cat that'd been spritzed with a water bottle.

With a slow roll of his eyes, Raffe glances only once towards the she-angel, before addressing his comrades. Pounding a lean angel on the back between his maroon wings, Raffe grins, seizing his hand and shaking it, prompting an answering smirk from the angel.

"Raffe!" the angel nearly groans. "It's good to see you again. You little devil, you… Had me worried! Thought something had kicked your ass!"

"Don't worry about me," Raffe dismisses, eyes twinkling. "I can kick your ass any day, so if something's kicked mine, you'd better not be worrying but running like hell!"

This causes laughter to rumble around the group, and all the angels' previously cautious if not downright hostile expressions melt into something gregarious and welcoming. Like a mob of adoring fans, they swarm Raffe, all seeming to be trying to be the next one to shake his hand or slap him on the wings.

Uriel refrains from much more than a simple handshake. For mere seconds, Raffe's face loses some of its jolly light, before releasing the archangel's hand and returning to those more interesting to him.

As Josiah creeps warily forward, Raffe lunges and gives him something similar to a noogie with the broad of his white wing. The laughter this provokes is deafening, and it only causes Raffe's smile to grow broader. Even Josiah seems joyful, slamming his heel down on Raffe's foot with a chortle and worming from his grip like a snake.

My heart pangs painfully in my chest at the hidden bittersweet pull at Raffe's lips. And, with a surge of emotion, I understand that this, this right here, is where he belongs – not siding with Nephilim, not covering for a race of monsters, and certainly not by our side. Though I try to smile, it feels fake, a disguise to hide the ache building in my heart.

Ogden was right. Raffe isn't on our side. We may need each other, but he'll never be on the side of the Nephilim.

From the shadows in the corner of the room, a shifting figure catches my eye. Emilio's despising glance towards the bundle of angels makes me realize that we'll never be on his side, either.


An observant reader is going to start to notice that it's not so much what Belle says that's ranging from normal – it's what she doesn't.

To whom it concerns: Thank you so much for your input; I'm sorry, I'll do my best to remedy it!

POLL: The humans – would they be thrilled or terrified or neither to have the big, bronze dragon mauling the Horse demon on their side, knowing what we know about human nature?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh