Chapter Twenty One
The most extraordinary thing to me is not that my uncle attracts euphoric crowds that choke the narrow alleys and broad streets alike. The most extraordinary thing is not the awe and the raw love sparkling in his subjects' eyes as they reach out with shaking hands to touch his cloak, to feel his skin, to lace their fingers through his. The most extraordinary thing to me is not even that Bryon speaks to each and every Nephilim that speaks to him.
The most extraordinary thing is that he knows them all by name.
"Blake!" he trumpets, eyes flaring with recognition. "Excuse me, Martha, pardon me, Daniel. Those are beautiful earrings, Mrs. Hudson – mind if I have a pair?" He slips through the crowd towards a gangly man with ears slightly too large and a nose slightly too small. "Blake!" he cries again, slapping the man affectionately on the shoulder, illuminating the vast difference margin in height.
The man begins to quiver slightly, eyes as round and as large as quarters. "You know who I am," he breathes.
Bryon's brow furrows, but his warm eyes and steady smile do not falter. "Of course I know who you are. You're Blake Greenley. Your family used to own a nice little antique store in Virginia – you had a crooked front tooth, if I remember it. Now look at you, handsome little devil. Any ladies catch your eye?"
"Actually," he murmurs, bristly mustache twitching as he stands taller, "yes. I have a child. Two years, now. And another on the way."
"That is fantastic!" Bryon cries, candid pride gleaming in his eyes. "Tell me, is it a boy or a girl?"
Blake smiles for the first time, his eyes reflecting Bryon's sparkle. "A girl. We're thinking about naming her either Theophilia after your own mother, Kendra after my wife's mother, or Abigail."
"Abigail," votes Bryon immediately, responding almost the second the word leaves Blake's mouth. For the first time since he'd returned to his people, something alarmingly similar to agony glazes beneath the bronze in his eyes as Bryon studies the man below him. "It was what I was going to name my daughter should I have been able to bear one."
But before I can analyze the situation, Bryon's smile returns and his façade alongside it. "Good luck with raising them, then! The holy Lord in heaven knows that children can be demons at times. Swing by and visit me some time, will you? I'd love to meet your family – you'll know where to find me."
His retreating steps almost hurried, Bryon submerges himself once more into the crowd of admirers, striking up conversations, perhaps to jot away painful memories.
"What was with that?" I murmur to Raffe. Being near him assures that I won't have quite as much of a crowd as Bryon – they all welcome him and smile, but there is unspoken wariness in their eyes and a sort of message they pass around without speech: keep your distance, watch him, don't let him out of your sight.
Raffe glances at me incredulously. "Look at him, Penryn. He's a family man. He probably wanted children, probably wanted a family of his own, wanted to be the one that little squalling potato things –"
"Babies," I insert.
"– called father. But she-angels are barren. They can't produce children, no matter what they do, no matter how hard they 'try'. So, even if he found his true love or whatnot, he had to sacrifice being a father for her, whoever she was. And, for a man like that" – Raffe flicks his hand towards my uncle as he seemingly discusses the weather with an ancient woman with white hair cascading down her back – "it would've been devastating."
"Oh." I simply do not have anything more to say, nothing more to input. As I study the broad set of shoulders and warm smiles he grants twin toddlers that he kneels before to look them in their eyes, I find myself conflicted with both sorrow and pity. "Poor guy. Couldn't he just adopt?"
Raffe studies his surroundings. "I think he did. I think he adopted a species."
Out of lack of proficient things to respond with, I settle with another, "Oh."
Bryon soon attracts my attention, though, with quite a different focus on events. He turns his eyes up to one of the apartments, to where a girl hangs over a balcony and waves with a smile twisting her lips. There is something essentially wrong with his expression as he studies the girl, maybe twelve years of age, as she waves from her perch.
Without a word, Bryon vaults up onto the red-shingled roof topping the blacksmith's home beneath, agilely leaping up until he has two feet planted on the edge of her balcony.
Brow furrowed, I watch as my uncle gingerly takes her forearm in one hand. The girl starts to quiver, though whether it's from excitement, fear, or embarrassment, I can't tell. Her eyes fly down to her feet. Eventually, Bryon is through studying the inside of her wrist, and meets the quivering girl's eyes.
Her wrists. There's only one thing that could be on her wrists to catch Bryon's attention so avidly. My heart pulls in sympathy.
"Why are you doing this, Alex?" I can hear my uncle question, his voice soft. "You are beautiful, you are young. Why on earth are you doing this?"
She starts to sob and whispers something that none of us can hear. A silence has fallen over the people, and they clutch at each other with pity in their eyes. Bryon, however, does nothing more than wrap his arms around her.
"They're wrong," I hear him tell her with a firm tone of voice. He picks her up with one hand, clutching her thin body to his chest. Her slender arms twine around his neck, and she buries her head in the crook of his neck, sobbing even louder. Releasing the balcony, he jumps down without hesitation, landing on the alley floor without rocking the girl in the slightest. He strokes her hair with a spare hand, but continues to greet everyone and everything with the same heartiness.
"Wow," I whisper to Raffe. "He's amazing."
"I don't understand," he murmurs back, his confusion visible in the gleam of his eyes.
"She was cutting herself." I shrug. "Somehow, he noticed, and then leapt up there to console her. That's pretty amazing. I wish he'd been around for like, all of my childhood."
That captures Raffe's attention – he shoots me a sharp, inquisitive glance, but he doesn't ask anything. All he does is brush my shoulder with his.
The street we trot down is bordered with high apartment buildings with ornate balconies carved out of the orangey beige stone; tumbling leafy vines cascade from the iron-wrought sidings of the balconies, exotic red flowers blooming all the way down to the ground. Flags hang from building to building, each colored vibrantly and inked with individual navy blue swirls staining the surface. Along the sides of the streets, fragrant bakeries and restaurants thrive, alongside markets and novelty shops, topped by the apartments above. On the outskirts of town, actual houses with green lawns and flourishing gardens had existed, for families and those wishing to live further from the busy sprawl of streets. But here, color and life blossom everywhere – those with wings dart through the flags and twirl through the narrow alleys. The broad streets are compiled with various bazaars and artists all advertising and selling products for remarkable prices. Live music echoes off the sides of the stone as the Nephilim sing various merry tunes to their leader as he passes. People wave from their shops, drape him in flower wreaths, dab his forehead in case he may sweat, and watch with large, loving eyes from the balconies as he passes – and Bryon does the same to each of them.
This entire setting is alien to me, and, evidently, to Raffe, too. They are loud and polite in the same heartbeat, draping flower necklaces over Paige and I as well as my uncle – they offer pastries and other munchies for us to taste. They smile and beckon and compliment and dance. Overall, there is a sense of happiness that seems highly contagious – Paige smiles at everyone and waves with pudgy hands. I find myself grinning as well, shaking hands and learning names, far too many for me to recall, but grinning all the same. Only Raffe seems to be immune to their benevolence, his arms crossed over his chest and his narrowed eyes analyzing his situation like a general before battle.
As we enter the main square, there's an immense change in atmosphere. The main square is broad and plated in ornamental tiles beneath our feet, each marble slab swirling with nature's art. Down the middle of the plaza, to cut the crowds into two sections, there is a long line of gorgeous statues, marvelous vibrant gardens, and fountains spewing crystalline waters. There are no shops here – at least, not the traditional types. Aside from the opening we've approached through, a castle-like building wraps around the square – a clean-cut set of stairs leads up to massive wooden doors and a walkway along the walls protected by intricate arches. Beyond the main courtyard, two towers soar, both with aerial life swirling around the pillars and flags dancing in the wind.
On the top of the stairs, Scruffy lounges, heaving great pants and grinning at the approaching crowd and the din of praise. Propped up in one of the arches, Hugo sits with his laptop on his lap, not even registering the Nephilim with more of a glance in their direction.
"This place is beautiful," I murmur.
"Isn't it just?" sighs a random teenager, her eyes roving over the stonework with appreciation.
"We need to catch up with your uncle," Raffe instructs, pushing through the crowd rather forcefully, causing more than one Nephilim to stare at him with alarm. They all them seem wounded that he should bat them aside without so much as a glance in their direction – of course, they don't think about how Raffe's warriors probably need to be treated in such a coarse manner, that he needs to shove them aside.
I smile apologetically at the indignant Nephilim Raffe pushes aside, closing both hands around Paige's shoulder. "Excuse me, can we get through?"
Their dislike for Raffe vanishes with a word from me, and they hurriedly move aside, smiling in turn with open affection. I cleave the crowd with a quarry, whereas Raffe cuts through them whipping up tempests of dislike.
Bryon bids farewell to his subjects as he begins to climb the staircase, still holding the frail child in his arms. He informs them that he'll be present in the square tonight and invites them all to join him, climbing the stairs all the while. Waving and grinning, he disappears beneath the shadows of the archway. Hugo swings his legs down, and disappears beneath the shadows as well.
Following Raffe, I waggle my fingers in an awkward goodbye as well, smiling fragilely. Paige swings her arm back and forth, grinning as wide as she can. Everyone calls out to us, wishing us good luck calling us by name, and tearing up as they start to trickle from the plaza.
Quickly, though, before I am snagged into another conversation with another excited Nephilim, I scurry after Raffe, following him through the big wooden doors.
"Right, so, Bryon's off consoling that girl he has," Hugo drawls as he shoves the doors apart, ramming his shoulder into the wood. His eyes are distracted, distant, carried somewhere else. "He'll join us in a bit. For the time being, though, we need to meet up with Daine – he's a cool guy, should tell us everything there is to know."
"Alright," I accept, tailing him through the doors, leading Paige gingerly. "And Daine – this is his house? Or his castle?"
"He lives here," Hugo chuckles, "but it's not his."
The room we enter looks like any old room you'd expect to see in a place such as this, with no more secrets hidden for me to uncover. A lush carpet, a roaring fireplace at the end of the hall to heat the stone, beautiful stained glass windows bleeding color into the room, and a soaring ceiling. Around one bend, a tall man with a child clutching his leg limps in.
His skin is pale, his cheekbones are prominent, and his short blonde hair is curbed. The smile pulling at his lips are warm, almost warm enough to melt his icy blue eyes. He laughs throatily, dragging a small boy around on his leg as he approaches.
"Alright, Mako," the man chuckles with a gravelly voice, leaning down to where the six-year-old boy is clinging to his leg, "maybe you'd better go find your brother. Last time I checked, he was getting into the cookie bowl…"
"Without me?" the boy shrieks, recoiling from his father's legs. Blinking in horror, he speeds off, legs moving too fast for his body. The man watches him go with an amused smile.
"Be careful!" he scolds. "Don't let your mother catch you! You'll never be allowed to eat another cookie again!"
"Don't worry!" The boy's voice echoes down the hall, captured by the cool stones and reflected back to my ears. "I won't!"
"He's grown," remarks Hugo, crossing his arms over his chest. "Of course, I haven't seen him since he was a veined moist thing, but he's still grown. And how's the other one – Barf or whatnot?"
The man's bright smile falls into a flat line of general dislike. "Halt. His name is Halt."
"Oh." Hugo blinks. "I thought… oh. Sorry. Anyway, this is PPP."
Again, the man blankly stares at Hugo, not an ounce of comprehension on his face.
Sighing in annoyance, Hugo gestures elaborately to the three of us. "Penryn. Paige. Pigeon-Bat. PPP. Or, if you're really specific, PPPB. But, you know, I'm not, so –"
"Is everything alright?" the man inquires with a scrunched brow, studying Hugo with concern. "You don't seem like yourself. Tense, uptight – are you looking for Bay? He's upstairs, you know. In the tower. Waiting for you."
"He is?" Hugo perks up considerably, squaring his shoulders – the man's words seem to repair the irritation and the belligerence he'd been feeling before, replacing the bitter emotions with the more familiar playful attitude of the Hugo we all know. "Oh, God, that motherfucker has a lot of explaining to do!"
The man casts a glance down the hallway his son had retreated down. "Please, Hugo, no cussing. Now, why don't you introduce me formally to your guests?" He smiles at us all with a distant affection, his expression friendly but stern, as a leader's should be.
"Oh, right." Hugo steps aside and drops to one knee, splaying his hands wide over our awkward grouping with a game show host's flair. "This… is… P… P… P…! On the far right we have Pigeon-Bat, sometimes known by Raphael, and Raffe, too, but only his most intimate 'friends' are allowed to call him that! To the left of him we have Penryn, the tallish scrawnyish girl with hair that has great potential. She's okay, she's cool, and she's defensive enough of PB to get in mud fights for him. Beneath Penryn is Paige – we need you to take a look at this little doll, because she's got a helluva lot of stitches!"
"Right," sighs the man, his eyes narrowing considerably. "Penryn, it's a delight to meet you, good job working with Obi – you are a fine warrior, but if you desire, I can arrange sword lessons with some of my top warriors."
He steps forward and shakes my hand with a firm, formal grip. Hesitantly, I smile up at him.
"I look forward to knowing you better. And you, Raphael" – Daine's gaze darkens, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "No trouble in my town, you hear? You are allowed to spend the night beneath my roof because I say so, you are allowed to eat my food because I say so, and you are allowed to fly around with those thorny little wings of yours because I say so. One little surly move towards any of my Nephilim, any hint of a hint that Bryon is wrong and you're the monster I'm still pretty sure you are, and I shall make it so that you never harm another of my brethren again. I do not have any room for your errors. Are we understood?"
Both of Raffe's eyebrows shoot up. "Who are you, exactly?" he interrogates coolly, gazing down at the slightly shorter man with disdain.
"Your superior," the man answers with his same neutral, controlled tone. "Tell me, Raphael, will there be a problem with this?"
Raffe tilts his head to one side, and is silent for a long, long time. Paige glances up at me with a question in her eyes, but, in recognizing that I have no answer, she turns her imploring gaze to Raffe.
"No. No, not at all." Raffe grinds his teeth, and I can see how much he hates this – to see a Nephilim, one of the creatures he has viewed as his lesser for the whole of his years, to appoint itself his superior and abase him to a level humiliatingly low, and for him to have to obey its decree. I know he'd rather lose a finger than admit himself inferior to anyone, rather lose a hand than sacrifice his pride – to have to accept the superiority of one he's so long despised in order to retrieve his wings, I cannot help but feel empathetic.
"Good. Now." Daine's expression softens marginally as the man turns back to me. "Sorry to interrupt in the middle of our conversation, Penryn, but you travel with unsavory companions. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daine Geros, and I'm in charge around here. I'm also a doctor, and, before we place a stamp of approval on whatever plan you have in place to fortify your sister's health, I want to look her over, in case there's a chance we might be able to do something from the comforts of home. Is that alright?"
"Uh." I clench my hand tighter on Paige's shoulder. Throughout Daine's speech, she'd clung tighter and tighter to me, evidently not eager to be back in a surgeon's hands. I hug her tighter, studying the stitches up and down before making a final announcement. "Yeah, I guess so. But… not right away. She needs to adjust and get a good night's sleep before anything else."
"Of course." Daine nods civilly, his expression one of gentlemanly respect. "I don't have set time, but today would be difficult to squeeze in, considering the hours of sunlight slip further and further from us. Besides, the King wishes me to brief him on everything he's missed."
"Yes, that would be amiable." Closing the doors we'd left ajar behind him, Bryon strides up, staff clacking on stone and cloak swishing behind him. "Good to see that you get along well with my niece, Daine. How are the children?"
Daine's eyes dart to me quickly, verifying Bryon's words. "They're fine," he at last says with a smile. "Mako and Halt are both natural born athletes, and the new one on its way is a kicker. She's giving my wife heck for it."
"Good!" Bryon crows. "Ah, I mean, it's good that she's strong. My apologies to your wife. How is she, specifically?"
"Very good, thank you for asking." The impassive ice forming a shield around the doctor seems to warm beneath Bryon's questions, as if my uncle's concern for his family's wellbeing is hitting a few of the right notes. "The little one is giving her aches and pains, but hopefully, she'll be enough of a fighter to survive this destruction when she's older. Almost as tough as your… niece…?" Once more, his eyes dart to me, gaze holding a question.
Bryon chuckles. He seems to swell with pride upon Daine's mention of me, his tone growing lofty. "Penryn is as tough as they come, my friend – aim high, but not for the impossible."
"Stop it," I scold. "I am pretty tough, but not tough as they come."
"Tough and latently modest." Praise gleams in the doctor's eyes as he nods slowly. "Good. We'll need people like you, Ms. Young. Now, I advise we not dilly-dally any longer; there are threats that you and I, Bryon, need to address, as well as some personal interests you have professed. Shall we continue to the sitting room?"
Bryon nods grimly, his face abruptly as stern as Daine's. "Right. Lead the way."
My uncle follows Daine by a half-step, on his heels. Raffe attempts to tail him, but Hugo butts in with a feisty glance behind him – his cold glare seems to hold a warning, a reminder that Raffe needs to check himself for any guile and remember his placement as a guest.
I suppose, in a way, I'm glad that Hugo's reminding Raffe before we enter the official business Daine seems to be conducting, in case he might uncover news that does not bode well with the archangel. But I wish he could do it in a less provoking way.
Numbly, I follow Raffe, guiding Paige with each step. Though I am transfixed with our eerily beautiful surroundings and the grandiose decorating, I find myself more entertained spotting all the nooks and crannies I could hide Paige should things go south, drawing out the best escape plans, figuring where exactly the armory might be hidden in this massive fortification.
I also study the swish and sway of my uncle's cloak as it dances over the stone. There is something fundamentally different in how he walks here, the position at which he holds his head, and the brunt power in his voice; for the first time, Bryon is acting like a king. A regal king, one that clearly belongs in an environment of castles and kingdoms. True, his genteel manner has not deserted him, nor has the kind sparkle in his eyes fled, they are both merely subdued, put aside for other, calmer times.
"Make yourself comfy," Daine invites, stopping abruptly to wave us into a lightly colored room. My thoughts are wrenched savagely back to the present.
The sitting room is a pleasant place, designed like an average family living room, I suppose – the roaring fire cackles at us as we enter, nipping experimentally at the metal grate holding it back. A flat screen TV hanging over the fireplace reflects the flames' gleam. Furniture is placed strategically around the TV, providing a comfortable view from all angles. Toys litter the hardwood floor, and I know from experience that treading on any one of those little Legos without shoes is suicide.
Hugo collapses on one of the faux leather couches, reclining down its length, despite Bryon's reprimanding glare. "Alright, Penryn, Pigeon-Bat, you can get comfy. Daine won't mind, he's a best friend to all of us."
With all honesty, Daine doesn't truly seem to mind. He collapses on an armchair and snatches up a remote, powering up the big flat screen without a second glance towards Hugo. However, I take Paige and me to sit on the very edge of the sofa facing the TV in hopes that we won't take up any more space than we have to. Bryon sits down next to me with a low sigh through his nose, his eyes heavy with the weight of the coming conversation. After an unnoticed glare towards Bryon, Raffe sits on my uncle's opposite side. Unknowingly, my uncle had juxtaposed Raffe and Daine.
"So," Bryon hums, oblivious to the dilemma Hugo so delightfully absorbs, "what have I missed, Daine? What exactly has happened in these days I've been absent?"
"A lot." Daine shakes his head wearily. "I've been arranging things while you've been wandering, and there are many things for you answer to. The Seraphim are eager to join a side of the war, but they're not completely sold yet on your strategies – they don't want to send the she-angels back this time, hearing about their tragedies."
"Neither do I," Bryon grunts, tilting his head in understanding, watching as the TV screen boots up. "Alright, that's a good place to start. When does Lord Makiel wish to discuss arrangements, and what are some of the arrangements he proposed?"
Daine shrugs. The screen pops up, and he becomes preoccupied navigating to the internet option. "He said very little on what he wants because he's highly suspicious of technology – he only said that he wanted the she-angels and all the Seraphim to be left unmarred by anything you use to dispel the he-angels. Said he'd discuss the specifics with you whenever you returned, but only on his own turf, and only face to face."
"Right." Bryon breathes out slowly. "That is a couple day trek out of the way that I really don't need at the moment. What about Uriel and his mess? Anything new with them?"
Daine sighs, as if Uriel is a genuine annoyance to him. "No, not really. He's just being an ass. Rallying others about how the biblical plagues shot down one of their own – that asshole you slaughtered, Penryn – and about how the Fallen angel called his plague monsters somehow, about how the Fallen angels are preparing to strike with all their might and they must stand tall and firm. I suppose it did look rather realistic, considering Raphael's masked appearance amongst the swarm; unknowingly, you swayed a lot of votes. Which is just what the batch of testosterone-crazed monsters need – a lunatic's fantasies, lodged in their heads. I won't go into the details, but I will say that there'll be a Nephilim Baby Boom in nine months. Idiots, every last one of them."
He casts a glance towards Raffe, as if he's testing the archangel; thankfully, though, Raffe curls his fists tighter but doesn't react.
"Of course, the accusations are infuriating the Fallen angels, and they'll be forced into action before long, either. Bay has been doing what he can to kindle their rage against the angels, to spruce up an alliance with you as much as he can."
Bryon leans into his palm, stroking his temples as if he's developing a headache. "That's dandy. Fine and dandy. And how is Ariel responding to this?"
"It seems like she's trying to double-cross Uriel." Daine tilts his head to one side. "I'm not sure how it'll work out for her in the long run, but things are running smoothly for the time being."
Bryon is silent for an extended period of time, rubbing his forehead. When at last he does speak, the optimism in his voice is eroded by weariness and fatigue. "At least he isn't accusing you of not doing your job anymore, Raphael. He might even believe that you're deceased."
"He does," Daine verifies with a curt nod of the head. "At least, that's the rumors he's spreading. And he's not pinning it down under treason or anything – he's making you a martyr on purpose, rallying your men to his cause by telling them that you disappeared on a day the Fallen angels were active, that the odds are that you were kidnapped and murdered by the Fallen angels, and that with such a long hiatus, it's unlikely there's any return from you. His plan rests on Archangel Raphael not resurfacing – I don't think he believes you will."
"Better to have surprise on my side," Raffe decides, leaning against the back of the couch, crossing his legs in the triangular fashion men tend to do. "Hugo, is there any way you can spread rumors of my being alive through your technology? Any way you can put the thought on the edge of their minds – fabricate evidence, maybe?"
"Sure." He fishes a sleek phone out of his pocket. "I'll contact Josiah. See if he can do anything about it."
"How –" Raffe bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, dark dribbles of blood that bead over the dusky pink skin of his lip. "I don't need to know. Just get it done."
"What of the human resistance?" Bryon inquires, quickly refocusing. "What do they have to say? What's going on there?"
"General Obidiah has made several requests to speak with you, and he didn't seem very specific about the means. I imagine a Skype call would suffice. However, that was before the she-angels descended."
Bryon's head jolts up, gaze slamming against Daine. "What?" he snaps, the abruptness sharpening his voice.
"I'm trying to find the video," Daine clarifies distractedly, eyes still roaming his TV screen. "Someone filmed it. The she-angels – Ariel, Audiat, Metatron, the likes – descended in small numbers waving a flag of peace, bearing gifts for the humans. Obi and Ariel talked for a while inaudibly, and they both went inside one of their little buildings. That's when the video ends."
"The she-angels are planning to rebel again?" Raffe stiffens. "Did they not see what happened last time? Thousands were killed in their lust for wing space!"
"Of course they're rebelling," Bryon murmurs with a voice that clearly portrays that his mind is elsewhere, focused on more important tasks. He watches the grainy footage Daine had pulled up intently. "They received nothing last time with all their hard work, but they're a hard nut to crack. What a bold move, though! And why? Why approach that tiny group of humans before the large aggregation of known allies?" He shakes his head with frustration. "Ariel, you play a dangerous game…"
I watch as the she-angels first come into the filmer's shot, their beautiful wings batting the air peacefully as they spiral downwards. People shout and cry out with fear, despite the white flag many of them grip and flail about in the air. Three of the larger angels descend, and I assume that they're the three that Daine had mentioned. I know Audiat and Ariel well enough to pick them out easily.
"I think I know why," I admit slowly.
"Do enlighten me," Bryon growls as he kneads his forehead with a fist. "They have completely and utterly dumbfounded me."
"You said the she-angels have their own aerie, correct?" I verify, turning my gaze questioningly to the powerful males listening attentively for my input.
"Yes." Raffe nods slowly. "Yes, they've got one not very far from Uriel and his goons. Why? What does that have to do with – oh." Comprehension dawns upon him, lighting up his eyes.
"I still don't get it," Bryon harrumphs, turning his gaze back and forth between the two of us with a blank expression.
"Obi isn't totally updated on everything going on," I explain. "He's striking out on angel aeries, but I don't think he even thought that not all of them hold hostiles. If he attacked the she-aerie, they might have some casualties or something, have to rebuild or relocate at the very least. It makes sense that Ariel would try to build an alliance before that happened, especially if one of her she-angels caught wind of it."
Hugo pipes up for the first time, his halcyon tones lightening the mood considerably. "See, this is why we should take Penryn everywhere. We're all fucking stupid."
"I wouldn't say that we're all stupid," Bryon chuckles, shooting glances my way in thanks, "but she certainly does have insight. Maybe she'll help us figure out some more of the puzzles undoubtedly awaiting."
Paige leans flaccidly against my shoulder, her tired eyes fluttering, then shutting altogether. She sighs and nuzzles against me. Smiling down at her sleepy face, I wrap an arm around her skinny set of shoulders, pleased to have her so relaxed in my presence.
"There's more on the she-angels, too," Daine adds. "We haven't yet spoken to the Wives – your mother will be here on the morrow. Without them we don't know anything yet about what aeries are going to be obliterated, but we do know that the she-angels in the Seattle aerie are starting to trickle off, like all the other she-angels had in all the other aeries. It's very likely that's where they'll strike next."
"Alright." Bryon focuses on this new development with a scrunched forehead, staring up at the ceiling. "You don't hear very much about the Seattle aerie, nothing ever seems to happen there. Why that aerie?"
"We assume it's for retreating reasons." Daine shrugs. "Everyone is fleeing up into Canada, and an aerie that northwards is putting a dent in a lot of escape plans."
"Why is everyone heading north?" I interrupt, fascinated by the snippet of information. "Is there a resistance up there or something?"
Hugo snorts. "Good guess, but no, actually, there isn't. Thing is, angels can take a lot of cold. They're very good at cold. That is, if they're walking on the ground. If it gets too cold, they can't fly, because their feathers get stiff and ice over whenever they try to go beyond ten feet in the air. That's annoying to them, for obvious reasons, those tenderfoot fuckers."
I blink, stroking Paige's hair from her face to channel my excitement. "How many people know about this? Are you guys spreading the news?"
Raffe's dark, inclement gaze is trained on me, watching my every move. The faintest reminders of his sinuous grace tickle my brain, distracting my thoughts, bringing memories of his fierce beauty in battle. Maybe going to Canada isn't enough for some people.
"As best we can." Daine studies me, his piercing gaze drawing me back to reality. "It's not like you're very trusting nowadays. We've spread the news as best we can. We're now relying on your gossip and such to spread the word further than we could ever reach."
I nod sheepishly. "That's probably a good idea. The more people we get out of angelic reach, the better, you know?"
"Absolutely," Bryon agrees solemnly. "But that matter's already been addressed. Daine, you said there were two things about the she-angels we've yet to discuss. What is the second?"
Daine sighs grouchily, abruptly taking on a very different pose. "This is where things get hairy, Bryon. On your behalf, I had a very colorful debate with Ariel over Skype regarding your inquiries with Wrath of God over here, the elephant in the room."
"Oh?" Bryon perks, childish hope shining in those bronze eyes. "What did she say? Will they heal him?"
"No," Daine sighs, crushing Bryon's optimistic façade beneath his boot. "She was very adamant on the matter, and for good reasons, too. In case you, Raphael, do become a turncoat, she doesn't want anything to do with your return to rank should the she-angels become the subject of a witch hunt. I can't blame them there, I've got half a mind to chase you out of this town myself, Raphael." The two exchange a quick glare, but Daine doesn't dwell long, purposefully provoking Raffe. "She did say, however, that if his wings got reattached, she would aid him in his political straining, providing he vocalized the she-angels' cause and bode no harm to any Nephilim."
"Well, damn." Bryon slams a fist against his knee, startling Paige, before turning a testy glare to Raphael. "I suppose they're giving you all the help you deserve, but it would be so simple if we could just arrange something with them."
"Wait…" I voice the question that seems to be swimming in Raffe's mind as well as mine. "You checked with the she-angels for his wing issue?"
Bryon smiles at me, his weariness still somehow holding a touch of comfort. "Of course I did. It would've made it so much safer if they'd complied, but I suppose I understand Ariel's point of view. That only leaves me with the question of what I'll do with you now, wingless one." He swivels about to Raffe and studies him up and down with a critical gaze.
"Bing, bing, bing, consider that a light bulb doing what a light bulb does best." Hugo swings upright, both feet slamming down on the hardwood floor. His familiar maniacal grin brings a stab of comfort despite every instinct's jibe to flee from such a crazy smile. "The Seraphim are healers, right? Major healers. They'll heal anything, anything at all, from the highest king to the lowest street rat." Hugo's lips twitch. "You might have to kiss some butt, Pigeon-Bat, but there's a chance that if you suck it up, you'll get healed with no strings attached. And, while you're there, Bryon can do his business stuff with Lord Something-iel. Oh, I'm so brilliant."
"Good man!" Bryon praises, grinning broadly. "That'll work, Raffe, if you're willing to sacrifice some of that pride of yours!"
"Really wasn't that big a deal," Hugo snorts. "Give me some Calculus worksheets and I'm show you real smarts."
Heart swelling with hope, I stare beyond Bryon to Raffe, searching for any expression of his. Though impassive, his regal face doesn't seem to be utterly negative. His eyes skate the room, as though he gropes for a defense against the Monkey's plan, but no matter how many times he casts a line, it seems he comes up empty. A smile toying with my lips, I find myself grinning down at Paige, squeezing her shoulders slightly in an imitation of a hug.
"One problem." Raffe's stubborn and somewhat triumphant voice stunts my glee. He leans out until he can see over Bryon and meet my eyes. "Hugo also said that you need specific circumstances to summon Lucius, to have him in your control, Penryn. He also elaborated greatly upon many of the gruesome artifacts and locations needed for the ritual. I'm no expert on Seraphim, but they are pure in their worships of God – there's no Satanists in their midst, that's for sure."
"So?" Hugo's brow furrows. "I'm not seeing a problem here. Just split up and meet somewhere. You know, rendezvous. Know the meaning of the word, Pigeon-Bat?"
I turn to Bryon, who seems to be contemplating the situation with his wise, ancient eyes. "I can't leave Raffe alone. It's out of the question. He'll trip over his own feet and go hurling off a cliff."
Raffe shoots me a dirty look over Bryon's shoulder, eyes holding a promise of further discussion on the matter.
"We're not sure that we require Lucius's assistance with my niece yet," Bryon decrees, his voice firm, adamant against any argument – and with every word of sense, it seems more likely there will be no such disagreements. "True, we haven't found a treatment yet for any of the children that have been abused by the angels, but that doesn't mean we won't. Daine, you are the best doctor in the USA; natural born healer is what you are. I do not wish to confront Lucius if we do not have to. We shall stay for a few days, see what happens. Give us some time to rest, some time to refuel. And then we'll decide what to do."
"Sound advice," Daine approves. He rises from his seat and flicks the remote to turn his TV off. "What does everyone else say?"
"I don't like it," Raffe says flatly, humming with disapproval, "but I can't think of any other idea."
"Doesn't concern me!" Hugo intones, picking at his fingernails.
"I'm saying that I hope I don't have to go to Lucius." I pull Paige onto my lap despite her mewl of protest, wrapping my arms around her. "He seems manipulative, and I don't want to deal with that. If there's any chance you can help my sister, Daine, then I'll take that chance."
Paige squirms in my grip. She worms an arm out of my hold on her, and uses it to clasp Bryon's sleeve tightly. Her head tilts back, her large eyes fixed on Bryon with a heartfelt question, blinking with those long-lashes in something I'd pin down as fright.
Bryon softens like putty. "No, sweetie, there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all." With a ginger touch, he tucks a lock of hair behind my sister's ear, clearing her vision. "We're just going to make it so you don't hurt anymore, alright? So that food doesn't taste so nasty. Don't worry about it."
And, with his reassurance, Paige goes limpid in my arms, nestling against me. Her eyelashes quaver and quake as she struggles to stay awake, but she fights a losing battle against the yawns that splay her stitched mouth.
"Look," I state, glancing once at all the men staring expectantly at my sister and I. "She's tired. Honestly, I'm tired, too. The Temple really messed up my clock. I think we'd better turn in before she drops dead on her feet, alright? Tell that Spanish lady that her lamb would've tasted excellent, and tell the Nephilim I'm sorry, but it's probably for the best."
Bryon's the first to smile, the first to nod, the first to stroke Paige's hair from her face in a goodnight gesture. "You won't be missing anything," he assures me, rising from his seat on the couch, extending a hand to help me up. "I'll guide the crazy mob of Nephilim away from the square after they've gathered so they don't bother you. And Carmen, the lady who promised you lamb?"
"I like how we don't even need to discuss who this lady is," Hugo whispers to no one in particular. "It's just automatically Carmen."
"She'll be heartbroken initially, of course, but tomorrow, you'll have yourself a three course meal to make up for any loss of appetite you may have shown her today." Bryon grins. "Mediterranean people are hilarious. I would've stayed in Greece all my life if I could've."
"Oh, okay." I grin with comprehension, supporting Paige's sleepy head against my knee. "It's like in 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding.'"
Bryon's smile falters, expression fading into one of confusion. "I have no idea what that is."
Hugo wails, clawing at his face. "You uncultured swine!" he hisses. "Get out of my sight or I'll come after you!"
Rolling his eyes, Bryon offers his arm out to me in an old-fashioned gentlemanly gesture. "Allow me to show you to your room, Ms. Young. I do hope you'll enjoy your stay here."
I've tried to hit all the main points that you guys wanted to see more on where I could work them in – however, I could not work all of them in, and a lot of your inquiries are answered later on.
Poor Raffe isn't having a lot of fun; it's not that Daine doesn't have a reason to be prejudiced, but it's not too pleasant for him. Penryn seems to be the only one truly looking out for him... right?
POLL: Audiat clearly plays a role in the she-angel ranking system, a high role, one that lands her next to Ariel. Thoughts about exactly what role she plays?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh