Chapter Thirty Nine

The way I understand it, you've grown fond to my partner in crime.

As the light behind him grows dimmer and more colorful, I better identify his shape sitting on a raised platform before a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. The agitated twitching of his ears and the ireful shuffle of his magnificent white wings becomes clearer and clearer. Those electric blue eyes blink multiple times, prompting me to quit my gawking and say something.

"He spoke to me," I whisper. Before I can say anything else, my throat constricts nearly painfully, and I realize I have a throat in shock – a throat, a mouth, and a body; I'm not just some entity, a homeless soul being pulled around to do other's biding.

Consider your conscious body a luxury I will not always grant you.

"Thanks." My hands grapple over the ground, finding cold, uneven granite slabs to make up the flooring, and I push myself up into a sitting position. "Thank you."

Pleasure. Now, what did that son of a bitch tell you? I am just itching to know.

Instantly, I feel wary – perhaps wrongfully, as White Wolf is a self-admitted devil, but he'd been the first one to give me any instruction about this strange world of demons and angels. "What does it matter to you?"

My, my, aren't you defensive of the madman? I can practically hear the wedding bells. If you must know, Penryn, I am only wondering what I need to tell you.

I hesitate, blinking as the stained glass window behind him starts to clear up completely. Distrustfully, my eyes dart around wildly, looking for a way out. The only escape from the dead end the Black Wolf had holed me into are the two tunnels flanking him and leading to more shining glass windows. Behind me, there is only a granite wall, and the arched ceiling holds no secret hatches for a quick escape.

Penryn.

"He told me about… well, actually, he didn't really tell me, he gave me hints and let me figure it out. We talked about benevolence and belligerence. About the cycle. Kinda grazed other eras."

So he left me with the juicy bits. The wolf bows its head, a rumbling bark released from its jet black muzzle, almost as if it's laughing gruffly. How kind of him. You must think me a monster by his description.

"I think you both are blaming each other to be monsters to distract yourselves," I admit, standing up on wobbly legs, trying to keep the world from spinning. "I think you're both scared that the other might be right. But, honestly, you are kind of sketchy, what with the hellfire."

He'd have you believe I was casting shadows in happy times. No, Penryn, that is not my nature. I have demons within – thus the shadows and the hellfire – but the actions I take allow everyone else to bask in sunlight. I have a shadow. In the symbolism world of things, no one else does.

"Good for you," I compliment sourly. "Let me get this straight. So you just brought me here to cover your ass?"

No, Young, and you'd be wise to show some respect.

Realizing that I might've pushed my indulgences as being favored slightly too much, I hesitate politely. "I'll think about it." Distracted by a movement behind him, I poke a finger at the large stained glass window. "What's that?"

The wolf doesn't even glance in its direction, but I don't miss the way his ears fold back and the more solemn note in his telepathic voice. Happier times. I spend most of my more dismal moments sleeping here, on these tiles, watching the centuries pass. Call it my happy place.

The stained glass window at his back is constantly in motion, as if it's a video put through a bizarre filter. Willow trees sway around a massive reflective pond, their cloven leaves shaped like teardrops and colored in soft, gentle greens, some slowly falling to the water to ripple its surface. In the distance, between the waving willows, a woman with a floor-length beige dress rests on a stone bench by the water's edge, flipping peacefully through a leather-bound book. Her hair, dark brown but highlighted with streaks of hazel, whips around her head like the branches of the willows; even the few instances her face isn't hidden by the beautiful locks, I can't tell what she looks like – far too distant. Around her feet curls a sleeping black wolf with white wings, his chest bobbing peacefully.

I wasn't really sleeping. Dozing, maybe, but not sleeping. Enjoying the luxury of just being beside her, still breathing, still alive.

"Is your life different now?" Frowning, I slide my gaze to his, only to find the wolf bizarrely distant looking, his eyes in another world. "Is something different about the Clockwork Angel?"

The wolf growls softly, gazing down at the tiles and staring at them endlessly. His growl sends ripples through his dark black fur, making the tips shine with shades of purple and green, like a raven's feathers. I did things, Penryn, things that she can't forgive me for. She can't find it in her heart. After all I've done for her, after all I've sacrificed, she can't forgive my only blunder in all these years.

"What did you do?" I wonder, furrowing my brow. "I mean, I don't know if the legend's that accurate, but it sounded like she really loves you. If she bent the rules of reality to turn you into a wolf… well…"

I suffered with a temporary bout of insanity in which I travelled through time murdering a crucial member of her family, and then attempted to take the life of our child.

"Oh." I can't figure up a more fit word. "And this… 'temporary bout of insanity' is over now?"

Hopefully.

"Helpful," I sigh, stomaching both terror and disgust as best as I can. "Why am I here, Blackie? What could you possibly have to tell me that requires me to stay here any longer? No offense, but if I wanted to listen to a sop story, I'd go up to any old Joe. Nowadays, everyone's got one."

Great head moving slowly, his eyes travelling up and down my body, the wolf sizes me up. As I begin to feel uncomfortable beneath the lens of his microscope, he speaks. You did not follow my advice.

"What?"

I told you not to wander off. You didn't listen to me. If you'd listened, you never would've been in this situation.

I shrug, wondering why the sun dog brings this up now, of all times. "Yeah, well, it was pretty vague. And isn't the past your thing, not the future? How did you know this would happen?"

I know my past as well as this ugly wolf's past. Next time I tell you to do something, listen, Penryn.

"Except when I went against what you advised, I met your archenemy," I point out, cocking an eyebrow and shifting my weight into a more confident position. "Who, by the way, is actually quite nice. He calls me 'Madam Young' instead of Penryn. Plus, he calls himself a devil, so you can't accuse him for being concealing about it."

A dog is aware that it is a dog – that doesn't mean it's acting special in any way, nor does it mean it should be rewarded more than any other mutt. That is beside the point.

"You don't seem to be aware that you're a dog," I notice, tilting my head to one side, staring up at him. "Thinking 'you' and the 'ugly wolf' have different pasts is quite interesting in a weird, psychopathic way."

For the first time, the wolf stands, rising to his full height and soaring high above me. As his searing eyes fix their gaze on me, quiet thoughts infiltrate my cool façade, worming through my calm and making me shiver almost indiscernibly. Can he kill me? Can he kill my mind? My soul? If he does, will I still be alive in real life? Or will I be forever be caught in a coma of his creation?

Before I can stop it, a quick image of Raffe shaking my limp body, his expression panicked, flashes across my mind's eye. My shiver grows until the wolf obviously takes note of it.

I am not the same as I used to be. His voice like thunder blasts at my brain. I have changed. And not for the better. I used to be a good person. Do not push the limits of my hospitality.

I glance downwards, biting at my lip, trying to squash the urge to drop into a kowtow.

Acid defiles his bellowing tongue. Speak your mind, Young, or I shall go fishing for your thoughts.

Fishing, I think to myself, sounds relatively painful. "Just because your body changed doesn't mean you had to. Like it or not, you failed her. After all she did for you, you failed her. Just like White Wolf rose up and became halfway decent, you plummeted and became something sad and pathetic. That's what's on my mind."

With tantalizingly sluggish speeds, the wolf first unfolds his beautiful white wings, unfurling them on either side of his body and crowning his shoulders, then lifts his regal feathers until they reign over his head like a pair of menacing pillars. Stained light dances over his inky fur and paints his pale feathers into masterpieces.

You know nothing. The wolf's eyes narrow balefully. Absolutely nothing. I shall change that. Know this, little Young: I am sorry for what I have done in my past. I am. But I have suffered enough. I will not have you torment me anymore. Go. God help you if you speak to me in such vicious tones again.

"Wait!" I cry, stepping forward, trying to shake off the numbness rapidly consuming my limbs.

He fixes his furious glare on me, and I can feel thousands of years of rage burning through my veins, feel his rage burgeoning in me, turning my skin to fire and accelerating the beat of my heart.

"The balance is mandatory, Blackie, but I don't think that means your actions have to be. Just be a nice guy and things will turn around. Focus on the present and just let go."

His snarl shakes the floor, kindling the terror lodged in my stomach. What are you doing? This softness will eat at your core! It will rot you from the inside out! Do not let the benevolence of your uncle make you forget who you are, Penryn. You are not him. You are a warrior.

I square my shoulders as a final act of defiance – the bitter edge hardening his tone as he speaks of Bryon sends a sliver of ice through my stomach, and his critique of my character is not necessary, nor welcomed. Meeting his eyes that scorch like supernovas, I tense my jaw and lift my lips in a snarl every bit as fearsome as his.

"I may not be a perfect specimen like Bryon, I may not have his forgiveness, and I don't always have the best solutions to every little woe. But I sure as hell am ten times better than you, because at least I try to be a better person, a better person like him. So send me away, and continue to skulk here, you miserable mongrel."

Burn in Hell, you little bitch, and may the good man fall.

I awaken to an ecstatic bellow. "PENRYN!"

My eyes snap open in time to see a large, white-winged angel shove his way quite ungracefully through the webbings of leafy branches then heavily collide with the branch I'm lounged across, causing the entire tree to shudder and groan. Familiar blue eyes meet mine, favored a million times to the last pair I'd gazed into. Familiar white wings silhouette against the luminescent forest. Gut panging painfully with a swell of recognition and the blissful, lightening sensation of departing heavy loneliness and breathtaking terror, I gasp and throw myself towards him, meeting his embrace.

"Penryn," Raffe whispers breathily into my hair, nuzzling at my ear. "Penryn, Penryn, don't you ever do that again. Never. Ever." He releases a slow, shuddering sigh, staggering the sound of it, as if it makes it any less noticeable. "You silly monkeys… can't I even leave you alone? Penryn." He sighs again, sounding much more content, reassured. "I'm never going to let go of you again," he vows into my ear, his breath tickling my hair.

I don't say anything. Nothing at all. If I tried, the dam I've built so painstakingly will split down the center, and everything, absolutely everything, will come pouring out. Choking on the lump in my throat, I make a gasping noise as I suck in a quick breath, a hair away from disgracing myself by sobbing all over Raffe's shoulder.

"Penryn?" Worried, Raffe pulls me back, staring into my eyes idolatrously, his face one of taut concern. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Though I don't breathe a word, though I don't trust the throat God had given me to speak clearly, though I don't trust my heart not to burst with the weight of it all, I notice two things in that single moment – one, that the dawn has almost come over the land. And secondly, I realize that Raffe's eyes are the color of the stars above – blue, brightened by the coming sun to soon crest over the hill in a ray of gold, and speckling with gentle twinkles of laughter and light.

"Raffe," I croak, throwing myself back at him, clutching him to me like a baby doll.

Initially, Raffe doesn't react. Through his skin, I can almost feel the gears slowly clicking in his brain, trying to understand the female mind with frustration and limited results. But gradually, he slides his arms back around me and applies the same squeezing pressure, just enough to make me feel something besides the pain lodged in my gut.

"When your uncle said that I should fly towards Los Angeles, I'd thought I'd lost you for sure," Raffe admits quietly. "No one that goes into there comes out the same, if they get out at all. It's the same with every slave center."

I don't allow the shock to register, don't allow myself to realize that Raffe was in on the Los Angeles slave trade. I'm happy right now. Could that be what this feeling is? Happiness?

Why does my happiness feel so much like pain?

Before I can form a comprehendible question to ask my angel, a bloodcurdling howl pierce's the night's heavy veil of silence. The thick, throaty bay echoes mournfully over the valley, deep and keening, almost like a warning to any who dare listen. Both Raffe and I stiffen and raise our heads in unison, peaking assumedly through the same crack in the foliage like a pair of meerkats. After initial alarm, Raffe's arms curl around me protectively, tight bands of inescapable steel. The pads of his fingers are gentle, moving rhythmically over my skin in a pattern I'd call a massage.

"What was that?" he murmurs, puzzled and twitchy with agitation.

"White Wolf," I breathe, one hand unlinking from around Raffe's neck to stray to my knife.

"White Wolf?" he repeats, eyes flicking briefly to me. "Did he pin you up this tree? Is he out there? What's wrong with him?"

A gruff bark echoes over the hill, as if the wolf is startled, quickly succeeded by a terrified final yelp that sounds more like a human shriek than it does lupine. I gasp, eyes wide with alarm as the glow in the forest ripples and shivers and then abruptly goes out, plunging the woods into absolute darkness. Not even the stars seem to twinkle.

Nothing breathes aside from Raffe.

"Can you hear anything?" I question, head whipping around, searching for some sort of sound, any indication of life anywhere.

Raffe shakes his head slowly, bundling me even tighter against his chest protectively, cuddling me so that my head is safely cradled in the swooping curve of his neck. "Nothing. A forest is never quiet. But this one… is."

"Were you followed?" I whisper, glancing up at him.

"I wasn't followed in the air," he breathes back, his hands dancing down to his sword's hilt, as if contemplating pulling her out. "You say that was White Wolf? Isn't he one of Hugo's heroes?"

"Close enough," I laugh shakily, pulling Emilio's knife from its scabbard and inadvertently laying it flat against his pectoral.

Glancing down at the knife, one of Raffe's hands go to his sword's hilt. "Well, was it the sun one, then? The beast?"

Thinking back to my terrifying experience with the wicked wolf, I consider that. "I don't think so. He's a daytime creature, and it's darker now than ever."

Raffe glances my direction with rare warmth softening the critical urgency of the presented situation, his grip around me turning slightly comforting. "You're talking again. That's good. Never great to have a mute partner." Before I can muster the strength to reply with my usual witty charm, he glances back towards the direction of the howl, his arms bracing around me. "If it wasn't the sun dog, what was it?"

"What could do that?" Anxiously, I turn Emilio's knife over and over in my hands, settling into the nook of Raffe's arms. "What could dispatch a god just like that? And, more importantly, does it know we're here?"

"I'm thinking it's time to fly," Raffe mutters grimly, one of his arms sliding further down my back, perhaps to better supply strength in his grip on me.

"Fly," I agree, linking my hands at his nape, settling my head in the cove of his collar, the grimy skin of his throat pitching as he swallows against my temple.

Raffe flings his wings out, their moonlit feathers startlingly white in the sea of black. Branches snap as he fans the air, knocking aside dead twigs and causing the tree to tremble, perhaps clearing a pathway as best he can to navigate back into the open air with the winds pulling at us both. When something moves with a crushing hiss of leaves towards us and I squeeze his neck as if I were strangling in in response, he takes flight immediately, regardless of the crackling leaves that snag in his feathers.

Flying in pitch black is something utterly different than flying with the sun beaming down at us – I squeak as my legs momentarily flail about in the dark nothingness engulfing me on all sides, fastening them hastily around Raffe's waist and holding almost uncomfortably tight against him. My heart hammers, and I can't shake the feeling that, somewhere in the liquid black pulling at my clothes and blowing my hair around, a creature capable of killing gods soars after us, fangs bared in a malicious grin.

"Are we being followed?" I whisper into Raffe's neck, trying to focus on the stars swirling over his shoulder to give me some sort of steady point – unfortunately, the twinkling stars pitch and weave with each of his flaps.

"Not that I can see." Tilting sideways, he banks abruptly, sending my stomach for another wild jolt. "I didn't see one last time, either, so it might not be tracking us. By the way, we left your backpack behind. We're not going back to get it, so I hope there wasn't anything of importance in there."

I laugh breathily, pressing my forehead against his chest, shutting my eyes tightly to feel secure in my little nook. "Get me as far away from there as possible, Raffe. Raffe. Thank you. Thank you so much for... coming back. Raffe."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," he growls into my ear, his voice sounding like a dastardly warning, like a kidnapper speaking to his ransomed abductee. "Not ever. Don't you even try to escape me."

"I won't." I shiver, opening my eyes and glancing up the slope of his neck, trying to see beyond his chiseled chin. "I am not letting go of you, so it shouldn't be much of a problem."

"I hope you don't let go of me, that's quite a drop." So soft is the tone he speaks in, I can barely make out the low rumbles reverberating deep in his chest, but it almost sounds like he whispers, "And I've already fallen for you once."

"Ariel," Bryon growls into the phone, "I don't have time for this. If Uriel's trying to send a bushel of troops your way, do what you've always done. Meet them at the border and kick them back to kingdom come."

Hugo watches with mute interest as a voice warbles unintelligibly on the other end of the line. He studies the clench in Bryon's jaw with interest.

"Well, if Audiat's there feeding you information, get her to send them astray," he sighs, shaking his head. "Send them over a Nephilim military base and we'll blast them out of the sky. She can take care of that. She's quite good at it, actually."

The warbling seems angry on the other line, scolding, like a mother chiding her child.

"Right." Sighing hollowly, Bryon pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly growing centuries older in the course of a few seconds. "Of course. I'm sorry. I understand. Tell her I said… hi, alright?"

One last miffed bark sounds from the other line, and then Bryon rips the phone away from his ear, pounding on the touchscreen powerfully. He mumbles beneath his breath in tones of discontent and aggravation, eyes flashing with the heat of a finished argument. As the man strides back towards Hugo and the group, there is no amused sparkle dancing amongst the bronze in his gaze nor is there a playful quirk at his lips.

It's strange, seeing him without the light of humor in his eyes. Hugo decides it makes Bryon seem much, much older.

"Ariel giving you hell?" Bay grunts, his arm strung around Hugo protectively, boding off the chills of the fading night.

"She's just stressed," Bryon forgives, shaking his head jadedly. "Who can blame her? Audiat is gone, leaving her as the only leader of a bunch of finicky, catty winged women. I would be frayed at the edges as well."

"Yeah, well." Hugo tilts his head to one side. "You're the sole leader of a bunch of two-faced monsters with animal instincts and fierce natural abilities. And yet, I haven't seen you chew anyone's head off in years. So, it doesn't give her a free pass."

Bryon smiles dryly, a hint of his familiar twinkle returning. "Yes, well, I'm something of an oddity in that category. You insufferable normal people must be tolerated somehow."

"Ha, ha," Hugo chuckles, smiling merrily at Bryon, pleased to see even that minute twinkle returned to its rightful place.

These last few days especially seem to have been grating brutally against the Nephilim's protective shell, causing him to be all the more prone to lassitude and depression, but beneath that shell holding strong against the battering blows, the kind, frail spirit he's buoyed all these difficult years still dwells, its tormented heart still beating despite the pain it's felt and the destruction it's dealt. Though Bryon's youthful ebullience hasn't been truly evident in years and had only grown further after his brother's untimely demise, it still remains, waiting to be uncovered by one willing to dig far enough through his bitter and tortured protective layers.

Smiling to himself, Hugo shuts his eyes, leaning against Bay's warm shoulder, and dreams of what will happen to Bryon when Audiat returns. Moiety – it was a term Bryon had adorned them as several times. Out of innocent curiosity, Hugo had researched it to mean one of two equal parts. A moiety without its other half; perhaps that's what Bryon believes himself to be. Perhaps he's right. Only Audiat will be able to share with them the truth on the matter.

Although he doesn't open his eyes as his ears detect the buzz of a phone going off, Hugo scowls at the vibration he hears, his mood growing darker with each repeated growl of the cell phone. Bryon sighs, perhaps digging the phone out of his pocket once again and lifting it to his ear – a gruff, weary grunt sounds, most definitely from his direction, followed almost immediately by an exhausted female voice.

Bryon's tone changes abruptly, a difference so dramatic that Hugo's eyes snap open.

"Penryn!" Bryon sighs with relief, both hands clapping over the phone. "You have a guardian angel!"

"She said, 'I agree,'" Bay reports to Hugo, glancing sideways with a soft smile. "Also, something about wings. Didn't catch it. She's mumbling. Very tired. They've found a country place, a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Raphael says they'll continue to the she-aerie without us when she's rested. She wants to know if that's alright."

"Of course," Bryon chuckles, looking as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Is that godforsaken angel leaving you alone?"

"She's laughing at that. And, apparently, no, he's not. She's assuring him that she's fine, but just tired. Really tired. Hinting strongly that she needs and wants to go to sleep."

"You sound exhausted, Penryn," Bryon chuckles, his eyes like warm butter. "Why don't you hit the sack?"

"She mumbled a sleepy approval to that. She's saying goodnight. She's hung up."

Daybreak's first euphoric light pools in through the room through the giant windows, its leading flaxen rays of sunlight turning her pale skin into molten gold and speckling her scarlet eyes with chips of brown and bronze. Though usually held high and cheerfully, her eyebrows are set low and wrathfully, and her mouth is cast in a firm, unmoving line instead of its flexible smile. Had not she been quite so petite or quite so pretty in her little white dress, the diplomat might've even been threatening to Uriel.

But, he notices with a lazy, nonchalant eye, she wears no weapons on her person. Perhaps there's a knife hidden away in her grey pea coat or a blade hidden in a scabbard at her thigh, beneath the silky folds of her cutesy gown. But little, little Audiat doesn't seem to be one for weapons. Words, he decides, are much more her forte, which makes her much more of a formidable foe on the political front.

However, he can find the time to dwell over the she-angel's eunoia later. Instead of greeting her as he would any other partner or foe in business, Uriel only tips his head as she approaches – this isn't his first time dealing with her, and he knows that with a bit of button pushing and small, almost unnoticeable insults, Audiat will lose her head. An angry woman isn't a wise one, and an unwise woman makes foolish mistakes.

What puzzles him is that she fails to notice the small barb – that or it merely doesn't interest her.

"I take it you've come to discuss business regarding my campaign?" Uriel drawls, inspecting his nails, peering at her furtively to check for a response. "What is it now? If you're here to come say that Ariel wants in on the race, get out of my office, now."

"Is this an office?" One of her snowy brows arch, a dramatic contrast to the other one still dwelling low on her face. "It seems to me like it's a long, dramatic hall with a desk on one end. Very difficult to defend, what with all these flimsy windows. Well, at least I know where it is now."

Uriel's lips twist into an aggravated frown. "We both know that you're not here to exchange pleasantries, but I was quite unaware the purpose of your venture was to make threats of war. Are you on her side now, Josiah? Will we have to worry about a red-eyed armada?"

Turning to face the archangel that'd followed Audiat by half a step, Uriel initiates a different tactic of button-pushing, contemplating its logic to himself while glaring punishingly at the archangel.

"No." Josiah shakes his head crisply, fumbling with his fingers, looking very much like he'd like to be completely out of the situation. "No, I was just –"

"No, sir," Uriel corrects, eyeing the albino with interest. How far will this one go with his submission? How much can he take? Even the lowliest beggar has his limits – but how much will this former slave grovel without the presence of his guardian angel, Wrath of God?

"He doesn't have to call you sir," Audiat cuts in coldly, ice dancing with the gold in her eyes. "He's an archangel, same as you. He accompanied me on my trip back from the she-aerie for safety reasons, nothing more. Get off his back."

Smiling slyly to himself, Uriel props his feet up on his desk and steeples his fingers in front of his lips. Evidently, she-angel's weak point had changed, and, evidently, it's just as easy to prod as the last one.

"Josiah, what exactly were you doing at the she-aerie in the first place, hmm?" Uriel wonders, smiling breezily. "What business carried you there? I've heard rumors of conspiracy, and, friend, you don't want to be on the wrong side of this battle."

His crimson eyes dart towards Audiat – Uriel watches with fascination as Josiah seems to feed off of her fierce confidence, as her contagious spirited fire catches in him. The archangel rolls back his shoulders and not very subtly cracks his knuckles, an infamous gesture of Raphael's, and glares darkly at Uriel.

"You know very well what I was doing," Josiah growls in a low, threateningly foreign voice. "You sent me there to spy on them. Was it only so you could throw these rude accusations in my face? Is that what you want me to share?"

Audiat's eyes narrow sharply and study the room with a keen gaze, as if searching for something, not fully paying attention to the conversation in her search.

"We both know you don't have many friends to share it with," Uriel purrs, narrowing his eyes, wondering if Josiah had finally learned a sliver of self-respect. "Quit the tough act. You're not Wrath of God. If anything, you're Mercy of God."

Uriel had aimed to injure some of his building courage, to cripple the little tickle of fire burning in the archangel's heart before it'd even truly caught hold, but the air he blows only seems to kindle the flame in both of the angels before him.

Josiah slams both of his hands down on the table, leaning forward and shoving Audiat aside. His blood-red eyes boil. "The reason I don't ever lose my temper isn't a reason you want to see. If you want to continue down this road, be my guest, but you'll be the one having to explain why the wimpy albino tore off your wings and shoved them down your throat."

Uriel raises both of his eyebrows, the tips of his lips lifting further, his expression resembling the sinister trickiness of the snake. "You've earned my respect, Josiah. Leave now, the adults have something to talk about, something they don't want you overhearing…"

Audiat leaps like a cat before Josiah can take a step back, snatching up a false pen in a jar of useless pencils, and scurry back out of reach. Registering her movement only a second too late, Uriel has no chance to block the bolt for the dummy writing utensil.

So, as she holds it to the diaphanous sunlight straining in, he sits at the edge of his seat, jaw clenched and fingers taut with nerves. Ravenlike intelligence glints with the gold in her irises as she raises the pen to her face, inspecting its dead tip and the speaker hidden at the button on the other end. Uncertainly, Josiah hugs her side, casting hostile looks towards Uriel, as if daring him to make a move.

At last, Audiat sighs, almost as if disappointed. "You don't do paperwork," she scolds, sounding almost like a mother berating a child. "That's handled by middle management. So next time you try to bug our conversations" – the pen snaps elegantly in two in her pale hands – "don't bother hiding it there. I thought this game would be exciting, Uriel, with less cheap shots. Josiah, you're free to go. We do have something to talk about."

"Do we?" Uriel rumbles, trying to remain dominant even as Audiat tosses the remains of his backup plan, the split bug first hitting the wall and chipping the paintjob before clanging noisily into the trash can.

"Yes, we do." Audiat straightens her spine, gazing down at Uriel haughtily through her bone-white lashes. "I will have an audience with all the peoples of this aerie. A chance to share my opinions and reveal -a few facts that have recently come to surface."

"And what if this audience is not permitted?" Uriel rises from his chair, towering above the comely she-angel, drawing so close to her that their noses almost touch. "Not everyone is willing to listen to the plights of a silly old female…"

"One word." Audiat grins nastily. "Alcatraz. If you keep me from the stage or away from public attention, anything to piss me off personally, I will crush you." Her mouth contorts into a savage snarl, the words turning guttural on her tongue despite the high pitch she speaks with. "I will destroy you, Uriel. You're a clever man." Smiling wickedly, she tilts her head to one side, eyes gleaming like drops of blood. "You can figure that out, can't you?"

Without another word wasted, Audiat wheels around on her high heels and stalks back down the long hallway, buoyant white curls bobbing with every step. The golden light seems to issue its farewells as she continues.

"You weren't dismissed," Uriel calls, trying to destroy the roiling fury in his tones, only half-managing to convince himself that the heated emotions she causes in his brain are seeds she'll coax into thorns if he allows himself to plant them.

"I dismissed myself," she answers over her shoulder, red lips perking coyly. Before he can respond with something witty, Audiat is gone, the remnants of her vicious tenacity still lingering in the air like the wisps of her spice-scented perfume.

Uriel settles back into his chair, rolling back his shoulders, and plucks up another dummy pen from where it'd lain nakedly on the table beside a stack of pre-signed papers, smirking to himself. It's only a matter of time before she lets something slip she shouldn't have.

Through tiny crescents of vision, I watch Raffe as he hovers awkwardly, as if not knowing what exactly he's supposed to do now that I'm settled down. Instead of escorting me to one of the many bedrooms strewn throughout the house, he'd set me down on the couch with scratchy fabric in the middle of a rustic yet cozy living room, facing an empty fireplace, claiming that it has easier escape routes than anywhere else in the house. He hadn't been expecting this, I'd wager.

Mild amusement perks my lips as he picks up a blanket from the couch beside me, his footsteps soft like a cat's, and hooks it over the curtains, completely blocking all the light that'd threatened to leak through. After admiring his handiwork for a few seconds, he trots back out of view until he's no more than a silhouette in the doorway, dark and shadowed, nearly invisible.

"Raffe," I sigh at last, shifting beneath the comforter he'd all but swaddled me in, "what are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out what to do," he answers candidly, shifting his weight.

"Maybe you should try to get some rest, too," I advise, snuggling up to the rough fabric of the embroidered couch. "We'll need both of us rested up if we run into anybody. Besides, you're the one flying all the way to the she-aerie, not me."

"You were the one that was brutally kidnapped," Raffe counters, "by a couple of lunatics. I never did get that story, by the way."

"Don't change the subject," I chastise.

"But I'm so curious," Raffe whines, cocking one eyebrow, his smile soft yet secretly confident, as if he knows I'll give in.

"No." I shake my head decisively. "We are not talking about that. I don't – not yet, alright, Raffe? We are talking about you getting some sleep, however. You're just as tired as I am, aren't you?"

"Maybe. But I've just flown across the state of California a couple of times over. What's your excuse?"

"We've been over this." Shutting my eyes and smirking to myself, I curl up again, secretly lusting for a heating unit. "Brutally kidnapped by lunatics. We both have great reasons to sleep. So get your rest, Raphael, or I will do something very bad to those wings."

"I'm terrified," Raffe monotones sarcastically, "the Evil Queen used my full name when addressing me! It must be the very end of days…" Then, voice sharpening into a more incisive cadence, he continues, "Whatever attacked the moon mutt is still out there, Penryn. I'm not going to make us vulnerable to it by not standing guard."

"If anything gets anywhere close to this shack," I berate, "you'll hear it coming. And the only thing you're going to do right now is get yourself killed. You're dead on your feet, Raffe."

He glares murderously at me, unsheathing his sword that once was Pooky Bear and flipping her so slowly in his hands that threatened instincts make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The deadly gleam of both his gaze and the wicked blade in his hands almost forces a shiver down my spine, a shiver that's only adverted by my curling even tighter into a defensive position.

"I'm much, much tougher than that, and I've got a few tricks left." My instincts go haywire at the cold edge hardening his voice. "For instance, I know that, when I look at you and I catch four eyes gleaming back at me, I can tell something's wrong."

Raffe pounces towards the couch beside me, and a terrified whistle pierces the air. As he flies towards the cushions, blade blazing in his hands, something unnaturally fast darts from underneath a tent of couch pillows and zips towards me, a little bronze streak. The panicked whistle becomes squeaking and popping, like a petrified dolphin, as it darts around the room with Raffe hot on its heels. Gasping with recognition, I lift my comforter a degree, planning on swinging my legs over the edge and stepping between Raffe and the little Nephilim, but Belle sees a chance for cover and goes for it.

She leaps for the crack between my comforter and the couch, half missing and colliding with the cushions, frantically scrabbling towards the safety of darkness. Cold scales brush against my tummy as she burrows beneath my shirt and finds comfort against my chest, perhaps listening to my heartbeat. I coil myself around her, wrapping my entire body around the little dragon, feeling her shivering violently against me.

"Stop!" I snarl, baring my teeth like a wildcat at him, bringing his chase to a screeching halt. "It's Belle! It's just Belle!"

Just the thought of Raffe charging me with malevolence in his gaze is enough to make my stomach quiver, so I can't possibly imagine the trauma little baby Belle must be going through at the moment. I clutch her with both hands, whispering soft words of consolation to her trembling little body.

"Belle?" Raffe sounds puzzled, then abruptly shocked. "Belle? What are you doing here, little lizard?"

He strides powerfully towards me, stepping over the coffee table he'd sliced through in an effort to catch Belle, his eyes ablaze with a blend of remorse and fascination. Falling to one knee before me, Raffe brings himself to both of our eye levels, folding his wings against his back.

I refuse to uncurl completely from around Belle, but I relax slightly, muscles losing their tension. Reaching a hand under my shirt, I stroke along her little spine, brushing all the feathers that'd been thrust into disarray back into their proper places, preening through her wings and pulling out tufts of the stuffing she'd darted through to escape Raffe. Although initially confused as to what I was doing sticking hands down my shirt, Raffe seems to comprehend my logic, and waits patiently for Belle to reappear from underneath the flannel.

"You scared her bad," I murmur, glancing scornfully at him. "Now every time she looks at you, she's going to think of that wretched face you made, and it's going to be agony for her to keep from trembling."

"Don't you think I know –" He cuts off, eyebrows pinching together before his expression crumbles entirely, as if suddenly realizing that I might be talking from experience. "She shouldn't have been here," he starts again, voice quiet. "She's supposed to be with the Wives, safely under Thea's wing. I wasn't expecting the little lizard. I thought she was a –"

"Hellion, right?" I supply, sympathy suddenly overcoming my anger and relaxing the tense clench of my jaw.

"Yes." He glances up at Belle, studying her shivering form beneath my shirt. "I hope she'll find it in her heart to forgive me."

A small yet hopeful popping sound, muffled from being spoken under my flannel, echoes around the room, and Belle twists slightly. The magnanimous pop quickly turns into a squeal of distress as she twists and twists again, unable to find her way out of my shirt. I laugh quietly as my shirt bulges and flaps around. As she struggles to find an escape from the ridiculously large flannel, her tiny little claws skitter up and down my body, like a mouse's fragile paws. At one point, her tail sticks up from the collar, the tufted tip causing me to sneeze as it brushes under my nose. Belle squeaks with surprise, following the sound of my sneeze until her little head pokes out from my collar, nostrils testing the air. Her eyes dart around inquisitively, and her horns catch on the flannel, forming almost a little hood with the fabric.

"Hello, little lizard," Raffe greets, chuckling softly, still, as if he's afraid to move.

Belle yawns mightily in response, much more peaceful now that she has successfully discovered a way to escape from the massive flannel. Her pink little forked tongue hovers in the air as she bares her toothless gums to the sky, and, beneath my shirt, her wings stretch in a final flex before she cuddles back against my chest, laying her head against my breast and wrapping her wings around my torso like some sort of adorable dragon hug.

"I think you're forgiven," I murmur, smiling amorously at him, pleased to have both Raffe next to me and Belle sprawled across my belly.

"Thank goodness for that," he chuckles wryly, shaking his head from side to side. "Don't know what I'd do without her approval. You know, I think we might've flown near the Wives' big pack sometime, and she followed us out of curiosity. Scales said she was finicky about who she spends her time with. Maybe she's just more comfortable with us."

"Maybe," I agree. "But if this little experience has taught me anything, it's that when you're tired, you're paranoid. Get some sleep."

"Penryn –"

"Let's compromise, then." I arch my eyebrows at him, stroking between Belle's horns as I speak, smiling at the blissful purr that soon rumbles through me. "I'll tell you about what happened with the lunatics if afterwards, you get some sleep."

Raffe seems to contemplate this, the gears clicking behind those blue eyes working on a foreign system, almost incompatible with mine. "I suppose you have yourself a deal." With this, he smirks mischievously, and rises to his full height, towering over me like the demigod he is. My stomach squirms as he reaches over me and begins pulling out couch cushions, one by one.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I mutter, holding up a hand. "No funny business. I've got an infant on my chest, you hear? A little baby."

"Yes, and we've got a better chance of protecting her if we combine our strength." He continues plucking the couch cushions out, chucking them towards the extra, which now has a gash through the center spewing stuffing. "Besides, wouldn't you like a little taste of old times?"

My heart accelerates volatilely as he clambers over me, its vicious speed peaking as he hovers over me for a split second, hair hanging down into his face, one elbow propped on either side of me. But, as he settles down next to me, arm looping around my waist, I, with difficulty, restrain its rambunctious rhythm.

Turning over gingerly so I'm facing him, careful not to disturb Belle, I cup her between the two of us, so that she'll be safely immersed in a sea of never-ending warmth. Raffe seems to grasp my meaning – his muscles ripple against mine, creating a perfect cove for her between our bodies. Beneath my shirt, Belle readjusts accordingly, her tiny head poking from one of the holes between the buttons and resting against Raffe. Sliding his firm bicep under my head as a brilliant substitute for an actual pillow, he cuddles me against him as well, his opposite arm encasing around me and blanketing over Belle.

White plumage stirs against his back, and one of his wings unfurl, first straight upwards until it bumps into the ceiling ungracefully – he hadn't been focused on it I'd guessed, considering he'd been staring intently into my eyes, searching for approval. Trying to play it off, he gently lays it atop both of us and allows the primaries to drag along the floor. His heavenly soft feathers brush against the hands that wrap around his neck.

"Now," he murmurs, stroking a single finger down Belle's spine without breaking my gaze, "you have a story to tell."

It feels good to release this chapter. Don't know why. Just does.

Now that school has started ticking at a more rapid pace, I doubt I'll be able to update all that frequently, but I won't stop until this is over, so don't worry.

POLL: Audiat, girlishly charming and with a smile wide enough even to melt the heart of Bryon, has shown a considerably amount of gall in this chapter as the forceful diplomat, but, in order to get what he wants, Uriel cold-heartedly has sliced off the wings of his rivals and built a murderous army of scorpion people. Does her sudden show of dominance over the malicious archangel bode well for her? And could it be possible that Uriel may take drastic measures against her?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh