Chapter Sixty Eight

"She's tired," Raffe whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't touch her. Is my bed made?"

"Yes, sir." Josiah's anxious voice barely pierces through my conscious. "Is she alright? Are they supposed to be that pale?"

"No, not really," Raffe sighs. I feel him move, feel myself sinking down, and the cool softness of a mattress caving beneath me. "There you are," he croons, slowly slipping his arms out from under me. My hair is swept from my face, tucked gently behind me ear, but I only mumble in response. He chuckles sadly, and I feel him move away from the bed.

"Do you know if anyone saw me? Or noticed that I was gone?" Raffe questions intently.

"Well," Josiah says nervously, "I don't know if anyone saw you – you did a pretty good job with staying undercover. And no one came and knocked the door down while you were gone."

"Alright." Raffe heaves a sigh of relief. "Michael probably noticed, of course, can't do anything about that, but if I talk to him soon, he shouldn't bring it up in front of everybody. How's Audiat doing?"

Josiah is quiet for a long, tense moment. "…Do you know who died?"

"What?"

"Someone died, and I… I think it was her husband?" The silence is so glaring I can hear him swallow. "She wasn't… happy. In fact… no one really was. Maion was there with Metatron, and she got angry, and Metatron, her memory's all…" He makes an undulating whistling noise. "So that was confusing. Then Ariel walked in and started yelling at no one in particular and smashed a few of Audiat's sculptures in her anger and – it was just a mess."

"He's actually dead then," Raffe croaks. "Oh, fuck. I don't know what we're going to do, Josiah."

"What?" His voice cracks on the word. Clearing his throat, Josiah repeats, "What do you mean?"

"The Nephilim… they're going to be pissed, Jo. I don't even know how pissed. And if there's something we don't want, it's an entire nation of pissed Nephilim."

"It was Bryon, wasn't it?" Josiah whispers hoarsely. "Bryon's dead?"

Silence greets him, but it's a heavy sort of silence. The kind of silence like the swell of an ocean wave as it rolls closer to the shore, only just beginning to rise up into what will eventually become a frothing, white break upon jagged rocks. The silence in a courtroom before a life is changed forever. The long, tense silence after a gunshot is fired in a distant neighborhood, a time of fright and apprehension of the sirens to come. A silence that says more than words would.

"But…" Josiah makes a small noise of fear in the back of his throat. "Wasn't he the only thing standing between you and the Nephilim?"

Raffe remains quiet.

"I got the sense, Raphael," Bryon almost laughs, "that you wanted to talk with me. What's troubling you, archangel? Because there most certainly is something, isn't there?"

"Oh, yeah," Raffe agrees grouchily, taking a lengthy sip from his coffee without turning around to look at Bryon. "Definitely."

The angel leans upon the railing stacked between the two feet of an arch in the courtyard of the Secrem Domu castle. The morning light is soft and yellow, and the first few bumblebees of the day and the last couple of the season buzz lazily from flower to flower in the courtyard's center garden. Raffe, with one arm garbed in armor, looks as if he's about to go off to a training session of his own, whereas Bryon –

My heart stutters.

Bryon looks so heartbreakingly like Bryon. With a simple beige top and dark brown cargo pants shadowed by the folds of the silky brown cloak, he stands half-hidden in the darkness of the archway. In the light, his eyes sparkle, as does a muted shimmer in the beauty of the cloak – my heart aches with the knowledge that I shall see neither's gleam ever again. His smile is so carefree and innocent – the way he was before Belle, before Theobella, before the Tyab'la and all his guilt.

"Might I ask," Bryon says, stepping further into the light, "what, exactly, it is that's troubling you, old friend? Is there any way I could remedy it?"

Raffe slams his coffee mug against the stone in an expression of frustration. Growling deep in his throat, he wheels around, lips pricked in a snarl. "Why are you so nice to me?" he snaps angrily.

Bryon blinks, taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I am your enemy." Raffe's eyebrow twitches once. "I have killed countless members of your kind. I have slaughtered you like cattle. I cut off your sister's head in front of you, I murdered those others upon the mountain like they were bothersome pests. Why do you continue to treat me so kindly? As if I'm your guest here? What is your ulterior motive?"

Bryon laughs, the sound of it like a balm to my frayed and tired mind. "There is nothing sinister in my offering of friendship, Raphael."

"Every day," he continues, caring not for Bryon's words, "you stand there and you treat every man the same. You don't disgrace yourself but you don't disgrace anyone else either. It's puzzling. Why do you act so… so supernaturally fair?"

"It isn't supernatural at all!" Bryon says laughingly.

"There it is again." Confounded, Raffe waves his hand. "That never ending… content. That happy-go-lucky cheer. Your sense of righteousness and fairness. It's… why?"

"My fairness?" Bryon's eyebrows rise. "Are you asking me why I treat every man as my better? I assume so. Well, Raphael, it's because I know my own fate, as well as everyone else's. A man can live a good life or a poor one, a life of wealth or one of poverty, one surrounded with love and compassion or one with hatred and greed, but we all unite in the end. No matter our species, our color, our sex, our beliefs, our wealth, our personality, our anything, we all unite in death. And if everyone is equal in the end, why treat anyone as anything but equal?"

Raffe is the one that seems now taken aback. "…That's a very wise way to think about it. Deep and really emo. But not all of us end in death. I'm immortal. I live on forever and ever and ever."

Bryon's chuckle is this time much more rich, much more deep, layered with things I know I'll never understand. "You and I both know that's not true, Raphael. Every story has its ending, no matter how good a book it is, no matter how many pages you turn without knowing what is to befall your beloved character next. Even yours. Even mine."

"Sure," Raffe grunts, leaning against the archway, observing Bryon with clever blue eyes. "But our story? That'll never end. I will always be Wrath of God. And you will always be the monster I hunt. And we'll just continue going on that way for all of eternity."

"I am mortal, Raphael," Bryon says softly, looking off into the sunlight. "Our tale will most certainly come to an end."

An awkward moment of silence passes. Raffe seems even more troubled than before, jumping where he stands at Bryon's words. Just like after our dip in the ocean, he seems upset with the concept of mortality, and disturbed by the fact that his age-old nemesis might actually meet an end. Bryon studies the sun, distracted by something so massive and anciently beautiful, while, in the same moment, Raffe studies the softly bouncing bumblebees, watching their legs slowly yellow with the last pollen of the season.

"Raffe, do you know what to do when you reach the end of a truly good story?" Bryon questions quietly, his voice almost like a poet's, flowing over the words rhythmically. "When you've just been immersed in the story of a life and then suddenly, everything you knows just cracks apart in your hands as you slow down and read the last page with care and wistfulness, longing for just another paragraph, just even one more sentence. And then once you read the end, you think back through all the words and sentences and all the adventures you shared, good and bad, and sometimes it brings tears to your eyes. Every now and then, we find books that we wish never had endings, and are heartbroken by the fact that they do, like everything, have that one final page.

"But, with some time, we begin to realize something: it's not the ending's finality we should be thinking about at all. A story is only beautiful because it ends, wrapped up in a bow like a little present for you to unwrap. Stories happen, and then they end. The only way a tale can truly impact you is if you never forget it. Don't only think of the ending, but rather, live the whole tale in your heart, remember the lessons you learned whilst emerged in the adventure, and never, ever forget the times you shared with that particular story. That's how you react to a story's end. You let it live on with you."

The first thing I notice waking up is the odor of burned cookies.

Stinging my nose with each breath, it clings suffocatingly in the air like a blanket of smoke, pungent and unpleasant. I cough once in a vain attempt to clear my throat of the awful smell, but it only makes me aware of the stale, dry taste in my mouth. Moaning, I curl my body around the sheets I'd bundled up in my arms. Breathing through the caramel fabric is slightly more bearable, and the sheets are laced with Raffe's scent, which efficiently distracts my nose from what smells like a failed attempt at baking.

Curiously, I peek one eye open. I'm alone in the room – the light shimmers in between curtains, yellow and playful. Perhaps I should be slightly worried, about being abandoned here with the smell of something burning, but surrounded by the smell of Raffe, it's more like I'm swaddled in security.

With a small, guttural groan, I shove myself off the bed. As much as I may attempt to ignore that smell, it's not going to go away. My feet sting with pins and needles, and my clothes from the disaster that was yesterday are stiff and chaffing me in all the wrong places. I make a mental vow to change into something much, much more comfortable the moment I check to make sure Raffe doesn't burn the place down with the wreckage of his cooking.

The kitchenette is littered with dirty bowls and measuring cups, a few used muffin tins stacked in the corner as if the poor archangel had tried making cookies in those. A mound or two of lump dough dots over the tiny counter, and a tray of unappetizingly black cookies sit upon the oven; the chocolate chips seem melted, trails of brown still solidifying on the metal. In the corner of the tray, it looks like someone tried to pry off a cookie, and failed – a broken spatula sits dejectedly nearby.

Next to the sad little cookies that probably never should've even been attempted are two notes, one scrawled across a sliver of notebook paper ripped in several places, the other on an entire sheet with neat print.

Naturally, the sloppy one is Raffe's – if you squint hard at the signature at the bottom, it looks a bit like his name in something that remotely resembles English. For the life of me, I can't understand the rest of it. I squint and strain my eyes, turning it every which way, holding it up against the light. Every so often, I recognize a letter amongst the chicken scratch.

"Raffe, your handwriting sucks," I grumble to myself, throwing down the paper in frustration. Sighing, I turn my attention to the much more legible note left by Josiah.

Penryn! Hello!

I figured I'd leave you this because, well, I can't understand anything on that slip Raffe left for you, so I figured you wouldn't either. He scrawled it last minute before he darted off the balcony – I think that ending bit says something about Mean Girls 2?

Anyway, as you probably also see, we tried to make you cookies. Don't ever, ever ask angels to make you cookies again. Least of all Raffe. We aren't cut out for this life.

Kidding.

I realize we didn't exactly hit it off at the aerie you guys kind of blew up, but in my defense, I had no earthly idea you were a princess, and neither did you. I know you're probably not very open to chumming up with another angel after all that's happened, but… hopefully we can at least be on good terms.

You've been asleep for two days, by the way. In that time, all of the aeries in Europe have fallen, as well as all those in Russia or Canada or anywhere cold that we don't have a huge foothold. Michael has been cracking down on this whole political thing – he wants it out of the way, I think, so Raffe can get back to, um, "exterminating the pests".

Audiat is doing better. She's started a project upstairs to help her feel better about your uncle. Maybe we'll go up there when Raffe gets back?

Emilio remains more-or-less the same. He's in the hospital wing downstairs, and luckily, no one's really questioned his presence. I think he really needs you right now. According to Hugo, he's insisting on hearing the moment you wake up. If that happens to be while we're away, well, he'll be overjoyed.

Hugo is not doing good. I won't butter it up for you. He wavers between a state of comatose and mindless blabbering every day.

Your sister called us on your phone and demanded to speak to you. Raffe refused to wake you up, but she knows something's up, and I'm not sure how. Just prepare yourself for the worst.

I think that's got all the bases covered? Sorry about the shitty cookies. Good luck reading Raffe's note. We'll be back from this boring meeting soon.

XOXO,

Josiah

Sighing, I gingerly place the note back on the counter. My stomach growls vindictively. Taking one glance at the shitty cookies, I decide to instead trust myself with the few glorious apples sitting in a painted ceramic fruitbowl.

The apples taste delicious – even here in the aerie, the food always tastes slightly stale, slightly blended together, but not even the apocalypse can do anything with the crispness of fresh fruit. Before I know it, there's three cores in the trash can and another's well on its way to joining them.

I linger in the kitchen for a while longer, staring answerlessly at Raffe's note, attempting to figure out what he'd been trying to relay. I see what Josiah means about Mean Girls, but the figure after it looks more like an & symbol than a 2 in my eyes. Honestly, it could go either way.

Still focused on the note, I amble mindlessly out of the kitchen. Frowning, I hold it up against the light. Does that say love…? No, no, that's not an L, it's connected to what I'd thought was a fucked up G.

"Dammit, Raffe," I sigh, rubbing my thumbs at my temple.

"I'm no good at reading his handwriting, either."

A muffled shriek escapes my lips, and I fly backwards. My shoulders slam against the wall, and pain shoots through my back, but I hardly have time to care. Eyes darting about, heart thumping like a trapped mouse, I stare into the golden-yellow eyes of a massive angel, sitting upon the couch.

When I say massive, I mean massive in every sense of the word. Beneath teakwood-colored skin, he's muscled. Way, way muscled, the sort of muscled that's beyond attractive and just sort of grotesque. Against the wall, two oddly-shaped dun wings are spread like ornate decoration; not only are they huge, but they're built different in a way I can't quite explain. Raffe's can fold up easily onto his back, but these look like they can't fit into that small a space. Maybe that's what's different. They're bulky.

Disregarding my shock and fright almost entirely, he leans forward, throwing down an issue of Tiger Beat. "Apologies, I thought you knew I was here. Suppose not. But you did stumble past me on your way to the kitchen, so forgive me for assuming."

"Who – what –" I splutter nonsensically in the doorway for a few more moments, before stiffening and lifting my apple up in a threat to hurl it at him. Glaring, I manage to get out, "You're Michael, aren't you?"

"Yes, certainly." He rises from the couch, and, watching him soar up to a height of nearly eight feet, eight immensely broad and muscled feet, my mouth drops open slightly. "And you're Penryn Young, heir to Bryon's throne, aren't you?"

Knives. There are steak knives in the kitchen. If I could possibly just make it there…

"How do you know that?" I snap suspiciously, eyeing him nervously.

"I make it my business to know everything that happens under the roof of my dwelling, Your Majesty." He tips his mighty head respectfully, throwing me through yet another loop. "May I first say to you that I am… sincerely sorry for your loss." Though the depthless emotion in his amber eyes doesn't even flicker, he dips his head in shame. "Bryon was a good man to me, and a worthy opponent. It was never my intention to bring his demise, no matter how indirect it was."

I bite at my lower lip, ignoring the stab of pain the mention of my uncle brings to my heart. "You're not here to apologize. You're here for something else."

One slender eyebrow cocks up in genuine surprise. "Clever girl. I'll admit, it was not just sympathy him that brought me here – I wish to know your political plans. The Nephilim are a bit of a menace at the moment, and I'd like to shut that down without ticking them off further, Your Majesty."

Snorting rudely, I shake my head. "Good luck with that. You'll be lucky if you escape with half the force you came down here with. And I honestly have no idea – I've been asleep for two days. So if you would kindly get the fuck out of here."

"I hope I'm not spooking you." Michael looks at me with something akin to polite disdain, like I'm the one that's being rude. "My intentions were not to do so. I'm not going to slice you into pieces, if that's what you're afraid of. Please, put down the apple. I don't think anyone would take very kindly to being assaulted by fruit."

My suspicion is not quite soothed, but I lower the apple, sneaking a quick bite on the way down. "You don't seem a lot like the kind of guy that would lead an army of bloodthirsty pigeon-people. Little bit more diplomatic."

Michael's lips quirk. "You'll find that some of us in the ranks actually pay attention to the world around us instead of living with our heads up our asses. I'm one of those. I regret to inform you that your boyfriend is one of those with his head in his anal cavity."

I choke on the apple bite, my stomach twisting into a little ball. Throwing a hand out to grab at the doorway, I steady myself, praying to god that my stomach won't betray me and my breakfast. I whisper, "How…?"

"I'm not blind, that's how." He cocks an eyebrow, collapsing back against the couch, gesturing for me to sit in the plush armchair beside him. "That's another thing I'd like to talk about, actually: your opinion on Raphael, Wrath of God, murderer of thousands of your kin."

"What?" Keeping my eyes on him almost unblinkingly, I lower my ass onto the seat – as much as I hate everything about this situation, refusing a polite beckon from the General of Heaven's Armies would not be amiable. "I don't see how it matters."

"I'm trying to make my decision about who to elect as Messenger, Penryn," he says patiently, "and, as I'm sure you're aware, whoever wins my vote might as well win on the spot. As things are, Raffe isn't looking so good. He's a politically sound choice, of course. But he's lied to me every which way, with his conspiracies with the Nephilim and his loss of wings and his escapades by your side. I'd much prefer him as Messenger, but I don't know if I can trust him."

"How do you –?" I shake my head curtly, cutting myself off. "Never mind, I don't need a cryptic explanation. It's not his fault. He – he wasn't lying on purpose, they were all lies because what happened wasn't politically –"

Michael holds up his hands in a calming gesture. "I understand perfectly why he lied to the commoners. I merely have difficulties I can trust a Messenger that doesn't trust me. That is what's most important to me, Your Majesty. He could sit up there talking about having purple wings and three tails and I wouldn't give a damn if he told me the truth, at least."

I study him impassively, trying to leech as much information as I can from that equally impassive face. "So you're saying you want honest communication?"

"I can go fishing for the truth, Your Majesty, but I'd really rather not."

"Why do you think you can trust me, then?" I ask testily. "I'm technically an enemy, you know."

Michael nods a few times, pursing his lips. "True, it seems a bit like a sketchy plan to me, too, but with all honesty, I'm a bit curious as to what you see in him. You're an odd pairing. Maybe you'll help me see some qualities in him that makes Raffe a better partner – because the Messenger and the General, we need to think as one."

"So why don't you just become Messenger, then?" I wonder, tilting my head to one side. "Absolute power or whatever. You seem to have your head on your shoulders, you'd make an okay leader, I think."

Waving his hand dismissively, Michael says, "You can't give that much power to one angel. The system will crack. Gabriel and I figured that out a very, very long time ago – rest in peace, Ilael. And, besides, Your Majesty, do you want the levelheaded one in charge of the relatively laid back civilians or the volatile honed warriors?"

I consider that for a second. The angels at the aeries I've been to before had been chilling and utterly demeaning, but…

Images flash through my mind's eye of angels swaddled in steel, their eyes gleaming, razing those in front of them and mercilessly demolishing a town to ashes in under thirty minutes.

"You're good where you are," I decide, repressing a shudder. "Look, you're here, picking on Raffe for keeping secrets… and he's totally been doing that. But it's for a good reason, which you've basically just admitted. That said… do you know what Uriel's been poking around in?"

Acute interest sharpens in his eyes for the first time. "He told me about his scheme to cut off Raphael's wings, yes," Michael says slowly. "It was how I unlocked the door to all of our dearest Wrath of God's recent activities."

"Raffe did what he had to survive," I assert firmly, making sure to show none of my internal scramble for adequate words, "and that's that. He kept it quiet because he was frightened for my safety and everyone that helped him. He was loyal to his followers and helpers, the ones that wouldn't be able to stand up against a big bad archangel. Forgive him if that meant skirting around the truth a little with you. And, honestly, is that all you know about Uriel?"

"Why?" He narrows his eyes at me, seeming acutely interested. "Is there more to the other's tale?"

I study him keenly, my eyes trailing down the square set of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes, the intrigued twist in his lips. "Do you know… what happened in Alcatraz?" I swallow with difficulty. "About the… things he did to my people?"

"No." His eyes narrow further, and his tone takes on a delicate cadence. "But something about the way you're acting tells me I should."

I stand on shaking legs, sucking in a pained breath. "Yes, you should." Clearing my throat, I take on a more professional tone – after all, I'm a princess, so I'd better start acting like it. "It's appalling, you know? Coming in her and invading on our personal space to accuse Raffe of things that his opponent has done much worse than. I have to say, Michael, my first impression of you isn't that great."

Michael's smile is icy cold. "Exactly mine of yours, princess. But you've got no idea what you're doing, so I'll pardon your rudeness. In the mean time… are you sure you've got nothing against the torture Raffe placed upon your people?"

I shrug, trying not to let his words bother me too much. "Whatever happens in the past stays in the past, and he's sorry anyway. Look, you need to leave. Come back and judge Raffe once you learn the truth about all the shady scams Uriel's been pulling. If you don't mind, I'd like to have my privacy back, thank you. Don't you have a meeting?"

"Yes, I do," Michael sighs, pushing himself up hastily. In the corner of my eye, I watch his wings curl back by his sides – the crests loom high above his shoulders, held out and arched in on themselves rather than folded neatly against his back. Were Gabriel's like that, too? I don't know, I never got a good look at them.

"Fortunately, though, my status does come with its perks. I can afford to be late." Suddenly, he passes me a warmer glance than I'd been accustomed to, throwing me for another loop. "You're quite a strong little monkey, Penryn Young. No matter how dismal our first impressions may have been of each other… I am curious to see how you mature as a leader and as a person. If you're anything like you're uncle, there's nowhere to go but up."

I blush, staring down at my hands, trying to understand the rapid change in temperament. "If you're trying to butter me up," I mumble bluntly, "it won't work."

"Of course it wouldn't," he agrees with a chuckle. "You're much too intelligent for that." Michael stretches forward, popping a bone, and groans low in his throat. "Dear Lord, I am not looking forward to listening to those thousand-year-old babies bicker again. Thank you for wasting some of my time, Your Majesty."

Heat splashes over my cheeks. "You don't have to call me that, you know. I'm… not really a princess, not with Ogden around."

Michael pauses, his back to me, and turns his head back – he watches me carefully with one unblinking yellow eye, face suddenly and eerily expressionless. "Yes… it's a shame, isn't it, about your political opponent?"

I blink several times, gawking dumbly at him. "…What?"

"So shameful," Michael continues as if I'd never stopped talking, "to crucify Bryon's reputation with rumors of his possession, only to fall to the same She-Demon. And then the ultimate shame… I expect it's looming on the edge of his conscious. I've always found it funny how history repeats itself – haven't you?"

"Repeats itself?" My heart hammers, booming in my ear. "What are you talking about?"

"Why, Gabriel, of course." Michael begins to stroll towards the door. "Bryon became a problem. He needed to be annihilated by the She-Demon. It's only shameful that Ogden would be compromised, after so much of his campaign waged against it…" He shrugs. "Just an observation. Good day, Your Majesty."

"Wha…" I breathe, blinking over and over again. "…Wait, how do you know that?"

Michael doesn't bother to answer, so I suppose he's decided that he's given me enough information. I watch him swing the door open silently, watch it swing close. His steps fade down the hallway, and I collapse back into the chair.

You'll find that some of us in the ranks actually pay attention to the world around us instead of living with our heads up our asses.

My apple falls to the ground. Heart hammering, blood roaring in my ears, the hazy thought sweeps across my mind: Michael would be an invaluable ally.

Bryon's words of wisdom? Wrote those several months before the rest of this chapter. Good advice, if I do say so myself. Helped coach me through my own grief.

Also. Also, also, also. Everything has gone to shit. Surprise. But there's also Michael… and his keen eyes have seen a lot more than anyone knows. Surprise.

POLL: It just always made a lot of sense to me that the two tippy-top archangels would be A) bros and B) more aware of everything going on around them. Thoughts about Michael, his character, etc?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh