After a reasonably quiet office shift, Eric ported back to check on Alan. Amalia Reyes followed with a knitting bag. They found the patient sitting up in bed with a book. "Hi, Molly. You don't need to sit with me, really. I'm just going to sleep."
"Of course, you're fine. I'm only here to let the nurse in when she comes to check on you."
"I can get the door–"
"Well, for Heaven's sake don't admit that! Lie there and look pitiable. I haven't had a moment to pick up my knitting for weeks. If you spoil this chance for me, I will stab you with all four needles. These socks were intended to be a promotion present. I'm over two months late finishing them."
Eric chuckled and eased Alan down on his pillow. "Interested in food?"
"No. The pills haven't worn off enough for me to be hungry. I can fall back on tea and biscuits later. Are my bruises fading?"
"All the colors of the rainbow, but yes, fading. I'm leaving Molly some money in case the nurse scolds ye for not eating. Have her order anything ye want, once yer appetite is back. I have to run, I'm due at the portals in five minutes. I'll be back tonight as soon as I can offload my reaps."
Eric returned rather worn at the end of his Reaping shift. Rather than drip blood and muck on his apartment floors, he used the office showers to clean up. Besides, all that gore might worry Alan. His clothing went into a labelled bag and down the laundry chute. He dressed from his locker. He went looking for Avram.
Avram Jacobs was at a desk in the Personnel area, reading student applications for next year's internships. "Ah, Eric! Bless you for getting me out of Spears' entourage. Hard shift?"
"Messy. Machine guns versus infantry and leaders who can't adjust. Avram, I need yer thoughts and experience."
"All yours for the price of this desk in perpetuity, or at least until we are all forcibly reassigned."
"Deal. You are going to replace Birch. I'm planning to bring in another Reaper soon. You'll like him. Train him for Garraway's position. That will keep you right here unless things fall apart. It'll also keep you safe from inheriting Alan's position in the future. Listen, my friend. I spoke with a demon a couple of days ago."
"Dangerous. Your question?"
"He behaved. Why? We had a civil conversation, mostly. Only one overt spoken threat. No attack, just acknowledgement of a previous encounter. He ran on about his current Contract."
"The Contract is confining or disappointing him in some unexpected way. Sounds like he's bored and lonely for talk with an equal. It's a compliment, but do not drop your guard for an instant."
"Ach, never. He's vain and likes to talk. We've met and fought before. Perhaps he finds me amusing. Also there is a bit of respect on both sides. I'm nearly his match in a fair fight. But I found it strange."
"Could it be simply that he is not hungry? If he despises his master, he could very well be snacking on the side. Not uncommon, especially when surrounded by such a banquet as a battlefield. Or for some reason he sees an advantage in courting you. He could be after one of your friends, but the Contract should be his only interest until it ends. Yes, it's odd."
"And Reaper Admin is cooperating with Infernal Admin."
"Because they're swamped. Ahh. Maybe –? Possibly. Interesting. I want to think about this and ask some questions. Go home, Eric, see how Alan's doing and get some rest."
Eric went home and found a stone-soup party in his parlor.
Alan was lying flat on a cot from the first-aid room, wrapped up in a blanket, a sign that his back still ached. He was awake and enjoying himself. Grell was near him on a kitchen chair from her own apartment. Ronald Knox sat cross-legged on a cushion at her feet. Amalia was knitting on the sofa, with Marisa Solway and Liz Brodie beside her. Iris Quirke had brought in an office chair. There was a bottle of wine and several mismatched glasses, platters of tempting nibbles, half a chocolate cake, a tea service from the Cafeteria, and a general festive air. An aroma from the kitchen indicated that the soup was not half bad for a crème de bottom shelf.
Two angels were settling themselves in chairs brought in from a common room. Eric automatically touched the knife in his vest, then dropped his hand casually.
In the middle of the room, Caroline Cortland stood with a sheet wrapped around her waist. Chichima Onayemi was in the only comfortable easy chair, working under two standing lamps, stitching a tuck into the waistband of a pair of standard-issue trousers.
"The demons're losing their edge," Iris was saying. "The Ravenings are tapering off. They are much more careful about whom they attack. If they don't achieve an immediate advantage, they back off and regroup. If the second attack goes badly, or if we come after them first, they scatter and do not return."
"The individuals are less aggressive. Their leaders are cautious," said Knox, rising to peruse the platters. He took a cracker with a bit of cheese and found a space against the far wall. "Could we have killed enough of them to make a difference?"
"Hello, everyone," Eric said as he removed his tie. The others called greetings. The knife went up his sleeve. He hung up his coat and vest. "Aye, Ronnie, mayhap, especially the lower ranks. We've been thinning them out pretty heavily." He went over to Alan. "Ye've not been into the wine, have you?"
"No, just tea. Wine's right out for another twelve hours. Help yourself, you must be parched. The tea's just been rebrewed. The soup's excellent, almost a fish chowder. Captain Elihu and Sandriel have just arrived."
Eric set the other kitchen chair by Alan, fetched himself a cup of tea and settled down with his feet planted firmly on the floor. Captain Elihu was a stranger. Sandriel was…an ally. Maybe. He seemed to tolerate Eric. He had worked with Alan, seemed to like him, but it was uncertain whether it was 'like' as a friend or 'like' as an interesting specimen to pin to a cork. Eric, long on experience and short on trust, was very much on his guard.
"I think the demons aren't so hungry as they were," said Chichima. "Here, Caro, try this on now. Gentlemen, cover your eyes please." Hands were raised around the room. There was some shuffling of fabric, and a very faint sound as Knox improved his position near the Admins who would not be carrying weapons.
"Amazing what a difference a little tailoring makes. Gentlemen, you may uncover your eyes." Cortland was now wearing a pair of trews that looked like they would not fall down. "Thanks, Chichi. Why can't London Supplies do these properly?"
"Well, my dear! London!" sniffed Grell. "British fashion is an oxymoron. What can you expect from a Division which doesn't supply suits in female sizes? But Paris is only forty miles away from Headquarters. I know a shop there that is running about fifteen to twenty years ahead of human fashion. The couturier actually likes women. Doesn't truss them up stiff as statues to keep them helpless, or drape them in ways that require constant effort to avoid indecent exposure. Understands hips and busts and waistlines. She can alter your suits to fit properly. She can also make far better clothing for your purposes, especially if you can provide a bolt of decent pre-war material. So many of the mills have gone over to producing cloth for uniforms now. She makes real pantsuits for women, practical but glamorous. Very popular among Paris Admin, who have never let Supplies dictate their clothing."
"Comfortable, and graceful, too. I love mine," said Marisa Solway, sliding down comfortably onto the sofa cushions. "And, of course, they absolutely infuriate the stuffy old fellows, which is a definite plus."
"Heaven knows they need a boost out of the mud they've been stuck in forever," added Liz Brodie, Eric's own AA, leaning to one side on the arm of the sofa. "Nothing like outrage to squirt a little aerated blood through an inactive brain."
Both admins' heads were now below the top of the sofa's backrest. Molly was ready to defend them. Every other armed guest had a clear path to the angels.
"Caro, you and Chichima should visit her. Tell the couturier you want to see a pair of Iris's two-piece beach pajamas in white silk, to be worn over a business blouse and white vest. They're loose and flowing. Plenty of room for pockets. They hide wrist and ankle knives and drape close enough not to get in the way. She'll show you a number of defensive options, pockets and sheaths. Add a pair of white boots. You'll be comfortable and unconfined and you will look like angels of mercy. Grell, have you tried that style?"
"Well, no, Mari. My brown suit is a warning. Everyone already knows it's worn by one who will not tolerate disrespect. If I changed my costume now, I'd have to reteach that lesson to a Realm full of idiots. It's enough to be out of the boring Reaper black. Sadly, the man's cut fits me. But you're right, the Ravenings aren't nearly as big as they used to be."
Alan shifted uncomfortably. "According to the French Reapers, the Ravenings in North Africa are falling off as well. Just enough to be noticeable. It's hearsay, though. Eric, can you help me to sit up?"
"Stabbity stab stab," growled Molly.
"I just want a cup of tea, Molly. I'm not trying to escape. You know I want to see how that tube you're knitting resolves itself into two socks. Eric's here to keep me honest."
So Alan was worried too. "I'll bring ye another pillow to lean on." Eric went into the bedroom, slipped Alan's knives into the pillowcase, and returned to the party. He eased Alan into a sitting position with the pillow at his back. The knives left the pillowcase for a handy spot in the blankets. Eric then poured a cup for Alan and refilled his own. "Want anything else?"
"No, thanks."
"Pill's worn off?"
Alan smiled. "Just a little drowsy. The pain is manageable and should fade away sometime tonight. I'm cleared for duty tomorrow. We can eat breakfast in the cafeteria. Don't worry, everything will probably be fine." Don't assume we're under attack. They may just have questions about yesterday.
Sorenson came in from the kitchen and handed Eric a bowl of soup and a spoon. Eric looked a question at him and received a wink. As Eric took his first spoonful, Mitch returned to the kitchen. He emerged with two more bowls of soup, which he politely presented to the angels. He then leaned casually against the wall next to the door, thumbs hooked into his belt near his knife sheath.
The soup was indeed very good. Contributions had included onion, carrot, celery, potato and a piece of whitefish. Bacon was involved. Even a bay leaf.
Clever Molly. She'd set this up to keep Alan from fretting and demanding to go into work. As the host, he could not leave.
The angels had arrived uninvited and unannounced. They'd come to see Alan and found a crowd of witnesses. Most were armed or able to summon arms. The rest knew to get out of the way. None of them were inclined to go along with a demand to get lost while the grownups talk. Eric finished the very good soup and decided to precipitate things, in case the angels intended to linger until all the other guests had left.
He looked up and tried to see his home through angelic eyes. To him it was warm, comfortable and welcoming. But to an angel? Bare. Dim. Windowless except for the kitchen. Cramped, with a low ceiling to fit the maximum number of rooms into the building. Badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Minimal furniture, patched and faded, scuffed by many different renters. Floors and counters worn from years of scrubbing. Water stains on walls and ceiling from old plumbing leaks. Rooms were usually refurbished between tenants who seldom stayed more than five years. He and Alan had been living here for twenty-five, and frantically busy for all of it. He had a flash of curiosity; what was Bristol's housing like, if London's was not considered substandard? D'Acres had himself a job and a half, forcing Maintenance to bring that midden up to code.
His home would look like a cave, a dungeon, to an angel. But there those angels sat. They could have, should have arranged a meeting at the Branch. For some reason that was unacceptable.
They wanted something badly enough to come here to get it. Badly enough to stay when they found many Reapers instead of finding one injured man alone. Badly enough to accept a bowl of stone soup and, with it, the traditional obligations of a guest. The parlor was too small for scythe work and sword swinging, but dandy for knives. If the angels jumped up from their chairs they would bang their heads on the ceiling, possibly bringing down some plaster. They were sitting right below a discolored crack.
He looked over at Alan. Alan gave him a let me lead look. Eric smiled at him grimly. Go to it.
"Captain Elihu, to what do we owe your visit?"
Elihu was very calm for an angel pinned in a too-narrow, too-low chair with a bowl of hot soup on his lap, surrounded by strategically placed, dangerous green-eyed creatures who were suspicious of his motives. He took a deliberate spoonful of his soup to demonstrate his harmlessness. "I would happily have come for no more than this excellent soup. Delicious. However, Sandriel is concerned about your injury and the circumstances surrounding it. He has already had my description of the event and would like to hear yours."
Alan inclined his head. "Of course. I have not yet supplied a written report, but I believe Senior Sorenson has, and he was an eyewitness. I am sure Director Spears would be pleased to send you a copy for your files."
"I would very much appreciate that," said Sandriel. "I would also like to request a copy of your own report when it is written. But now, please, tell me everything that happened, from before the attack to the point where Elihu dismissed the offender."
Alan tried to put his teacup on the floor, but could not bend that far. Eric caught it before it fell and set it under the cot out of the way, then placed his mug and soup bowl beside it. Alan waited until Eric had risen to a standing position, then laid his hands on his lap.
"I was called to the site of an airship bombing raid. I had located a Reap under a heap of rubble. I reviewed the life records, snipped them away and gathered them in, and offered the soul up for judgement. All absolutely by the Book."
The Reapers all nodded.
"The soul was much stained, the judgement severe. But the records showed difficult circumstances and an act of selfless courage at the end. I offered these to the Light, and the soul was granted one more chance, committed to the Library for eventual rebirth rather than to Hell."
The Reapers all nodded. So did the angels.
"Suddenly I was cursed by an angel behind me. He objected to my plea against the initial judgement. As I gathered in the soul, I was struck from behind. I thought it was a demon until I stood and turned. The angel was raising his sword. I pinned his boot to the ground to limit his range of attack. I caught the bottom of his shield and rammed it up into his face. Mister Sorenson was coming to scythe him from the side but halted his attack when Captain Elihu caught the angel's sword arm and stopped the fight. I wish to state that the angel's whole intent was to destroy me."
Sandriel said quietly, "Senior Sorenson. Please tell me exactly what you saw."
Mitch detached himself from the wall, standing foursquare in front of the only exit.
"Sir. I saw my reaping partner doing his duty to a soul awaiting judgement. An angel nearly twice his height, in standard field uniform, armed with the customary spiked shield, fiery sword and heavy boots, approached Senior Humphries. The angel shouted at him. The angel kicked him, lost his balance for a moment on the rubble, regained his stance and raised his sword.
Mister Humphries had gotten to his feet. He jammed his scythe through the angel's left foot into the ground. The angel again lost his balance. Mister Humphries caught the waving shield and drove it into the angel's face.
"I stepped up to gut the bastard, but Captain Elihu intervened. The fight stopped. No help was called for either party's injuries. The angel was freed to seek medical aid. Mr. Humphries sought treatment only after he had completed his end-of-shift duties. He was given pain medications which he could not take before giving formal instruction to the offending angel's entire flight. For details of his injuries, contact Dr. Theodore Collins at the Academy. All this I saw and have attested to."
Sandriel looked at Elihu. Elihu winced. "True, sir. Mister Humphries, I extend my humblest apologies. I did not take into account the differences in physical strength between angels and reapers. I should have summoned medical help for you, and requested your services once you had fully recovered."
Alan shrugged wearily. "The lecture probably had more impact delivered on the same day. Captain Elihu, I am sorry for your difficulties. I do not blame you for any of this. General Artois has repeatedly referred to me as that worrisome little man. I appear to have become the same to you. My apologies."
He turned to Sandriel. "This isn't going to just disappear under the nearest rug, is it? Because you don't know how many Flights have been sent out half-trained, or where they may be serving. Are you checking Garrisons for reports of angels with non-demonic wounds? Looking for official Branch complaints of angelic assault or interference? All quickly and quietly filed away?"
"This will not disappear," Sandriel affirmed. "I cannot yet say that it will not happen again, for as you say, we must find out which flights are undertrained and where they have been posted. However, no further Flights will be activated without full training. Would you be willing to give that lecture to other flights?"
"If you can schedule it with the Academy and my superiors. Your own instructors could read the same words from the same Book. Remember, Sandriel, I am a Reaper and forbidden the Light. I cannot come into the Divine Realm to teach. I know the Auditorium's seating is uncomfortable for beings so much larger than our own students, but I don't know anywhere else that would be any better…wait, maybe there is. The London Lab had an entry into the Divine Realm. If that's still there, I could stand on the Reaper side and you could seat your students on the Divine side."
"Their comfort is not the issue," said Sandriel, in a tone that boded no good for whole hosts of undeserving underlings.
"Something interesting happened to me yesterday," said Eric, drawing all attention to himself to give Alan a rest. He looked Sandriel in the eye. "A demon approached me on the battlefield. We sat together for a time. We had a civil conversation. We parted without a fight. No harm done on either side. Compare him to your young angel. Tell me, who is the enemy, and who the ally?"
"A fair question, Mister Slingby. I shall be asking it of many Celestials who are responsible for training the young. This will stop. I swear unto you that this will stop."
"And Alan will not become one of those reapers who just suddenly vanish without a trace?"
"You presume, Reaper!"
"I do," said Eric. "Archangel."
Sandriel's glare eased to a gaze. "Your worrisome little man is safe from me. Be assured, Mister Slingby, that he is valued. For lo, he holdeth up the mirror, and showeth us that we must change. To punish him for that would make us less than we were created to be, are required to be. And your need to defend him reminds us that we need to become better than we are."
"Ouch!" said Knox. "Dim it a bit, guv'nor, our eyes can't abide the glow."
Sandriel damped down the angelfire that had filled the room. "Sorry. Better?"
"Ever so. Ta."
"Would you like some more tea, sir?" offered Miss Solway.
"No, I thank you. We have all that we came for. I have a great deal of work to do, and I would hate for Captain Elihu to be listed as missing in action. Thank you all for allowing us to join this delightful party. The soup was excellent and the company charming."
The angels stood, carefully stooping under the low ceiling, and flashed away home.
"Whooof," said Sorenson.
"Drat, no fight," said Grell.
"Archangel?" said Iris.
"Yes, but not one of Michael's army. Did you notice how he slipped into archaic formal speech for just a moment?" asked Alan. "He has his own agenda, which he pursues around and through all that we're involved in. The Forces Militant just stand aside and stay out of his way."
Eric said, "Let's get their chairs back to the common room. Good thing they remembered to keep their heads down." He reached up to pat the cracked ceiling where they would have struck their heads if they'd stood up straight. The plaster promptly gave way in patches and showered him with a discolored mix of sand and gypsum.
"Looks like the folks upstairs let their bathtub overflow a few times," offered Knox. Eric shook himself and sneezed.
"Alan, me Light, I think it's time we had some repairs scheduled."
"No. We have to move. Angels have never intruded on Association Housing before. Housing has to be instructed to convert this apartment to storage. It won't be safe for residents." Alan's anger was beginning to show through his layers of control. "They knew this address. Where did they learn it? With whom will they share it? Someday, and I think it's inevitable, I may point out something the Angels cannot forgive. We have to go, and go soon, and make sure no others are endangered"
Marisa Solway disentangled herself from the sagging couch. "I will contact Housing first thing tomorrow. They will not fob me off with a roach ranch full of spiders, or linens hosting the mildew of the ages. Meet with me in the morning; you two will move your duffels to a double room in another building – I'll have one assigned – and you will not return here. When I have finished with Housing, we'll go over the listings I think are acceptable. You'll pick out the place you like best. Then we will look at the catalog to select furniture. When your new flat is ready, shall I have them pack up your kitchen? Or do you want to start fresh?"
"Uh, Mari, we both Reap tomorrow. Spears –"
"I'll fix that too. I've learned from you, Alan. I will explain what has happened, what is going to happen, and when I'm done, he'll put his signature on everything I give him. He doesn't trust angels either. Grell, dear, you do have such exquisite taste. Would you advise me as to curtains, because there will be windows, and colors?"
"And a rug or two," said Liz Brodie, "for extra quiet and warmth. Eric and Alan have the rank to request comfort and a regular cleaning schedule."
"Comfy chairs. More room for parties," added Knox.
"Tomorrow it is," said Eric. "But it's getting late. I will leave you to it. Alan needs to sleep off the last of the pain pills. I'm completely worn out. Keep on as long as you like, just turn off the stove and shut the door when you go."
"I will claim your sofa for tonight," said Grell. "They might come back. I think the Captain was still holding your soup bowl."