The Reaping was going quietly. There were very few demons around this week. It seemed that most had been called to the Nivelle offensive, along with the usual drafts of Reapers and angels, and stayed on for the Battle of the Observatories.

Humphries had been called to Folkestone to help with an air raid. England's vile weather had caused the Germans to send aeroplanes rather than the Zeppelins which were so vulnerable to high winds. Alan had promised to report to Engineer Edward 'Smitty' Smithfield on the effectiveness of the 'planes– greater mastery of wind, far more maneuverable, equal problems with fog, smaller payload but larger numbers, equal flammability but harder to target, and immense potential for destruction. Reports over a cup of tea were well enough, but Alan wanted to bring Smitty along to witness the next raid first-hand.

Alan checked his List and drifted towards the group of rescue workers trying desperately to revive another victim.

Sorenson moved behind him. "Angel at your seven," he murmured, "trying very hard to look harmless."

Alan turned. A chick. Nervous and embarrassed. "Keep him off me while I reap?"

"My pleasure," said Sorenson, and moved to face the Junior Pigeon, skewering him with a flat look which suggested ange en brochette et flambé had appeared on the menu.

Alan checked his watch, scythed his Reap, reviewed its brief records. The soul looked into the Light, cried "Oh! Johnny!" and rushed into eternity.

Ticking off the entry on his List, Alan turned back to his reaping partner. Sorenson was standing at relaxed ready, as one considering the merits of various herbs and spices. The angel looked terrified. Alan sighed. Just a hatchling, really. Couldn't draw his flaming sword without setting his wings afire.

He stepped up, bowed slightly, and announced himself. "Senior Collections Agent Humphries, London Operations."

The angel tucked his wings well back, placed his palms together over his breast, and bowed without taking his eyes off the Reapers. Well, good; their training was improving. "Erlon, Flight G-16, honored sir. A message from the Ser- ah, the entity Sandriel, if you are willing to accept it."

An incomplete introduction. It might be ignorance, or it might be several other things. "Which, if any, Garrison do you serve?"

The angel blushed. "Your pardon, honored sir. Erlon, Flight G-16, trainee, in the service of the London Garrison, on temporary messenger duty for the entity Sandriel."

Color-Sergeant Bourne had really wound this kid up tight. His gears were near stripping. "Thank you. I would be pleased to accept a message from the honored Sandriel." Who needed to be honored with a kick up the arse. However, that kick was not Alan's to give, and had apparently been ably administered by a fearsome superior in Sandriel's own hierarchy. It was time to make peace.

The angel, looking greatly relieved, took a deep breath. "Sandriel to the honored Reaper and wise counsellor Alan Humphries; Hail, my companion in battle and in thought."

Oh my, thought Alan. Several kicks.

"I wish to extend my greatest apologies for the clumsiness which has cost you so dearly. Such regrets must be offered in person, as well as reports on efforts made to correct the underlying situation. Pray name the date, hour and place which is most convenient to you."

This, from an angel to a reaper? It was still "Get yer butt over here," but the phrasing indicated that somebody of exalted rank wanted this conflict resolved. "Efforts to correct" sounded promising. Right. Fists crossed over chest, bow in return, never take your eyes off him in case the immaturity was a glamour and an act.

"Humphries of London to the honored Sandriel, comrade in arms, whose hands hold mercy and healing; Hail. If it is convenient for you as well, pray meet me at the Academy, outside Greyhame Hall, this day at 1700 hours, which is the end of my last class. We shall stroll in the leafy avenues or rest in the Cafeteria or find an unused classroom as it pleases you."

Erlon repeated the message faultlessly, bowed again and flashed away. Sorenson gave Humphries his standard don't-try-to-ditch-me glare. "It's okay, Mitch. They want something from me. But yes, I'll try to keep him outside in the open. He'll expect you or Eric to be in the background."

Alan dismissed his students, having given them much to ponder. This was an advanced final-year class. They had been provided with many facts that were not on the syllabus, though Alan was quietly working towards having them all inserted into the curriculum. There would be furious disputation in the staff lounges and meetings. Alan was rather looking forward to it. He gathered his materials, locked them in his office, and left the building. Sorenson trailed him, looking for any trouble.

Across the walkway, a figure sat on a park bench. Sandriel had assumed the form and dress of a student belonging to this year's graduating class. He'd kept enough of his aura to ward other students away from the bench. Alan thought about borrowing Erlon to introduce his students to an actual angel. Currently their knowledge of angels was received from older reapers, most of whose stories were of bad experiences and painful injuries. The students would learn a great deal. So would Erlon. But no; unfair to the students to teach them to expect better treatment from the angels until the angels themselves became accustomed to the notion. Far better for his students to be cautious.

Alan crossed the walkway and stopped a wary three paces from Sandriel's bench. "Hail, angel."

Sandriel winced. "Please, Alan, sit. Tell your escort I intend you no harm."

"Yet harm was done. Even we must be safe in our homes. Was it Elihu who pushed his way over the threshold, or was it you? Never mind, I'll ask Molly. She is not going to forget that. She'll make sure no one else forgets it either. Must have been a surprise to find a room full of belligerents. Eric arriving right behind you must have been unwelcome, too. It could have gone very badly for you. Has gone badly. Our guests have spread this story broadcast. It's put all our people on alert for retaliatory expeditions from your junior Flight. Engineering is working on ways to keep angels out. And all this when relations between London's Branch and Garrison were going so well, too."

"Peccavi, mea maxima culpa. Tell them to add demonic repellants as well, as long as they're at it. I wanted your side of the story. I should have waited, gone through protocol. But I thought I could also expedite your healing, which led me to unwise haste and an inexcusable breach of manners." Sandriel held out his hand, offering a stoneware soup bowl.

Alan accepted the bowl cautiously. "Did you have any trouble with taking this home?" The Divine Realm was forbidden to Reapers. Alan had no idea if that extended to their kitchenware.

"No, except that it looked at me accusingly until I hid it under the bed. The transfer did not harm or change it. Stoneware is of the earth, the essence of the human realm, and it aspires to no other place or form. Tell me, O best, bravest, and snarkiest among Reapers, can we again be friends?"

"Knock off the sarcasm. Of course we are friends. I suppose you've already received a copy of my report to Will. I imagine you know more about the attack than I do by now. Any more problems with that Flight?"

"None. Color-Sergeant Bourne's opinion is virtually tattooed on the inside of their eyelids. Captain Elihu made them recite that passage from the Law every hour on the hour for three days. General Artois expressed a level of displeasure that sent most of the Training Officers into a catastrophic moult. Changes have been made. Other flights with training deficiencies have been traced and recalled."

Alan smothered a chuckle. "Good, then. What do you need from me? A signed notification that all is forgiven and forgotten? Well, forgiven, anyway?"

Sandriel sobered and glanced away. "No. I have been instructed to make amends. More than just an apology with appropriate groveling, though you may have all of that you wish, not that you'd like it. You may ask me a boon. If it is something that I cannot give, you may ask another until we find one mutually acceptable."

"So I can't just buy you a drink and send you home?"

"No. I must render you a service of note, to the best of my ability and in the sight of your people."

"Okay. Peacemaking, I see. It has to be done. It has to be seen to be done, and it has to please Azrael. And it must please your superior. And it must please my Realm as well. Um. Nothing forbidden. You're the expert on that."

They sat in silence while Alan thought. Sorenson leaned against a tree, watching the passersby, smiling to himself and projecting an aura of incipient mayhem.

"Sandriel, will you walk with me?"

"Of course. Would you like to be reborn to human life?"

"No. I will not leave Eric. You should know that. Do you not serve a God of Love? Twit. You angels do tend to be a little inexperienced on the subject. How's Matthias, do you know?"

"Matthias?"

"An angel sentenced to the human realm for starting an unauthorized family. Father to three Nephilim. Recently recalled to heaven from the battlefields of Flanders. I check up on his wife and daughter every so often, just to see that nobody's taking advantage of their men being gone. He once served me the finest tea I've ever tasted. Nice fellow."

"Don't know him, but I'll check. What is this?"

They had entered an area of rapid, purposeful activity. There were several portals though which ambulances came, were emptied, and departed. Other portals were dedicated to foot traffic. Angels and Reapers moved between the tents carrying trays of equipment, medicines, bandages and food.

"This tent city, as you know perfectly well already, is the Angel/Reaper Hospital. Please tell this nice ferocious guard that we mean no harm. Humphries, London, instructor. My identification. My escort, Senior Sorenson. His identification. This? It's a soup bowl, for Pete's sake. Thanks. Come along. We want Tent Twelve."

The tent was quiet. Nurses moved silently among the beds. Alan led Sandriel to the back and stopped by a patient who had no visible injuries. He was pale and appeared to have lost weight recently. His face was drawn with pain; his breathing had an odd whistling note. Sorenson brought a chair. Alan gestured Sandriel to sit down.

"Werther. Sorry to bother you. Someone's here to look at your condition."

"Urf…Alan? 'M okay really, just tired…"

Sandriel laid a hand on Werther's chest. There was a horrible twisting of malice and anger within. Werther moaned. This was…a parasite. A parasitic…not an illness, not an injury…a curse. Sandriel looked up.

"Alan, this is awful. What does this to a Reaper?"

"This is the Thorns of Death. It's a curse laid on a Reaper by a vengeful soul. Used to be fairly uncommon. Now on the battlefields we are suddenly seeing a lot of it, especially when the Reapers are tired or have injuries that haven't quite healed. There is no cure. It is progressive and fatal."

Sandriel slipped his other hand under Werther's back. There was a scent of spring rain. Werther sighed and relaxed as the pain faded. Not a remedy, but a temporary relief. Alan spoke softly.

"This is my request, Sandriel. Find a cure for this. Our numbers are falling lower and lower. We cannot spare the hundreds worldwide who are cursed. They die faster than we can train replacements. We are becoming too few to accomplish the duties assigned to us. Soon another disaster will begin. When our noncombatants have all been activated and lost, the system will collapse."

Alan sank to one knee, held the stoneware bowl before him, bowed low. "Merciful Seraph, I beg this boon of you."

"Oh, get up. Drop the drama. You look ridiculous. This sort of thing is beyond my experience. Curses are the property of the Demonic realm."

Alan straightened up and rested his arms on his knee. "Drama indeed, but it's the proper form; I checked it in the Book of Law today when Will was off-duty. You're stuck with it."

He handed Sandriel the bowl. "I've chosen my boon and you're obligated to do your best. Under the circumstances it's perfectly reasonable. We are going to run out of Reapers. It's not just this war, but disasters yet to come. The induction rates in the Academies keep increasing. Many branches in many countries are reduced to fielding Juniors too young to serve. This is the result for most of the ones not lost to demons."

Alan rose to his feet and brushed his trousers. "If curses belong to the Demonic, then curse-breaking is the rightful duty of the Celestial. Finding a fix will make Azrael happy, it'll make us happy, and that should please your boss Raphael, the Angel of Healing. Oops, not supposed to know that. Sorry. Well. All good. Want some tea? The cafeteria here is not as bad as it used to be."

Sandriel snorted. Werther snickered and said, "Do hurry, please, the Branch is about to inherit my debt at the candy shop."

"We are keeping your candy jar filled. I'll tell everyone to start charging it to your account. See, Sandriel, another reason to make haste. Pity the poor confectioner."

Sandriel stood and huffed. "I'd better get started then. For the confectioner's sake." He placed the bowl, now filled with individually wrapped candies, on Werther's bed. Silently he flashed away home.

Mitch unwrapped a golden sweet to offer to Werther, who accepted it happily. "Butterscotch. Mm. A little blessing's been added to these, I think. I'll share them around the hospice when I'm discharged. I won't say anything about this, Alan. It would be unkind to get their hopes up. Some of them are so young…"

When Alan returned to the office the next morning, a tin of tea was on his desk. It was the same blend that Matthias had once served him, in the house in London.