Now she felt too exposed.
Angela clutched at her shirt, shivering both from the breeze and the implications of his words.
She imagined Kim’s searing touch and the tickle of his lips on her neck.
And she hated herself for wanting it all without having to choose.
Israfel’s wings folded, disappearing with a flash of light. Slowly, he slipped out of his coat and tossed it at her, nodding tersely in a way that demanded she wear it. “Come,” he said, and while he left to glide for the altar, he looked over his shoulder to smile at her. “I want to show you something, Angela.”
The way he said her name—it was so unlike the way he’d said Kim’s.
As if she were the most interesting and precious person in the world.
She slid on the coat, her tall body still not tall enough to keep the cloth from dragging across the floor.
It was heavy, yet Israfel had worn it like he’d been carrying a thought.
She did her best to step around the puddles, feeling like a bride walking down a broken aisle. The windows on either side had no more color to give, all but one smashed and cracked. The pews stank, and the air was heavy with mist. Ahead of it all, though, like a beacon on the stormy wreck that was her life, Israfel waited, his hand gracefully extended. She marched slowly up the steps and took it, surprised by the strength in his fingers.
“What now?” she said, demanding like he had demanded.
He answered with another smile.
She tried to move to the side, but he stopped her, clamping his fingers on her wrist.
“Match my steps,” he said, the whisper a soft command.
They began slowly: Israfel swept to the right, and she followed. To the left, and Angela copied him. Then they moved faster, turning in circles, lifting their hands so that their fingertips met high in the air, brushing in close and backpedaling once more to a flirtatious distance.
With a rush of excitement, it hit her.
They were dancing, and Israfel continued to ignore her clumsy attempts, making up for them with his own grace, keeping them in perfect balance and rhythm with his talent alone. Every move he made—was utterly fascinating. Every curve of his figure—was flawless. Soon, all that existed was his voice, singing in words that dropped like diamonds from his lips. The language was unknown to her, but just as in Tileaf’s grotto, she knew this song was for her and her alone.
He’d seemed to reach the end, and a flash of familiar light whitened the church.
His wings had reappeared.
Angela gasped at a sharp sensation of weightlessness.
They were aloft, and though he wasn’t flapping, they rose higher anyway, lifted by a mysterious force. In moments the dilapidated floor was far below them, and they were at the ceiling, and Angela wanted to scream from sheer exhilaration, from the breeze, and the craziness, and the glory of it all.
Israfel never gave her a chance.
In a final breathtaking move, his two largest wings arched around her and snapped back just as quickly, causing some feathers to blow loose from the force. As if to match a series of lilting notes, the fallen feathers disintegrated into dust.
It fell like a shower of crystals, all around them.
For a second they seemed to condense, taking the shape of a set of glassy stairs. For a brief second, she saw the angel from her dreams who’d spoken to her and told her to live for something . . . or for someone. For a second, Angela wondered if that someone could be Israfel—or Kim. Then she stared back at her angel through the unearthly rain, at the eyes that had defined every choice in her life.
With a shudder, she finally realized why and how her brother had fallen.
Thirty
And he said to them, “I will be alone this long night. Is there no one who will watch with me?”
—THE SUPERNAL ISRAFEL, A Collection of Angelic Lore
Israfel worked a needle into his arm, blocking out the world with his two largest wings.
The room of the abandoned rectory was dark, and he could barely see the dime-sized scars covering his right arm up to the elbow. His own fault, in the end. Israfel had waited too long between one dose and the next, losing the time that could have opened an old scar rather than make a new one.
He forced a whimper into his mouth, biting back more pain.
A sharp sting—and the needle slipped beneath skin.
Then the comforting fire began to flow through his body, one inch after the next. He gave the needle’s plunger a few light taps, intending to lengthen the process. Drop by drop had become his rule when working with a limited supply.
There was a gentle sigh, and the rustle of cloth.
Angela Mathers, Brendan’s sister, slept in a drunk and uncomfortable position at Israfel’s right, her blouse half open and an arm covering her eyes. A crystal glass rested exactly where she’d dropped it, near to her hips. Now as the soft candlelight wavered and Israfel’s body numbed over, he joined her again, staring down at her face, finding himself unable to look away.