“No. That was Angela.”
Israfel gripped the cushions on the couch, dizzy again. That couldn’t be . . .
“You’re saying that she,” he waved at Angela’s sleeping form, “broke my power.”
Now that irritating Kim and his irritating words made much more sense. He’d mentioned that Raziel’s soul could have been protecting the Archon, possessing her rather than actually being her. Israfel had never considered it before, but there was no reason why that couldn’t be so. The Mirror Pools had merely showed him a figure and form, not the soul inside.
He glanced at her with a strange fear of his own.
“Who is she?”
Silence on Sophia’s part.
Israfel rubbed his head, feeling the hint of a headache upon him. “How I hate your damnable riddles.”
Sophia’s pretty lips threatened to purse together. “Do you remember the Grail, Israfel?”
What? Did he remember? How could he forget? Israfel had never realized how far Raziel’s affections had been swaying back then—until he started to wear Lucifel’s treasure around his neck. That horrid Eye had been so like the Father’s in its poisonous, all-seeing omniscience. How much Israfel had ached to wear that jewel. To conjure the Glaive himself and cut the throat of the sister whom even death couldn’t kill.
“Why,” he said, his voice trembling, “would you mention that cursed thing?”
“Forget about it,” Sophia said, her smile faint but visible. “I was just making sure.”
Angela shifted gently in her sleep.
Sophia’s hand balled into a fist on top of her knee. Her expression appeared conflicted, like she sensed an approaching menace, but didn’t have the means to run away.
Then the footsteps echoed, marching down the outside hallway.
Two jealous lovers had burned their store of patience, tired of waiting for Israfel’s beck and call.
The walls shuddered. His door slammed open, wooden splinters spraying onto the carpeting. The human lock had snapped from his guardians’ brute strength, and now the twins entered with matching strides, Rakir reaching Israfel first, Nunkir creeping behind with a forlorn expression. The more injured of the two, her newfound hatred of humanity had devolved into an even more pathetic need for affection.
Poor little bird. She’d never handled her emotions well.
She caressed Israfel’s stomach, and then touched her brother’s hands, their singular voice echoing inside the room. “Prince Israfel, forgive us, but we are concerned for you.”
They examined Angela and Sophia, dangerous envy boiling behind their green eyes. Nunkir’s bandages swung from her wing, tickling the floor. Israfel gestured for her to lie next to him, and she collapsed, moaning into his lap. He stroked her fine, silver braids, unable to keep from comforting her. Nunkir and her brother probably deserved better than the existence they’d known, their lives before Israfel’s presence more suffering than anything else. Brendan, one of the few creatures to acknowledge the treasures that they were, had made the mistake of going too far, allowing that suffering all over again.
But at least his pain had made up for the insult. Rakir, especially, needed that release.
His sister tilted her head, her green eyes locked shyly on Israfel’s.
Also recognizing his chance, Rakir wrapped his strong arms around Israfel’s chest, and their wings rubbed together, tenderly. His fingers brushed Nunkir’s, eliciting their common voice. “Why do you waste yourself on these creatures? Let us love you. We will always please you more than them. Always.”
Nunkir brushed her lips over the stripes on Israfel’s hands. Then, finding little resistance, the angel pinned him deep within the cushion of Rakir’s arms, her wings flapping with a barely disguised urgency. She brushed the hairs from Israfel’s neck, biting the skin beneath. These were harsh kisses, raw with eons of frustration; poisoned by a deep, envious pain. But that was all right, because sometimes it felt so good to be helpless and broken in another’s embrace. Israfel goaded her on with the teasing touches she hated, a few well-timed sighs. She didn’t have the experience of her brother.
“At least let me clean her up,” Sophia was saying brokenly. “She’ll be confused when she awakens.”
She meant Angela.
Israfel said nothing, allowing his eyes to state his pleasure.
Slowly, as if she were afraid of alerting the guard, Sophia gathered Angela’s gloves and boots from their spot near the wall, carefully grasping a crudely hewn chain between the spaces of her fingers. In a strange gesture of modesty, Sophia then turned her so that they faced the window and dressed her in her gloves and shoes like a doll, swiftly passing the chain around Angela’s neck when she’d finished and rebuttoning what was left of her blouse.