“Yes, you’re right,” Israfel said. “You are a different person.” He examined her further, but with a tact Troy was too savage to possess. How could any angel evolve into a Jinn? Hell must be more terrible than Angela had imagined. “So am I. For some reason,” he said, caressing her cheek, “I haven’t killed you yet.”
I take it back.
“You are not him,” Israfel continued, gentle, “and it would be unwise to let you live now that you’ve seen me. That is—unless you are willing to pay the price.” His body swayed, like a slender lily, and the answer was of course, yes, absolutely. Though he might have been a Supernal, Israfel suddenly appeared so delicate and broken, he might crack asunder if Angela didn’t protect him. “Because all happiness,” he said softly, “has a price.”
Words meant nothing at this point.
She clasped his gloved fingers, noting how he held his palm facing up—not down like most humans when they formally extended a hand.
“You choose wisely.” He shook from her grip, biting his lip. “For the short time you have left, you will be content, I’m sure.” His expression softened, lovely once more. “But, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave and do a favor for a plaything of mine. He’s paid handsomely for my service, and it would be rude to disappoint him, don’t you think?”
That teasing smile. But he sounds more like he’s going to punish this person rather than help them. I should have known. I should remember. Tileaf warned me without saying anything—angels don’t think like us.
“Where are you going?”
As if she could follow or stop him.
Israfel laughed, his voice like a bell. “To a feast for God’s underappreciated servants. Apparently, it’s being held in a church on the Academy grounds you attend.” He glanced at her skirt, her blouse, the dirt and holes in both of them, noting her utter filthiness. “You might want to come. It will be a rather interesting morning for everyone.”
Wind gusted. A flurry of feathers hid his beauty.
Down puffed against Angela’s cheeks and tumbled like snow to the floor.
Israfel had finally opened his wings, but they shone with a damp film, like water had been sprayed on them when she wasn’t looking. There were four of them, two that resembled thick but expansive mats of down smothered in stiffer feathers, and another thinner pair, settled between them and trailing onto the floor. Considering his size, they were slender, elegant, and unable to carry even half of Israfel’s weight. She reached out to touch those pinions, to imprison herself inside of their walls of white and never escape.
He stretched them, flapping, rolling a furious breeze throughout the church, and then he was soaring up through the largest hole in the roof, like his body was made of air rather than flesh. Angela watched him leave without a sound, amazed to see that he was already a white speck fading into the mist and the clouds.
Mine. You’re mine. And I’ll make sure it stays that way. This dream—if it is a dream—can’t end.
No. This wasn’t a dream. She’d given them all away.
What was happening to her? Inside, she felt a terrible possessiveness. Something that scared her almost more than Naamah, Troy, and the thought of possibly battling the Devil herself.
It’s like I’m starving, and the whole world isn’t enough.
Angela clutched her head, still groggy and suddenly sick to her stomach. The shock that had burned between her and her angel, Tileaf’s Creator Supernal, the Devil’s own brother, Heaven’s highest angel, was fading and her thoughts raced and her body weakened all over. She trembled, running fingers through the hair tangled near her neck, glancing around wildly at the church and its decay, like she could bring him back or make him even more real than he was. But why had he changed so drastically from what she’d seen in her visions, in Tileaf’s memories?
He was now white as snow—and yet dark. Like he’d painted over his soul as much as his eyelashes.
A plaything, he’d said. That didn’t sound right. Who could it be, anyway?
Israfel had been referring to the All Saints’ Day feast, scheduled for late morning at the same cathedral where she’d spoken to Kim. All the university grades would be there, celebrating Mass with at least one hundred priests and novices, and worst of all, Stephanie Walsh.
As head of one of the Academy’s sorority houses, she would be expected to show her face—if she was still alive. And if she was alive, Stephanie had definitely been planning some kind of evil in the hours that passed. Maybe she’d even murdered Sophia out of spite.