Angel Fever

29

RAZIEL HAD ARRIVED IN SCHENECTADY Eden earlier than planned – and though his church quarters here were as luxurious as all his others, he found it impossible to relax; this particular church was too full of associations. It had been here where Willow and her assassin boyfriend had first met. Here, too, where Paschar had died, blasted into oblivion by Kylar’s bullet on the front steps.

I don’t believe in omens, Raziel reminded himself darkly.

He was sitting in his church office, going over the list of angels who’d accompanied Bascal on the Nevada attack. Part of him wanted to strike against Pawntucket immediately, especially given the scouts’ report. Caution made him wait. It all came down to Willow, somehow – who had almost certainly slipped through the net in Nevada.

One of the angels on this list knew how. And when Raziel had finished with them, they’d be begging to share all they knew.

A knock came. Raziel frowned to see Bascal come in – late, of course. The little thug looked disgustingly pleased with himself, despite his utter failure to do away with Fields and Kylar.

“Everyone’s here,” Bascal said, sprawling in a lushly upholstered chair. “Over five thousand. The place won’t support them much longer – but then we’ll be attacking soon, right?”

“When I’m ready,” muttered Raziel, going back to the list. He shoved it across to Bascal. “Who do you think?”

Bascal leaned forward; without asking, he plucked a silver pen from the desk. “Not these guys,” he said, crossing names off. “They were all part of the main attack. But some went looking for other AKs while we finished up in the training room.”

A map of the base lay on the desk; Raziel tapped his lower lip as he studied it. “Did you search down these corridors? Especially this one.” He indicated the route to the garage. Maddeningly, Bascal hadn’t taken an inventory of the vehicles in the place before he’d torched it.

Bascal nodded. “Six or seven did, but most of them were killed. Zaran’s the only one who made it back – he says that corridor was empty.”

Zaran. Raziel’s dark gaze narrowed. Not someone he knew well, though Zaran was one of the angels who’d also enjoyed human energy, back before all angelkind came here. Unusually private, even for an angel – when they’d all been linked, the joke had been that you couldn’t even get the weather from Zaran’s thoughts.

“You know, I think I’d like to have a little chat with Zaran,” mused Raziel.

Bascal’s eyes glinted. “That guy, huh? You know, I never did like him. He’s sneaky.”

“Go get him,” Raziel ordered. “Don’t let him know what’s going on – and bring some backup.”

“Will do.” Bascal rose; as he turned to leave, he paused and reached into his pocket. “Oh – almost forgot. Present for you.” He tossed a small framed picture onto Raziel’s desk with a clatter.

Raziel stiffened with unpleasant surprise. Willow as a small child, smiling up through the branches of a weeping willow tree. “Where did you get this?”

Bascal grinned. “At the base – found it in one of the bedrooms that wasn’t destroyed. Thought you might want it. Spoil of war and all that.”

A willow tree. The willow tree, presumably: it would have been just like Miranda to take her there. “Thank you so much,” Raziel said with distaste. “Anything else?”

Bascal pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it over. “Kinda sweet, huh?” he sneered. “Wouldn’t have thought Kylar was the poetic type.”

Raziel opened out the well-worn page. My home is in your touch and in your eyes… He made a face. “No, quite,” he said, tossing it aside. It was the photo that kept drawing him; his daughter’s joyful smile was mesmerizing.

“We’ve got a date with Zaran,” he reminded Bascal. The other angel saluted ironically.

Once he’d left, Raziel leaned back in his chair. The office around him was decorated in quiet good taste: golds and browns; leather and soft fabrics. He scarcely noticed it. He picked up the photo, studying Willow’s face with an intense frown. So like her mother.

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe now that he’d ever been so smitten by a human woman; the week Miranda had spent away from college with her grandparents had dragged into infinity, so that he’d actually travelled up from New York City to this backwater region just to savour her again. That must have been the time it happened, since she’d been so revoltingly sentimental as to name the child “Willow”.

The photo’s appearance now of all times was unnerving. It forcibly brought back his dreams of Miranda – her face, gazing up at him. You know, I’m often confused now…

Raziel’s teeth gritted. The dreams mean nothing, he reminded himself. Miranda was dead; before that she’d been catatonic. She could not be haunting him.

Their child was a different matter.

“You were wise to run, my daughter,” Raziel murmured to the blonde, smiling girl. He stroked a finger over the frame. “But you can’t run fast enough. I’ll find you very soon – you, and whatever powers you’re hiding.”