Envy

CHAPTER 25

Up in heaven, Nigel bolted out of his bed of satins and silks. He hadn’t been at rest—he couldn’t seem to close his eyes without Colin beside him—but waking or slumbering, the vision that came to him would have shocked him into alert no matter the circumstance.

With shaking hands, he drew his robe on over his nakedness. Edward—oh, dearest, stoic Edward.

He had been lost. Just now and down below.

Oh, this was a terrible turn of events. An awful destabilization.

How could this have happened?

Indeed, the conception that one of those two warriors could take a fall was something he had not contemplated in any of his planning: He’d sent the fallen angels to help Jim because they were hard and reslatnt and so very proficient at defending the good that they so often downplayed in themselves. And out of the two of them, Eddie was supposed to survive: he was the prudent and smart one, who balanced his electric, eclectic, out-of-control comrade.

But destiny had corkscrewed on all of them.

“Damn it, damn it . . . damn it . . .”

And there was no bringing Edward back—at least not in any fashion that Nigel could affect: Resurrection was up to the Creator, and the last time an angel had been returned had been . . . never.

Nigel patted his face with a linen handkerchief. He had wagered both Edward and Adrian, thrown them like dice—and now Adrian, the volatile one, was shipwrecked without his compass, his anchor, his captain. And Jim, who already had a distraction, was worse than on his own. He was going to have to look after the other angel.

This was ruinous.

And a fine maneuver on the demon’s part—and yet how had it happened? Edward was always aware. What could have distracted him from his instincts?

Going over to his tea bar, Nigel set about warming the kettle. His hands were shaking as he thought about what he had wrought. Edward had been safely living in the nonsequestered part of this place that Nigel o’ersaw—he’d been waiting to be used, true, and thrilled to have been finally forgiven for breaking the rules and saving Adrian all those years ago. But still.

A fine male. Now he was gone.

It was not to have been thus.

You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel.

Bracing his hands on the marble-topped bombé chest, he could hardly bear the weight on his heart. If he had not sprung them both from their respective purgatories, this would not have happened.

And he had been so arrogantly certain of his choice.

What had he done . . . ?

Standing there, with no one behind him and no one in front of him, alone with his bad thoughts and the burden of his deeds lying heavily within his ribs, he thought of Adrian. Alone. In pain. In the war.

As Nigel struggled for breath he did not need, there was only one entity to turn to in this god-awful solitude. And the fact that Colin was not here, and sadder, that Nigel could not go to the other archangel, made him mourn the state Adrian was in. To have lost your other half was worse than death.

It was torture. Although it was instructive . . .

In the passing course of all Nigel’s faux days and faux nights, in the endless rotation of his pretend meals and his fake croquet games, within the construct of all this self-imposed structure that he engineered to keep him and his archangels from going mad in the infinity they existed in, he had never bent to another’s will. It was not in his nature do to so.

And yet Colin had a part of him.

And unlike Adrian, he could go to his other half, seeking succor in the midst of this fear and loneliness and regret.

Adrian would never have that again: Barring a miracle that would be impossible to grant, he would be separate e’ermore from that other part of himself.

You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel.

When the shrill whistle of the pot broke through the tent, he left the water to carry on, his feet fleet as he took off out of his private quarters and crossed the grounds in a streak of robe.

Per the cycles he set and commanded, night had fallen like a cape of velvet o’er the landscape. Up ahead, flamed torches burned along the battlements and turrets of the castle, and it was toward the flickering glow that he ran over the grass.

Edward was lost.

Colin was here.

And there was too much lawn between them.

Following the manse’s walls, he came to the western-most corner of the fortification and looped to the right. Off in the distance, Colin’s tent was set against the tree line, the squat, low-hung fixture made from heavy woolen tarps supported by squat poles. Unlike Nigel’s private sanctuary, it was small and modest. No silks. No satins. No luxurious accoutrements. The archangel bathed in the rushing stream behind and slept not on a bedding platform, but a cot. One blanket. No pillows. Only books for amusement.

All of this was why Nigel had insisted that they share his quarters, the other archangel having essentially moved in ages ago.

In fact, as he came up to the tent, Nigel realized he had never spent a “night” herein. It had always been Colin who transplanted himself.

When had he even been here last? Nigel wondered.

No jamb upon which to knock.

“Colin?” he said quietly.

When there was no reply, he repeated the name. And did it once more.

There appeared to be no light glowing within, so Nigel summoned a beacon upon his palm, calling up a glow for his eyes. Reaching out, he pulled the tarp aside and led with his hand, the illumination penetrating the dark interior.

Empty.

And indeed, if one didn’t know better, one would think there had been a robbery. There was so little inside. Yes, yes . . . just that field cot with a steamer trunk at its foot. Some leather-bound books. An oil lamp. For the floor, there was not even a woven rug, but merely the grass of the lawn.

Bertie’s and Byron’s quarters, which were on the opposite end of the wall, were as luxurious as Nigel’s own, just kitted out to their individual tastes. And Colin could have had more than this.

Colin could have had the world.

Turning away, Nigel left the tent and went around to the stream. There were towels hanging from tree branches and a set of footprints on the sandy shore.

“Colin . . .” he whispered.

The sound of his own mournful voice was what pulled him up short.

Abruptly, his desperation shocked him and recast his decision to come here in light of the reality of the war: he thought of Jim and Adrian and their weaknesses, weaknesses that were being exposed and exploited by the other side.

He himself was weak when it came to Colin. Which meant he had an unprotected flank.

On a burst of speed, Nigel wheeled about and rushed away, his feet carrying him through the night as he pulled his robes and pride back about him.

The destination of his own quarters was one he must not stray from again.

He was not Adrian. He would not be lost . . . as Adrian was. And he would not be compromised by his emotions as Jim was.

Duty called for such isolation and strength.

And heaven could afford nothing less.