Surprise flickered across his impassive features. Doubtless it was my assertion that I knew him. He tried to be remote and untouchable as a mountaintop, but I had scaled his heights, breached his imperturbable silence. And now I knew how to interpret his minuscule expressions.
Kel clenched both hands into fists, balanced them upon his knees. “I’m trapped, Corine.”
“I know.” That wasn’t news, however.
His mouth firmed into a taut, angry line. “You don’t. When I report that I’ve failed to recruit you to our cause, my next order will be to kill you.”
My blood chilled in my veins. “You wouldn’t—”
“I don’t want to,” he said, low. “But I am incapable of rebellion.”
“But . . . you were flogged in the arena.” I remembered his scars, and the way he’d trembled when I ran my fingertips across them, how he flinched when I traced the place on his shoulders where his wings used to be. “What for, if not refusing to fall in line?”
“For being a half-breed. For being insolent and irreverent.”
“You were whipped for . . . mouthing off?” I asked, trying to understand. “But you never actually denied a command?”
“If I could, I would have.” His anguish sharpened the words, made a weapon of them, until I had to reach for him.
My palm covered his knotted fist, and I stroked his knuckles until his fingers unfurled beneath mine. Then he turned his hand slowly under mine, until our palms aligned. A small part of me still loved him. Not as you build your dreams around a man, but in the way you love the stars for shining, showering ephemeral brightness.
“What did they make you do?”
“The archangel learned I had a lover,” he said quietly.
I was afraid I knew where this was going. “Asherah, the goddess of desire.”
He shook his head. “Like you, she was human, though she
“He ordered you to kill her?” It seemed like the logical conclusion.
“Yes.” The raw syllable told me how much the memory still hurt him, two thousand years later.
“And you couldn’t refuse.”
“Only humans have free will.”
“But you’re so strong. There must be a way to resist your orders.”
“Do you think I would not walk away from endless war, endless death, if it were so simple?” Kel angled a hard look at me.
He had a point. His archangel—or whatever the hell the creature was—had a powerful hold on him. Maybe magickal compliance was in effect, making Kel think he didn’t have free will, due to the bullshit mythology he had been fed since birth. Regardless, it also meant I was in a hell of a mess. If I didn’t sign on with a being I wasn’t convinced had humanity’s best interests at heart, Kel would kill me. And then he’d spend two thousand years grieving.
“How long do you have before he gets suspicious?”
“I’m not sure. He has many concerns, many agents. And I’m not his most important emissary.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said tiredly.
Kel laced his fingers through mine. “Nor do I. Even before I met you, I was weary of war, sick unto death.”
“But you can’t die.”
“No.” The word carried infinite sorrow.
“I don’t understand what the archangel wants from me. I’m not the Binder anymore. My mother’s magick doesn’t work. Which just leaves the touch. What good could that possibly do him?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But this I promise . . . I won’t hurt you, Corine.”
“You can’t know what the future holds.” If I had the option, I’d take a do-over in Sheol, find some way to save Chance. “Anyway, it’s not our most pressing concern. Can you stall?”
“A few days at least. He won’t expect instant capitulation from you, I think.”
That sounded as if the archangel knew me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. “What’s his name, anyway?”
“Barachiel.”
“Is he an utter bastard?”
The question startled a quiet chuckle out of Kel. “Yes, rather. I used to tell myself that he got his orders from a higher power. It was the only thing that made my mission bearable.”
“Is the bloom off the rose?”
He inclined his head. “I am unable to grasp how it can matter to a divine being whether you work for Barachiel or not. Lately, it seems as if his will has supplanted any other . . . if there ever was anything more.”
I hated to see the pain engineered by such a crisis in faith, but it might be better that he had lost his blind fanaticism. “I can’t answer that. The demons said a few things that made me think maybe . . . but mostly, it seems like we’re on our own.”
“I thought so too, long ago. But after Asherah died . . . they broke me. Made me believe, somehow, that every horrific deed served a higher purpose.”
“Maybe you had to accept that,” I offered. “Or go crazy.”
“You mean my belief was a form of self-preservation?”
“Possibly. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”
His smile was fleeting. “You are an odd woman, Corine Solomon. I’ve slain many, but you’re the only prospective victim who ever tried to console me.”
“Is it working?” I wondered aloud.
“Somewhat.”
That seemed like a good place to let the conversation rest. I left my hand in his as a comforting gesture and didn’t protest when he turned his face toward the window. He closed his eyes, tilting his head against the seat; gods, I hoped we could wake him up when the train stopped.
To my relief, it wasn’t a problem.
When we arrived in London, Shannon hailed us a cab, and I helped Booke climb into the back. It was late enough that we should be ashamed of turning up at Geoff Stenton’s door, but I’d drag his ass out of bed if I had to. Booke needed this passport urgently.
Fortunately, the forger lived on the ground floor. Otherwise, I’m not sure whether Booke would have made it. He looked older and frailer with each passing moment. My heart broke a little as I thumped on the knocker, relentless, until I heard movement within.
The man who flung the door open was short, balding, with a pair of smudged glasses hastily perched on a broad nose. His shirt was undone and it looked as if he’d put on a pair of sweatpants that he’d grabbed from the floor. They sported a number of interesting stains, particularly around the knees. I hoped his documents were better than his hygiene.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
“Eva sent me,” I said.
“Good for you. Come back at a decent hour.”
“You don’t understand, it’s an emergency.” I indicated Booke, holding my arm for balance. “He has to get out of the country right away.”
Stenton studied my friend, frowning. “Is he a war criminal or something? Never mind,” he added. “I don’t want to know. Since you’ve gotten me out of bed, you may as well come in.” I didn’t know that much about British regional dialects, but when Geoff said “something” it sounded like “somefing.”
We all traipsed inside. Within, the place was a typical townhome with a front room, a hallway that had a half bath on one side and ended in a small kitchen. The place was cleaner than the forger’s pants. He beckoned us upstairs with an impatient wave of one hand.
“My studio’s upstairs. Can you make it?” Stenton asked Booke.
“I’ll manage,” he answered.
With my help, he clambered up the stairs, but I could tell by his expression it was painful. How old was he
