orchestrate, it only meant that they were all in serious trouble. “Really? Are you sure?”
He was definitely more of a man. Give a man exactly what he asks for and still he’s not satisfied. Honestly, would she ever understand that gender? Would she ever be given the chance again? Edwige caught sight of herself in the oval, frameless mirror that hung over the bar, and inspected her reflection with a bit more intensity than usual. Her hair, still very short and very blond, was flattering, and her unlined face looked youthful without appearing innocent. She knew she was enticing to men, she wondered, however, if she would ever find one man who could entice her and satisfy her needs.
She heard the din of Ronan’s voice and knew he was talking, knew he was asking questions, formulating theories, but she couldn’t tear herself away from her image or her thoughts. Recently, she imagined that she could have found satisfaction with Michael’s father, Vaughan, but she was too late, Brania got to him first and transformed him into one of Them. So even though he was quite handsome, extremely handsome actually, he was, what was the polite word? Contaminated? Yes, and in any case, no longer available. She glanced over to the mahogany box on the table next to the window and realized that whenever she thought about men, she inevitably thought about him. Yes, there had been men in her life other than Saxon, but none of them ever satisfied her the way he did, even if she led them to believe otherwise.
“Oh, David, I have never felt this way with another man before.” She remembered speaking the words to Brania’s father years ago, before she became financially independent, before it became unnecessary for her to rely on anyone other than herself, and she recalled how surprised she was that he believed her. Men really are daft. They really only hear words, not subtext, intent, falsehoods. But Edwige had been speaking a kind of truth—she had never felt as repulsed or demoralized than when she lay embraced in David’s arms—so she shouldn’t be too harsh on the man. He accepted what she said; he just never suspected her words had a less flattering meaning.
In the mirror, she saw Ronan behind her, staring at her imploringly, and she suddenly realized that she needed to be challenged as a woman and not just as a mother. She loved her son, but it was time she made him leave. “I don’t believe there is cause for alarm,” Edwige said, turning to face Ronan. “But I do believe there is reason to be careful.”
“So what should I do?”
“You should go home and get into bed next to Michael before he wakes up and notices that you’re gone,” Edwige instructed, then she answered his next question before it was asked, “And no, do not tell Michael who David is. Sharing that knowledge at this point will serve no purpose.”
Ronan understood what his mother was saying. He agreed with her, but in spite of that, he felt uneasy. That’s because you’re going to lie to your boyfriend, Ronan reminded himself. Not lie, just protect. Oh, stop it! He didn’t want to contemplate his decision any further, he didn’t want to argue with himself, he just wanted to know what his next action should be.
“But what about David, what should I do about him?”
“Nothing,” Edwige instructed. “You treat him as if he is simply what he says he is, Archangel Academy’s newest ruler, and I will keep an eye on him.”
For the first time since the assembly, he felt more calm than anxious. No matter how frustrating, how infuriating his mother could be, she really never let him down. He might not understand or agree with how she treated others, but he could always trust that she would help him.
“And by the way, his name’s not David O’Keefe anymore,” Ronan said. “Now he’s going by David Zachary.”
Edwige laughed. “Of course he is.”
David examined his reflection in the mirror and was pleased. The centuries had been kind. He had seen firsthand that immortality did not always guarantee physical resplendence, so he was grateful that he looked as he did when he first converted, even better if he dared say, and why shouldn’t he? There were very few around to contradict him. And even if one of the old-timers, if one of those who knew him from that period disagreed with his current assessment, they wouldn’t risk contradicting him. They knew what the consequences would be.
He was equally delighted with his office’s decor. The furniture was of the old-world, thick, substantial, built by craftsmen who knew their trade, quietly ornate but supremely functional. Things should be beautiful, but they should also have purpose. He especially loved the anteroom to the office. The forest green walls were the perfect counterpoint to his red hair, and standing now in the center of the room, he was reminded of the holiday season that had just passed. “I am like Father Christmas,” he said, laughing along with his reflection. “Revered, immortal, and the giver of so many gifts.” He laughed harder, making his reflection distort even more than usual. In the mirror, his blue eyes were a ghastly shade of charcoal, his formidable frame hunched and lopsided, his creamy complexion stained and, in some areas, burnt. “What is reality and what is perception?” he asked himself. The only response that came was another laugh, this time sinister and without any suggestion of a light heart. “And how have you angels survived without me for all these years?”
David’s eyes traveled around the mirror’s elaborate, carved oak frame, from archangel to archangel. He was filled with a glut of emotions, not all of them good, and one by one he surveyed the spiritual creatures, casting his eyes upon their likenesses as if they were long-lost relatives. David glared at the figure of Gabriel, his lips forming a sneer to express his rejection of the archangel whom he condemned as loud and ostentatious. His eyes then fell upon Uriel and Ramiel, whom he thought of as more resourceful angels since they used fire and thunder as their weapons, and Raphael, whom David viewed as weak, but allowed his eyes to linger long enough to admire fully the splendid curvature of his muscled arms.
Next he focused on Sariel, whom he appreciated for protecting the dead but acknowledged that he was nothing more than a collector of bones that were the spoils of someone else’s victories and, therefore, a disappointment. And then he stared at the one he truly loathed, the thing known as Michael. So much glory, so much recognition, and why? Because Michael was a narcissist, God’s pet, a minor player who demanded praise for one questionable conquest. The fact that Michael had outshone them all for eons in the courtroom of public opinion enraged David, but all that anger, all that resentment was forgotten when his eyes landed upon Zachariel. His reflection softened and for once appeared vaguely human as he looked at the carving of the deity who was, according to David, the true sovereign of the archangels.
He was astounded. Even while resting against a wooden replica of the sun, that magical orb, Zachariel’s face shone brighter than the others. He exuded warmth, wisdom, and incomparable power. Power that was given to him by the great sun itself. His upturned chin, sharp eyes, and unsmiling mouth were a welcome to those who were worthy and a warning to those who were not, a notice that their time had come to an end. “I am the embodiment of you,” David said with reverence. “And I have taken your name out of honor and in sacrifice.”
David traced the outline of the sun that framed Zachariel’s face, gently, cautiously, afraid the wood might disintegrate from his touch. But he was unable to resist. He commanded his courage to rise and he let his fingers fall across Zachariel’s hair, his cheek, his eyes, the eyes that had witnessed more beauty, invoked more fear, than David could ever hope to. “I have returned here to uphold your commandments, your principles,” David whispered into the one small wooden ear that was visible, and then abruptly pulled back from the sculpture and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the beautiful blue irises were gone; so too was any indication of white. All that covered both surfaces of his eyes was black.
As David stared into the wooden eyes of his namesake, it was unclear whose were more lifeless but obvious whose were more consumed with vengeance. “And I will not rest until I rid our land of those who do not belong, those who have tarnished our legacy,” David seethed. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them this time, they had resumed their color. Once again they were sparkling blue, as if reborn. Tenderly he kissed Zachariel’s lips, feeling not wood but the breath of eternal life. “Oh, Father,” he sighed. “It is so good to be home.”
When he heard the joyful singing fill the air and invade his private ceremony, David believed it was confirmation, a message to him from Zachariel that he approved of his plan. He could not have been more pleased.
And Michael could not have been more disturbed.
“Ronan?” Michael wasn’t completely awake, but one quick look around the room and he knew he was alone. He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and saw that it was a little after two A.M. Where could Ronan be? And what was that sound? He had heard the singing in his dream. He and Ronan were resting on the beach,
