“Would you care for aid in this?”
“No.” For he was not going to be responsible for the ass-lashing he gave the archangel. Personality conflict was one thing; rank insubordination was another altogether. And the latter was not going to be indulged in any fashion dead.
Upon his will, his robing and monogrammed slippers morphed into a suit of dove gray, a shirt of bright white, a pale tartan tie, and a pair of wingtips.
“Go forth and comfort Bertie and Tarquin,” he told the other archangel. “Undoubtedly, they shall be worried. And know that I shan’t be long.”
“Wherever will you go?”
“Where he is.”
With that Nigel was off, traveling through the barrier to the world down below. And when he resumed his corporeal form, it was before a two-story garage of modest distinction set within farmland country.
He thought of Edward resting therein.
How common a marker for such an extraordinary soul.
With grim focus, Nigel surmounted the narrow exterior staircase and passed through the door as if it were naught but a veil of fog.
No reason to be throwing the panels open; he had announced himself sure enough.
And Colin did not seem shocked at the intrusion. The archangel was sitting on a ragtag sofa beneath a picture window, lounging with one arm running across the top of the cushions and his legs crossed knee to ankle.
Nigel recommitted to memory every angle and line of the male’s harsh, handsome face. And then recast them with a black eye and a fat lip of his doing. “Did you not think your absence would be noted?”
“Do I appear surprised at your arrival?”
“The proper course of these things is to ask permission before taking your leave.”
“Perhaps for Byron and Bertie. But not I.”
“I would not have denied you.”
“How could I have known that.”
Nigel frowned, his anger abruptly abating, exhaustion taking its place. How did humans stand this emotional turmoil? And why ever had he allowed it into his heart?
This was no good. Moreover, this could not go on.
When he next addressed the archangel, it was with composure. “Colin, it would appear that you and I have reached our own crossroads. As much as I was prepared to recognize certain . . . errors of judgment on my part . . . I fear that will be insufficient for you, as water shall not do when blood is sought. Further, I believe that in your thrust to embrace a logical stance, you have missed the truth about yourself. Your passions rule you far more than you realize, and they take you in directions that jeopardize our collective interests.”
Colin’s eyes shifted away.
“Therefore, I say unto you, let us put into the past any assignations that may have occurred, and move forward into a proper distance. Mayhap over time, we shall work together in harmony anew. However, until that occurs, I expect you to behave appropriately or I shall remove you from any influence over these proceedings.”
When there was no immediate reply, Nigel walked over to a galley kitchen and stood before a short, squat door. Behind the flimsy barrier, Edward lay in state, neither breathing nor in decay, the angel’s body a vase sporting the scent of flowers that were not there.
Colin was wise to be here, he thought. With Jim and Adrian engaged in heated warring with Devina, this vessel was not safe—and if it were broken or compromised, there was no restoring the seat of Edward’s soul.
Although even if it remained pristine, there was no way of knowing whether he would return. Things of this nature were within the purview of the Creator alone.
Moreover, it would be an unprecedented occurrence.
But still, Colin should have—
“I should have told you where I was going,” the archangel said brusquely. “You are correct in that.”
Nigel turned about. The angel was still on the couch, still sprawled, but those eyes were focused upward, meeting his own.
“Is that an apology,” Nigel said.
“Take it as you will.”
Nigel shook his head and thought to himself, Not good enough, old friend. ’Tis just not good enough, I’m afraid.
Tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, he pulled down upon his gold cuff links, and stated once again, “I am endeavoring to win this vital contest the best way I know how—and that is within the bounds of proper gamesmanship. I cannot subscribe to the tenet that two wrongs make a right. I will not.”
“Do not kid yourself,” Colin murmured as he lifted his palm and flexed his fingers. “Clean hands, as you say.”
“And look at how that turned out. Edward is dead.”
“You are not to blame for this.”
“I am.” Nigel shook his head. “That is what you do not understand. All of this is my responsibility. You can have your opinions and your contrariness and your anger, but at the end of it, your shoulders shall not bear the burden of defeat if that is what arises. That is for me, and me alone. So whilst you despise my control, you view things from the advantaged position of commentary without consequence.”
On that note, Nigel walked over to the door. “I’m glad you are here, and I know you will guard well what is precious.”
“Nigel.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Colin.”
There was a long moment of silence.
When nothing further appeared to be forthcoming, Nigel looked over to the kitchen, and thought of the nature of loss: Some you chose—and could unchoose. Some was forced upon one. And . . . some was permanent.
“I shall see you anon,” Nigel said, before he ended things by walking out.
CHAPTER 40
The next morning, Reilly went into work from her parents’ house on a full stomach: fresh orange juice, two homemade cinnamon buns, a cup of coffee, and a strip and a half of bacon that she had purloined from her father’s plate.
As she parked her car in the lot behind HQ, every ounce of the yummy-yummy turned to lead: Veck’s motorcycle was angled in against the building.
He’d obviously turned himself in and was being questioned.
Looking up the ugly rear flank of where she worked, she was tempted to turn the unmarked’s engine back on and head off to . . . anywhere.
But she did not run. Never had. Never would.
Getting out, she blinked in the bright sunlight, and wished that God would hit the dimmer switch: Instead of lifting her mood, the cheery-spring thing drove it down even farther into the sewer.
“Beautiful day, ain’t it,” someone called out.
Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Morning, Bails.”
The detective was wending his way through the cars and trucks and SUVs, and as she watched him, she squinted, the light abruptly going glare on her.
Maybe she was getting a migraine.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Not even close. You?”
As he came up, he took off his sunglasses. “Same boat.” He nodded over at the bike. “So he’s here.”
Reilly rubbed her eyes. “Yes, he is.”
