Rebellion

“Not that that was an overreaction...” the Archangel muttered. Alice and Vin both simply shrugged. “You get used to it,” she said, while Vin looked for another stone to kick.

The Archangel was now staring at all three of them. “You’re all completely insane.”

“You should know,” Mallory said as he tucked his guns away. “Are we waiting for something?” He gestured along the causeway and started walking again.

Alice looked past him, and past Zadkiel (who was trying not to look flustered, and not entirely pulling it off) to the buildings ahead. Even from the causeway, the sheer scale of them seemed impossible.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” said Vin, following her gaze.

“Have you ever been here before?”

“Me? Are you kidding? Michael’s been known to rip the heads off unexpected visitors.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“What d’you think he would have done to us?”

“I’m not even going to consider it.” She thought for a moment. “Besides, I’m not sure whether I’d have got off easier or not. Which is twice the reason not to ever think about it. Anyway. You were saying.”

“I was?”

“You were apparently in the midst of some kind of existential crisis.”

“What? You don’t believe angels can have those?”

“Not at all. I don’t believe you know what ‘existential’ means.”

Vin turned towards her, and Alice found herself staring at her distorted reflection in his sunglasses. She could see the glare of the sea, and small white clouds scudding behind her head, but however hard she looked for them, she couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses. “Are you going to take those off at any point, Vin?”

“What? And damage my image? Nah,” he said, and turned away. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, he obviously felt he had said enough.

The buildings on the island loomed over them as they drew closer: huge stone walls punctuated by tiny windows and topped with solid-looking ramparts; behind them, smaller buildings – houses, mostly, their lower floors converted to restaurants or shops selling tourist tat – were jammed side by side and almost on top of one another along the steep winding streets. And above it all, the priory: the thing the tourists came to see. Now she was closer to it, it really did look like someone had balanced a hulking great cathedral on top of the little island, or like an enormous ship had somehow washed up there. A ship made of rock, and surmounted by a bloody great statue of Michael swinging his sword about.

As she stared up at it, it occurred to Alice that she may not be viewing it with quite the same level of reverence as everyone else who came to the island.

She was kind of okay with that.

Reverent or not, she got the point. It was imposing. And those walls towering over her were definitely sturdy. As was the huge wooden gate. And the big iron studs holding it together. And that was without mentioning the extremely large cannon sitting beside the gate – even if it looked a little on the rusty side.

“It’s alright,” Zadkiel called back to her, waving a hand at it, “we don’t use it anymore. Well. Hardly ever.”

“Get out of my head,” she growled.

“Sorry. Force of habit.” Zadkiel shrugged. He didn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

High above them, the sunlight was turning the slate roofs to silver. Vin had finally had enough of kicking his stone along and scooped it up, throwing it overarm into the water to their left. On the right, there was a slightly boggy-looking car park: nothing but scrubland and mud, and one or two metal signs warning of high tide times. Beyond that, there was nothing but water and, at the base of the walls, thick, wet sand.

“Quicksand,” said Mallory as Alice and Vin drew level with him. “A lot of people have died out there over the years on pilgrimage. Getting across here before the causeway was built... it was seen as a test of faith.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” sighed Alice.

Mallory’s face became stern. “Careful, Alice.”

“Oh, come on.”

The only response she got was a steady, steely look.

Zadkiel peeled away from them, heading towards the mud on the left and a set of wooden steps down.

“Into the mud? In these shoes?” Alice pointed at the canvas of her trainers. “Not bloody likely.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t get your feet wet. Our door’s up there...” He pointed up. Alice followed his finger. High up in the walls winding around the rock was a door. A wide wooden door which opened out into mid-air. Although she didn’t exactly have the best view of it from where she stood, Alice was willing to bet that it was just wide enough for an angel’s wings.

CHAPTER NINETEEN Make the Call

RIMMON WAS FLIPPING channels. He jabbed at the remote control with exasperated impatience, skipping from news channel to news channel, pausing only briefly on what might have been a daytime soap set in a hospital. It failed to hold his attention, and he was off again.

The grainy black and white picture told him what he had been expecting: more riots, more demonstrations, more... everything. Large pockets of the city had become no-go areas, with police drafted in from all over the country to keep the peace. There was even talk of bringing in the army. Meanwhile, with police resources focused on protecting the great and good of the capital, other cities burned unchecked. Everywhere burned. The politicians had made one mistake; they assumed the riots had purpose. They assumed there was a reason, a cause. Something that the mob wanted to achieve. Something that could be fixed, or at the very least, protected against.

They were wrong.

They were wrong, and that was the best part.

There was no cause: no cause other than people. And how can you fix them?

“Man’s inhumanity to man...” said Forfax. They were in the broom cupboard that counted as his office. It was no more than five feet square, but he had somehow managed to shoehorn a desk and two rickety wooden chairs in there, as well as the stool on which the tiny television was balanced. The stool was missing a leg, and there were teeth-marks in two of the remaining three. There wasn’t room for both the Fallen to sit down at the same time, so Rimmon sat in the least-splintered of the chairs while Forfax hovered behind him, anxiously peering over his shoulder at the little screen. From somewhere nearby came the sound of barking. A lot of barking.

“Hadn’t you better go and see to that?” Rimmon asked, not bothering to look up from his channel- hopping.

“They’re fine. It’s feeding time: they’re just excited.”

“Excited? I’d hate to hear them when they’re pissed off.”

“It’s... not pleasant.” Forfax looked pained. “But that’s what he wanted, isn’t it?”

“If that’s what he said.”

“But you...”

“Look.” Rimmon poked at the power button on the television and the stool wobbled dangerously. “I don’t interpret the message. I just pass it on. You want to try second-guessing him? Be my guest. But if I were you, I’d just get on with my job, and be grateful.”

“Like I have been, you mean?” Forfax’s tone was snide. He somehow managed to take a step further into the office. His cane clicked against the floor as he set it down. “Now you listen to me, you little...” He cut himself off as Rimmon folded his arms and looked at him expectantly. Forfax took a deep breath and started again. “You don’t scare me, Rimmon. You may be his favourite, but favourites never last long, in my experience. You weren’t there at the beginning, and you won’t be there at the end.”

“That sounds awfully like a threat, old man.”

“Old man? Old man?” Forfax rolled back his shoulders and opened what was left of his ruined wings. The