Angel Fever

“It was just the spur of the moment – it was the other half-angel, you see. He…he’s my son. I didn’t want him to be hurt.”

Ah. The mystery of Seb’s parentage finally revealed itself. “How fascinating,” Raziel said coldly. “And how quaint of you to feel such a human emotion. What about Kylar?”

“He wasn’t there.” Zaran’s eyes were still fixed on Bascal; his fingers gripped the chair’s arms. “That’s everything. Let me feed now – promise you won’t hurt me if I do.”

“Oh, but I don’t think it is everything. What aren’t you telling me?”

Zaran shot him a wretched look. His face was pale, clammy with sweat.

“I know there’s something, you see,” Raziel said softly. “I may not be very psychic any more, but I’ve become quite, quite adept at body language. Yours is very revealing right now.”

Zaran sat frozen. His throat moved.

Without taking his gaze off him, Raziel called, “Bascal, I don’t think I’m hungry after all. Take the humans away, will you?”

“No!” burst out Zaran. “All right. Willow fell in front of me during the fight, right after she beat Margen. And the expression on her face – I think she got something psychically from Margen before she killed her.”

Electricity surged through Raziel. Margen had been one of the few angels to know about Pawntucket. Willow knew, then, that he planned to destroy her hometown.

And that meant, unless he was very much mistaken, that she was in Pawntucket right now.

Raziel smiled. Suddenly he felt almost friendly towards Zaran – the wait before the attack had been well worth it. “Why don’t you go and feed?” he suggested gently. “Go on – we won’t hurt you.”

Zaran didn’t move at first, his expression an agony of disbelief and desperation. Finally, with a weak lunge, he bolted out the door. A moment later, light from his angel form poured in through the office doorway.

Raziel nodded at Bascal’s two goons; they straightened and slipped into the other room. There was a blaze of light as they, too, shifted – then winged shadows struggling briefly on the wall. A broken-off scream from Zaran. A moment later, drifting pieces of light glinted at the corner of Raziel’s vision.

“Goodbye, Zaran,” he said, carefully placing the photo back on the desk. “It was a pleasure knowing you.”

A few hours later Raziel was still in his office, eyes narrowed in thought as he leaned back in his leather chair. The information was even better than he’d first thought.

Pawntucket, with Willow leading them, would be preparing for the attack, of course. It didn’t matter; they’d be crushed in moments. Yet now that it came down to it, merely killing the girl seemed anticlimactic…especially since the quakes seemed to have awakened such a power in her over human auras.

Raziel had no doubt now that the Mexico City anomaly was because of Willow: people who she’d merely lived near, perhaps, or whose auras she’d brushed against on the street. The sheer power that implied – not to mention the energy shift he’d been sensing in the world. If that was linked to her too, and he could get her to harness it…what couldn’t he do?

Yet to do that, he’d need to control her.

Raziel’s gaze fell on the photo of Willow again. He narrowed his eyes at the smiling girl. “You’re a worthy opponent, but I am more so,” he murmured, touching the brass frame. “And I will get what I need from you.”

A knock came; he glanced at the clock. Almost three in the morning. “Yes?” he called with a frown.

A human church official peered in. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s a woman here to see you.”

“At this hour?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “She says she’s been travelling for several days, down from the Adirondacks, with no car. And that it’s urgent. She says…” He took a breath. “She says that the fate of the angels depends on it.”

Raziel’s eyebrows shot up. “Send her in,” he said after a pause.

A moment later a thin woman with a pursed mouth entered. Everything about her looked faded – nondescript hair, pale skin. She gulped when she saw him.

“Sir, it’s – it’s an honour,” she gasped. “When I came here, I never dreamed I’d see you. Why, I thought you were in Denver Eden!”

Raziel rose, crossing to a sideboard. “Yes, quite. And you are…?”

“Joanna Fields.”

He’d been about to pour himself a glass of water; he froze mid-motion. “Willow Fields’s aunt,” he said.

There was a mirror over the sideboard; he saw her expression darken. “That’s not my fault. You know that, sir. Miranda and I have nothing to do with that girl.”

He was glad he wasn’t facing her; he wasn’t able to keep the stunned surprise from his face. He finished pouring his water and turned, leaning against a low table.

“Miranda?” he enquired blandly.

“Yes, my sister.” Joanna started to sit down and hesitated. “I’m sorry – may I?”

“By all means.” He remained where he was, playing with the glass. “Suppose you remind me of the circumstances surrounding your and Miranda’s – er – continued existence,” he said. “I find myself fuzzy on the details.”

“Our – oh, of course.” Joanna sat up straight. “Well, you see, it all started when Willow ran away with that secret boyfriend of hers. He must have been a terrorist: a terrible influence. She was always strange, that girl, but never malicious, do you know what I mean?”

Joanna went on breathlessly, not waiting for his response. “Then when Willow tried to blow up the cathedral in Denver – oh, it was just horrible. Reporters knocking at my door, demanding comments day and night. I told them I deplored what Willow had done and that she was no niece of mine any more, but it never satisfied them. So of course when the angel came to see us, at first I thought she was one of them.”

Raziel swirled the water around in his glass. “The angel,” he repeated in a neutral tone.

Joanna nodded eagerly. “Yes. Well, you know, sir – she said that you’d sent her. Oh, she was the most glorious creature! She explained that we were in danger, and that she’d take us away where no one could harm us. That’s why my house was burned down, so everyone would think we’d died. Then she took us to a cabin hidden up in the Adirondacks. She thought of everything.”

Rage was building within Raziel; it was difficult to keep from squeezing his crystal tumbler into pieces. “How enterprising of her,” he said. “May I ask the name of this paragon?”

Joanna blinked at “paragon”. “She said her name was Paschar.”

For a second, shock jolted Raziel; an even greater fury followed. Oh, someone thought they were very clever, all right – and he had a feeling he knew who.

Raziel shifted to his angel self. Joanna had been about to say something else; her mouth dropped open as he approached, wings outspread, the light from his ethereal form bleaching out her features.

“I think perhaps I need more information,” he said, and buried his hands in her aura.

Though he found her energy distasteful, he fed deeply. It was, he’d found, the one thing that enhanced what little psychic ability he had left. As Joanna’s life force flowed into him, Raziel closed his eyes, scanning through her thoughts like shuffling cards.

An angel with pale blonde hair and dark eyes appeared – a crystal smile. Charmeine, thought Raziel grimly, unsurprised. They’d always had a strong psychic connection; she’d obviously realized he was Willow’s father and squirelled Miranda away somewhere, to use when the revelation would be the most damaging to him. Just like her to have had all her bases covered.

Raziel shimmered back to his human form with a smirk. Ironic that Charmeine’s machinations had now delivered Miranda right into his hands. Foiled again, my dear, he thought, seeing again the moment of Charmeine’s death.

“So beautiful,” murmured Joanna, gazing into space. “Almost as beautiful as when Paschar touched me.”

“Thank you.” Raziel leaned against the desk. “Well, I think I’m up-to-date now,” he said, falsely cheery. “Why did you come to see me?”

Joanna stared at him; her aura was now a murky grey. Raziel wondered if he’d overdone it, and then she roused herself and sat up weakly. “Well, I – I know we were supposed to wait until the angels came for us, but…