The shadowy room with light coming from the top made me feel like I stood at the bottom of a well. It smelled of leather and wood inside the shop, and my gaze climbed up the fifty-foot black wall featuring polished shiny new weapons. Spears of all shapes, sizes, and lengths, some with feathers as decorations, some without, all with carefully hand-carved markings. At the top, the roof appeared to be made of sliding glass, clearly an entry point for the angels from the sky.
On the far left, a man in his late fifties with thick black hair and kind brown eyes smiled from behind his workstation buried under a pile of leather and steel. “Hi there,” he said and stood, wiping his hands on a dirty, worn apron.
The door chimed softly, announcing Michael’s entrance. “Mr. Habib,” Michael greeted the man with a smile.
Mr. Habib’s eyes lit up, and he cracked a smile as wide as his face allowed. “Commander. What a pleasure. If I knew you were coming, I’d have cleaned up.”
“At ease.” Michael slid past me, brushing a wing along the length of my arm.
He approached the wall while I chewed my lip, thinking about the wing brushing my arm. Every bone in my body ached, and I couldn’t wait until we left the shop and did something normal people did, like have coffee at the crack of dawn, but, deliberate or accidental, the gesture warmed me up.
The weapon-stacked wall creaked and parted, revealing another weapon-stacked wall, this one with swords. Long thin katanas, big broadswords, and others I couldn’t name, all with unique markings either on blades or handles.
“Your work is amazing, Mr. Habib,” I said.
Michael tsked.
Mr. Habib wrung his hands, sweat breaking out on his brow.
The second wall parted to reveal knives and daggers. Short, long, thick, thin, some even feminine judging by the colorful designs. I approached Michael and stared, standing close enough that my arm touched his wing. “Is this my surprise?”
“Yes,” he answered.
I peeled my gaze away from the wall and looked up at Michael.
He gave me a side-eye. “Questions?”
“What the fuck comes to mind.”
Mr. Habib chuckled. “This is my armory,” he said, clearly speaking to me. “I make the finest blades and grill excellent kebab.”
“Kebab sounds amazing right now,” I said.
“Nobody eats kebab in the morning,” Mr. Habib said, eyes on Michael. “Everybody eats fruit and grains in the morning.”
“That’s…” I frowned, and when Michael smiled, a thought jumped out at me. That was all I’d eaten in the mornings as well. “Commander, do you regulate what all people in the Court eat?”
“Of course.”
“What else do you control?”
“All else, Miss DeLuca.”
Mr. Habib looked between us, then said, “You must be a new recruit. Where are you from?”
Michael answered for me. “Dadar, Zaim Providence.”
“What a coincidence!” Mr. Habib said. “My brother was there on assignment. Nice man. Dead now.”
I didn’t think there was such a thing as coincidence for Michael. He lied about where I came from, thereby steering the conversation whichever direction he wished it to go.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Mr. Habib blinked. “Why are you sorry?”
“For your loss.”
Seemingly confused, Mr. Habib furrowed his brow.
“Speaking of kebab,” Michael said. “Where have you had kebab before, Miss DeLuca?”
Michael drew out before. He’d just prompted me to speak of Before. “There was a Lebanese stand we always visited in Palm Springs during their weekly street fair. They made great kebabs. Also kebbe. Do you make kebbe? I love kebbe.”
Above, a black steel knife with subtle gold markings on the blade detached from the display and levitated in the air. Looking between the two men, I stepped back, my heart pounding. Outside, I remembered Michael had said my life depended on how I answered some of his questions. While most people would say that as a joke, I didn’t believe that was the case with this male. Michael meant it. The energy in the room shifted. The knife hovered. I contemplated taking off, just bolting out of there.
Mr. Habib stared at his feet, mumbling something in Arabic. The knife lowered, lower yet, and Mr. Habib looked up and said, “Lebanon. I know this place.” He snapped his fingers. “Why, yes, I remember now. I…” Briefly, his eyes went vacant, then filled with malice, and he snapped his head toward Michael. “Hello, brother.” The scent of vanilla flooded the room. My body buzzed with fear, and, as if ready to flee, my thigh muscles spasmed.
The knife looped around the man’s head and slit his throat. A clean fast slice, and Mr. Habib fell forward and landed at my feet. I spun around and ran for the door, grabbed the handle, twisted, yanked, couldn’t get out. I kept trying, banging it a few times before I turned back. Eyes wide, I covered my mouth. Blood pooled around the man while the knife hovered. I couldn’t move. While I’d seen angels do horrific things, I’d never participated in any of it, and I never thought someone could greet a person one second and kill them the next, then go about their business as if nothing had happened. Michael perused the shelves.
Several knives detached from the wall. They traveled in the air and hovered over a leather duffel bag on the work desk. The duffel opened, and the weapons tumbled inside. Except for the one knife before me. The elegant black blade with golden markings. It dripped blood on the worn cobblestone. If he killed me with it, I would have no regrets. I didn’t think I’d make it in a world where something like this occurred before eight in the morning to a man who remembered where he came from.
Michael walked behind Mr. Habib’s workstation, picked up an unfinished spear, tore off the tip, and examined it. The second wall closed, and the first followed, returning the room to its original setting.
“Take the knife,” Michael said, pursing his lips, eyes on the wall of spears. “You’ve earned
