by Ella Summers
He looked at the tall building before us. Its walls were white; they sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. Two building wings, shaped like angel wings, curved out from the main structure. A halo-like ring rotated on a track built onto the roof.
This monument to angelic supremacy certainly stood out amongst the city’s more modest surrounding buildings.
“You think the traitor is in that office?” I asked Damiel, my eyes panning up the white walls.
Every Legion office looked different, and yet there was a majestic essence that connected them all.
“I don’t think,” he replied. “I know.”
Of course. How silly of me to question the infallible Master Interrogator.
“So who is the traitor?”
“Colonel Spellstorm,” he told me.
“An angel? You’re telling me that an angel is the traitor?”
“Yes, an angel and the commander of this territory,” he said. “Of course, there’s a small chance that Colonel Spellstorm is not the traitor, but instead a soldier in his inner circle, someone high up in his hierarchy, is the culprit. That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“The voice in the smoke.”
“What about it?”
“We assumed it was a message from the demons.”
“It sure sounded like a threat,” he pointed out.
“Maybe it was a warning. What if the message wasn’t from the demons at all? Someone might be warning us that the demons are about to strike.”
“Or it really is the demons, and they are leading us into a trap. I have considered all possibilities,” he said in a tone most people would describe as arrogant.
And it was—somewhat. But I’d gotten a feel for the different shades of Damiel Dragonsire, and his words were more practical than arrogant. Or at least only fifty percent arrogant.
“Coming here isn’t without risk,” he told me. “But it’s necessary if we are to get to the bottom of this.”
Then he pushed the winged doors of the diamond-white angel building open.
We passed briefly through a small entry room. Above, the stained glass sky light—a sun with swirly rays—shone golden light down upon us. Beyond the entry, a grandiose main hall awaited.
The floor was white marble, speckled with gold. Groups of large, thick columns were bundled together like flower stems in a bouquet. Each column bouquet merged with other bouquets, forming high archways on either side of the wide aisle. It felt like we were standing inside an old-style cathedral.
Past the column archways, stained glass windows covered the walls on either side of the room. Each window depicted a scene where angels fought back monsters and dark shadow threats.
At long last, at the very end of the very long aisle, stood a large wooden table. Keeping to the cathedral motif, it bore a striking resemblance to an altar.
Behind the desk stood a man in a Legion uniform. He and the three other Legion soldiers in the grand hall froze as Damiel and I walked down the aisle. Their wide eyes were all locked on Damiel. They clearly knew who he was. Even if they hadn’t recognized his face, the shiny metal Master Interrogator pin on his jacket gave him away.
Damiel stopped in front of the desk and declared, “I am here to see Colonel Spellstorm.”
The soldier behind the desk bore the insignia of a drop of blood on his jacket, marking him as a Legion soldier of the first level. His hair was blond, almost white. He was tall. His shoulders were wide but not bulky. The latter was a sign that he had trained extensively, but still, he was quite slender for a Legion soldier. Legion men usually had a lot more muscle on them than this guy; muscles made them feel like they could take on anyone and anything, so they took their bodybuilding very seriously.
This soldier was obviously still new to the Legion. He had the strength of the vampire in him, the gods’ first gift, which made him stronger than any human. He was no match for an angel, however.
“Do you have an appointment?” the soldier asked.
Gold flashed in Damiel’s blue eyes. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded.
The man’s pale hair seemed to go a shade whiter. He swallowed hard. “Colonel Dragonsire.”
“And what is Colonel Dragonsire’s function at the Legion of Angels?” Damiel asked.
His use of the third person was particularly foreboding.
“He…you are the Master Interrogator.”
“That’s right. And the Master Interrogator does not require an appointment to see anyone.”
The soldier blinked in confusion. “Then why did you come through the front door? Why stop at the front desk before going inside? Why not just charge in?”
The Interrogators regularly made a habit of coming in without ceremony and taking whatever—or whomever—they wanted.
But not this time, and I had a good idea of why that was. Damiel had turned our arrival into a very public event. He was making a statement. He wanted everyone here to know that Colonel Spellstorm, their commander, was a suspect in the Interrogators’ investigation. It was his way of showing people that no one, not even an angel, was above reproach. He was demonstrating that an angel traitor could be hunted down, shackled, and punished—just the same as any other traitor.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Damiel told the soldier with a dismissive flick of his hand that shot every item on the reception desk into the air.
The soldier jumped in alarm.
Damiel’s eyes, cold and hard, met his. “But I do expect you to have Colonel Spellstorm brought to me at once.”
The soldier gave Damiel a wobbly nod and picked up the phone. He jumped again when the floating contents of his desk suddenly all dropped out of the air and smashed against the tabletop.
I thought about what I knew of Colonel Spellstorm. I’d met him before, through my father. There weren’t all that many angels on Earth. They all knew one another. And yet I didn’t really know much about Colonel Spellstorm. He’d worked with my father a few times. From what I remembered, he was as arrogant, competent, and merciless as was expected of an angel in the gods’ army—but I’d never have pegged him for a traitor.
The doors at the back of the room opened, and someone stepped into the grand hall. Unlike the soldier behind the desk, this man was no fresh recruit. His body had been forged in battle, his face hardened by experience. His brown eyes had a seasoned look about them, like he’d seen many battles and hadn’t come out of them unscathed. The scar that cut across one side of his face, a bumpy ripple on his smooth dark skin, was a sign of that.
He must have been cut by an immortal blade. Mundane—and most magical weapons—did not leave marks on the bodies of Legion soldiers; we healed too fast. It took a particularly potent weapon or poison to scar us.
The seasoned soldier stopped in front of us. “Colonel Dragonsire. Lt. Colonel Lightbringer.” He bowed his head. “What can I do for you?”
His voice was crisp, polished. He sounded like he’d once been a high-level member of the nobility, before the war had come to Earth, before the monsters had wiped out the old ways. Nowadays, we didn’t have dukes and barons, or kings and queens. Angels ruled the Earth’s territories.
Damiel looked the soldier up and down, then declared, “You are not Colonel Spellstorm.”
“No, I’m not,” he confirmed. “Colonel Spellstorm is not here. I am Major Grant.”
“Colonel Spellstorm’s second in command,” said Damiel.
He really didn’t miss a thing. He’d probably memorized the names and faces of everyone assigned to this office before we’d come here. When it came to doing his homework, Damiel was clearly as thorough as he was in his interrogations.
“Come with us,” Damiel told Major Grant.
Then he flicked his hand, using his telekinetic magic to open the doors that brought us past the entrance hall. As we strode down the main corridor, everyone stopped to watch us. Dead silence reigned. I held my head high and exuded perfection for all I was worth, just as my father h
ad taught me.
Damiel led on. Along with memorizing the list of Legion soldiers stationed here, he must have committed the building map to memory too. He led us down the hall like he’d walked this path hundreds of times before, like he didn’t even need to think about the way anymore, like it was second nature to him.
He led me and the Major up the many flights of stairs to the office on the roof level. Large, light, and spartan in design, it had glass walls on all sides. The room alone occupied the building’s highest level.
Clearly, the office belonged to Colonel Spellstorm. Angels liked to be on top.
There wasn’t much in the room except for a desk and chair—and a single sculpture of two angels wrestling, engaged in single combat. They were obviously fighting for their lives. The sculpture was detailed. Every hair was crisp, as were the fierce expressions on the angels’ faces. Their mouths were drawn back in snarls. Every drop of blood on their bodies was perfectly defined.
That sculpture sure was ominous.
Damiel looked around the sparse office. His gaze fell upon the sculpture, considering it like a true art connoisseur.
Sharply, he turned on his heel to face me. “Bind Major Grant to that chair. You will find ropes in the lower desk drawer.”
I slid the lowest drawer open and, sure enough, I found a bundle of rope inside.
Were the contents of the angel commander’s desk drawers also in the profile Damiel had memorized, or did he just understand Colonel Spellstorm that well? Neither possibility was particularly appealing.
I bound Major Grant to Colonel Spellstorm’s chair, using the angel’s own rope to tie up his faithful second-in-second. There was a kind of dark irony to that, something it took an angel to appreciate.
Major Grant didn’t move as I tied him up, even though he must have know this was going to be unpleasant. He simply looked resigned. Standing by without a hint of protest took far greater courage than fighting us tooth and nail—and I respected Major Grant for it. I also felt a twinge of guilt about what Damiel was about to do to him.
Damiel stared into Major Grant’s eyes. The soldier’s body shook under the strain of Damiel’s siren magic. I knew it the moment Damiel usurped his will because Major Grant suddenly went completely still.
“What is your name?” Damiel asked him.
“Major Edwin Grant,” he replied, his voice monotone.
“How long have you been stationed in Florence?”
“Five years.”
Nothing remained of the Major’s sophisticated enunciation and intonation. It had been silenced by Damiel’s spell.
Damiel considered him closely. “What are your magical strengths?”
“Psychic’s Spell and Dragon’s Storm.”
“And your weaknesses?”
“Siren’s Song and Witch’s Cauldron,” he replied immediately.
Damiel nodded.
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to test the completeness of his mental lock on Major Grant. He’d started with easy questions, then moved on to a tough question that had nothing to do with this investigation, but that no Legion soldier would volunteer willingly. We didn’t like talking about our weaknesses.
If Major Grant hadn’t been completely under Damiel’s control, he would have hesitated before answering the question. He did not.
So Damiel went straight to the point. “Is Colonel Spellstorm working for the demons?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the Legion of Angels?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the gods?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.” Blood dripped from Major Grant’s nose.
“Damiel,” I said.
“That happens sometimes,” he replied, his stare never wavering from the man under his spell. “He’ll be fine.” Gold magic sparked in his blue eyes. “Are you working for the demons?” he asked Major Grant.
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the Legion of Angels?”
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the gods?”
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.”
Blood was dripping from Major Grant’s fingers now too.
“Is that normal?” I asked Damiel.
He glanced at the Major’s bleeding fingers. “No. He’s fighting my compulsion spell.” He met Major Grant’s eyes and demanded, “What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing.” Blood dripped out of Major Grant’s mouth.
“Damiel, you’re killing him,” I told him.
“He will recover.” Damiel pressed on. “Major, do you know of any Legion soldier currently stationed in this office, or any other office, who is working for the demons, or has betrayed the Legion of Angels, the gods, or the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.”
Damiel continued to stare into his eyes for a few moments. Major Grant’s body rattled from head to toe. He was shaking so hard that he’d cut himself on the ropes I’d used to restrain him.
Damiel waved his hand. Major Grant slouched forward, released from his spell.
“He knows nothing,” Damiel told me.
He didn’t look at all conflicted about torturing someone innocent of treachery.
But I was conflicted. Damiel hadn’t laid a hand on the man, but the brutality of his interrogation was horrifying. He’d broken his will and enslaved his mind. That was a far greater violation than cutting him up with a knife.
That is what Damiel Dragonsire does, said my inner voice that sounded like my father. He breaks people. He bends them to his will.
The doubts I’d been having about Damiel—about my feelings for him—were blaring loudly in my head now.
“What now?” I asked Damiel, trying to keep my voice level.
“Release him.”
I untied Major Grant.
“You are dismissed,” Damiel told him.
Major Grant rose slowly from the chair. He didn’t shake, but I could see the intense concentration burning in his eyes. He was trying to keep his body still, to swallow the tremors and, most importantly, not fall on his face in front of two angels.
Damiel handed him a bundle of papers. “Send in the next person on that list for questioning.”
Major Grant’s bloody fingers smeared the top page. He barely managed a salute, then he left the room with the list.
I waited until he was gone—until Damiel and I were alone in Colonel Spellstorm’s office—then I frowned at him. “How many people are you going to interrogate?”
“As many as it takes to prove my suspicions about Colonel Spellstorm.”
“Suspicions? I thought you were certain that he’s a traitor.”
“I am certain.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“His pattern of activities has changed.”
“And?”
“And he’s an angel,” said Damiel. “Angels don’t change. We follow very clear patterns, without deviation.”
“Ok, so if angels don’t change, then how did you get to be so cold-hearted? You sure didn’t start out that way.”
I knew he was more than this person he pretended to be. But every day, he was changing, becoming more and more the Master Interrogator, and less and less Damiel.
“Angels don’t change abruptly,” he replied. “Change is slow. But recently, Colonel Spellstorm’s behavior suddenly shifted. Something big is happening.”
“Maybe he has a secret lover he’s hiding away from the Legion,” I suggested.
“That is unlikely. Colonel Spellstorm has never had a problem taking a lover, or sometimes several lovers at once. As long as angels marry whom they command us to marry and we do our duty to produce children when the time comes, the Legion doesn’t care how many lovers its angels take, or even who they are.”
> He spoke so casually about it, so matter-of-factly. I wondered how many lovers Damiel had taken. And whether he still had any of them.
Wait. No. Stop. I didn’t want to know.
“Colonel Spellstorm is a highly-decorated angel,” I said. “As I recall, he even helped you hunt down other traitors in the past.”
“That is true.”
“He is an unlikely traitor. And your insistence that he’s a traitor is based solely on ‘his pattern of activities has changed’? I hope when my day comes, I will receive a fair hearing before you tie me to my own office chair.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cadence.” His words pulsed with impatience. “You are incapable of treachery. We’ve already been through this.”
“Have we? Because all of this is feeling pretty damn familiar. Around and around the wheel of treachery goes; where it stops, nobody knows.”
“Being melodramatic will not help us in our investigation.”
“Neither will torturing everyone in this office,” I pointed out.
“I hope to uncover some information of value long before I’ve interrogated everyone. We are on a tight schedule, so I sorted the interrogation list by which soldiers are most likely to know something, in descending order.”
“Then I guess we’d better hope that some lowly initiate wasn’t the only soldier to overhear Colonel Spellstorm communicating with demons.”
“Indeed. There are over one thousand soldiers in this office. It could take us weeks to make our way down to the initiates. The demons might have already acted by then,” he said, missing my sarcasm—or at least pretending he had. “But I do find it unlikely any initiate knows anything. I’ve spent many years developing this interrogation ordering system, based on soldiers’ psychological profiles and mission history. It’s quite accurate. I rarely need to move past page one.”
“Great. We wouldn’t want you to get a paper cut while flipping the page.”
This time he didn’t miss my sarcasm.
He shot me a stern look. “I don’t understand your attitude. Don’t you want to expose any and all traitors hiding in our midst? Don’t you want to stop the demons’ return and the resulting war that will tear our world apart?”
“Of course I want to stop them,” I said. “But you can just read their thoughts. There’s no need to break their will.”
