“Probably not, but it’d be fun.” Uriel lit a cigar and turned to look at Ishtahar. He held his arms out to her, and she rose from her seat and moved to him. As he wrapped his arms around her in a hug, Uriel said, “I will absolutely not permit that dead weight asshole to harm Ishtahar.”
“None of us will,” Michael said. “And language, Uriel.”
Uriel rolled his eyes but said nothing.
“What of your sons, Ish?” Raziel asked, moving to sit on the floor nearby.
Ishtahar sighed. “I do not know, Raziel. I have tried to contact them, but....” She trailed off miserably.
“The last Nephilim,” Samael mused. “They avoid us as it is; I cannot see them seeking us out now.”
“What we should first do,” Raziel said, “is find Ishtahar’s sons and then take them and her somewhere safe that we can protect.”
Remiel frowned. “What’s wrong with here?”
“You didn’t ward it enough,” Raziel said bluntly.
Gabriel and Michael exchanged a long look. Their island, hidden as it was, would be a perfect spot to hide Ishtahar and her two Nephilim sons. Before he could suggest it, Raziel continued, and Gabriel bit his tongue.
“Therefore, I recommend the island of Iona.”
“Where’s that?” Uriel asked.
“Scotland. Far northern Scotland, to be precise. It’s one of the holiest places on Earth. Touched by God, and His hand is evident everywhere. Being an island, it’ll be easier to defend, too, if it comes to that. Easier than Mecca or Jerusalem or Vatican City or Stonehenge or any number of holy places that are not islands.”
Michael gave Gabriel a small smile, and Gabriel smiled back. He was relieved that they hadn’t had to offer their island. It was selfish of him, Gabriel knew, but the island in the Pacific was theirs, and it was where they had bonded. It was as close to sacred as Gabriel had ever come during his time on Earth.
“I feel the same, da bao.” Michael’s mental voice was soft, fond.“I dislike this situation intensely, but I am relieved that our island remains only ours.”
“So am I.” Gabriel smiled wider. “It’s our paradise. Our love nest.”
“As you say.”
“All right,” Remiel was saying. “Ish? It’s up to you.”
Ishtahar nodded. “We will need warm clothes, love.”
Remiel smiled, the first smile since Gabriel had arrived with Michael. “I’ll pack for us.”
Ishtahar smiled back. “Thank you.” She was absently rubbing her inner right arm, and Gabriel quirked an eyebrow.
“Ish,” he said, “what’s on your arm?” He could see something on her olive skin, like a burn, but he couldn’t completely make it out.
Ishtahar let out a low sigh. “It is....” She held up her arm for them all to see.
The name “Hashem” was burnt into her skin.
“Who... what... how?” Michael asked.
“When Semjaza first chose me as his High Priestess and consort, I was fourteen. He formalized my role when I was sixteen,” Ishtahar said in a soft, emotionless voice. “You all know this, of course. However, he wanted to prove his love to me by telling me the true name of God. My people, we worshiped Him as Jehovah, as the Most High. We prayed to Him as Yahweh on the Holy Days, but He was always Jehovah to us.
“Semjaza said that wasn’t His true name. I did not want to know it. I begged him not to tell me, but he insisted. He said that as his High Priestess, I had to know it, so I could perform the rituals for him properly. So, he took my hand, and with the index finger of his other hand, he wrote Hashem on my skin. It burnt into me, marking me thus forever. I conceal it with makeup, most days. Agrat helped me find something that would cover it.” Ishtahar shot Agrat a grateful smile. “Over the centuries, the burn faded to a pale scar, almost the same color as my skin. Now... now that Semjaza is free, it is as it was when he ruled in Eden.” The burn was a dark red color, angry-looking and very obvious.
“I am so sorry,” Gabriel whispered, guilt washing over him again.
“It is not your fault. It is none of your faults. I did not tell you this at the time, for I was frightened.” Ishtahar said. “Remiel learned of it when he saved me from Eden and the Flood.”
“I knew about it too,” Uriel said. “I saw it once, in the Temple in Eden.”
Ishtahar sighed again. “I had wondered.”
“Semjaza will be punished for all his sins,” Michael said, nodding curtly. “I promise you.”
Ishtahar smiled at him. “Thank you,
Michael. Thank you, all of you. You have all been so kind to me. I do not deserve it.”
“Yes, you do.” Uriel squeezed her shoulders gently. “So don’t say that. Besides. Apart from Raziel, you’re the only person I hug.”
Gabriel chuckled at that. “And whether or not that’s a good thing is debatable,” he teased.
Uriel stuck his tongue out.
“Careful, the wind’ll change and you’ll be stuck like that forever,” Gabriel said.
“Better than looking like a donkey- face,” Uriel retorted.
“That was Michael,” Israfel supplied helpfully, from the corner of the room where he stood close to Raphael. “Tabbris called Michael donkey-face.”
“Same thing,” Uriel said, waving a hand. “You two are like an Archangel pretzel.”
“That’s bloody revolting,” Gabriel said, laughing.
He knew what Uriel was doing. Uriel did not love easily or often, and the fact that Uriel loved Ishtahar like a sister and was choosing to joke and tease was his gruff way of trying to lighten the mood. It appeared to be working, too, for Ishtahar had relaxed a little in his arms and was smiling a small, fond smile at them. Gabriel winked at Uriel, and Uriel nodded in return.
“I’ll go hunt down Ahijah,” Raziel said, getting to his feet. “Tzad, want to help? That includes you two too,” he said, looking at Sophiel and Brieus.
“Sure.” Tzadkiel nodded. “Brieus has contacts in South America. We can start there.”
“Good.” Raziel nodded as well and turned to Ishtahar. He gave her a graceful bow. “We’ll find your boys, Ish. And we’ll meet you in Iona.”
“Thank you, Raziel,” Ishtahar smiled.
Raziel, Tzadkiel, Sophiel, and Brieus vanished with the sound of a flurry of feathers.
“Which leaves Hiwa.” Michael considered it. “Uriel, take Samael and find him. Take Shateiel and Agrat as well.”
“Right.” Uriel gave Michael a salute.
Gabriel laughed suddenly and then wrinkled his nose. “I’m sorry, solnyshko,” he said to Michael, “but every time you get all forceful, warrior Archangel Commander in Chief like that, I can’t help but salute you. It seems I’m not the only one. It’s your cross to bear.”
Michael shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I shall do my best to endure it, da bao. You, Remiel, Raphael, Haniel, Metatron, Israfel, and myself will take Ishtahar to Iona and stay with her.”
“Okay.” Gabriel nodded, relieved not to be going too far from Michael’s side. “Let’s do this.”
Chapter Three
PENEMUEL was in a state that could only be described as sheer terror.
When Azazel’s voice had reached him, calling him, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel to meet with Semjaza, Penemuel had been working, cataloguing new acquisitions as part of his job with the British Library. Penemuel loved his job. He loved the preservation and dissemination of knowledge, and collecting old books and manuscripts for the library was one of his greatest pleasures. Touching ancient, crackling parchment in climate-controlled rooms, reading long-dead languages, the words written in graceful, elegant script, was as near to living in paradise as Penemuel could imagine. He could not fathom ever giving up this job, not for anyone or anything.
He had been working with his best friend, a human named Chloe. Chloe’s mother owned the apartment that Penemuel rented, and the two of them lived in the one beneath his. It had taken him a few months, b
ut Penemuel had found himself opening up to Chloe and her mother, Susan, and telling them who and what he was.
His identity here among the humans who lived and worked in the city of London was that of Mr. George Penn—a simple and unassuming name that did not draw any attention. He had used his knowledge to fake his identity through the long, slow centuries that he had lived, hidden away from all other angels, devoting himself to his books and to study. Not since the days of Eden had Penemuel told a human what he was. Not until now.
“George?”
Penemuel heard Chloe’s voice coming as if from very far away. He could hear a sound like an inrushing of an angry wind, hateful, prideful, resounding in his ears louder than the pounding of his heart, and he gaped stupidly at her, slack-jawed and uncomprehending as he slumped against the stacks of as yet uncataloged rare books.
“Pen!” Chloe’s voice was a whisper as she shook him, and he blinked stupidly at her, gazing at her in fear. He couldn’t shake it, the all-pervading menacing sense that his quiet little life was about to be destroyed.
By Semjaza.
Chloe swore and as Penemuel watched, helpless on the floor where he’d slid, leaning against the stacks, she moved away, bustling around the room lined with shelves and smelling of old paper. When she returned to his side, she had a bottle of water in one hand and a sheaf of paper towels from the bathroom in the other.
Dampening the paper towels, Chloe patted Penemuel’s face, looking at him anxiously. “Pen,” she whispered again, “Pen, come on. You’re scaring me.”
Penemuel blinked, feeling a little foolish. The touch of cool water upon his face jolted him from his panic, and he pushed himself into a more comfortable position. “My apologies, Chloe.” He closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths.
“What happened?”
Penemuel opened his eyes and gazed at her. Semjaza would want her, he thought.Semjaza would take her. The thought angered him.
“I have just had some most unsettling news,” Penemuel said, looking over Chloe’s shoulder to be sure they were alone. Blessedly, they were, and he let out another breath. “I think I need to return home.” To hide, was what he did not add.
Chloe nodded, black hair with bright blue streaks falling into her face. She pushed it back and stood, helping him to his feet. “Right, well, I’m driving. You look like you’re going to pass out. Can’t have that, can we.” It wasn’t a question.
Penemuel opened his mouth to protest, but she was already propelling him toward the staff room. “Well. If you insist,” he said, feeling more and more feeble by the moment. When had he become so weak, so terrified of his own choir?
When Semjaza decided he was the Emperor of Eden, a voice in the back of his mind said.
Penemuel shuddered. He didn’t argue as Chloe led him to the staff parking lot and gently but firmly pushed him into the front passenger seat of her beat-up old Fiat. He didn’t say anything as she drove the short distance to their apartments, parked her car, and locked it behind them after they got out. In fact, Penemuel did not say anything at all until he was safely in his apartment, sitting in his favorite armchair, with his cat, a silver-gray tabby, cuddled to him.
Chloe made tea, and the scent of it, warm and fragrant, was comforting and reassuring. As he sipped at it, she called her mother, Susan, on her cell phone, and several minutes later, Susan was in the apartment, looking at him with grave concern.
“What happened, dear?” Susan asked as she sat down.
Penemuel managed a wan smile. “Forgive me, dear friends. I fear that the news I received this evening startled me a great deal.”
“You fainted,” Chloe pointed out from her perch on the arm of the chair in which her mother sat. “I didn’t even know angels could faint!”
“I... oh, dear.” Penemuel felt his cheeks grow warm. “How undignified.”
“Never mind that.” Chloe shook her head. “Come on, Pen. I’ve seen you be the absentminded professor, the scholar. I’ve seen you excited to find a book we all thought was only a myth. I’ve seen you be lazy and happy and cross, but I have never seen you scared.”
Penemuel reflexively cuddled his cat a little tighter, and the animal mewed, licking his chin. He forced himself to relax and take even breaths as he wondered how to answer her.
Finally, he sighed, deflating as he realized that he trusted these two women too much to try to dissemble. And he had told them all about himself and the Grigori. They had a right to know they might be in danger from Semjaza’s return. He set down his teacup and squirmed a little in his seat.
“Very well.” Penemuel licked his lips. “I was contacted by Azazel.”
“Another Grigori,” Chloe said.
“Right. He also contacted Kokabiel and Baraqiel, whom I think I’ve told you about.”
“Oh yes.” Susan nodded. “The two who are involved in a relationship and work in Belgium as astronomers.”
“Yes.” Penemuel took another deep breath. “As I told you, most of us were in Hell after the crisis that was the last days of Eden. I managed to find a way out, and once out, I decided to lie low and just live. Just experience things for myself, without using my powers except to hide myself from other angels. Ko and Bara came with me, and we split up and travelled the world. It was the last three hundred years that we found our vocations, if you will.”
“The Angel of Writing works in a library,” Chloe smiled. “It seems to me that would have been your vocation since the invention of the library.”
Penemuel smiled back. “I did, in fact, work in the library in Alexandria. Oh, but those were wonderful, marvelous years.” He shook himself. “In any event, we thought that Semjaza, the leader of our choir, would remain imprisoned in the constellation of Aquila forever. He was chained there by an Archangel, after all.
“Azazel also managed to escape Hell, via one of the Gates of Hell that was left open during a demon uprising before the founding of the Roman Empire. However, he always kept to himself and did as we three did. Travelled, lived, and learned. Avoided other angels.
“We all knew where each other were, to be sure; we did not want to interfere with each other. Ko and Bara kept in touch with me once I settled down here in London. They had settled in Brussels, so we three had finally found places that we called home. Azazel continued to travel until around two hundred years ago, when he settled down in Paris.
“Anyway, this evening, for the first time in eons, Azazel called out to us and told us that the leader of the Grigori, the Prince, if you will, is free.” Penemuel’s hands trembled as he stroked his cat. “Semjaza is on Earth.”
Chloe and her mother looked at each other. Then Chloe turned back to Penemuel, a frown on her face. “But... you said he was in a prison made by an Archangel.”
“Yes, the Archangel Gabriel.”
“Aren’t Archangels the most powerful kind of angel?”
“Oh yes, most assuredly,” Penemuel said. “But Semjaza is cunning, and he believes that he was wrongly imprisoned. He’s also a magician and, like the rest of us, a Watcher. So he would have used his time to his own advantage and figured out a way to break free.” Penemuel snorted. “I would not like to be around Saint Gabriel right now. I imagine him to be raging... and he was terrifying enough when he was in a good mood.” He smiled ruefully. “I fear that I’m something of a coward.”
Chloe shrugged. “I don’t think that being a coward or not is really important, Pen. What is important is that this Semjaza had Azazel contact you. What does he want?”
“Ah.” Penemuel hesitated. “He wants us to meet with him tomorrow, in Paris.”
“Will you go?” Susan asked.
“I have no choice,” Penemuel said. “I must go.”
“Who says?” Chloe demanded.
“We are the same choir,” Penemuel explained. “And Semjaza is our leader, the Prince of the Grigori. He decides what we can and can’t do, and he punishes us as he sees fit. So, I will go and see what he has to say and de
pending on what it is....” He trailed off.
“Can’t this Archangel do something?” Chloe pressed.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing something. I’m sure they all are,” Penemuel said. “But what can they do, realistically? They don’t know where he is. They don’t know about myself, Ko, Bara, and Azazel. We’ve become experts at hiding from them.”
“I think you should summon one of them.” Chloe’s eyes flashed with determination, and inwardly, Penemuel quailed. “Isn’t there one who’s a scholar too? Who would understand how you feel and want to help you?”
Penemuel frowned. “There’s Saint Raziel. He’s the Archangel of Secrets and Mysteries, but I don’t know if—”
Chloe cut him off. “Great. I’ll go downstairs and search the Internet for a summoning ritual, and then we’ll summon this Saint Raziel.” She got to her feet and marched toward the door of the apartment.
“Oh, my,” Penemuel muttered as Chloe went downstairs.
“Don’t fret, dear. I’ll sit with you while Chloe does what she needs to,” Susan said, leaning over to pat Penemuel’s knee.
“Thank you,” he said weakly.
Chloe returned ten minutes later, carrying her laptop. She sat down on the sofa and fired up the machine. “I’m going to hunt up a summoning ritual for Raziel,” she began as her fingers danced over the keyboard, “and then I’m going to look up ways for you to protect yourself from Semjaza, Pen.”
Penemuel blinked. “I don’t know that there are any,” he said.
“That’s why I’m looking on the Internet. To be sure.” Chloe’s eyes were glued to the screen.
The minutes ticked slowly by, and Penemuel made himself focus on his cat. The animal was kneading his shoulder as he held her, and he sighed, taking comfort from the warm little body and the soft purr. He gave Susan a quick smile as she made another pot of tea and poured for them.
“Ah-ha!”
Chloe’s jubilant cry made Penemuel jump. He was glad he’d set his teacup down and hadn’t spilled any tea.
“What did you find, dear?” Susan asked.
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