World After (26 page)

His black soles look dirty beside the bottle of wine and flowers arranged on the table. Otherwise, they make a beautiful picture. Two exquisite angels lounging on expensive furniture.

Uriel takes a deep breath. “Breathe. Enjoy the wonders of God’s Earth.” He proudly sweeps his hand toward the windows overlooking the spectacular surf as if he had something to do with it. He takes another deep breath as if to show her how it’s done.

Laylah follows his lead and breathes deeply a couple of times. So far, neither of the angels has glanced over at us any more than they looked at the dining table. We’re just furniture to them.

I keep my eyes staring at a point on the bookshelves, as befitting a statue. The last thing I want is to have them notice that I’m watching them. According to my sensei, you’re better off watching your enemies through your peripheral vision anyway.

“If I didn’t think you could lead this project, I wouldn’t have asked you to head it.” Uriel picks up the bottle of wine and removes the foil at the top. “There is no greater chimerologist than you, Laylah. We all know that. Well, everyone but Gabriel knew that.” His voice holds a hint of sarcasm when he mentions the Messenger. “He should never have appointed that doddering idiot, Paean, as the realm’s Lead Physician. It should have been you. And it will be as soon as I’m elected Messenger. Maybe we’ll even change the title to Lead Creator.”

Laylah’s perfect lips part in surprised pleasure. Oh, she’d like that.

“If Paean had been in charge of this project,” says Uriel as he works the corkscrew deeper into the cork, “he would have started with cellular cultures and we’d be waiting years before anything happened.”

“Centuries,” says Laylah. “He thinks everything should start with cellular cultures just because that’s his specialty.”

“His methods are eons outdated. You, on the other hand—I knew you’d slam through this. You’re a genius. Why bother with
building a species from the ground up when we can mix and match what’s already out there? Not that that’s not enormously complicated.” He pops the cork. “Your work is absolutely brilliant. And I know that this project is progressing at unbelievable, record-breaking speeds.”

He nods. Pins her with a look.

“But I need it to go faster.” His friendly features harden into something unrelenting. He pours a glass of red wine. It looks like a stream of blood pooling into the glass.

“And I know you can do it, Laylah.” His voice is soft, encouraging, but with an undertone of command. “I wouldn’t have given you the job if I didn’t think you could make it happen. Triple your staff, cut corners, birth the locusts prematurely if you have to.” He hands her the glass and pours one for himself.

“Triple my staff with whom? More humans? I might as well try to train dogs to work with us for all they know about species creation.”

“This area of the globe is the best that humans have to offer. That’s what you said. That’s why we’re here in this soulless place instead of Mecca or Jerusalem or Vatican City, where the locals would have gotten down on their knees and treated us with proper, old-world respect. Instead, we opted for the equipment, the labs, the highly trained biologists. Remember?” He takes a drink. “You’re the one who wanted to come here. So make it work, Laylah.”

“I’m doing my best.” She takes a sip, staining her lips with dark red. “The latest batch of locusts have the lion’s teeth and women’s hair that you requested, but they can’t work their mouths properly. If you want them closer to the biblical description, we need more time.”

He takes a cigar from a box on the coffee table and offers it to her. “Cigar?”

“No, thank you.” She crosses her model-long legs, which emphasizes her graceful curves and lines as she lounges on the sofa. She looks like an artistic rendering of the perfect feminine form, more like a goddess than an angel.

“Try one. You’ll like it.”

I assume she’ll say no. Even I can tell that a fat, ash-tipped cigar wouldn’t make a good accessory for her. But she hesitates.

“Truly, who knew that the nectar of the gods was meant to be smoked rather than sipped? It’s no wonder so many of our upper echelon have taken to it.”

She leans forward to take it. Her back becomes stiff. Her legs look uncomfortable in her new position. Her fingers look unsure and clumsy as she lights the brown tip.

“The locusts don’t need to be perfect,” says Uriel. “They just need to put on a good show. They don’t even need to survive long—just long enough to wreak havoc, torture humans in good old-fashioned, biblical style, and darken the sky with their numbers.”

Laylah takes a puff. I expect her to cough like an amateur but she doesn’t. She does come close to wrinkling her nose, though. “I’ll try to speed things up.”

“Trying is not a commitment.” Uriel’s voice is smooth but firm.

She takes a deep breath. “I won’t let you down, Archangel.”

“Good. I never doubted it.” He blows smoke. It must be a good cigar. He looks satisfied. He gets up and Laylah follows. “I must make the rounds at the party. Things are probably about to get a little wild down there. When will you be joining the festivities?”

Laylah looks even more uncomfortable, if that’s possible. “I need to get back to work. My staff needs me.”

“Of course they need you. But they’ll have to manage without you for an evening. Part of the job of being Lead Physician is attending major ceremonies. And believe me, this one will go down in history. You won’t want to miss it.” Uriel ushers her out the door. “The monkey named Madeline will see to your appearance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Laylah almost bolts out.

F
OR
THE
next couple of hours, Uriel gets dressed for the party. It’s apparently another period costume party, only this time, it seems like the point is to actually be semi-disguised.

“Make the masks and wing coverings available everywhere,” he tells his assistant angel as Madeline and two other people cover his gray-tinged wings with a gauzy white material. Even though it would be Madeline and her team who would put the costumes out for the angels, Uriel only addresses his angelic assistant. “I want all the angels to feel anonymous. And the Daughters of Men—make sure they’re wearing wings.”

“Wings?” asks the assistant. His wings are sky blue and I can understand why the angels would need to cover their wings if they really want to be disguised. “But, Your Grace, if I may, with all the wine and costumes, the Daughters of Men may be mistaken for angels by some of the drunk soldiers.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” Uriel’s tone implies that it wouldn’t be a shame at all.

“But if some of the soldiers were to make a mistake…,” he breaks off delicately.

“Then they’d better pray that I become the Messenger and not Michael. Unlike Michael who is off on one of his endless military
campaigns across the world, I am attending the party. I will be right here to understand how such a terrible mistake could be made. And as for Raphael, even if they don’t accept that he has fallen, they’ll certainly remember how preachy he got about fraternizing with the Daughters of Men after his Watchers fell doing exactly that.”

Madeline and her assistants place a layer of black feathers over Uriel’s wings so that the white material peeks out between the feather gaps.

“What are you doing?” asks Uriel irritated.

Madeline stares wide-eyed at Uriel’s assistant, looking terrified that Uriel just addressed her. Then she bows and tries to shrink into herself. “I, um, thought you wanted to be in costume. Your Grace.” I’m beginning to suspect that only the Messenger gets to be called “Your Grace,” and that his toadies call him that to flatter him.

“I’ll wear a mask and wing coverings but I need to be recognized, even from afar. It’s the masses who need to be anonymous. Do I look like the masses to you?”

“Absolutely not, Your Grace.” Madeline sounds breathless with terror. She and her men whisk off the black feathers and gauzy material with shaking hands. “We’ll be right back with a more appropriate outfit.” They scramble out, trailing feathers.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” The assistant bows.

“I suppose intelligence is too much to ask of them.”

They launch into a discussion about wine and liquor. By the sound of things, they must have cleared every bar in the Bay Area to provide a constant flow to the angels tonight. It hits me once again how we are at war but they are not. To them, we humans are just incidental.

Despite our attack on their last aerie, they’re more concerned about drinks and costumes than they are about defense against the humans. Of course, the fact that virtually all the angels were just injured and will fully recover, if they haven’t already, probably just bolsters their outrageous confidence.

I discreetly rub my fingers against the fabric on my hip where my bear sword would have been. The fabric feels flimsy and vulnerable.

Before long, Madeline sweeps back into Uriel’s suite with an entire crew, complete with rolling racks of costumes circa the 1920s crammed full of sparkling feathers. They get to work on Uriel.

He ends up in a white suit with wings of sparkling gold and a matching mask that’s more of a crown than a face cover. It extends above his forehead, giving him the illusion of additional height, and curls around his eyes without actually hiding his features.

When he looks at himself in the full-length mirror, he orders Andi and me to stand behind him. Our makeup has been refreshed and we now wear shimmery gauze wings, more fairy than angel. We are the perfect accessories to his costume.

I understand now why he wanted petite brunettes. Our small bodies make him look large. His wings look giant, his height seems endless. We are the dark silk background to his gold and diamond regalia.

W
E
ARRIVE
just as the party is getting started. Winged men and glamorous women mingle on the multi-tiered terrace and on the golf course below. Torches and fire pits blaze against the golden glow of the sky before sunset, lighting up the grounds.

Colorful lanterns are strung up and blowing in the wind like tethered balloons. Tall bistro tables are scattered around the party with gold-and-silver corkscrew ribbons and shiny confetti, accenting the whole scene with a festive atmosphere.

The surf pounds the cliffs at the edge of the golf course while waves splash gently on the beach on the other side. The rhythm of the water blends elegantly with the music of the string quartet.

I glance at the ocean and wonder how the escape plans are going on Alcatraz. Is the Resistance on its way there? Will
Captain Jake get off his recliner and do the right thing? Then I sweep my gaze over the glittery, glamorous crowd and wonder how I’m supposed to find my sister here.

Uriel shines, clearly in his element as he greets his people. At first, Andi and I walk exactly two paces behind him, but after a while, the crowd gets tighter and we only have room to stand a single pace behind him. It gets a little tougher when he walks down to the golf course. Nothing like heels on grass to make a girl feel clumsy.

Bits of conversation spill over as we walk by. The two words I hear repeatedly are “apocalypse” and “Messenger.” “Apocalypse” is said loudly with relish while “Messenger” is said quietly with an undertone of wariness.

The women are dressed as whimsically and colorfully as we are. Delicate wings, hair curled and scalloped, demi-masks sparkling and colorful on their faces. Some are draped in long silk while others are in tasseled flapper dresses.

The angels have slicked hair and are dressed in old-fashioned tuxes or suits. They wear half masks and wing disguises that change the colors and patterns of their wings. Some, like us, have makeup or tattoo designs around their eyes instead of masks. Others wear zoot suits with looping chains and hats.

The women hang all over the angels, laughing and flirting. Their eyes, though, are far from relaxed. Many of them look grimly determined to get themselves an angel, while more than a few look outright scared. They’re obviously taking their instructions to get an angel protector seriously.

At this party, Uriel’s matching pair of girls are not the only ones who are screaming-on-the-inside terrified.

There are a lot of women, but there are way more angels at this party than there were at the last one at the old aerie. And unlike before, this party is crammed full of hard-muscled, hard-eyed warriors.

It turns out that most of the women are in wings that are more fairy than angel. Even the feathered wings are little cherub wings rather than the true angelic kind. No way could anyone mistake these women for angels.

If an angel gave way to temptation tonight, there would be guilt in the morning. And the knowledge that he couldn’t convince the others that it was just a mistake.

And Uriel would be his only chance for salvation.

I guess I already knew that Uriel is a manipulative bastard. I suspect he’d been building up to this over weeks of parties, slowly introducing the Daughters of Men to the angels, the unlimited drinks, the costumes. And now, the masks and wing disguises that allow for anonymity so the angels can do whatever tempts them without feeling like someone is watching. It would have been outright weird if Uriel had suggested such a thing as soon as they arrived on earth.