Ash flexed his wings, his brooding gaze sweeping over the city as he stood on his balcony. Marcus had arrived to give his report, but Ash knew what he was going to say.

“You were right, my lord. Le Marais has been getting supplemental aid from the council these last eight months, but it’s not making its way to the people.”

Ash’s jaw stiffened, and he nodded curtly at his aide.

“What would you like me to do?” Marcus asked.

Ash stood and fixed his wings before reaching for his helmet. “Nothing. I will take care of this myself.”

His aide blew out a long breath, his relief palpable. “I think that’s wise. The last warning I issued about graft in our system was disregarded. The councilmen have always dismissed me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Between the two of us, I think certain members of the council need a reminder that they are serving at your discretion. Perhaps even a hint that we can start opening council seats for election. That always gets them back on track.”

“Yes, but for how long?” Ash muttered, putting on his helmet with a scowl. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

Marcus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

God save me from politicians. Ash paused, half-hoping a sudden break in the clouds would illuminate him in His radiance, but no divine providence was going to get him out of this meeting.

He headed for the balcony, but Marcus chased after him. “Don’t forget this,” he called, thrusting a slate with a series of numbers at him.

“What’s this?”

“A summary of the accounting for Le Marais.”

With effort, Ash summoned a grateful smile and nodded, taking the slate before flying over his beleaguered city, his destination the Petit Palais.

* * *

The slate ended up making quite an impression. All the council members had their eyes fixed on it when he cracked it over Titouan’s head.

Ash lifted the hapless councilman with one hand. The pudgy balding man coughed and kicked his feet.

“I think some of you have forgotten your purpose here,” Ash said, letting a little angelic resonance infuse his words. “You oversee your arrondissement because I appointed you. Your sole purpose is to ensure the well-being of the people in your community. If you are not doing that, you can be replaced.”

“But, Your Highness, all we have ever done is serve the people’s interest,” Klein protested with genuine affront.

Ash dropped Titouan in a pile next to the heavily laden table. “I am an agent of God, not a king,” he said, his diction precise and clipped. He picked up a leg of pigeon. Pigeon. Even he didn’t get to eat fowl anymore. “And pray tell, just how does a feast for you lot help the starving people of Le Marais?”

Titouan held up his hands. “But those people were given everything they needed after the last fire. It’s not my fault if the seeds rotted and the grain molded.”

Mazarin, the councilman for the first arrondissement, hastily waved Titouan into silence with a tinkle of his gold bracelets. Cowed, the sweaty little bald man scrambled up and sat down as far from Ash as he could.

“Surely you don’t begrudge us a simple meal while we discuss our mutual business?” Mazarin asked in his most reasonable tone. “We work long hours on behalf of our people, discussing their needs and seeing what can be done to help as many as we can.”

He broke off with a hapless little gesture. “Surely a light repast is not too much to ask?” His unctuous tone slid over Ash like a spray of noxious water from the Seine.

Ash eyed the man, weighing the sin of snapping his neck. Politicians did this to him every time. Even an angel had his limits…but as far as he knew, Mazarin’s sins didn’t warrant execution.

“I think it’s time we opened council seats to a little democracy,” Ash replied slowly, enunciating each word. “Next month, I’m calling for elections. Every man, woman, and child over the age of ten gets a vote.”

Mazarin paled. “But what about us? No one understands the needs of our communities like us, its natural leaders.”

Ash’s jaw stiffened at the phrase natural leaders. Even after an apocalypse, the old order held on with a death grip.

“Some of you, the most junior, are welcome to run for your seats again. As for the rest of you—it’s time to resurrect a lovely little rule tailor-made for situations like these. I believe they call it term limits.”

Ash tossed the pigeon leg back on the table and crossed his arms, waiting for the inevitable argument. He didn’t have to wait long for the explosion.

Everyone began talking at once. Klein was babbling, and Tucker was red and shouting.

Ash let their petty little arguments wash over him. Mazarin was the one he needed to watch.

This is my fault. He was about to call for silence when the klaxon began to sound.

Saved by the bell, he thought, wondering if he meant him or them.

He turned to Titouan. “You’ve been left to your own devices for far too long. See that your people are fed. Do it now.” He lifted his gaze to encompass the rest of the council. “You all need to do it now. Local inspections will begin in every district without further notice. It will be an assessment of all of you. Consider the coming elections judgement.”

Ignoring their responses and protests, he turned on his heel and left. Disaster was waiting, like always.

* * *

Morblue.

Ash had never used that particular swear in his long life, but it seemed appropriate now.

The sinkhole was massive, spanning the entire length of the Quai de Bercy. Worse yet, it had taken out the right-hand span of the bridge. The pre-Collision structure had risen in importance since Ash had decided to try and rebuild the tracks at the Gare de Lyon. He wanted to connect the city center to their fertile fields down south near the old Porte de Gentilly. Marcus was supposed to be at the station now with the survey team.

Merde. How many building supplies had they lost into that pit?

Ash flew down, circling over the gaping wound in the earth. It was like the entrance to Hell itself, only it was filling with the polluted sludge from the Seine. Derelict vehicles were bobbing on the greasy surface, along with one or two people. He plucked the survivors from the pit, flying them to the safety of the bank.

Marcus was heading toward him through the fleeing crowd, pushing upstream like a salmon.

“Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“Didier, from the engineering team. We were taking a break for a meal when word came that the axel of a lorry had broken. It was carrying a load of steel track for the railway.”

Ash frowned under his helmet. “I think I just pulled him from the pit.” That second survivor had looked a bit familiar.

“Thank the Lord,” Marcus breathed, putting a hand on his chest. “Didier and the others have been getting the sewage system back in order. I’d hate to think we have to start over again.”

Ash was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s always the ones we need.

He didn’t need divine guidance to know who the new Firehorse was.

Didier and Marcus were friends. It wasn’t much, but Ash could at least spare his aide some pain by not telling him until the deed was done.

“Go back to the train station. I’ll fish what I can out of the sinkhole, but order more supplies to replace that shipment of track.”

Marcus scribbled on his clipboard. “Yes, my lord, but I will have to check that we have enough ore to replace that steel.”

“If we don’t, then leave it be for the moment. We need to prioritize the canal and the sewage system.”

“But what about this?” Marcus asked, waving at the pit.

The perfect roundness of the hole mocked Ash. Even in a disaster, he could see the stamp of the Creator.

Pi. Pi is perfect. I am not, he thought, hoping Marcus would understand why he didn’t tell him about his friend.

“As long that foul water is pouring into the hole and not the city, we leave it be. At least until we can bring in enough filler material—things we can spare like the bad concrete batch.”

“The one made using the sand from the wasteland?”

Ash nodded. “I’ll find Didier. Go now.”

Like the trusting fool that he was, Marcus saluted and waved goodbye as he headed back to the station.

Ash relaxed the fist he’d been hiding behind his back. His own nails had scored his palm, but the small cut sealed before his eyes.

Across the river, he could see the humans gathering on the left bank. Speculating about which one of them is the Firehorse no doubt. They were always so quick to turn on one another. In his mind’s eye, they became a pack of wolves baying to the sky, hungry for blood.

He flew toward them. “This area is unsafe. Go home!”

“Shouldn’t we find the Firehorse?” one of them shouted.

“It’s taken care of,” he promised with a heavy sigh. “They’ve been identified.”

Didier would get the choice Ash had given all the others—all but the child. A quick death at Ash’s hands or the man could take his chances in the wasteland.

Most of the crowd dispersed, though as always, a small handful stayed to gape at the new landmark in their city. He eyed one or two, searching for troublemakers, an unfortunate necessity. Experience had taught him how to spot them. Up in Heaven, he had been one of them.

Get moving. Didier had to be his focus. He had to find the man before something terrible happened. Ash glanced at the sinkhole. Something else, that is.

He will have gone home. Didier was covered in the poisonous muck of the Seine. He would need to bathe and change into fresh clothes. Ash would be able to find him there…if he knew where the man lived.

Marcus knows.

Ash swore. Dear God, couldn’t he have one break? Just one?

The Heavens were silent.