FROM WHAT I can gather from snippets of conversation among the hotel staff, it’s not just a party, it’s a banquet. On the agenda are drinks, scantily clad Daughters of Men, and more drinks. Then dinner with more drinks. Then dancing with Daughters of Men and more drinks.
Basically, there’s a whole lot of drunkenness planned for the evening. I guess, if the angels don’t break their own rules tonight, Uriel’s backup plan must be to make sure they don’t remember that they didn’t break the rules.
Uriel glides from one group to the next, clasping hands and making sure everyone is having a good time. He offers Andi and me to those without girls on their arms, but they all politely decline without even looking at us.
I get a better notion of Uriel’s monumental task. This is not an easy crowd to manipulate. Already, a lot of the soldiers are turning down extra drinks and refusing the attentions of the women.
Some of the crowd welcome him warmly and with a brief fanning of wings. It seems like the equivalent of a salute—not so much that it takes up too much space, but enough to show respect. They didn’t do that at the old aerie. He must have made progress in his campaign. They hadn’t called him Your Grace then either.
I’m glad to see that other groups greet him only with simple nods and polite smiles. They call him Uriel, Archangel, and occasionally Uri rather than Your Grace.
“Do you really think we’re nearing Judgment Day, Uri?” asks a warrior. He hadn’t saluted with his wings and doesn’t address him with much respect, but there’s genuine interest and—hope?—in his face.
“I absolutely do,” says Uriel. His voice has real conviction. “Archangel Gabriel brought us here for a reason. Bringing two other archangels to Earth along with a legion of warriors is nothing short of apocalyptic.”
Ain’t that the truth.
I wonder what Raffe would think of this party.
Before Uriel can go on with the conversation, others intervene, and Uriel goes back to nodding greetings and stretching his mouth with an over-bright smile.
My feet are already hurting and the party has just begun. My toes feel like they’re in a vice that gets tighter by the minute, and my heels feel like electric drills are boring into them.
I fantasize about stepping into the crowd and losing myself in it. Could I drift out to the edges and disappear?
Just as I’m thinking that, a woman screams from the beach, followed by an unnatural growl. The piercing sound gets swallowed quickly by the roar of the waves, the conversation, and the music.
Andi and I exchange a quick glance before going back to our matching poses. We mold our faces into mannequin faces—plastic and aloof. But I’m sure that if someone really looked, they could see the alert fear in our eyes.
Uriel works his way to a makeshift stage at the edge of the party. As he meanders along, he looks over at someone for a second longer than usual. I hadn’t even realized how closely I’d been watching him until I notice a change in his attitude. His shoulders and expression freeze on autopilot as his mind switches over to something else.
The change is so subtle that I’m sure no one else noticed it, except maybe for Andi who has been watching him as closely as I have.
Uriel looks at an oversized angel on the edge of the crowd. He has snowy wings peppered with gold feathers and a matching gold mask over his eyes. He looks angelic in every sense except for the sneer on his lips.
He holds his snowy wings out a little as if insecure that he belongs here. One of his wings has the scissor notch that’s now forever etched in my memory.
Beliel.
I also recognize two angels beside him from the video Doc showed me. Their wings are shimmery bronze and copper, but I’d bet my next meal that one of them has burnt orange wings beneath that costume. It’s Burnt, the Kidnapper of Little Girls.
I clench my fists automatically and have to force them to relax.
Beliel and Uriel exchange a look. Beliel nods ever so slightly at Uriel. The archangel glances away without responding but he smiles brightly at the next person and seems more relaxed.
I do a sweep of the people around Beliel. Of course, Paige is nowhere to be seen in the sea of angels and neither is Raffe. I’m not even sure I believe what Doc said about Paige being drawn to Beliel, but apparently my heart does.
Uriel steps into another group of warriors. This one is part of the “Your Grace” crowd. Smiles and wing-fanning all around. As Uriel makes his way through the various masked and disguised angels, one of them catches my eye.
He’s a warrior with the required broad shoulders and Adonis body. This one has white-feathered wing covers flecked with silver that sparkles in the twilight. A matching mask swirls and curves with feathers, ornately covering everything but his eyes and mouth. Even his forehead is partially hidden by his tousled dark hair.
There’s something about him that makes me forget about my heels pinching my toes, the too-close crowd, and even the monstrous Politician. Something feels familiar about him, although I can’t say exactly what. Maybe it’s the proud way he holds his head, or the way he cuts through the crowd with utter confidence, as if it’s assumed that everyone will get out of his way.
Although he doesn’t observe Beliel any more than anyone else, he moves when Beliel moves, stops when Beliel stops.
All my attention is drawn to the warrior as I look for the slightest proof of him being Raffe. If he had been in a crowd of human men, it’d be easy to pick him out as a god among them. Just my luck that we’re in a crowd of walking mountains of muscle and the kind of studliness that females all over the world would die for. Too bad there’s too big a risk of actually dying around them.
My intense study of him must tickle his spy sense because he looks over at me.
I know that, as a soldier, he probably sized up all the others around him, the weapons they carry, the best escape route. But as an angel, I doubt that he bothered to take much stock of the humans.
When he looks at me, it’s the look of someone noticing a person for the first time, proving yet again that an angel’s arrogance knows no bounds. Which, now that I think about it, increases the likelihood that this is Raffe.
He does a full evaluation of me, taking in the cut and curled hair accented with peacock feathers, the blue and silver makeup ribbons chasing around my eyes and cheekbones, the silky dress that clings to every part of my body.
But it’s not until his eyes meet mine that a jolt of recognition passes between us.
I have no doubt that it’s Raffe.
But he fights his recognition of me.
For a second, his defenses fall and I can see the turmoil behind his eyes.
He saw me die. This must be a mistake.
This glittery girl doesn’t look anything like the street waif he traveled with.
Yet…
His step falters and he pauses, staring at me.