“You’re alive then.”

The fire crackles, the flames rising higher than the meager scraps of kindling piled in the rusted firepit should allow. Wasting any of my energy right now is foolish, but the slightly too red color of the conjured flames comforts me. It’s the first spell I truly mastered. I sit on the cracked cement steps and stare into the flames.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not looking for anything in the serpentine motion of the fire.

“Seems like it.”

Michael’s voice is rough, as though he spent the last few hours yelling instead of comatose in Caila’s bed, but I don’t turn around. I don’t look at him.

He hovers behind me, his presence threatening to tug me closer like it always has, the magnetic pull that neither of us has ever been able to deny.

Until he did.

“Why are you here, Michael? Really.”

He squeezes past me on the narrow stairs and steps between me and the fire, blocking my view and forcing me to look at him.

His chest is bare, the bloody mess of his shirt still somewhere on the floor beside the bed. The quarter sized wound that nearly ended him is little more than a red indentation on his skin now. In a few more hours, all traces of his ordeal will be gone, his angelic body erasing any evidence of the injury.

My eyes rake across the chiseled planes of Michael’s muscles, remembering running my fingers across that warrior’s body and feeling him shudder beneath me. I poured wine down his chest once, licking the sticky sweet liquid away where it pooled and tracing the contours of his abs with the tip of my tongue before dipping my head even lower and giving him a real taste of Heaven.

Those days are long past, and I quiet the hunger that always sprung in me when we were close. Unaware of my inner thoughts, Michael’s face wears that same earnest, painfully honest expression he wore while whispering words of forever in my ears. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was sent here.”

“For what purpose? Has Heaven taken another interest in me?” I can’t help the snide tone. After all, Heavenly orders were what threw Michael into my life the first time.

Michael shakes his head. “Grace. Lucifer.” He sighs, leaning heavily against the rough wooden railing that borders both sides of the staircase. “Raphael believes there will be retaliation from some of the angels for Uriel. If something happens to Grace, and Heaven is behind it. . .”

“Lucifer will burn Heaven to the ground,” I finish.

Michael nods gravely. “I’m here to make sure he never has a reason to.” Michael has that same apologetic, kicked puppy look when he continues, “I didn’t know you were here. I would have left you alone.”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” Before Michael can protest, I add, “I almost want to hate her, you know. I wish I could hate her.” At Michael’s confused look, I clarify, “Grace. But you can’t hate her. She’s good. She’s kind. She’s a much better person than I am, and then there’s the two of them together.”

I close my eyes, willing away the memories of being looked at like that. “It’s almost sickening how happy they are.” My voice softens, the sharp edges blunting. “He looks at her when she’s not paying attention. Even though I’ve barely spent more than a few hours with them, you can’t help noticing it. Lucifer looks at her with this awe, as though he doesn’t have any regrets about falling now because she is his Heaven. So yes, I wish I could hate her for it.”

I chuckle to myself. You know you have problems when you look to the devil as an example of a healthy relationship. I flick my wrist and the fire flares a bit brighter, the flames licking the edge of the pit as they fight over the last scraps of fuel, the growing light at his back plunging Michael into silhouette.

Almost as an afterthought, I add, “But then, she is one of you after all. Even before she came into herself the Last was never just another human.”

“Neither were you.”

“That’s rich.”

“That’s true,” he counters.

I glare up at Michael, the ire I worked so hard to control in his presence growing as the flames at his back lick higher. “I was your beach vacation and a warm body to lose yourself in while you worked through your Daddy issues.” Michael takes a step closer, his face still hidden in shadow, his eyes unreadable.

“I was never more than just another human to you. You fed me pretty lies of choosing me over Heaven, but that’s all they were. As soon as Daddy snapped his celestial fingers you ran back to Heaven. And I’m sure you weren’t the first angel to whisper words of love to some shepherd’s daughter to pry apart her knees.”

Before I can blink, Michael is up the two short steps and standing over me, grabbing my shoulders and hauling me to my feet. He stands on the step below me and now that we’re eye to eye I can see the blazing anger in his face.

“Don't do that,” he spits. “Don’t cheapen it.”

I shove him back, and he’s still off balance enough that he ends up in an undignified heap in the grass.

“Don’t touch me.” I can still feel his hands gripping my skin, his touch branding me the way it always did. “You don’t get to decide how I feel, Michael. And if I want to cheapen our great love to an Archangel deciding to screw a human to see what all the fuss is about, you can’t stop me.”

Michael raises himself up on his elbows, but makes no effort to get up from where he’s sprawled on the grass. “But then, I guess I should be thanking you.” I slowly make my way down the steps, walking around Michael to stand by the fire. It’s nearly six feet tall now, fed with spite and fury, all the fuel long since burned away. I cup my palm, cutting it through the air and the flames drop down to a more manageable height. I turn back to Michael as he stands up. “If you had actually cared enough to stay, we might have had a beautiful life together,” I say, “but I’d be nothing but dust and bones by now.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No, I did.” Michael flinches, and the fact that his suffering brings me no joy makes me even angrier at myself. I barely know who I’m speaking to when I continue.

“I thought I knew what it was to hate. I thought I hated my sisters and my mother for looking at me like I was some filthy dog that wandered into their house that they were expected to feed,” I whisper. “I thought I knew what hate was when my father tried to sell me to the brothel for a handful of coins and few cups of wine.”

“I’m sor-“

“Don’t,” I interrupt. “Don’t tell me that you’re sorry or that you have regrets. Don’t do that to me.” The silence stretches out between us, and I make no move to fill it.

“The girl you knew did die, and she died hating you. Leave the dead buried.”

Dust and ashes.

Blood and bone.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. He’s left me, and-

No.

I silence the rising tide of grief that threatens to pull me under, the choking, drowning waves that turn every bright memory into poison.

I will not be another wailing woman, gnashing my teeth and rending my clothes as I weep at the injustice of love.

I learned long ago that the only justice that exists is what I create with my own hands. I lost sight of that in his arms.

I won’t forget again.

I burst through the doorway into the kitchen. Tanith is twisting a plait into Sisa’s dark hair, murmuring sweet words into the child’s ear as her gnarled fingers weave the glossy black strands into a wreath of intricate waves fit for a fine lady.

Their cheerful greetings fall on deaf ears as I drop to my knees in front of the cold fireplace, scooping up ashes and cinders with my bare hands.

“Mistress?” Tanith’s crackling voice is hesitant, and I stare down into the hearth, to my grey streaked hands, schooling my features before I stand up, the ashes cupped carefully in my palm.

“It’s fine,” I reply. I pause in the doorway before adding. “Don’t enter my study tonight.”

I fill the gleaming brass bowl that Amma passed down to me with the ashes, and I barely feel the cut as I slash the blade through my palm. The blood drips down, the rivulets of red turning dusty grey as it mixes. I draw my fingers through the mixture, sticky and dry, and I walk outside.

The wind is never silent here on the edge of the cliffs. It roars through my ears, snapping my hair over my shoulders. I draw my fingers across the bleached white stone of the wall, painting the sigil that will bar him from entering. I press my still bleeding palm to the center and feel the ward wrap around the house, cloaking it from Heaven’s prying eyes.

I can feel the darkness descend around the house as surely as the sun slipping behind a cloud.

But there will be no break in the storm today.

I step back inside, yanking the shutters closed behind me and plunging the room into murky half-light.

I lose track of the hours. They slip together in the dim room, the shadows growing deeper as dusk crawls into night, and still I sit, staring at the darkened corner where he first appeared to me.

My hand aches, and my nose is filled with the bitter tang of blood and ashes.

The moon is high when I stand up on stiff legs and push open the door. The wind has quieted, the air still for the first time in months. The sigil stares back at me, blood and ash looking black in the moonlight. I feel the twinge in my palm as the magic flowing through it pulses around me.

I reach up and draw my nails through the markings, breaking the lines. I feel the ward snap instantly. I leave the door gaping open as I walk back inside.

I wait.

Dawn breaks around me, the black of the night sky fading into purple before erupting with streaks of pink and orange as the sun crests the horizon. The morning glides into another beautiful day, the cloudless skies the brightest shade of blue.

Sounds from the household filter through the walls, the murmur of feminine voices that always brought me comfort fading into white noise as I wait.

Dusk has fallen again and the last rays of the sun have dyed the ocean the color of blood when I hear the sound of wings.

The dying light frames his silhouette as he stands in the doorway, but I don’t need light to see that the angel is not Michael.

He steps over my threshold, his wings trailing behind him, the feathers black as pitch. While Michael’s presence always made me feel lighter, some part of his angelic nature easing the burden of my soul with his mere presence, I feel nothing but dark anger pouring from him.

I should be afraid, but I know that anger isn’t meant for me.

“Elissa,” he says, and his voice is like silk.

“Who are you?” I ask. “Come into the light.”

The unlit torches and oil lamps in the room all flare to life at once, the sudden brightness jarring. I blink for a moment as my eyes adjust.

He stands unmoving, watching my reaction impassively. He is Michael’s opposite in every way. Inky black robes swirl around him, and his hair and eyes are as dark as his wings. When he takes another step closer to me he moves like a predator, like the beasts shipped into Rome for the gladiator fights, violent energy coiled in his muscles just waiting for the moment to strike.

“I am called Lucifer,” he replies. He’s standing right in front of me, gazing down at where I’ve sat frozen for the last day. He extends a hand to me, and I hesitate. “Heaven tried to make me kneel once. It’s done the same to you, I see.”

Bristling, I rise unaided, and Lucifer smiles. “I see what drew him to you, but I see so much more.” Lucifer takes a step closer until he’s near enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and smell the scent of smoke and spice clinging to his skin.

One hand reaches up and brushes a lock of my hair from my face, and I lift up my chin, staring unflinchingly at him.

“Such spirit was wasted on my brother.” I can’t hide the flinch that goes through me as he mentions Michael. Lucifer sees it.

“Michael wronged us both. The sound of your soul screaming hatred for Heaven echoed into the depths of Hell.” Lucifer takes one of my limp hands in his and draws me into the center of the room. The heat from the flames and burning oil in the lamps in the still air of the room grows stifling but he shows no discomfort even as the flames dance across his face.

I have wondered if all angels were as beautiful as Michael, and I have my answer.

Lucifer circles me slowly, appraising me like a beast at auction. I know the barest story of who he is. I pried many tales of his people from Michael in the past year, and Lucifer’s fate was the one account Michael skimmed over.

As though reading my thoughts, Lucifer asks, “What has your beloved Michael told you of me?”

“You are an angel who defied God and started a war in Heaven. You lost, and as punishment you were banished to Hell,” I parrot Michael’s words.

Lucifer’s lips curl into a sneer of disgust. “I’m not surprised that’s what you were told. History is written by the winners, after all,” he spits. He ceases his endless circuit around me, standing by my side, but still so close.

“Heaven likes compliance. Deference. Blind obedience.” I turn my head to watch him as he speaks, and I know his words are the truth. “That’s why my dear brother is one of Heaven’s most favored sons, and our Father ordered him to cut me down.” The bitterness that drips from his voice is so familiar.

“You loved him,” I state.

“Yes,” Lucifer replies without hesitating. “And he made his choice.”

I drop my eyes to the ground for a moment, emotions swirling through me, love and lust, pain and betrayal, all wrapped up in the image of Michael’s face.

Heaven made the demands, but Michael chose to obey them.

I lift my head back up, staring into the darkness of Lucifer’s eyes, and his lips curl up into a smile as he reads the resolve in me.

“I think we can make a deal.”

There are many paths to power. All require discipline and study, but I shied away from the darkest magics. I was able to harness the wild magic of the land and sea, and they demanded tribute in blood and bone and pain, but it was always mine. I did not toy with the lives of others or traffic in the dead. I crawled to the edge of the cliff, but I never jumped.

But like Lucifer, I was pushed.

“A deal?” I echo. “For my soul?”

Lucifer chuckles as he shakes his head. “Your soul can’t be bought or sold. It doesn’t work that way. I thought to barter for your place in Heaven, but now I see what you truly were to him. Consider this a gift.”

His hands brush over my bare arms, and I can’t hide the flush of desire that fills me at his touch. Lucifer’s lips brush the shell of my ear, and his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks again. “The place you have in his heart is far more valuable to me than the place you have in Heaven.”

I feel the wash of power flood me at that touch, feel fire tear through my veins as the devil remakes me in the flickering candlelight, burning away my mortality, scorching my soul black as his wings.

It’s overwhelming, pain and pleasure twisting and coiling over each other until I’ve lost the sense entirely of which sensation is which. Somewhere in that deep void I’ve fallen into, I hear Lucifer’s voice in my ear, his low words like a caress. “We are the same, you and I. The ones betrayed and cast aside. Never again.”

I feel my own power growing, my skin stretching too tight as the magic I harnessed on my own flexes and expands, doubling and redoubling until I’m nearly blinded by the intensity of it all.

My knees buckle, and Lucifer catches me, lowering me to the floor with a surprising gentleness. Already I can feel the dizziness receding as the shattered pieces of my mortal self knit back together into something new. Something better.

Let Michael have his subservience. I didn’t tear free of the stranglehold of man’s rules to be bound by Heaven’s.

He made his choice, and I made mine.

Michael’s hand brushes my arm, and that simple touch is like throwing a match into a bucket of gasoline. The air between us thickens, and it has nothing to do with the perpetual Louisiana humidity and everything to do with the way Michael stares at me in the firelight. His pupils are wide, deep blue swallowed up by blackness, and he looks like a starving man staring at a feast.

I remember being the focus of that stare, that unwavering angelic attention. It was intoxicating then, and after so many years of living without or passing my nights with forgettable trysts that mean nothing beyond tactile comfort, I want to be devoured again.

I take a step closer, all thoughts of personal space gone. Michael’s breath is labored and heavy, and I reach upward and press my fingers against the fading wound on his chest, the softest touch. I feel a shudder go through him.

“Elissa,” he breathes. Twenty centuries later, and he still says my name the same way, drawing it out slowly, breathing the sibilance of the word out on a languid exhale, as though he’s savoring the taste of it on his tongue.

I hate him, and I love him, and most of all I miss him. I miss the sunlight streaming into my study as Michael told me of the lands he’d seen, the places he had been. I miss watching the weariness drop away from his face as weeks slipped into months, and his secret jokes with Tanith, and the trinkets he would bring for Sisa. I miss the taste of his skin and the warmth of his mouth.

Our lips meet and there’s nothing gentle about this kiss. Our teeth clash together, lips bruising as we both vie for dominance, neither one willing to cede to the other after so long.

I’m not surprised that Michael can still play my body like no other. His grip on my arm tightens as he pulls me even closer, and I slam the door on the ugly memory of that last day. I forget the taste of blood and ashes and regret and only remember the years without him, aching for him, for this.

We fit together the way we always did – each of us a bent and mangled key that fits only in one matching lock. When Michael pulls back from the kiss and I take that second to gulp down oxygen, I see the question of what now? in his eyes and choose to ignore it.

Dawn will be breaking too soon, putting an end to this maddening, terrifying night. Tomorrow I will regret this, I’m sure, but for these last few hours of darkness I want to burn his touch into my memory.

The fire still glows a few feet away, the embers pulsing in time with our synced heartbeats, and I wonder if the flames will continue to rise unchecked, spilling out of the pit to catch the grass around us, scorching the land until only blackened dust is left.

Seems a fitting enough metaphor.

I shiver as I feel his lips over my pulse, his teeth scraping my jugular, and a noise rips from my throat, a needy whine that would embarrass me any other time. Tonight though, it only incenses Michael more as he nips and licks his way up my throat before pressing a kiss to my bottom lip, meeting my gasp with his own desperate groan.

His hands ghost over my arms, so close but not quite touching, and I bite down on his lip, just hard enough to say without words, I won’t break.

Not again.

I hook my foot around his calf, urging him to the ground. Michael arches an eyebrow at my choice but doesn’t speak. We’re both too afraid to let words shatter the spell between us. The grass is cool under my hands as Michael hauls me onto his lap, his hands fisting my shirt, stretching the worn cotton of my tank top as he tries to get closer.

The long shadows of the flickering flames make it easy to forget how exposed we really are, but it could be blazing daylight and I still wouldn’t care about anything but getting closer. I feel Michael hard against my inner thigh, feel his hips shifting underneath me as he fights to hold himself in check, and I peel my shirt over my head, tossing it along with my bra aside into the darkness.

Michael’s hands are on my skin in an instant, fusing his touch into me as his fingers trace my spine, each vertebra another space to relearn. His other hand curls around my waist, crushing me against his chest, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, and I’m not sure if the harsh, panting breaths are from his throat or mine.

I rock against him, and despite the fact that I threw aside cumbersome gowns and dresses the moment it became remotely acceptable in society, I silently curse whoever invented pants. Too many layers of fabric still separate us, and I’m not yet willing to leave the circle of his arms, even for a moment.

My hand is splayed out across Michael’s side, and I drag my fingers across his ribs, smiling as his muscles twitch. I feel his lips curl where they’re still pressed against mine, and I know the memory he’s recalling. I was relentless the day I discovered he was ticklish. The Archangel Michael, the mighty warrior, brought down low by my mortal fingers on his ribs.

I’d never heard him laugh like that before.

The click of his belt buckle being undone and the sound of his zipper being dragged down cuts through the quiet as I slide off Michael’s lap. An instant later, he’s on his knees on the ground before me and I hear the sound of ripping denim as he tears the offending button off the front of my pants, the time for restraint forgotten.

Michael looks almost feral as he kneels down before me. Firelight flickers across his bare chest, streaks of crimson and deep orange cutting through the shadows. His pants hang undone, his knees spread wide as he watches and waits. His eyes are wild and wanton, but still somehow reverent, as though I’m some long forgotten idol or goddess who demands her followers prostrate themselves in the dirt.

He crawls forward, closing the scant foot that separates us and draws his hands up the back of my thighs to cup my ass, his fingers hooking on the back of my ruined jeans and tugging them over my hips to catch at my knees. I wiggle against him, kicking off my boots, the heavy soles thudding loudly in the grass. The jeans follow a moment later, leaving me naked but for a tiny triangle of black fabric.

He nudges apart my legs, tracing a fingertip delicately over that thin layer of cotton still separating us, the touch so intimate, so worshipful that I hold my breath. He’s on his knees between my thighs, and my breath hitches as I wait for him to rip through the fabric barrier and take me.

Instead, Michael backs off, lifting one of my legs up high enough to kiss the instep of my foot before moving upwards, his breath hot against the tense muscle of my calf. I can feel him almost purring, the low rumble in his chest a growl of possession that something deep within me remembers and aches for. He follows his path upward, the feather-light touches of his fingertips a sharp contrast to the rasp of the stubble darkening his jaw against my inner thigh. My fingers claw into the ground, my nails gouging into the dry earth beneath me.

The sound of more fabric tearing cuts through the night, and some tiny part of me is almost amused this sudden caveman bravado that has Michael shredding my clothes in my backyard, but a much larger part of me understands.

With that last impediment gone, Michael doesn’t hesitate. He licks a wide line between my legs, the flat of his tongue tasting every part of me, and I’m thrown back to the villa and the sea air and a year’s worth of days and nights tangled in each other.

How did we let this be taken from us?

Michael looks up at me, the firelight glinting in his eyes, and he nips my inner thigh, snapping me back to the here and now, and I need to touch him. I cup the back of his head, my fingers searching for purchase in that close-cropped hair, and I hold his blazing stare for as long as I can.

It isn’t long.

My eyes fall shut as my vision whites out, my thighs shaking under Michael’s touch. It hits me hard and fast, pleasure spiraling out from my fingertips down to my toes, heat lightning pulsing through my veins.

It’s only when my breathing finally starts to even out and I open my eyes again that Michael lifts his head, his burning gaze still focused on me. He kisses his way up my body, pressing his lips to my hipbones and along each rib, letting his hands roam freely across whatever skin his mouth misses.

The fire pulsates and throbs, the flames moving like a living creature in the worn fire pit, and Michael’s mouth is on mine. My lips part for him without hesitation, and I taste myself on his tongue. The rough denim of his jeans rubs against my thighs, and this time I’m the one clawing at fabric with desperation, pushing his open jeans down his thighs.

Michael’s breath stutters when I wrap my hand around his cock and he thrusts into my hand.

“Michael,” I whisper, and I don’t recognize my own voice. I sound broken, vocal cords blown out with need, and I know this is a mistake, but regrets are for tomorrow.

All that matters now is skin on skin, flesh on flesh as the fire burns in the small hours of the morning when even New Orleans slumbers. We’re both scorching, and I’m going to lose my mind if he isn’t inside me soon.

I tilt my hips forward, that frantic movement telling Michael yes and please and now far more effectively than any words. For once, he takes the hint and he rolls his hips, the muscles of his back flexing as he pushes into me.

I dig my fingers into his shoulder blades, my brain idly imagining his wings are pulsing in time with the rocking of his hips. . . deeper and deeper until he bottoms out. The ground beneath me is hard, his jeans are rough against my over-sensitized skin, and I’m fairly sure there’s a rock jabbing into my lower back but nothing matters beyond Michael’s breath as he pants raggedly into my neck. It’s almost too much, this sensory overload, and it takes everything I have to not simply screw my eyes shut and ride the waves of pleasure.

But I don’t. I keep my eyes open even as I cling to him. Michael hauls me upward and off the ground, sitting back on his heels until we’re face to face with the flickering fire lighting both our faces. Nose to nose, and there’s nowhere to hide for either of us.

Not anymore.

“Elissa-” I cut Michael off with a kiss as our bodies move together, blocking him from saying whatever declaration brewing in his mind.

Let me have this. Don’t promise me more when we both know what you’ll choose in the end. Just let me have this night.

I break the kiss abruptly, biting back a wail as I come, inner muscles clenching and fluttering around Michael’s length, and he follows a moment later, any threads of restraint having long since snapped. Michael shudders in my arms as he spills inside me, his face buried in the sweaty tangle of my hair.

The fire stutters before going out, plunging us into darkness as we hover on the border of nighttime and dawn. The first streaks of grey haven’t begun lightening the horizon just yet, and that’s enough for me. Michael and I stand up on unsteady legs, and I lead him into the house.

I should be doing anything but leading him into my bedroom, but that doesn’t stop me from yanking the curtains closed to block out the coming dawn for a bit longer. I have grass in my hair and dirt on my knees. I want a shower and a long stretch of uninterrupted sleep, but I forget all about that when Michael kicks off his jeans and climbs into my bed.

I hesitate just for a moment, the scuffed wood floors cool under my bare feet, before crawling in beside him.

Just let me have this night.

I wake up to bright sunlight peeking around the edges of the curtains and the warm length of Michael’s body pressed against my back. One muscular arm is slung over my waist and his breath puffs against the back of my neck.

It would be so easy to burrow into his arms and let my eyes slip closed. To let the past be the past. To forgive.

But he’s given me no reason to believe that he won’t snap to attention when Heaven calls again. After so much time I can’t pretend to know him anymore.

I slither out of bed slowly to delay the inevitable confrontation a few more hours. The fact that he’s sleeping as deeply as he is reminds me that he’s not at full strength yet. Angels don’t need to sleep at all. Caila sleeps like a cat with the slightest noise waking her, dozing more out of boredom than actual need for rest. If I managed to wriggle out of his arms without waking him up, he’s still healing.

I pad across the room and grab the first things my fingers touch in my closet, glad that the utilitarian style of my clothing makes dressing easy. Black always goes with black. My boots are still somewhere in the back yard and I creep out of the room, my bare feet silent on the cool floors.

I pause in the doorway, feeling the pull between us that always drew us back to each other.

I still love him. Some part of me never stopped. Years of anger and hurt never managed to erase it, and last night only reminded me of that even more.

I still love him, but I can’t go through this again.

Resting on the kitchen counter is a torn piece of paper with an address written in a neat, feminine hand. Grace, of course.

I glance back at the darkened hallway once more before grabbing my helmet off the floor and climbing into the stolen car to pick up my bike on the way.

Time to plan.

Palm trees and sunshine. Big cars and gleaming white smiles that hide a generation scarred by war and loss and right at the center of it is Caila.

Her pale blonde hair is set in an immaculate halo of pin curls, and a buttercup yellow sheath dress clings to her hips. Dainty white heels click on the tile floor as she paces, her curls flouncing just a bit with each step as she casts worried glances to the two young women sitting in the opulence of the lobby of the Casa Del Mar.

I’ve had little reason to change my opinion of angels in the last millennia. The few I’ve encountered over the years still treat humans as little more than animals to be controlled or commodified. Beyond those chance encounters, I’ve done my best to give any celestials a wide berth.

And yet, here is this anxious blonde angel dressed like a cupcake begging me for aid. I can’t help being curious.

I ignore the look of disdain the concierge shoots my way as I pass through the gleaming double doors into the lobby. I’m well aware of how wildly out of place I look with my black cigarette pants and straight hair in this palace of pastels and pin curls, but after centuries of enduring corsets and hoop skirts and yards upon yards of unwieldy fabric for the sake of appearances, I’ve embraced the Beatnik look wholeheartedly.

If the angel has any opinions on my sartorial choices, she keeps them to herself. Her scarlet lips split into a relieved smile and she rushes forward, taking both of my hands in hers and squeezing them like we’re lifelong friends.

“You came!” she exclaims. “I didn’t think you would, and I didn’t know what else to do to help them.” Her words tumble over themselves as she rushes to speak as though she expects me to turn on my heel and walk out.

Angel or not, it’s hard to dislike her.

“I’ve heard about you. About the things you do for women. How you help them when they have nowhere else to turn.” Caila looks over my shoulder to the two women, relaxing slightly when she confirms no one has snatched them away in the last sixty seconds. “The blonde one. She’s important.” Caila blinks, and I’m shocked at how upset she looks for a moment before she schools her face back into angelic placidity. “I’ve been trying to protect her bloodline for so long, and I always fail. Her friend, the child. . . they’re innocent and they should be shielded from evil as well, but she is important.”

I turn around to see the smaller of the two women sit down next to her friend. Her hair is twisted into a messy attempt at the flawlessly teased and set style Caila wears, but a few curls escape the cage of pins and hairspray to tumble down her neck. Her hand rests on her crying friend’s shoulder reassuringly before fishing through her purse to bring out a handkerchief. Her friend dabs at her swollen eyes, leaving black mascara smears on the delicate white fabric.

“They’re all important,” I murmur before turning back to Caila. “Introduce me then.”

Caila leads me across the lobby, fixing the glowering concierge with a sweetly mollifying smile before stopping in front of the overstuffed sofa the women are perched on. “Ladies,” she says pointedly, “this is Elissa.”

The blonde squeezes her friend’s arm before standing up and extending her hand. “Serafine Celestin.” She glances back at her friend. “This is Milly. She’s in between last names.”

The three of us unconsciously seem to bracket Milly where she sits, still delicately rubbing her eyes with the handkerchief. A deep purple bruise colors her cheekbone, half-hidden under thick makeup that her tears have started to wash away. She shifts and the powder blue coat enveloping her falls open, revealing her heavily pregnant stomach straining the front of her dress. She has to be close to term.

That explains the sudden urgency then.

Milly struggles to her feet, her round belly throwing off her balance, but she shrugs off Serafine’s helping hand. Terrified and battered she may be, but Milly isn’t broken, and she isn’t about to sit quietly while we figure out her future.

“We’re from New Orleans,” she says, a thick drawl coloring her voice that calls up white gloves, magnolia blossoms, and southern propriety. “I married John when we were too young. I’m not going to say that he changed. This was always in him, but once I was his property he didn’t care about hiding it anymore.” She pulls the coat a bit tighter around herself despite the warmth of the room, her eyes darting to the steady stream of businessmen and pampered wives passing through the lobby as though she expects her husband to be hidden among them.

“He followed us here,” she adds. “As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I knew I had to run before he killed us both, so I got on a Greyhound and came out to meet my best friend.” She reaches across the space between them and squeezes Serafine’s hand.

Serafine smiles brightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s right,” she says, and I hear a flinty resolve in her voice that makes me begin to understand why Caila is so insistent that this one is special. “We’re going to live on the beach and get suntans. Maybe one day we’ll even get a convertible. I’m sure we can find one where we can fit a baby seat.”

Milly laughs, brittle and sad under the thinnest veneer of hope, and I can’t ignore the two of them anymore than I could leave Tanith starving in the streets or Melita to die in the brothel. I catch Caila’s eye and nod.

Caila wraps one arm around Milly and leads her toward the hotel bar. “Let’s see if we can’t get you a glass of water,” she coos, leaving me alone with Serafine.

“Comfort and prayers are all well and good, but they won’t fix this.” Serafine drops down onto an empty leather armchair, the mask of optimism disappearing once her friend is out of sight. “I don’t have much trust in her kind. I’ve never had a reason to, but Caila means well.” She seems to have almost forgotten I’m here until she looks up, focusing that steel-grey gaze on me with laser intensity.

“I’ve heard about you. I’m looking for a solution that’s a bit more permanent.” This woman, barely more than a girl, is sitting in a hotel lobby calmly asking me to murder her friend’s husband, and I know I’ll be grilling Caila soon enough to find out what interest Heaven has in Serafine Celestin.

“He won’t stop. And now that he knows about the baby, he’s got the law on his side,” she scoffs. “Man’s law, after all. Caila thinks everyone can be redeemed, but I think you and I know differently.”

I don’t need the angelic ability to read people to see the scars Heaven has left across Serafine. Even now, she watches them both where they sit at the hotel bar as though she doesn’t quite trust Caila enough to let her out of her sight.

“Her parents, they’re good people, but they’re not rich.” She opens up the slim white leather pocketbook tucked under her arm and pulls out a smooth lacquered cigarette case. She lights one with a hand that trembles ever so slightly, taking a deep drag before she continues. “John’s Daddy has half the police force in in New Orleans in his pocket. I tried for so long to get her to leave him, but the bastard swore he’d ruin her father’s business if she ever tried.”

After that initial drag Serafine ignores the cigarette until it’s one long cylinder of ash balanced precariously between her long fingers. She glances at it and wrinkles her nose briefly before flicking it into the crystal ashtray on the side table. “Her parents spent their whole life building that bakery, and John was more than vindictive enough to destroy it.”

I listen silently. Serafine has been the strong one for them both. The protector. A guard dog in a pretty dress. No one would ever see her coming.

“She never even telephoned me. I answered the doorbell one day six months ago, and there she was with red eyes and a suitcase,” A tiny smile crosses her lips at the memory. “I miss New Orleans, but I had to leave too.” Before I can form the words to ask why, she shakes her head. “I know the only reason Caila is really here is because of me, but none of this is about me. “

Her fingers idly toy with a delicate gold locket resting against her collarbone. The metal is old, specks of tarnish clinging to the surface and I wonder whose picture rests inside. “Not this time.”

He isn’t difficult to find.

After stowing Milly in a room at the hotel with Serafine keeping a watchful eye on her, I go hunting. Caila trails me like a conscience, and I know long before I pound on the white-lacquered door of his room at the Hollywood Roosevelt that she won’t make this easy.

When John answers it’s easy to see why Milly was taken in by him. He has the kind of boyish good looks that make juries forgive and police officers say “she must have been asking for it.” An impeccably cut cream suit hugs his slim form, and a glass of no doubt expensive scotch dangles carelessly in his hand. He barely gives me a glance, but when his eyes rest on Caila he’s suddenly all smiles.

“I think you ladies might be in the wrong room, but who would I be to question such a fortuitous mistake?” he drawls. He flings open the door and ushers us both inside. Caila’s so taken aback that I swear she forgets she’s an angel for a moment, looking every bit the flustered southern belle she’s pretending to be.

“Your wife sent us,” I say, my voice cutting through his flirtation, and the change is instantaneous. His face darkens, that innocent schoolboy smirk twisting into something ugly and malicious. He swings his head to glare at me, and I meet his stare without flinching. That incenses him even more.

“I’m not surprised to see that trashy little bitch fell in with someone like you,” he sneers, his momentary infatuation with Caila apparently forgotten. “I don’t care if she lives or dies, but that child in her is mine.”

Caila snaps out of her stupor and lays a restraining hand on John’s arm, and he shoves her back.

Or he tries.

Caila draws her power around her and the tawny gold of her wings fills the room. She’s no longer a bubbly creature dressed in pastels and lace, smiling sweetly at all who look upon her. From one moment to the next, the strength of Heaven swirls around her, and for the first time the smarmy confidence dripping from Milly’s husband falters.

“You have been judged, John Desbois.” The color drains from his face leaving a sickly grey pallor that a nice haircut and expensive suit can’t hide. “Do you repent for your crimes and your cruelties?” Caila demands, spreading her wings wide until the room seems to be filled with nothing but golden feathers and righteous feminine anger.

“Y-yes,” John stammers. “Of course.” He agrees far too quickly, dropping to his knees without hesitation as he reaches one grasping hand out to touch Caila’s wingtips. I hover at the edge of the scene, wondering how she can restrain herself from recoiling from his touch. “I didn’t believe before,” he says, his eyes wide as saucers as he stares at her wings. “I’ll go to church. I’ll be a good husband.”

Caila drops to her knees beside him, and she really believes him. My presence is forgotten again, and I’m still far too shocked that a being that has lived for thousands of years can still be so naïve.

“There’s no need to kneel before me,” she murmurs, resting one delicate hand on his head, offering her blessing before leaning closer and whispering, “Heaven forgives you.”

Heaven might forgive him, but I don’t.

It’s all far too easy. John is a picture of contrition before Caila, dragging up fragments of prayers likely pushed into his head by a well-meaning parish priest, swearing that he’ll dedicate his life to bringing others into the light.

I slip out the door. The thick pile of the deep green carpet looks like moss crushed under the toe of my boot, and the bright floral of the wallpaper lining the hallway catches the light of the heavy crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. In her sunshine yellow dress, Caila looks like she belongs in this Eden of wallpaper and carpeting while I look like a streak of blight killing the flowers.

I lean against the wall, my eyes slipping shut as I wait for Caila, wondering where this sudden maudlin streak came from.

Angels. I should have known better than to get involved with another angel, however well-meaning she might be.

The low murmurs of their voices filter through the crack in the door, a slow drone that can only be a prayer, and I wonder if Milly’s prayers would have been answered if her best friend had been someone unimportant.

When Caila emerges from the room a few minutes later there’s no trace of smugness in her. Her entire face is radiant with such genuine joy that she helped heal this broken soul that it makes me want to believe.

But I’ve seen too much, and this was far too easy.

John is smarter than any of us gave him credit for.

Days pass without incident. Caila, Milly, and even wary Serafine begin to relax. After the third day slips past without any fists on the door, the creeping dread starts to uncoil from my stomach, and even I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I might have been wrong.

I hoped I was wrong.

As Milly naps, Serafine and Caila tell me of just why Heaven is so interested in the life of this petite blonde, unwinding a story of holy bloodlines and murderous angels. Serafine speaks in reverent tones of her mother Rose, lovely and lost behind the walls of an asylum.

Milly wasn’t the first to flee the Crescent City for a new beginning with palm trees and ocean breezes.

“What about your father?” I ask. Some part of me knows what her answer will be before I form the words, like recognizing like and the easy way she spoke of permanence in dealing with John.

“The fire marshal said it was a gas leak,” Serafine says, glancing over from where she stands on the terrace, staring out at the cloudless sky. She clicks open the polished brass of her lighter, touching the tiny orange flame to the pristine white tip of another cigarette that she’ll take one drag of before letting it burn down to the filter. “Those old houses, you know. The whole place went up.” She turns back to stare out at the ocean, her thumb still rubbing the warm metal of the lighter.

“He didn’t make it out.”

Like recognizes like.

The soft breeze ruffles Serafine’s hair, and I remember seeing the broken form of my father tossed into the gutter outside the tavern, the stench of cheap wine and decaying shellfish still soaked into his skin. I followed him home that night, tracked his weaving steps back to the cramped dwelling that I once called home. His unsteady steps lead him down to the water, to the uneven paths and slippery rocks.

And he slipped. The water closed over his head, drink and age and human weakness turning his arms to lead. I knew I could dive in and drag him to the shore and pound his back to force the brackish water from his lungs.

The daughter he reviled saving his wretched life. It almost had a poetry to it, but it was drowned out by the memory of that bag of coins jingling in his hands as he sold me off to the first bidder.

I walked away when no more bubbles came to the surface.

Three days in even the most decadent hotel suite has us all going stir crazy, and Milly is begging to go back to the apartment and sleep in her own bed. Fully assured that her divine intervention was successful, Caila’s all too eager to agree. I’m still not so sure, but spending so much time in such close proximity to an angel still makes me twitchy, and I tell myself that I’m eager to get back to my life. . . whatever that was.

I can’t bring myself to go far.

Seven days have passed since I watched John drop to his knees with repentance on his lips, and still I stay close, hidden out of sight as I watch them both fall back into the routines of their small, mortal lives.

The apartment Serafine and Milly share is small and decorated in swaths of bright colors. It’s a cheerful space with big windows and a scrawny lemon tree growing in a pot by the front door. The next time I see it, the doorknob is caved in, and I hesitate for the smallest instant before pushing it open, knowing what I’m going to see.

Serafine is sprawled face down on the floor, just inside the door. I drop down beside her and press my fingers against her throat. Her pulse pounds strong and steady. She’s out cold but very much alive.

But Milly.

The smell hits me first, that thick copper tang that catches in the back of your throat, and I see Milly flat on her back. Her dark hair hides the blood at first until the thick red liquid spreads even further, soaking into the mint green carpeting.

I prod the wound ever so gently, moving aside the matted strands to assess the damage, praying to a God I never trusted that it’s just scalp blood vessels making it look much worse than it is.

I see cracked bone, and I know.

The ambulance is a daze of flashing lights and brisk, loud voices. They shove me in a corner as they force oxygen into Milly’s unresponsive lungs. Serafine fights the medic trying to examine her, sobbing Milly’s name over and over again. We pull up to the hospital, sterile and bright and so very helpless.

I’m left in the waiting room, surrounded by broken limbs and car accidents, falls and stabbings, endless reminders of the fragility of the mortal body.

Caila appears an hour later. Red stains on the hem of the pale pink dress she wears, pastel linen streaked with gore, and I can almost see her kneeling down to touch the bloody carpet, using her angelic senses to read whatever echoes of Milly still cling to the fibers.

She sits next to me on the stiff backed waiting room chairs, and when she speaks her voice is flat and dull, the animation gone from her.

“She just wanted him to leave. He showed up at her door, raving about how God had chosen him for greatness, and now she had to come home with him.” Caila clasps her hands together and I can see the drying blood in the creases of her fingers. “I just made it worse.”

“Milly’s dead.”

We both snap out of it to look up and see Serafine standing in front of us, a vivid bruise blooming across her temple, and a paper bag rattling with a prescription bottle in her hand. Her face is a mask.

“The baby made it. It’s a boy.” Serafine’s voice wavers for just a moment before she yanks herself back in control, and I almost pity the angel that tries to attack her one day. “He cannot have that baby.”

I look up at Serafine and nod, searching her eyes for the anger I deserve, the blame. It’s not there. This one is used to failures and betrayals, and I won’t be the cause of another. “I’m going to kill him,” I say.

It’s Caila that breaks the silence with one word as we both get to our feet and follow Serafine through the double doors.

“Good.”