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With him at its helm, the Church of Angels had soon become the most influential church in the world. Angels were now so firmly fixed in society’s consciousness that people who’d never even encountered one were embracing their predators wholeheartedly. In Mexico City, the historic Catedral Metropolitana had recently been converted to become a Church of Angels cathedral – an astounding coup, made all the more so by the relative lack of press attention; it was just seen as a natural course of events. Raziel planned to take over the running of this new cathedral himself in due course, dividing his time between the United States and Mexico. In London, there was talk of St Paul’s being similarly converted; in Paris, Notre Dame.
So far, talk was all it was – the angelic presence wasn’t as great in Europe yet – but Raziel had had little doubt that in the wake of the Second Wave, these plans would go ahead. By then, he’d expected to be in charge of most of the Americas and imagined setting himself up akin to the Pope, with ruling angels under him. Once the Council had finally settled in this world and seen what was going on, it would have meant all-out war for them to try to wrest control back from him – and by then he’d have had more than enough allies to take them on.
At the moment, the Church stood on the brink: it was poised to take over the world, and those angels who were on Raziel’s side could help him do it. And so any reports back to the Council had always carefully downplayed the importance of the Church of Angels, and Raziel’s growing power base.
Or at least, that’s what he had thought.
As he turned off the shower, it hit him suddenly: Mexico City. The half-angel was there – and she too was aware of the Council. The knowledge was as fleeting as a soap bubble, gone as quickly as it had arrived. Raziel was left frowning, water dripping in his eyes as he wondered whether he was going insane. Forget the half-angel, he thought. He could still hardly bear to use the word daughter. He had more important things to think about right now.
When he emerged again, Charmeine had moved to the sitting room. After putting on a pair of casually expensive grey trousers, Raziel went in and found her curled up, catlike, in his favourite armchair. He knew they’d made a striking pair, once – her with her delicate moonlight beauty, and him with his crisp black hair and poet’s features. If he was the sentimental type, this might have caused him to view her with less suspicion. Fortunately, he wasn’t.
“So what are you up to?” he demanded, buttoning a midnight-blue shirt. “Why are you tipping me off that there’s trouble?”
Charmeine looked amused. “Old time’s sake?” she suggested.
“How wonderfully altruistic of you,” replied Raziel, tucking his shirt in. “Please remember this is me you’re talking to, and how very, very well I know you. What’s your game?”
“No game,” said Charmeine. Her beautiful gamine face was impossible to read. She rose and came over to him, lazily circling one of his shirt buttons with a fingernail. “I just have a feeling you’re going to need a friend in this world soon, that’s all. And I think our mutual needs could work together very well. ”
Raziel’s expression didn’t change as he looked down at her. “Does the Council know about you and me?” he asked sharply.
Her hand wandered up to the nape of his neck, playing with his hair. “Of course; they delved my mind and found everything I wanted them to see,” she said. “And so they know I hate you very, very much, and would do anything to get back at you. ”
Raziel started to say something else, then stopped as they both felt it – a harsh tugging at their minds, as if they were a pair of fishes being reeled in by invisible fishermen. “Showtime,” murmured Charmeine, dropping her hand. “By the way, your cathedral is about to be used for something pretty disagreeable. Necessary, I suppose, but. . . disagreeable. ”
The riddles were doubly annoying when the place under discussion was his own territory. Without answering, Raziel shifted into his angel form and flew from the room, gliding silently through the walls. Charmeine followed with a bright flash of wings. As they soared out into the main space of the cathedral, with its high, arching dome, Raziel saw the Twelve gathered in their human forms below, near the white-winged pulpit. And what fun; they’d brought an audience with them – there were around fifty angels seated in the pews nearby.
Raziel’s ethereal eyes narrowed as he saw the results of the half-angel’s attempt to destroy the gate: the buckled floorboards; the missing ceiling panels; the metal scaffolding that stood in place. Fury seared through him again that she’d even attempted such a thing – and that the damaged fruits of her work were now on gruesome display for the Council and their sycophants to view. Mexico City. She’s there, he thought again. And though he shoved the knowledge away for now, he dearly hoped it was true. Knowing the creature’s whereabouts would mean he was only a few steps away from having her and her assassin boyfriend destroyed.
He touched down in front of the Council and changed back to his human form; Charmeine followed suit. The Twelve looked nothing alike, yet there was a commonality between them, all the same – a similar bland expression, perhaps, or a certain way they all held themselves. Six males and six females who’d been leading the angels’ affairs for millennia, since long before anyone could remember. From what Raziel had heard, most of them loathed each other heartily, though they were far too entwined, both psychically and politically, to ever separate now.
“Welcome to my cathedral,” said Raziel, inclining his dark head.
He managed to keep the irony from his voice, but knew they’d pick up on it psychically; he wasn’t especially bothering to hide it. “Thank you,” said Isda, who was often the spokeswoman for the Twelve. “It’s a pleasure to be here. ” She was tall and statuesque, with sculpted features; her grey eyes rested on Raziel with no visible emotion. “Shall we get the unpleasantness out of the way first?”
“By all means,” said Raziel smoothly, trying to bury his faint throb of alarm – what unpleasantness were they talking about, precisely? And now he saw that in addition to the expected hangers-on in the audience, all the First Wavers who’d been in psychic contact with the Council were here too. He could sense their deep tremor of worry; the expectation had been that Raziel would be firmly ensconced in power by the time their betrayal was found out.
“Good. You and Charmeine may take a seat,” said Isda, nodding at a nearby pew.
Being given permission to sit in his own cathedral grated; Raziel did so in moody silence. Charmeine perched beside him, looking straight ahead.
Isda and the rest of the Twelve stood in a row, their backs to the pews. The tall stained-glass windows in front of them glimmered in the sun; it was here, exactly, that the Second Wave had arrived, mere days ago. “Now, please,” called Isda in her low voice.
The stadium doors to the side opened and a long line of almost a hundred angels were led in – all in their human forms, with their hands cuffed behind them. Raziel sat up straight, his pulse quickening in surprise as he recognized the remainder of the traitors: the angels that he’d been using Kylar, the assassin, to do away with. Though a diverse group, the traitors all believed that angels didn’t have the right to use humans for their own purposes, and were committed to helping humanity, even if it meant the extinction of their own kind. Raziel had gotten their names by chance over a year ago, from a rogue who’d been captured and had then turned in the others to save himself. Raziel had had him killed anyway, of course, but it had been a very useful meeting all the same.