Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (19 page)

There was nothing to promise his col eagues, no faith to instal in them by virtue of conversation. Once one presented something to the Maker for consideration, the matter was out of one’s hands, and there was no way of predicting how the dominoes lined up would fal .

“I am going down there,” Colin announced. “Heron can’t be alone.”

Why can everyone not adhere to the rules, Nigel thought. Just
once
.

As he picked up his teacup and held it with his pinkie extended, he realized anew that if there was one thing that could be depended upon, it was Colin’s passion: For al that he was the intel ectual among them, the truth was, by nature he was fiery, his cognitional control naught but a hard-won overlay covering his true constitution.

“Nothing to say, Nigel?” Colin charged bitterly. “No, ‘oh, no, you may nots’?”

Nigel focused on the castle that loomed in the near distance, and when he final y spoke, it was in a low voice that, coming from another, he would have termed as saddened. “We have an opportunity to seize this game. I would ask that you consider the action I just took—it would be foolish to fol ow it up—

immediately—with precisely the kind of violation I presented for the Creator’s redress.”

“Conservatism is the cousin of cowardice. I say, if the Creator has known al along of Devina’s infringements, then action could have been taken against her back in round one. That nothing has been done speaks to a condoning stance, and we should therefore be proactive in this instance.” The archangel tossed his napkin onto the table. “You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel. Or do you believe yourself so important that only after you approached a response would be marshaled?”

In the silence that fol owed, Nigel found himself exhausted with al things and al bodies: Jim had brokered a deal with Devina. Colin was on the verge of going rogue. The demon was running amok.

The last round had been lost, and there was little hope for this current one.

“If you al wil kindly excuse me.” With care, he pressed his linen napkin to his mouth and folded it with precision. Laying it neatly beside his plate, he rose to his feet. “I believe I have done enough entreating with logic and you shal do what you wil . I can only ask you to be cognizant of the larger implications.” He shook his head at his old friend. “I expected to battle with the demon. I never considered that I would end up locking horns with the savior or the likes of you at the same time.”

He did not wait for a response, but vaporized himself back to his quarters.

Standing in privacy amid the colorful satin and silk, he felt as though he had been cast into the cold galaxy and was floating through space, going end over end . . . alone and directionless.

There was a good chance they were going to lose the war. With things fracturing down upon the earth as wel as up here in the heavens, there was nothing to offer in contest to Devina’s scheming, and she was exactly the sort to expose and exploit this weakened state.

When he had first entered the arena with the demon, he had been so confident of victory. Now al he could see was loss.

They were going to lose. Especial y given that he should have stood up to Colin just now, but instead had caved in out of tiredness.

For a long while, he stood in the place where his feet had stopped, his lungs struggling for breath he did not need, and yet seemed panicked at the prospect of not having. Eventual y, he walked over to his ornate mirror and sat before the reflection of himself. With a soft curse, he let his outer image smoke off until al that was left of him was al that he truly was: an iridescent, rainbowed light source that glowed with every color of creation.

He had lied to himself, he realized.

From the start, he had believed that this war was about saving the souls in the castle—and though that was a driver, there was another truth hidden behind his heroic mantle and purpose.

This was his home. These quarters here, the time he spent with Colin, his meals and sport with Bertie and Byron. Even Tarquin’s kind brown eyes and lanky limbs were a sight to nurture and sustain him.

This was his life and he had love for it al , down to the wet footprints Colin left on the rugs after a bath, and the wine they had together when al was silent and stil , and the way even the imagined skin they both assumed felt against the other’s.

He was an immortal who in this moment knew the mortal terror of loss.

How did the humans do it? Going through their so-short lives, not knowing for certain when the people they loved would be taken from them . . . or whether there was in fact a place for anyone on the other side.

Perhaps that was the point, however.

Indeed, he had passed too much time to calendar blhely going through his “days” and “nights” taking for granted that al was as he would wish it to be forever. It was only now, when he was confronted with a vast, black death, that he realized how beautiful the bright colors of this existence were.

The Maker was a genius, he thought. Infinity resulted in insolence. But transience was the way one treasured what one had been given.

“Nigel.”

It was not Colin but Byron who stuck his head in between the flaps of purple and red. The archangel was tentative in his interruption, and it was a surprise that he had not announced himself.

“I have been cal ing for you,” he said.

Ah, that explained it.

Nigel reassumed his form, recasting upon himself flesh and bone and re-covering the body with the white afternoon suit he had donned for tea.

As he met the eyes behind those rose-colored glasses, in truth, he would have preferred an audience with Colin’s anger. Or even Devina’s duplicity, for that matter. The last thing he was interested in was Byron’s eternal faith and optimism.

“My dear boy,” Nigel said, “perhaps we could do this another time?”

“I shan’t be long. I’ve just come to tel you that Colin has decided not to go down.”

Nigel rose and went to the chaise lounge by the bed. Stretching out, he found it a struggle to remain corporeal. He was tired, oh, so very tired, even in the face of that which should have relieved him.

“We shal see how long that reticence lasts,” he murmured.

“He has taken to his own quarters.”

The subtext was that should Nigel want to speak with the archangel, that would be the place to find him, and the field report, as it were, was rather dear of Byron, actual y. And not real y a surprise. It was impossible for Byron and Bertie not to know how close Nigel and his second in command were, but everything was handled with discretion.

This appearance, however, was Byron’s way of saying that he was worried about the pair of them.

The optimist. Worried.

Indeed, things were in a very bad way.

“Colin is in his quarters,” the archangel repeated.

“As he should be.” After al , they had been spending their time together herein, but “official y” they lived apart.

Upon the smooth reply, Byron removed his tinted glasses, and when his iridescent eyes lifted, Nigel could not recal the archangel ever without those rosy lenses. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I think you should perhaps go speak with him.”

“He may come to me.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Any chance you approached him first?” The silence answered that one. “Ah, but you are kindhearted, dear friend.”

“No, that is Bertie.”

“And you. You always see the best in people.”

“No, I am surrounded by good people doing their best. In fact, I am a realist, not an optimist.” Abruptly, the angel’s face glowed with the power of knowledge. “Your nature and Colin’s are one and the same. My hope is that you wil bothrealize this and unite once more.”

“So you are a romantic, too, then. Bit of a contradiction for a realist.”

“On the contrary, I want to win, and our chances are better for prevailing if you are not distracted by a broken heart.”

“My heart is not broken.”

Byron replaced his glasses upon his pert, straight nose. “And I ask unto you . . . to whom you are lying.”

With a bow, he ducked out of the tent.

In the silence that fol owed, Nigel became utterly frustrated that there was little to do save tal y herein for the Maker’s remark.

And how gal ing to think he was also awaiting Colin’s arrival with an apology.

Mayhap he should not hold his unneeded breath for that one, however.

“N
o, thanks—I think I’l let you have lunch with that agent on your own.”

As Reil y answered his question, Veck paused in the process of pul ing on his leather jacket. The pair of them had been working steadily through the morning, going line by line through the Barten reports, and he’d been surprised at how wel they’d stuck to business.

The shit from the night before had been put firmly on the back burner, it seemed—at least for her. On his side? Hel , yeah, it was stil on his mind, and he would have loved for that to be because he was looking for a break in conversation to slide in another lame-ass apology.

Instead, it was because he wanted her. Stil .

Even more, actual y.

God, he needed a cigarette. “I’l see you back here in an hour, then.”

“It’s a date—ah, plan, I mean.”

At that, she bit on her lip with her clean white teeth, like she was shutting herself up or punishing her mouth for the “date” reference.

There were much better things to do with that part of her body.

Cursing under his breath, he left the Homicide department before that bright idea got any airtime, and instead of taking the main stairs, he went down the back way: He was not interested in getting stuck at the Britnae barricade, or in running into any col eagues. And as soon as he was out of HQ, he stopped, lit up a Marlboro, and checked the sky. The sunshine that had prevailed the day before was buried beneath a thick cloud cover, and the wind was cold and damp.

Good thing he was up for a brisk walk.

Five minutes of striding later, he was at the diner. Agent Heron was outside the front door, leaning against the building, smoking. He was wearing a lot of leather, looking more like a biker than a federal agent. Then again, maybe he was off duty and into riding.

Veck frowned. Christ, for some reason he had a hazy memory of one of those agents bitching about his BMW. Except when had that happened?

Maybe he’d just dreamed it.

“A cigarette at the right time is better than food,” Veck muttered, as they shook hands.

“Amen to that.”

“Bad day?”

“You got it.”

“You wanna just walk it out?” Veck nodded to the sidewalk. “Chain-smoking seems more appealing than the BLT I’d planned on ordering.”

“Good idea.”

They hit the concrete path together and kept their speed at a meander. Beside them, the Hudson River was the same murky color as the sky, the surface getting choppier toward the middle from the wind.

“Brought you a copy of our report,” Veck said, putting his cigarette between his teeth and taking out the papers that he’d folded in half. “But you’ve probably already seen most of it.”

“Never hurts to take a second look.” The documents went into Heron’s breast pocket. “I want to help.”

“And I could use whatever you’ve got. This case is fucking frustrating.”

“I hear you.”

And that was al they said for a while. Cars whipped along to the right of them, honking at one another from time to time. An ambulance went by at a dead run with sirens blaring. A thicket of bike riders wearing Saran Wrap suits and aerodynamic ice buckets on their heads ripped past, pedaling like they were being chased.

Unlike the rest of the world, he and Heron stayed in slow-mo.

“You’re easy to talk to,” Veck said on the exhale, his smoke drifting up over his head.

Heron laughed. “Haven’t said much.”

“I know. I like it. Shit, this Barten case is kil ing me. None of it makes any sense, to be honest.”

“Yeah.”

Veck glanced over. “By the way, where’s your team?”

“Not here.”

Wel , duh. And clearly that was a closed subject.

At that moment, Veck’s phone went off, and he jacked it right up to his ear. “DelVecchio. Yeah? Real y. Shit . . . no kidding.”

He felt Heron look over . . . and as the guy did, the strangest warning tickled over Veck’s nape.

Last night . . . in his kitchen . . .

Veck’s feet stopped and he finished the Bails report about Kroner on autopilot, his eyes locked with Heron’s.

He’d always had good instincts about things, but this was deeper than intuition or hunches. This was fact, even though he didn’t understand the hows or whys.

After he hung up, he just kept staring at the FBI agent. “You know, I think someone was in my house last night.”

Heron didn’t bat an eye—there was no reaction in his hard face at al . Which was a tel in and of itself, wasn’t it.

“I don’t know, maybe I was dreaming.”

Bul shit. It had been Heron. As soon as Veck had walked into his kitchen, he’d had exactly the same sense of being watched by the eyes that were meeting his now.

The question was, why would the FBI be tracking him?

Then again, file that one under
well, duh
: His father was being executed in Connecticut in a matter of days. Maybe they were worried he’d go copycat or something—and yeah, the Kroner incident helped soooo much on that front.

And although law enforcement wasn’t al owed to official y single out and suspend people just because of what they looked like or who they were related to, they sure as shit could work the back angles.

Then again, they could be protecting him. From his father, or his father’s fol owers. In that case, though, they’d just come forward and tel him, wouldn’t they.

“So what did you think of Bob Greenway,” Veck murmured. “The manager from the Hannaford where Cecilia Barten was last seen.”

“As you said, not much to go on.”

“You aren’t here for the Barten case, are you.”

Heron took a drag on his Marlboro. “The hel I’m not.”

“The manager’s name is George Strauss. Have you even read the file?”