But it wasn’t who he truly was. It wasn’t who he had to be.
I looked out at the sea of islands. “Which island is Colonel Spellstorm hiding on? There are hundreds that appear at low tide.”
Damiel’s eyes swept across the newly-revealed islands. He pointed at a very rocky chunk no larger or more noteworthy than any of the other tiny islands. “That one.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a unicorn, remember?”
The picture of the mythical creature with Damiel’s face popped into my head. I laughed at the idea of Damiel as a unicorn, even though I knew the name didn’t refer to the horned horse.
Unicorn. That was the term for the passive-magic ability to track magic, to hunt it down to its source. It wasn’t a power the Legion knew about. In fact, the Legion didn’t know anything about passive magic, including that it existed.
Over time, all angels gained one or two unique abilities outside the magic spectrum that we knew, powers behind the gods’ typical gifts of magic. Things such as tracking magic or teleportation. We’d never understood where these powers came from, nor why one angel might gain different powers than another.
Until Damiel and I had discovered the existence of passive magic. The original Immortals had possessed both active magic—those abilities we knew from the gods and demons—and passive magic. Passive magic was part of our Immortal heritage, a heritage shared by gods, demons, and humans alike. When an angel’s magic grew powerful enough, sometimes one or two of these passive powers seeped through.
In Damiel’s case, he’d acquired the ability to track magic. That certainly served him well when he needed to hunt down traitors.
“From a distance, I couldn’t track Colonel Spellstorm,” Damiel said. “But now that we are here at the Sea of Monsters, I sense that he’s on that island.”
“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” I said, my magic spurring my wings to appear.
I launched into the air.
Damiel was soon flying beside me. “Your flying has improved,” he commented over the steady thump of our beating wings—his dark, mine light.
“Improved from not being able to kick off the ground?” I chuckled. “Nice to know.”
“But you’re wavering slightly side-to-side in your flight path.”
“I’ll get right on that. After we’re done saving the world.”
“I can help,” he told me. “I’ve developed a series of exercises aimed at optimizing flight technique. They have been very effective at improving my own performance.”
My eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why are you offering to be my flight coach? Trying to collect more favors from me?”
“No,” he chuckled. “In the grand scheme of things, one more favor won’t matter. Not when you already owe me so many.”
I glared at him.
But my fiery stare had no effect. He continued on, undeterred, “No, Cadence. I’m simply going to help you, no strings attached.”
“This is another trick.”
“No tricks, I assure you. I simply need to confirm that my exercises work on all angels, not merely on myself.”
“Why haven’t you already tried them out on another angel?”
“I asked around. Oddly, no angel was eager to optimize their flight performance.”
“Or maybe they simply weren’t eager for the Master Interrogator to test out ‘new techniques’ on them.”
“I have considered the possibility,” he admitted.
“And I have considered your proposal.”
I paused, waiting for him to ask what I’d decided. But he didn’t take the bait. He met my eyes and waited, a patient smile on his face.
“I’ll help you test your flying exercises,” I said. “But I won’t do anything I don’t consider safe.”
“I can assure you that all my exercises are perfectly safe.”
“When it comes to my wings, I’ll be the judge of what is safe.” I arched my brows. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
We shook on it, which was considerably harder to do while flying through the air than it was while standing on the ground. It was a good thing we were both highly-qualified angels in the gods’ army.
“How many angels did you try to convince to try out your techniques?” I asked him.
“All of them.”
“And they all turned you down?”
“As you have no doubt realized by now, Cadence, I don’t have the most savory reputation at the Legion.”
“It bothers the other angels that you can simply flash your Master Interrogator badge, and then they are at your mercy, regardless of their position—and of whether they outrank you.”
“To an angel, the mere possibility of being at another person’s mercy is met with suspicion and anger.”
“The other angels shun you,” I realized.
“None of us get along all that well with one another, but, yes, they are particularly adverse to my presence.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s just how it has to be. If they liked me—if they didn’t fear me—I wouldn’t be a very effective Master Interrogator. Interrogators must keep themselves apart from the rest of the Legion. Our job demands it.”
“That sounds so lonely.”
He glanced my way, considering me closely. “You shouldn’t feel sorry for me, Cadence.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He frowned. “I do not deserve your sympathy. You give it too freely, too easily. An enemy could use that against you.”
“I think I know the difference between friend and enemy, Damiel. You are not my enemy. You are my friend.”
“Friends.” He looked reflective. “This friendship could become problematic if I ever need to interrogate you.”
I smiled brightly at him. “Then I’d better take extra care to behave myself and not do anything that might land me in your interrogation chair.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you, Princess. You’ve always been perfect.”
“Is that what my record says?”
“In many more words, but yes, basically.”
A wicked thought occurred to me. “I wonder what your record says.”
“You’d have to ask Nyx. She’s the only one who’s seen it in a very long time.”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you ever been tempted to sneak a little peek at it?” I asked him.
“Resisting temptation builds character.”
I laughed. “You and my father have more in common than either of you would care to admit. Did you know that he used to make a habit of placing me close to whatever I most wanted at that given moment? It was water during a hard workout. A jacket during sub-zero training, which I had to endure in a t-shirt and running tights. And then he’d see how long I could resist taking what I needed.”
“How did you do?”
“All right, all things considered,” I replied. “I resisted the water and the jacket. But he knew my greatest weakness. There were these strawberry tarts that our housekeeper made. Each one was like a tiny bite of heaven. I was terribly in love with those strawberry tarts, and my father knew it. He often put them on the table during dinner. It was understood that I was not to eat them; they were forbidden. He only put them there to torture me. Then, at the end of every dinner, he tossed them in the trash. Well, one night—I think I was about eight years old at the time—I discovered that he had left a few strawberry tart crumbs on the serving plate.”