“It is customary for such work to be done in pairs even for the Chief Infernalist himself,” Turmiel said.
“How could you risk yourself by doing such dangerous work on your own, Suriel?” Harshiel said.
“She wasn’t alone,” I said.
“The angels do not speak through you anymore, seducer,” Harshiel said.
“The angels do still speak to Zaniel, and do not call him that again,” Suriel said.
“He is corrupt and separated from the grace of God,” Harshiel said.
“God still hears my prayers, and the angels still know me,” I said.
“The enemy tricks you into believing that, but it is not angels that sing to you, but demons,” Harshiel said.
“I swear by the angels themselves that they know Zaniel as they always did,” Suriel said.
“You know that cannot be true,” he said.
“I came to test the truth of it for myself, as is my right as a master teacher at the College,” she said.
“Why would you risk yourself, Master Suriel?” Turmiel asked.
“Yes, Suriel, why would you risk yourself for someone that you haven’t seen in so very long?” Harshiel asked. He studied her face as if he was trying to read past the passive expression on it now.
“If you would use the gifts that God gave you instead of letting your prejudices blind you, Harshiel, you would know that it was not a risk to work angel magic with Zaniel.” She looked past him to the other Sentinel.
“Turmiel, look at Zaniel with something other than your physical eyes,” she said.
“Why should he do that? Why should Turmiel care about Zaniel’s powers or lack thereof; why should you?” Harshiel asked.
“Turmiel,” she said again, ignoring Harshiel.
I felt a warm wind against my skin like the perfect breath of spring. I looked at Turmiel—he was still the tallest Filipino I’d ever met in all my years on the outside. He towered over Master Donel. When I was at the College, I hadn’t questioned that Turmiel would specialize as a Sentinel like his uncle, but over the years I had rethought a lot of things about those years, and with Turmiel’s magic blessedly gentle I realized I had been right in one thought: He should have specialized in something else. He was no warrior, no bringer of death. He should have been a healer, a bringer of joy, but like most of us he hadn’t argued with the path the College chose for him.
“It’s considered rude to peek at someone’s magic without asking permission first,” Lila said.
Turmiel’s magic began to fade like a wind dying away. “It’s all right,” I said, “let him look.” I smiled at him. “It’s all right, Turmiel, do what Suriel says.”
Turmiel smiled and it was as gentle as the springlike wind that danced over my skin. It brought my Guardian Angel shining at my back like an all-body halo in a medieval painting of a saint.
“Wow,” said Young MacGregor, “do you feel that?”
“Feel it, no, but I see it,” Minis said.
“He always did shine pretty like that,” Turmiel said, his voice almost dreamy with the power.
“No,” Harshiel said, “no, it cannot be.”
“He partnered me in healing the injured police officer as of old,” Suriel said.
“There is nothing wrong with Zaniel’s angel,” Turmiel said, his voice still dreamy. “He feels sadder like he has seen and done things that hurt him, but he has done nothing to make the angels turn from him. In fact, when I think that, they hover closer and want to offer comfort.” As if his words made it so, I felt the brush of wings, and if I hadn’t known it was angel wings, I’d have said birds, because they felt smaller than the angels that came when I called, but there were no birds to see and the touch was more wind and thought than physical feathers. The touch of them opened something inside me and began to heal it. I didn’t even know what it was, only that it hurt and if I and my angels allowed it, Turmiel’s angels would make it better.
I heard Harshiel yell, “No!” and then I felt the wind around my body disturbed as if something was moving close to me. I opened my eyes to see Harshiel’s elbow coming for my face. I had time to block it with my forearm but missed the knee he drove into my stomach. I was able to turn a little, so he didn’t hit my solar plexus solidly, but it was enough that he doubled me over. I put my arms to either side of my head to protect myself as best I could as I fought to breathe. I couldn’t make myself stand upright, so I stopped trying and threw myself into Harshiel. He wasn’t expecting it and was in the middle of trying to elbow me in the back of my head, so I could sweep his arm past me and came up under his arm with my left and hit him in the ribs like I was driving into a heavy bag in the gym. Elbows were better, but sometimes fists are all you have to make it work. The blow caused him to stumble, which let me come at his back and hit him in the kidney once, twice. Then there were hands on both of us pulling us apart while Suriel and Turmiel yelled for him to stop fighting and Charleston yelled at me.
Harshiel collapsed to his knees even with the hands trying to hold him up. I had a moment of satisfaction and then I saw the blood on my tank top. The demon wounds were bleeding again; suddenly I didn’t feel so satisfied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
We had to call the paramedics again, twice in one day. It was a record, one that Charleston made it clear he did not want to repeat. “I cannot believe that you had a fistfight in the squad room, Havoc. You’re usually one of my most levelheaded people.”
I was sitting in the squad room in the chair at my own desk. The paramedics Roger and Sam bagged up the bloody bandages and shirt to be processed by the ME, just like the ones earlier. We wouldn’t make Adam hunt me down this time. This paramedic pair were both middle-aged men with that world-weary air that said they’d seen it all, patched up all the survivors, and were tired of stupid people hurting themselves for no good reason, or maybe I was projecting on that last part. I was now out of clean shirts to wear until I went home for one, so I was sitting shirtless in my exercise pants and shoes with fresh bandages across my stomach and totally agreeing with Charleston.
“I called Patterson,” Roger, the brown-haired white paramedic said. “She described your wounds earlier and they look about the same to me.”
“Patterson?” I asked.
“Becki Patterson,” he said.
I nodded. “I remember her.”
“Most guys do.”
“Her partner used her first name, but not her last,” I said, and I knew I sounded defensive, though I wasn’t sure why.
“Sure, but I bet you don’t remember his first name,” Roger said, giving me a look that was so weary and cynical I wanted to ask him how hard his shift had been. I didn’t for the same reason he wouldn’t ask me. First responders barely admit weakness to their friends, let alone to strangers.
I had to admit he was right, I only remembered Becki’s name and I owed her partner for the bloody nose. I suddenly felt shallow and sexist.
His partner looked Pakistani maybe, but certainly some members of his family had come from a part of the world that was near Pakistan at some point. At the College of Angels, you could just ask someone’s ethnic background and they’d tell you even if your guess was wrong. They appreciated being asked and you trying; in the outside world some people appreciated the curiosity, and some people didn’t, so I’d learned to not ask unless the conversation gave me an opening.