“They’re witches,” Sachiel confirmed. “And this is a Waypoint.”
Waypoints were considered to be completely neutral spaces. Located over natural ley lines and protected by powerful enchantments, they were meant to be a haven for any Divine being regardless of affiliation, and for mortals who possessed power. Typically, they were operated by a Coven and blended into normal society in the guise of businesses and other inconspicuous buildings.
“That explains a lot.”
“So, Michael,” Sachiel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. “Bold of you to send another message after Judas got the last one.”
“What choice do I have? I must return to Hell, and I don’t know the way.”
Sachiel fixed him with a look. “If you were wanted there, you would know.”
Michael said nothing, looking out the window instead of meeting the Fallen’s emerald gaze, trying to pretend his hopes weren’t sinking into his gut.
“That being said,” Sachiel sighed, sitting back with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “I am a sucker for a star-crossed love story.”
Michael’s head whipped back around, eyes wide as his cheeks reddened. “This is not?—”
Sachiel lifted his hand to stop him. “Don’t bother, I can tell.”
The angel rolled his eyes. “But you’ll take me? To appeal to…him?”
“On two conditions.” The other man held up his fingers to demonstrate. “One, only you. Tell Uriel he’s gotta keep loitering in that alley. And two, if anyone catches you, I will deny my involvement until I’m blue in the face.”
“I can respect those terms,” Michael agreed, making a mental note to lecture Uriel about thestealthfactor of a stakeout.
“Perfect,” Sachi flashed an easy grin, lounging in his seat and draping an arm over the back of the chair. “Hey, how are the pastries here?”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Foster was going to go mad watching the clock, but counting the steady tick of each passing second was all he felt capable of right now. Well, that and worrying himself sick, butthatwas becoming as second nature as breathing. Every second the damn doctors didn’t come give him an update was another second that he spiraled deeper into guilt and grief and fear.
Click. Click. Click.
The rhythm blurred with his pulse. He nearly shook with barely contained energy, his leg bouncing a frantic beat against the floor tiles that pulled an occasional squeak from his sneaker in complement to the clock.
Click. Click. Squeak. Click. Squeak. Click. Click.
A low growl built in his throat and Foster raked his hands through his hair, tugging hard. He wanted to scream, to rip that damned clock off the wall, to start throwing chairs around the room until someone came to stop him. At least then there would be another living being in this tiny, impersonal waiting room. The half dead ficus in the corner didnotcount—he wasn’t even a hundred percent sure it wasn’t made of plastic.
Click. Squeak. Click. Click. Click. Squeak squeak.
With a frustrated groan, he pushed up from the uncomfortable plastic chair. He wasn’t sure if he was planning to track down the doctor or maybe just a vending machine. Anything to occupy his mind and body for even a few moments was going to be a welcome diversion, at this point.
Then there was a firm knock against the doorframe, and a middle-aged man with silver hair stepped around it to enter the room. He was stocky and stern-looking, life worn hard into the lines on his face, but there was a kindness in his weary eyes. “Mister… Morningstar?”
“Yes!” His frazzled nerves tensed, and he cleared his throat. “That’s me.”
“My name is Doctor Kontogeorgos. I’m the primary physician that’s been attending to your grandmother.” He paused, and the hesitation ramped Foster’s anxiety up another level. “Why don’t you have a seat, young man?”
“All due respect,” Foster swallowed hard, “I’ve been sitting too long. Just tell me, how—how bad?—”
The doctor adjusted his glasses as he watched him struggle. It felt like he was sizing him up and seeing how much Foster could handle. He laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. “She’s alive, but it's touch and go at the moment. I won’t sugarcoat this for you, son. Are you sure you won’t sit?”
“No,” he croaked, throat tightening until he thought he would choke. “Please.”
“Alright,” the older man sighed. “She’s in bad shape. I have no idea how she’s holding on, but for the grace of God.”
If it wasn’t such a tense situation, Foster might have laughed at that. The doctor had no idea just how close to the truth he was.
