“I am insulted,” Sever repeated. “Do you know what kind of power I wield?”
“Uh, no,” Sloane said.
“A lot,” I said, lips twitching.
“Far more than that,” Sever scoffed. “I am the greatest Angel in existence. I was the King of Heaven. The fucking Metatron.”
“There he goes being all humble again,” Killian drawled, and we shared a grin.
“It is not bragging,” Sever said. “It is the simple truth. So for you to be 'fan-girling' over some human man with a minor talent, especially compared to yours and mine, is just . . . well, baffling, to tell the truth. I suppose I'm more baffled than insulted.”
I snorted a laugh.
“You're not jealous?” Sloane asked skeptically.
Sever's eyes went wide as he turned to look at the extinguisher sitting behind him. “What exactly should I be jealous of?”
“Okay, that's enough,” I said, patting Sever's shoulder. “You're about to insult Extinguisher Teagan right to his fellow extinguishers and we don't do that. It's rude, for one thing.”
Sloane snorted. “I don't care. You're an Angel. We know you're powerful, and anyone with eyes would have to admit you're a good-looking guy.” He shrugged. “I was just asking because I'm shocked that your marriage doesn't have issues like that.”
“Oh, we have issues like that,” Killian drawled. “Just not with your team leader.”
“Killian!” I hissed.
“What? They're right. People worry about their spouses cheating.”
“But that's not the issue,” Sever said. “Not even with Astaroth.”
“King Astaroth?!” Extinguisher Kavanaugh asked. “You're married to the King of Heaven while you have the hots for the King of Hell?”
“Literally,” Extinguisher Sloane said with a snort.
“I don't have the hots for the King of Hell.” I leveled a hard stare at them.
Both men sat up straighter and said, “Sorry, Ambassador.”
“It's the opposite,” Sever said. “He has the hots for her. That is the issue.”
“Is it though?” Killian mused.
“Killian, cut it out!” I nearly screeched.
Then a great boom ended our conversation. Along with the boom came an explosion that flipped our van.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ringing in my ears. Flashes of light. A man's face. Wind. Every time I started to come to, something would send me back into nothingness. When I finally awoke, I was chained to an exam table with magic-suppressing manacles on my wrists, holding them in front of me. I squinted at an overhead lamp, and it was moved aside.
A man leaned into my view. The man we were after. He spoke to me in Korean.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said. “I only know hello and thank you in Korean. On song my . . . oh, how does it go? Amadeus? No, that's not it. I'm a young tomato? No, that must be wrong. What was it? On-young-ha-say-O? Yes, that's right. Right? I think it's right.” I said it faster, “Annyeonghaseyo!”
He scowled at me, then went around the table and adjusted a portion of it so that I was sitting up. The light returned, but he positioned it so that it shone on me but not in my eyes. Then he stared. Intently. He drew closer.
“Those stolen pearls telling you a lot about me?” I stared back at him and grinned. “Not enough if you're still here.” I leaned forward and widened my grin into a baring of teeth. “You should be running.”
He jerked back. “What are you?”
