“Very suspicious,” Santiago repeated, “that Mr. Cunningham would drive five miles after midnight for a pack of cigarettes when there were half a dozen gas stations within walking distance.”
“Perhaps there was a sale,” I said and blew out another plume of smoke, this time aimed at Santiago’s face. The drink was giving me a pleasant buzz. My memories of what it felt like to be human always faded in spirit form until I was reminded of it again. I supposed that was why my inhabitations had become so infrequent—it was difficult to be continuously reminded of what I’d lost.
“The Potestas believe someone put him under persuasion,” Santiago said, determined to gain my admission.
The Potestas, orPowersas they were also known, were a warrior caste of angels, tasked with maintaining the borders between realms and enforcing angelic law, which determined everything from territory boundaries to the minutiae of the human life cycle. They were a highly arrogant grouping of gods, easy to anger and extremely efficient in their execution. Azrael was one of them.
Roger’s death must have triggered a disturbance in their shared consciousness. It wasn’t that humans didn’t have free will—they certainly did; the Grigori had made sure of it. But imagine fate as a branching root system, where any of those shoots could become one’s chosen path. Even with all of those possible outcomes, some destinies were more likely to come to fruition than others. By sending the pedophile on an errand to get cigarettes, I must have upset the fatum.
Then again, the Potestas were known for being a bit dramatic.
When I didn’t admit my guilt, fall on my knees in prostration, and beg for forgiveness, Santiago changed tactics.
“The Potestas worry you’re developing a god complex,” Santiago said.
I chuckled. I thought he was making a joke, but he couldn’t see the irony in it.
“Santiago, we’re immortal. Don’t we all suffer from a god complex?”
“They believe your ethos is too…” he paused for effect. “Unpredictable.”
I remained silent. I could offer no good argument.
“I told them it was your nature,” Santiago continued. “What with your lineage and your history.”
How the Malakhim loved to remind us Nephilim of our mongrel status.
“I hope you’re not referring to my dear mother.”
Santiago said nothing, only pursed his lips in consternation. He was probably afraid to utter her name for fear that she might make an unexpected appearance. My mother tended to leave a trail of dead, bloodless bodies in her wake.
“You’re very fortunate that our master has offered you this chance at redemption,” Santiago said.
I didn’t see my current vocation as such. More of a prolonged probationary period that I’d hoped would have concluded by now. But rather than bite back, I took another drink. The cigar shop was warm but with a cool sea breeze drifting in through the open windows that felt delicious against my skin. I tasted the salt of the ocean on my lips. If I had a body of my own, I’d indulge it every day and take such good care of it. I wished I were alone to enjoy these simple pleasures, instead of being confined to my present company.
“You could have convinced the boy to tell his mother,” Santiago said. He was a terrier with a chew toy, and to know that level of information meant that he’d conducted an in-depth investigation. I hadn’t gone that route because it allowed for too many variables outside of my control. What if your mother didn’t believe you? What if she allowed the abuse to continue? What if Roger exacted retribution?
“Death seems a harsh penalty for fiddling with a boy,” he added, perhaps to provoke me.
“You have some experience with that?”
Santiago snatched the cigar out of my hand and stubbed it in the ashtray, leaning toward me with his teeth bared and his eyes blazing. His Malakhim was showing. When he spoke again, it sounded more like the hiss of a snake. “Don’t disrespect me in my house, bloodborn.”
He said the name with such disgust. I wanted to pluck his eyes from their sockets and shove them down his throat, but I didn’t wish to harm his vessel.
“As enjoyable as this has been,” I said, working to keep my tone even, “suggesting an errand to a human is not a crime. The man was free to act on it, or not. As a Malakhim yourself, you should know your survival depends upon your ability to manipulate humans into doing your bidding.”
Theirs may have been a higher caste than mine, but they were no more righteous in their campaigns for power. I stood and sucked down the remainder of my drink, determined not to allow this power-tripping errand boy to waste any more of my precious mortality.
Santiago smiled, the edges of his mustache curling clownishly. “You should know, Nephilim, the boy is gone. Someone whispered in his mother’s ear that a move was in order. She had to consider his sanity. Apparently, the boy was seeing things.”
And there it was—the reason for this summons. Santiago wanted to rub my nose in it. I didn’t know much more than your name if I wished to track you down and see how you were faring. In moments like these when I felt like little more than a pawn to the gods, I cursed my superiors, from the bootlicking Malakhim all the way up the ladder to the very top rungs.
“Is there anything else?” I preferred to lick my wounds in private.
“Only that the Potestas are watching you, so you’d better be on your best behavior. You wouldn’t want anotherincidentlike the last time, would you?”
“No, I would not,” I said soberly.
