Looked like everyone had showed up for the festivities. Close to a hundred angels and Fae crowded into one space, a few humans sprinkled about.
“Michael,” Obsidian greeted, that stern, not-at-all pleased expression firmly in place.
The male’s acknowledgement had the same effect it always did. Pride and something akin to love filled Michael as he peered over at his greatest creation.
“Obsidian,” he returned, waving a hand. “Someone care to offer me a drink?”
Unlike in Heaven, there was no one rushing around to do his bidding. Also unlike in Heaven, there was quite a bit of animosity being launched in his direction. Damn warrior angels. Didn’t they know it wasn’t healthy to hold a grudge?
“Why are you here?” Stygian questioned.
At least he was relatively cool. He knew Hell would freeze over before Shadow or Piceous would direct a question his way. Without being prompted, anyway. Those two had been harboring a deep-seated anger for centuries, and based on their dagger-glares, Michael didn’t think they intended to turn those frowns upside down anytime soon.
“No refreshments?” He rolled his eyes and moved deeper into the room. “Fine.”
It wasn’t like he could imbibe in their earthly victuals and libations anyway. But would it kill a guy to offer?
In an effort to keep his restlessness at bay, Michael wandered through the open space, eyeing thefiestreighinterspersed throughout.
“Nice jacket. Looks good on you,” he told Raksa. “Brings out your eyes.”
The male’s gaze swung over to Malak briefly before lowering.
So he was feeling some heat for a co-worker. Good for him. Michael always wanted them to find happiness. God knew they deserved it considering they’d devoted their entire existence to keeping his father’s creations safe from the evils of the world. A Band-Aid fix, his ass. Fifteen hundred years in, Michael would have to say his father had been wrong about one thing. Those angels knew how to get shit done.
Someone cleared their throat and he got the feeling it was Obsidian. Probably attempting to get him to pick up the pace.
Fine.
Turning toward the male he’d created with his own two hands, Michael nodded.
“What the fuck?” Obsidian grumbled when they took form in their third-floor … whatever this room was.
“We need to chat. Privately,” he said by way of explanation.
“The proper way is to say so,” Obsidian countered. “Give a male a chance to tie up his previous engagements.”
“Yeah, well. No time for pleasantries,” he told him.
“So what’s the rush?”
“We’ve got a situation.” Michael picked up the eight ball that was sitting on the red felt, studied it for a moment. He’d never understood the allure of this game, but his warriors seemed enraptured by it. Had to be since they had two of these tables in their residence.
“We do,” Obsidian confirmed. “And if you’d let me get back to it, we could address bringing Asmia home.”
Michael set the ball down and made a trip around the table. “It’s not about bringing her home, per se.”
Oh, he understood their desire to. He would’ve had to be an idiot not to feel the eager anticipation that had been thick and frothy in that lower-level room. And Michael was a lot of things, but an idiot he was not.
Obsidian’s silver glare was pinned right on him. “Then what’s it about?”
“Well…”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oliver wasn’t too proud to admit he’dalmost shit his pants when that … fucking angel appeared, all winged and tatted like some holy badass.
“You okay?”
