Syriniana arrives in a flutter of white, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, lavender eyes wide and a little wild. She must have been in the middle of something as her sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, and ink streaks the side of her hand. She takes in the room in one sweep.
Bed. Blood. Me. The two angels at my consort's side.
For half a breath, she looks frazzled. Overwhelmed. Then her gaze lands on Simone's face, on Simone's fingers clenched around mine, on the tears running down her temples into her hair.
“Tell me what's happening.” She's already moving toward the bed.
Behind her, Mike hovers by the doorway, wringing his hands, his bravado nowhere to be found.
Ithuriel steps past him into the room. The white-haired angel, Sariel's consort, heads straight for Saraqael and Daniel, his voice low.
“Where do you need me?”
Saraqael answers without looking up. “The cord. We must see if we can loosen it from the babe's neck without harming either of them.”
Ithuriel kneels on Simone's other side, bowing his head briefly to her. “Simone. My name is Ithuriel. Jessica speaks of you often.”
My consort blinks at him, then at Syriniana as she settles bySimone’s head, her fingers brushing the hair off her brow. “Hello, child. I'm Syrin. I'm going to help.”
“Thank you,” Simone whispers. She takes in the angels around her, gratitude shining in her eyes. “All of you.”
The four Celestials confer in a quick, low exchange of words I only half follow. Finally, Saraqael looks at me.
“Asmodai. You should leave the room.”
My reaction is immediate. “No.”
“Your emotions are volatile. We need the ether around her to be calm.”
“I am not leaving her.”
“Asmodai—” Daniel begins, but I interrupt him.
“I am not leaving her.”
The air hums faintly with my roared words. I drag in a breath and force my voice down.
“Tell me what to do,” I say through clenched teeth. “Tell me, and I'll do it. But I'm not walking out of this room.”
Simone tugs weakly on my hand. “He stays.”
Saraqael's golden eyes go from her face to mine. He appears to be judging us. Whatever he sees makes him give a small, decisive nod.
“Sit behind her,” he instructs. “On the bed. Take her weight against your chest.”
I'm already moving, easing onto the mattress and sliding in behind her. Daniel and Ithuriel guide her back gently, settling her between my legs, her head resting against my chest. I wrap one arm around her shoulders and rest the other low over her belly, palm splayed wide, my touch careful.
“Like this?”
“Yes.” Saraqael's tone gentles a fraction. “Hold her. Breathe with her. Whatever you feel, whatever you fear, channel it into keeping her steady. Nothing else. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Mike,” Syriniana says quietly. “Wait outside, my love.”
Mike opens his mouth.
“Outside,” she repeats, her tone brooking no argument.
