"Conservatism is the cousin of cowardice. I say, if the Creator has known all along of Devina's infringements, then action could have been taken against her back in round one. That nothing has been done speaks to a condoning stance, and we should therefore be proactive in this instance." The archangel tossed his napkin onto the table. "You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel. Or do you believe yourself so important that only after you approached a response would be marshaled?"
In the silence that followed, Nigel found himself exhausted with all things and all bodies: Jim had brokered a deal with Devina. Colin was on the verge of going rogue. The demon was running amok.
The last round had been lost, and there was little hope for this current one.
"If you all will kindly excuse me." With care, he pressed his linen napkin to his mouth and folded it with precision. Laying it neatly beside his plate, he rose to his feet. "I believe I have done enough entreating with logic and you shall do what you will. I can only ask you to be cognizant of the larger implications." He shook his head at his old friend. "I expected to battle with the demon. I never considered that I would end up locking horns with the savior or the likes of you at the same time."
He did not wait for a response, but vaporized himself back to his quarters.
Standing in privacy amid the colorful satin and silk, he felt as though he had been cast into the cold galaxy and was floating through space, going end over end ... alone and directionless.
There was a good chance they were going to lose the war. With things fracturing down upon the earth as well as up here in the heavens, there was nothing to offer in contest to Devina's scheming, and she was exactly the sort to expose and exploit this weakened state.
When he had first entered the arena with the demon, he had been so confident of victory. Now all he could see was loss.
They were going to lose. Especially given that he should have stood up to Colin just now, but instead had caved in out of tiredness.
For a long while, he stood in the place where his feet had stopped, his lungs struggling for breath he did not need, and yet seemed panicked at the prospect of not having. Eventually, he walked over to his ornate mirror and sat before the reflection of himself. With a soft curse, he let his outer image smoke off until all that was left of him was all that he truly was: an iridescent, rainbowed light source that glowed with every color of creation.
He had lied to himself, he realized.
From the start, he had believed that this war was about saving the souls in the castle - and though that was a driver, there was another truth hidden behind his heroic mantle and purpose.
This was his home. These quarters here, the time he spent with Colin, his meals and sport with Bertie and Byron. Even Tarquin's kind brown eyes and lanky limbs were a sight to nurture and sustain him.
This was his life and he had love for it all, down to the wet footprints Colin left on the rugs after a bath, and the wine they had together when all was silent and still, and the way even the imagined skin they both assumed felt against the other's.
He was an immortal who in this moment knew the mortal terror of loss.
How did the humans do it? Going through their so-short lives, not knowing for certain when the people they loved would be taken from them ... or whether there was in fact a place for anyone on the other side.
Perhaps that was the point, however.
Indeed, he had passed too much time to calendar blhely going through his "days" and "nights" taking for granted that all was as he would wish it to be forever. It was only now, when he was confronted with a vast, black death, that he realized how beautiful the bright colors of this existence were.
The Maker was a genius, he thought. Infinity resulted in insolence. But transience was the way one treasured what one had been given.
"Nigel."
It was not Colin but Byron who stuck his head in between the flaps of purple and red. The archangel was tentative in his interruption, and it was a surprise that he had not announced himself.
"I have been calling for you," he said.
Ah, that explained it.
Nigel reassumed his form, recasting upon himself flesh and bone and re-covering the body with the white afternoon suit he had donned for tea.
As he met the eyes behind those rose-colored glasses, in truth, he would have preferred an audience with Colin's anger. Or even Devina's duplicity, for that matter. The last thing he was interested in was Byron's eternal faith and optimism.
"My dear boy," Nigel said, "perhaps we could do this another time?"
"I shan't be long. I've just come to tell you that Colin has decided not to go down."
Nigel rose and went to the chaise lounge by the bed. Stretching out, he found it a struggle to remain corporeal. He was tired, oh, so very tired, even in the face of that which should have relieved him.
"We shall see how long that reticence lasts," he murmured.
"He has taken to his own quarters."
The subtext was that should Nigel want to speak with the archangel, that would be the place to find him, and the field report, as it were, was rather dear of Byron, actually. And not really a surprise. It was impossible for Byron and Bertie not to know how close Nigel and his second in command were, but everything was handled with discretion.
This appearance, however, was Byron's way of saying that he was worried about the pair of them.
The optimist. Worried.
Indeed, things were in a very bad way.
"Colin is in his quarters," the archangel repeated.
"As he should be." After all, they had been spending their time together herein, but "officially" they lived apart.
Upon the smooth reply, Byron removed his tinted glasses, and when his iridescent eyes lifted, Nigel could not recall the archangel ever without those rosy lenses. "Forgive me for being blunt, but I think you should perhaps go speak with him."
"He may come to me."
"I knew you were going to say that."
"Any chance you approached him first?" The silence answered that one. "Ah, but you are kindhearted, dear friend."
"No, that is Bertie."
"And you. You always see the best in people."
"No, I am surrounded by good people doing their best. In fact, I am a realist, not an optimist." Abruptly, the angel's face glowed with the power of knowledge. "Your nature and Colin's are one and the same. My hope is that you will bothrealize this and unite once more."
"So you are a romantic, too, then. Bit of a contradiction for a realist."
"On the contrary, I want to win, and our chances are better for prevailing if you are not distracted by a broken heart."
"My heart is not broken."
Byron replaced his glasses upon his pert, straight nose. "And I ask unto you ... to whom you are lying."
With a bow, he ducked out of the tent.
In the silence that followed, Nigel became utterly frustrated that there was little to do save tally herein for the Maker's remark.
And how galling to think he was also awaiting Colin's arrival with an apology.
Mayhap he should not hold his unneeded breath for that one, however.
Chapter 17
"No, thanks - I think I'll let you have lunch with that agent on your own."
As Reilly answered his question, Veck paused in the process of pulling on his leather jacket. The pair of them had been working steadily through the morning, going line by line through the Barten reports, and he'd been surprised at how well they'd stuck to business.
The shit from the night before had been put firmly on the back burner, it seemed - at least for her. On his side? Hell, yeah, it was still on his mind, and he would have loved for that to be because he was looking for a break in conversation to slide in another lame-ass apology.
Instead, it was because he wanted her. Still.
Even more, actually.
God, he needed a cigarette. "I'll see you back here in an hour, then."
"It's a date - ah, plan, I mean."
At that, she bit on her lip with her clean white teeth, like she was shutting herself up or punishing her mouth for the "date" reference.
There were much better things to do with that part of her body.
Cursing under his breath, he left the Homicide department before that bright idea got any airtime, and instead of taking the main stairs, he went down the back way: He was not interested in getting stuck at the Britnae barricade, or in running into any colleagues. And as soon as he was out of HQ, he stopped, lit up a Marlboro, and checked the sky. The sunshine that had prevailed the day before was buried beneath a thick cloud cover, and the wind was cold and damp.