“That’s one I’ll let you field, Ris,” Rhoan murmured, bending back down to examine torso remnants.
Jak’s gaze came to mine expectantly. I grimaced. “You know how in many religious drawings angels are depicted as powerful and luminescent beings with wings?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying they’re angels?”
“No, I’m saying they’re the reason religion depicts angels as they do. They’re the template. The reapers are actually the real angels—they’re the ones who guide the souls to heaven or hell, and they’re also the warriors who protect us.”
He blinked. “Reapers?”
“Yeah.” I paused. “I’ve been able to see them all my life.”
“Huh,” he said. Then, “Weren’t you scared out of your mind as a kid?”
“A sensible person would be,” Rhoan commented without looking up. “But, as we all know, sensible and Risa do not have a whole lot in common.”
“I love you, too,” I said dryly, and he flashed me a grin. I glanced back at Jak. “And no, I wasn’t scared. How could I be? I’ve always seen them, even if I didn’t always know who or what they were.”
“Could your mom see them?” he asked.
“No, although she could see and talk to ghosts.” I paused, studying him. “I thought you didn’t believe in my mom’s gifts.”
“No, I didn’t believe the history she told everyone—a history I all but debunked, as we know. I never refuted the fact she possessed some psychic skill.”
I snorted softly. “Some? You have no idea just how powerful my mom was.”
“If your skills are any indication, I’m guessing that’s true.”
And he’d reached that conclusion without ever seeing half of my skills. Especially not my Aedh side—which is why I’d sidestepped mentioning it.
“What about demons, then?” he continued. “Can you see them, too?”
I hesitated. “Yes. But they’re not that commonplace—hell is a pretty efficient prison.”
At least until the keys had been created.
Jak scraped a hand across his bristly jawline. “I’ve learned more about this weird and wonderful world of ours in the last ten minutes than I did the last twenty-nine years.”
“And it’s information you will never repeat.” Rhoan gave Jak his guardian expression—the one that held no emotion and yet still spoke of all kinds of hell waiting for you if you dared disobey. “None of this is information we want known by the general population. We couldn’t afford the panic.”
“But they have a right—”
“And I have the right,” Rhoan interrupted, voice terse, “to call in a telepath and erase your memories if you do not agree to keep this silent.”
Jak glanced at me, his expression disbelieving. I could only smile grimly. “I’ve seen it done. And the fact that you possess mild telepathy skills yourself won’t save you.”
“Well, this sucks.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “What about the Nadler story? Will I be allowed to print any of that, or am I wasting my time?”
“You can report it, within reason,” Rhoan said. “Once the case is solved.”
“That I can agree to.” He eyed Rhoan warily, then added, “Is that deal solid, or is it more a ‘have to check with my superiors first’ arrangement?”
“It’s solid. I’m second in command in the guardian division.”
Jak grunted. “Good.”
A phone rang sharply into the brief silence. I jumped slightly, then reached for my phone—only to discover it was Rhoan’s. He answered it, and his expression got progressively grimmer.
“Get another team out there,” he said eventually, “and tell them to report in as soon as they have prelim results.”