World After

51

FOR THE next couple of hours, Uriel gets dressed for the party. It’s apparently another period costume party, only this time, it seems like the point is to actually be semi-disguised.

“Make the masks and wing coverings available everywhere,” he tells his assistant angel as Madeline and two other people cover his gray-tinged wings with a gauzy white material. Even though it would be Madeline and her team who would put the costumes out for the angels, Uriel only addresses his angelic assistant. “I want all the angels to feel anonymous. And the Daughters of Men—make sure they’re wearing wings.”

“Wings?” asks the assistant. His wings are sky blue and I can understand why the angels would need to cover their wings if they really want to be disguised. “But, Your Grace, if I may, with all the wine and costumes, the Daughters of Men may be mistaken for angels by some of the drunk soldiers.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” Uriel’s tone implies that it wouldn’t be a shame at all.

“But if some of the soldiers were to make a mistake…,” he breaks off delicately.

“Then they’d better pray that I become the Messenger and not Michael. Unlike Michael who is off on one of his endless military campaigns across the world, I am attending the party. I will be right here to understand how such a terrible mistake could be made. And as for Raphael, even if they don’t accept that he has fallen, they’ll certainly remember how preachy he got about fraternizing with the Daughters of Men after his Watchers fell doing exactly that.”

Madeline and her assistants place a layer of black feathers over Uriel’s wings so that the white material peeks out between the feather gaps.

“What are you doing?” asks Uriel irritated.

Madeline stares wide-eyed at Uriel’s assistant, looking terrified that Uriel just addressed her. Then she bows and tries to shrink into herself. “I, um, thought you wanted to be in costume. Your Grace.” I’m beginning to suspect that only the Messenger gets to be called “Your Grace,” and that his toadies call him that to flatter him.

“I’ll wear a mask and wing coverings but I need to be recognized, even from afar. It’s the masses who need to be anonymous. Do I look like the masses to you?”

“Absolutely not, Your Grace.” Madeline sounds breathless with terror. She and her men whisk off the black feathers and gauzy material with shaking hands. “We’ll be right back with a more appropriate outfit.” They scramble out, trailing feathers.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” The assistant bows.

“I suppose intelligence is too much to ask of them.”

They launch into a discussion about wine and liquor. By the sound of things, they must have cleared every bar in the Bay Area to provide a constant flow to the angels tonight. It hits me once again how we are at war but they are not. To them, we humans are just incidental.

Despite our attack on their last aerie, they’re more concerned about drinks and costumes than they are about defense against the humans. Of course, the fact that virtually all the angels were just injured and will fully recover, if they haven’t already, probably just bolsters their outrageous confidence.

I discreetly rub my fingers against the fabric on my hip where my bear sword would have been. The fabric feels flimsy and vulnerable.

Before long, Madeline sweeps back into Uriel’s suite with an entire crew, complete with rolling racks of costumes circa the 1920s crammed full of sparkling feathers. They get to work on Uriel.

He ends up in a white suit with wings of sparkling gold and a matching mask that’s more of a crown than a face cover. It extends above his forehead, giving him the illusion of additional height, and curls around his eyes without actually hiding his features.

When he looks at himself in the full-length mirror, he orders Andi and me to stand behind him. Our makeup has been refreshed and we now wear shimmery gauze wings, more fairy than angel. We are the perfect accessories to his costume.

I understand now why he wanted petite brunettes. Our small bodies make him look large. His wings look giant, his height seems endless. We are the dark silk background to his gold and diamond regalia.

WE ARRIVE just as the party is getting started. Winged men and glamorous women mingle on the multi-tiered terrace and on the golf course below. Torches and fire pits blaze against the golden glow of the sky before sunset, lighting up the grounds.

Colorful lanterns are strung up and blowing in the wind like tethered balloons. Tall bistro tables are scattered around the party with gold-and-silver corkscrew ribbons and shiny confetti, accenting the whole scene with a festive atmosphere.

The surf pounds the cliffs at the edge of the golf course while waves splash gently on the beach on the other side. The rhythm of the water blends elegantly with the music of the string quartet.

I glance at the ocean and wonder how the escape plans are going on Alcatraz. Is the Resistance on its way there? Will Captain Jake get off his recliner and do the right thing? Then I sweep my gaze over the glittery, glamorous crowd and wonder how I’m supposed to find my sister here.

Uriel shines, clearly in his element as he greets his people. At first, Andi and I walk exactly two paces behind him, but after a while, the crowd gets tighter and we only have room to stand a single pace behind him. It gets a little tougher when he walks down to the golf course. Nothing like heels on grass to make a girl feel clumsy.

Bits of conversation spill over as we walk by. The two words I hear repeatedly are “apocalypse” and “Messenger.” “Apocalypse” is said loudly with relish while “Messenger” is said quietly with an undertone of wariness.

The women are dressed as whimsically and colorfully as we are. Delicate wings, hair curled and scalloped, demi-masks sparkling and colorful on their faces. Some are draped in long silk while others are in tasseled flapper dresses.

The angels have slicked hair and are dressed in old-fashioned tuxes or suits. They wear half masks and wing disguises that change the colors and patterns of their wings. Some, like us, have makeup or tattoo designs around their eyes instead of masks. Others wear zoot suits with looping chains and hats.

The women hang all over the angels, laughing and flirting. Their eyes, though, are far from relaxed. Many of them look grimly determined to get themselves an angel, while more than a few look outright scared. They’re obviously taking their instructions to get an angel protector seriously.

At this party, Uriel’s matching pair of girls are not the only ones who are screaming-on-the-inside terrified.

There are a lot of women, but there are way more angels at this party than there were at the last one at the old aerie. And unlike before, this party is crammed full of hard-muscled, hard-eyed warriors.

It turns out that most of the women are in wings that are more fairy than angel. Even the feathered wings are little cherub wings rather than the true angelic kind. No way could anyone mistake these women for angels.

If an angel gave way to temptation tonight, there would be guilt in the morning. And the knowledge that he couldn’t convince the others that it was just a mistake.

And Uriel would be his only chance for salvation.

I guess I already knew that Uriel is a manipulative bastard. I suspect he’d been building up to this over weeks of parties, slowly introducing the Daughters of Men to the angels, the unlimited drinks, the costumes. And now, the masks and wing disguises that allow for anonymity so the angels can do whatever tempts them without feeling like someone is watching. It would have been outright weird if Uriel had suggested such a thing as soon as they arrived on earth.

The word “premeditated” comes to mind.

The fact that I’m allowed to overhear enough to start piecing this stuff together makes me worried.

Very worried.