World After

She walks to the far side of the desk and eyes us critically as we hold our unnatural positions. She nods and tells us to go hit the bathroom. When we come back, we assume our poses without her help. She looks at us again and makes minor adjustments.

“Good luck, ladies.” She sounds grim.

She turns and leaves the suite.

WE STAND there for almost an hour before the door opens. It’s enough time for me to worry about every possible reason why Uriel wants us here. I’m in the middle of another poorly thought-out, harebrained scheme that risks not only my life but all the other lives around me. How am I supposed to sneak out and find Paige while I’m being a decoration for Uriel?

We wilt over time as the minutes drag by. But as soon as we hear voices outside, I can see out of the corner of my eye that Andi perks up as much as I do. My heart hammers so fast that I can actually see my chest fluttering.

The door swings open and Uriel walks in. His friendly smile seems genuine, reaching his eyes. In the ocean glow coming through the windows, his wings look off-white again. What had looked like a touch of darkness on the Alcatraz dock now looks like a blush of warmth in this rosy light. I guess the late afternoon sun reflecting off the water can make even a killer like him look mellow. No wonder everyone wants to live in California.

“—should have the reports from the secondary labs tomorrow.” A woman walks in behind him. Gold-spun hair cascading over her shoulders. Perfect features. Large blue eyes. The voice of… well, an angel. Laylah.

Every one of my muscles tenses and I worry I’ll tip over in my high heels from all that tensing. Laylah. The head doctor who operated on Raffe. The one who should have sewn back his feathered wings and instead sewed demon wings onto his back. I wonder if the satisfaction of a major punch to her perfect jaw would be worth dying a horrible death.

“What’s taking so long?” asks Uriel as he closes the door.

Laylah gives him a wide-eyed stare, looking both wounded and angry at the same time. “It’s a miracle we’re as far along as we are. You know that, right? In only ten months, we’ve managed to get an entire apocalyptic machine running.”

Ten months?

“Most projects would barely be getting started in that time. A normal team would still be experimenting with their first batch and it would be years, maybe decades away from having a horde of mature locusts that are ready to pounce on the world. My team is almost dead from exhaustion, Uriel. I can’t believe—”

“Relax,” says Uriel. His voice is soothing, his expression gentle.

The angel invasion happened less than two months ago. Had they set up labs months before the actual invasion?

He guides her to the leather sofa and sits her down. He lounges on the chair beside the sofa and puts his feet on the marble coffee table.

His black soles look dirty beside the bottle of wine and flowers arranged on the table. Otherwise, they make a beautiful picture. Two exquisite angels lounging on expensive furniture.

Uriel takes a deep breath. “Breathe. Enjoy the wonders of God’s Earth.” He proudly sweeps his hand toward the windows overlooking the spectacular surf as if he had something to do with it. He takes another deep breath as if to show her how it’s done.

Laylah follows his lead and breathes deeply a couple of times. So far, neither of the angels has glanced over at us any more than they looked at the dining table. We’re just furniture to them.

I keep my eyes staring at a point on the bookshelves, as befitting a statue. The last thing I want is to have them notice that I’m watching them. According to my sensei, you’re better off watching your enemies through your peripheral vision anyway.

“If I didn’t think you could lead this project, I wouldn’t have asked you to head it.” Uriel picks up the bottle of wine and removes the foil at the top. “There is no greater chimerologist than you, Laylah. We all know that. Well, everyone but Gabriel knew that.” His voice holds a hint of sarcasm when he mentions the Messenger. “He should never have appointed that doddering idiot, Paean, as the realm’s Lead Physician. It should have been you. And it will be as soon as I’m elected Messenger. Maybe we’ll even change the title to Lead Creator.”

Laylah’s perfect lips part in surprised pleasure. Oh, she’d like that.

“If Paean had been in charge of this project,” says Uriel as he works the corkscrew deeper into the cork, “he would have started with cellular cultures and we’d be waiting years before anything happened.”

“Centuries,” says Laylah. “He thinks everything should start with cellular cultures just because that’s his specialty.”

“His methods are eons outdated. You, on the other hand—I knew you’d slam through this. You’re a genius. Why bother with building a species from the ground up when we can mix and match what’s already out there? Not that that’s not enormously complicated.” He pops the cork. “Your work is absolutely brilliant. And I know that this project is progressing at unbelievable, record-breaking speeds.”

He nods. Pins her with a look.

“But I need it to go faster.” His friendly features harden into something unrelenting. He pours a glass of red wine. It looks like a stream of blood pooling into the glass.

“And I know you can do it, Laylah.” His voice is soft, encouraging, but with an undertone of command. “I wouldn’t have given you the job if I didn’t think you could make it happen. Triple your staff, cut corners, birth the locusts prematurely if you have to.” He hands her the glass and pours one for himself.

“Triple my staff with whom? More humans? I might as well try to train dogs to work with us for all they know about species creation.”

“This area of the globe is the best that humans have to offer. That’s what you said. That’s why we’re here in this soulless place instead of Mecca or Jerusalem or Vatican City, where the locals would have gotten down on their knees and treated us with proper, old-world respect. Instead, we opted for the equipment, the labs, the highly trained biologists. Remember?” He takes a drink. “You’re the one who wanted to come here. So make it work, Laylah.”

“I’m doing my best.” She takes a sip, staining her lips with dark red. “The latest batch of locusts have the lion’s teeth and women’s hair that you requested, but they can’t work their mouths properly. If you want them closer to the biblical description, we need more time.”

He takes a cigar from a box on the coffee table and offers it to her. “Cigar?”

“No, thank you.” She crosses her model-long legs, which emphasizes her graceful curves and lines as she lounges on the sofa. She looks like an artistic rendering of the perfect feminine form, more like a goddess than an angel.

“Try one. You’ll like it.”

I assume she’ll say no. Even I can tell that a fat, ash-tipped cigar wouldn’t make a good accessory for her. But she hesitates.

“Truly, who knew that the nectar of the gods was meant to be smoked rather than sipped? It’s no wonder so many of our upper echelon have taken to it.”

She leans forward to take it. Her back becomes stiff. Her legs look uncomfortable in her new position. Her fingers look unsure and clumsy as she lights the brown tip.

“The locusts don’t need to be perfect,” says Uriel. “They just need to put on a good show. They don’t even need to survive long—just long enough to wreak havoc, torture humans in good old-fashioned, biblical style, and darken the sky with their numbers.”

Laylah takes a puff. I expect her to cough like an amateur but she doesn’t. She does come close to wrinkling her nose, though. “I’ll try to speed things up.”

“Trying is not a commitment.” Uriel’s voice is smooth but firm.

She takes a deep breath. “I won’t let you down, Archangel.”

“Good. I never doubted it.” He blows smoke. It must be a good cigar. He looks satisfied. He gets up and Laylah follows. “I must make the rounds at the party. Things are probably about to get a little wild down there. When will you be joining the festivities?”

Laylah looks even more uncomfortable, if that’s possible. “I need to get back to work. My staff needs me.”

“Of course they need you. But they’ll have to manage without you for an evening. Part of the job of being Lead Physician is attending major ceremonies. And believe me, this one will go down in history. You won’t want to miss it.” Uriel ushers her out the door. “The monkey named Madeline will see to your appearance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Laylah almost bolts out.

Chpater 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.