Page 22 of Night in a Waste Land

The plane, with its hollow belly and its jump seats and its netting for their baggage, the drone of its engines insanely loud, was no more comfortable on the return flight, but Rose couldn’t be bothered by those sorts of mortal inconveniences. Not with Beck back – and pacing up and down the length of the cargo hold, wings folded back, as steady and graceful as ever, despite being on a moving plane above the Atlantic.

“He should really sit down,” Gavin said, not for the first time; he was having to shout above the engine noise. At no point had he addressed this remark to Beck himself, but to Rose, instead.

Lance looked on Beck with mistrust and reluctant awe. The other three, though – even Tris, though he did an admirable job of maintaining his usual indifference – were openly frightened. None of them had made direct eye contact, nor spoken to him.

Beck, being Beck, had of course noticed. He paused when Gavin spoke, tail whisking side-to-side. He spun, hands clasping behind the small of his back, beneath his wings, and his golden stare zeroed in on Gavin a moment, sharp as a blade – Gavin blanched, throat kicking as he gulped – and then he looked toward Rose. And toward Lance, sitting beside her, his gaze shifting between the two of them.

She wondered, briefly, almost horrified, if he could tell that she and Lance…

Probably. He’d probably known back at the church. He’d always been the most perceptive person she’d ever met.

“Tell me about the city,” he said. “What sort of hell are we walking into?” He grinned quickly at his own joke.

Rose grinned back, but only because he was here, at last; it faded quickly, when faced with the enormity of their task. “That night in Castor’s basement. When you–” It still hurt to say, even though he was gazing softly back at her, finally, eyes glowing. “When the ritual started, when the conduit Gabriel killed Castor, a gateway to hell was opened. And in the time between it opening and closing, when – when you were lost – things managed to slip out. Lots of things.”

“Hell beasts,” Lance said. “There are two kinds of conduits, now. The angels that we’ve faced before – and a new kind. A demonic kind. They’re battling each other, and, as you can guess, humanity’s been caught in the crossfire for the past five years.”

“Humanity’s always been in that position,” Beck said. “What of the demons? Are they any more powerful?”

“Equally matched, for the most part,” Rose said. “But the war’s on properly now, in a way it never was during the First Rift. The streets have never been this bloody.”

“And the Knights have never been so busy,” Lance added. “We’ve learned how to engage them more effectively, but we’re still humans messing with a kind of power we can’t understand.”

Beck showed his teeth, his new fangs flashing, in an expression that wasn’t at all a smile. “And this is where I come in.” He didn’t sound bitter or unhappy – Rose thought he almost sounded eager. He always had enjoyed his hunting. But the way he bared his fangs wasn’t pleasant.

“I planned to raise you either way,” Rose said, “but the only way I could get assistance” – she gestured to the plane encasing them, the men sitting beside and across from her – “was if I pitched you to my superiors as a weapon.”

“As well you should have.”

“But…”

Lance’s gaze landed heavy against the side of her face, burning, questioning.

“Rest assured, Sergeant,” Beck told him. “Rose isn’t thinking of deserting. She feels beholden to her company, now. Doubtless she’d tell me to run off if I chose, but she won’t abandon the mission.” His unsettling non-smile sharpened at the edges, honed like a blade.

Lance let out a deep breath, but didn’t respond.

Tris, nearly shouting to be heard above the engines, said, “Here’s what I’m wondering, though. You’ve got wings.” He met Beck’s gaze when he turned to him, his own face impressively unimpressed. The twitch of an eyelid betrayed deeply suppressed nerves. “And horns. But does that make you any better at fighting conduits than us?”

Gallo’s lips moved, a silentoh, shit.

Beck chuckled, and the low sound was more smoke than velvet these days. “I guess we’ll find out.”

SIX

Before

Rose shifted the tray she carried to one arm and knocked on the heavy, locked door before her. The lead-lined cell was soundproof, so she couldn’t hear whether she was invited in or not, but it felt like a courtesy. Morgan had said she could feel the vibration, and knew that someone stood on the other side of the thick door.

Rose counted to five, then spun the wheel, listened to the bolts sliding back, the hiss of depressurized air. She stepped into the vestibule, sealed herself inside, and then went through the second, more normal door, inside the box where Captain Bedlam had housed their captured conduit.

Morgan – the only name she’d offered, a human name, and surely not the name of the angel possessing the body – had been given a set of fatigues: black tac pants, and gray shirt, lace-up boots. They looked comical on her small frame, her knobby elbows resting on the desk where she sat paging through a book, pale hair fallen in a curtain to shield her face.

She lifted her head only once Rose had closed the door, fixing her with those wide, strange, glowing eyes. Her mouth twitched in brief greeting. “Hello.”

“I brought you something to eat,” Rose said, stepping forward to set the tray on a clear corner of the desk. Lots of sugary things, because conduits burned calories so quickly: a dish of chocolate pudding, a slice of cake, a handful of granola bars, canned peaches, and, a nod to nutrition, a congealed scoop of tuna salad in a little plastic bowl.

Standing this close, Rose could feel the faint buzz that the conduit put out into the air; it was like being able to sense that a TV was on in another room, without being able to hear it. A hum in her joints and back teeth. A prickling at the back of the neck.

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