Page 55 of Vanish Into Light

Gavin was sitting upright – mostly, though he was rather hunched, caved in on himself and bearing deep, dark bags beneath his eyes – and working his way listlessly through the bowl of instant oatmeal Gallo had set before him. He froze when Beck entered, expression stricken.

Beck halted across from him, the island between them, and folded his arms, his regard brisk and professional – and making Gavin fidget on his stool, which left him wincing.

“He slept through the night,” Gallo answered, sliding a bowl across to Beck. “Not much appetite, but the sutures look clean. No bleeding.”

“I’m sitting right here, jackass,” Gavin muttered.

“Then answer the question,” Tris said, settling down at the far end of the island, stirring dried cherries into his own oatmeal.

Gavin shot him a betrayed look, and then finally lifted his face and met Beck’s gaze, terror naked in his own.

It shocked Rose, that so-obvious fear. Even when she’d begun to doubt, that day on the base rooftop, in the cell with Shubert, she’d never been afraid of Beck like Gavin was. She forgot, sometimes, how other people viewed him.

A quick glance proved that Lance had noticed, too; his frown had deepened.

“I’m fine,” Gavin said, forcefully, and spooned up a big bite of oatmeal – expression going queasy as he chewed and swallowed.

“Glad to hear it.” Beck sat, the movement elegant, his tail curling around one of the legs of the stool. “And what about our angel?”

“I’m here,” Morgan said, from the doorway. She looked ghastly: paper-white, veins visible in her temples and cheeks, face sunken save for the brilliant glow of her eyes. Her hair was rumpled, and her too-big shirt threatened to slide off one shoulder.

Gallo dumped a whole cup of brown sugar – so precious these days – into a bowl of oatmeal and held it toward her in offering. “Here. Have something sweet.”

She came shuffling into the room and took it with a quiet murmur of thanks. Moved to lift herself laboriously onto the counter and sat cross-legged, to bring a heaping spoonful to her lips.

“Well, then.” Beck reached into his pocket. “Since the gang’s all here, let’s catch up.” He set the silver pentagram on the island. The click of its landing sounded as if it belonged to a much weightier object. “According to the esteemed owner of the Highwater Club, this a shard of the sword of Saint. Michael.”

A gasp drew everyone’s attention toward Morgan, who sat frozen. Beneath their gazes, she spooned up more oatmeal. “Oh,” she said. “That’s interesting.”

Beck smiled fleetingly, one of those privately amused smiles that usually accompanied a secret of some sort. “Isn’t it? And that brings me to our next issue: the Archangel Raphael has found a new conduit, and is back in the game.”

“Raphael?” Gallo nearly dropped the ladle he was holding, and caught it at the last second, oatmeal droplets flecking the stovetop. He twisted around to look over his shoulder. “Isn’t that the guy from that cult?”

“Yeah,” Rose answered, setting her spoon down. Just thinking of him put a lump in her stomach.

Gallo turned to her, brows lifted. “But you killed him. You stabbed him with that dagger.”

“Wish we still had that dagger,” Gavin muttered.

“Rose killed the conduit that housed Raphael – for lack of a better word,” Beck said. “But she couldn’t kill the angel himself. He survived, and has found a new host.”

“So, what, do they just float around like mist or something?” Lance asked.

Beck tilted his head side to side. “More or less. They have no form, like that – without a host body, nor their true body.”

“It’s difficult,” Morgan spoke up, drawing all gazes again, “when you’re nothing but spirit.” She stared into the middle distance, gaze unfocused, breakfast forgotten in her lap. “It’s easy to…forget. Who you are. What your purpose is. Angels can only descend to the human plane in their true forms if they’re granted permission – if they are sent. Otherwise, as with both rifts, they must travel as spirits only. And that can be…complicated.”

Silence reigned a few beats before Beck said, “I can imagine. I would also imagine” – his tone became almost cautious, probing – “that it can take a while to integrate into a new body. That certain particulars might be lost.”

Morgan blinked, and locked eyes with him. “And new ones gained.”

“Hm.” Beck turned back around, and tapped a claw against the pendant. “That’s neither here nor there, though. The state of things is this: Raphael has either fractured Michael’s blade, or knows who has, and he’s set about scattering the pieces of it. We need to find them – and we have to hope they’re all in New York, or near enough.”

“What do we want with a sword?” Tris asked.

“You want to finish this war, don’t you? Isn’t it why you brought me back? There’s only two angels who can end this. One of them is the king of hell, and the other” – he tapped the pendant again – “is missing his weapon.”

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