“Mmm?” He had opened his wings and was stretching them out as far as they would reach, the feathers catching the light and shining as they moved. This time, the sight stopped her in her tracks. She was so used to seeing angels covered in dust and dirt and blood, had grown so used to them always being in motion and in darkness, that it almost never occurred to her how beautiful they would look to someone else. Someone seeing them for the first time.
Someone who didn’t know what they really were; what they really meant.
Someone who would see the man with his wings shining in the sun and not see a soldier, tired and scarred and half-dead on his feet and staring down the barrel of complete and total defeat, and carrying on regardless.
Alice watched him as he folded his wings away and crouched down, pulled both Colts from the back of his belt and ejected the magazines, checking them over. He patted his pockets, checking for more ammunition.
“Mallory?”
“Yup.”
“Something’s been bothering me. About yesterday.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Apart from the obvious.”
“Right...”
“The woman. The woman on the beach.”
“Taken as read, yes.” He didn’t look up from his guns.
“How did she know I spoke English?”
“She didn’t.”
“But she’s... she was... French, right?”
“Is there a point to this, Alice?”
“She spoke to me in English. How...”
“She didn’t. She was speaking in French. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”
“She wasn’t.”
“She was. Believe me.” He stood up again, tucking one gun into his belt. The other disappeared into the pocket of his hoodie, which despite the scorch marks had still fared better than his jacket. “Do you think all angels only speak English? Really?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“That’s a little narrow-minded of you, isn’t it?”
“No. Yes. Pass.”
“The sign. The Angel and Pistol. You commented on it. You didn’t think it was odd that it was in English?”
“I kind of assumed... tourist pub, you know?”
“You should know better than to assume, Alice.” He shook his head, but he was smiling nonetheless.
“Oh, god. This is another one of those...” She flapped her hands, looking for the right word. She gave up. “Angel things, isn’t it?”
“You’re the only person I know who can make the word ‘angel’ sound like an insult. And I’ve met a lot of people. Some of them would be happy about being able to understand other languages.”
“And I might be, if I’d been warned about it.”
“Oh, stop whining.”
“Shan’t.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Besides, if I’m magically able to understand all these languages, how come I was always so rubbish at Spanish in school?” Another thought occurred to her. “And, how come I couldn’t understand Vin when he was speaking Cantonese when I met him?”
“Well, in both those cases, your gift hadn’t manifested, had it? Unless you’re going to tell me you used to regularly set fire to your school books?” He shrugged and turned away from her, sauntering towards the path back to the town and the sea, and the island. His voice drifted back over his shoulder. “Besides, how d’you know Vin isn’t still speaking in Cantonese?”
Alice’s mouth dropped open.
“SERIOUSLY. WHAT LANGUAGE?”
“Alice, give it a rest, yeah?” Vin rolled his eyes at her, but it was obvious that he was enjoying her frustration more than he should. “Have you been sniffing old incense or something?”
“No! I just... it’s...”
“It’s driving you nuts? I can tell.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “But here’s the thing: does it actually matter?”
“I...”
“Does it?”
“No, but...”
“There you go. Besides,” he said, “doesn’t matter what language I say it in, you still don’t listen to a bloody word, do you?” He ducked, laughing, as she took a half-hearted swing at him.
“Alright, children. Am I going to have to separate you again?” said Mallory, stopping to wait for them. They had almost reached the edge of the town everyone was referring to as Medea – although that was certainly not the name on the signposts – and ahead of them the sea gleamed blue and silver at the foot of Mont Saint-Michel, and the statue of Michael was already catching the sun. The causeway was deserted: too early in the day for tour buses or cars full of holidaymakers, it stood empty, stretching ahead of them through the boggy marshland and the water.
Or almost empty, at least. At the near end, a man was leaning against the low wall that ran along its edge. He could have been anyone, his hooded jacket unzipped over a red t-shirt, basking in the warmth. As they drew nearer, Alice could make out large splatters of what looked like cement on his boots and on his jeans. If she hadn’t known better, she might have said he was a builder waiting for a lift. But she did know better, and she knew perfectly well that the man waiting for them was the Archangel Zadkiel.
He didn’t move as they came closer. He just watched them. His eyes skated over Mallory and Alice and Vin, and even past the Fallen and Florence. His gaze passed over them all, eventually fixing on Pollux, and finally on Castor. It was Castor he watched as they reached the edge of the causeway. And it was Castor’s pain that Alice felt surge beneath her ribs. Surprised, she turned to look at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eye. He looked straight at Zadkiel. And Pollux, bringing up the rear of their odd little troupe, was looking at him.
“D’you maybe want to fill me in on this?” she whispered to Mallory, jerking her head back towards the others. He glanced over his shoulder then shook his head.
“Right now, it’s probably better you don’t know. Later.”
“Later. Like you were going to explain the hair thing, right?”
“Exactly. And I did. So later.”
He snapped his attention away from Alice and back to Zadkiel. They had stopped at the edge of the causeway, where the clear tarmac of the road gave way to dusty-looking concrete scattered with pockets of sand left by the high tides. Zadkiel’s face was stern and unmoving.
“If I’d known, I would have got you something, too.” He gestured to Xaphan.
“He’s for Michael,” said Mallory, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Of course he is,” Zadkiel said, and snapped his fingers.
They were suddenly surrounded by angels. Angels in full armour, their breastplates shining so brightly that Alice screwed up her eyes against the light, peering at them as they formed a loose guard around the four at the back, leaving only Alice, Vin and Mallory outside. They didn’t look especially friendly: the one nearest to Alice scowled at her as she peered at his arm, looking for a sigil. She just caught sight of the angular lines of Michael’s sigil when Zadkiel barked an order and, as one, the angels stood to attention.
And then, with a ‘whoomp,’ they burst into flames.
The heat that suddenly rolled off them forced both Mallory and Vin back. Even Zadkiel took a step away, but not Alice. Only Alice stood her ground and stared at the angels; stared at the flames boiling across their armour, at the tiny pockets of sand on the causeway which began to bubble and melt. She couldn’t imagine quite how hot it must be in the middle of it all, and for a moment she worried about Castor and Pollux; at least, she did until she heard a whistle somewhere above her head and looked up. There they were, Pollux wheeling overhead and Castor beating his wings lazily, keeping a close eye on everything below. So it was just Xaphan and Florence in there, was it? Alice sniffed. She didn’t feel an overabundance of sympathy for them. After all, she’d made it through hell, and she wasn’t likely to forget the cold there in a hurry. It might do them good to feel a little heat.