Page 148 of Stealing Embers
I shake my head slowly. “No. So not okay right now.”
Pressing her lips together, she nods. She gives my shoulder one last squeeze before pulling her hand back.
“Understandable.” Her gaze travels to an oblivious Tinkle before landing on Deacon. “We have some digging to do.”
“How much are you going to tell the Council?”
“I don’t know.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I suppose the right thing would be to just download all the information we know, but . . .” Thatbuthangs in the air for several bloated seconds. “Maybe we should wait until we’re able to verify some of the information we learned here tonight.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Deacon’s gaze shifts to Tinkle. “If the rodent is correct, Emberly is one-of-a-kind, at least as far as our knowledge of the world extends. Short of putting in a call to Camiel and asking him to do a paternity test, I’m not sure how we’re supposed to authenticate her parentage.”
“Is it possible to reach out to the angels?” I’m suddenly very interested in knowing how such a thing might be done.
I’ve learned some things about angels in my Nephilim history class, but in general I know very little about the otherworldly beings. From what I’ve gleaned, angels spent their time in the spectrum world fighting Fallen and defending territories. Like a human military, they cluster in hot spots. And if angels are the military, Nephilim are the supernatural police working in smaller groups spread out over a larger geographic area. We each have our parts to play, but rarely overlap with each other.
Angels have partnered with Nephilim against the Fallen and Forsaken at various times through history, but the accounts of those times are rare and littered with holes in the Book of Seraph. The same goes for stories of angels crossing into the mortal realm. It’s believed—but never verified—that angels can only pass into our world with the permission of their Creator.
“I’m sorry to say angels don’t carry cell phones.” Sable’s words are heavy with regret.
The chair beneath Deacon groans as he leans back. A stern look creases his brow. “And even if they did, I doubt they’d give us their numbers.”
“They aren’t our biggest fans,” Sable says. “The general consensus is that they tolerate us.”
Deacon snorts. “And by ‘tolerate,’ Sable means plenty of them wouldn’t shed a tear over the demise of our entire race.”
“We’re on the same side. Yet they . . . resent us?”
“We’re the offspring of their fallen brethren,” Sable explains. “In their eyes we never should have existed. We were created as vessels to allow evil into the mortal realm. Some angels even hunted us until the uprising.”
“But angels are tasked with safeguarding humanity.”
“Since the first of our kind was born, our inclusion in ‘humanity’ has always been subjective.”
My view of our angelic ancestors is tipped on its side once again. I used to think they were lyre-playing, downy-winged messengers of God, caretakers of humankind. My perception shifted after coming to Seraph Academy. I now picture them as strong and benevolent—if emotionally and physically distant—protectors with an impeccable moral code. Proud warriors who fight for truth, justice, and all that jazz. But a darker image begins to take shape. Their characters are splattered with malignant influences and prejudices. Thirsty for the blood of not only their enemies, but their innocent offspring as well.
Is there nothing pure in this world? If the almighty angels could be tainted by hatred, what hope is there for the rest of us?
“Tinkle, what else do you know about Emberly’s mother?”
The little creature is plopped in the middle of the cookie plate, licking its surface. He releases a happy squeak every time he manages to slurp up a crumb.
“What of her?” he asks. “She’s no longer in this realm or the next.”
Something tightens in my chest at the reminder.
“Yes, but what did you know about her when she was alive? Did you ever meet her? Do you know what angel line she’s descended from?”
“Does it matter?”
I’m unable to hold my tongue. “Yes! It matters a great deal.”
“No need to get feisty. Do you know I had to watch over you when you were getting your butt cleaned as a babe? That was frightful work. And the smell!”
“Tinkle,” I warn.
“Fine. Let’s see if you can figure it out. What line do you think the Angel of War would take as a bride?”
“Is this supposed to be a trick question?”