The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(2)

Raphael regarded him with undisguised horror. “What did you say?”

“Want me to say it again?”

“In the name of all that’s holy, no!”

Gabriel, who was inspecting his fingernails while seated atop a nearby puff of mist, fluttered his silver wings and snorted.

Raphael cast a baleful eye upon him. “Don’t you start, too.”

“Who, moi?” Gabe looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Why, I wouldn’t dream of it. There’s certainly no reason for me to get involved just because you can’t control Michael.”

“It’s got nothing to do with control,” Raphael said.

Gabriel stood. “Come now, brother.” Grasping his walking stick in his left hand, he smoothed the lapel of his linen suit with his right. “Angels aren’t supposed to lie. Archangels, least of all.”

The darkest thundercloud could not have rivaled Raphael’s expression for pure fury. His robes whipped around his legs as if buffeted by gale-force winds. His hand landed on the hilt of his sword. “Are you accusing me of falsehood?”

“If the sandal fits,” Gabe said, cheekily ignoring the oncoming storm. Fingers spread, he frowned down at his left hand. Sighing, he propped his walking stick up against a tuft of cloud and snapped his fingers. An emery board appeared. With the virtuosity of an artist, he applied it to the offending fingernail.

Raphael glowered. “Insolent brat.”

“Insufferable bore,” Gabe replied.

Michael sat back on his cloud, content to watch his siblings quarrel. Raphael would win, of course. Eventually. Until then, Gabriel could drag out a squabble from here to eternity.

His brothers could not be more different. Raphael, eldest, was the golden boy, with shoulder-length blond hair and a blindingly handsome face. He was, in Michael’s private opinion, the pompous back end of a donkey. If he’d ever seen Raphael wearing anything but sun-bright robes, gold-wrought sandals, and a gilded, belted scabbard—Sword of Righteous Vengeance sheathed threateningly inside—Michael could not remember it.

Gabriel, the middle brother, was pale. Skin white as parchment, eyes silver-grey. He invariably dressed in a white linen suit, white-on-white striped shirt, skinny silver tie, and white shoes and socks. His hair was clipped short and was—surprise!—pure as driven snow. He carried a white, silver-handled walking stick. A pair of diamond stud earrings, set in platinum, gleamed in his lobes.

The argument went on. And on. And on. Bored, Michael snapped his fingers. A new smart phone appeared in his hand. He bent his head over the screen and occupied himself scrolling through website after website. He just couldn’t get enough of this human porn thing. The Earth’s Internet was full of it. And cats. For some reason, always cats.

He was so absorbed in his...erm...research of the human realm that he didn’t notice the altercation had ended until a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Raphael staring him down.

“May I help you?” Michael inquired.

“What,” his brother intoned, “is that infernal human device?”

Michael quickly shoved the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s called a smart phone. Almost all humans have one. They carry them everywhere.”

“Whatever for?”

“To connect with each other. Send messages and trade pictures and videos and...shit.”

Raphael did his baleful eye thing again.

Michael shrugged.

“Hmph.” Raphael waved a hand. “Humans would be far better served by casting off their...what did you call them?”

“Smart phones.”

“Humans would be far better served casting off their smart phones and speaking directly to Heaven.”

“I’m sure that would be ideal,” Michael hedged, “but I can tell you it’s not likely to happen this millennium. The next millennium looks doubtful, too. From what I’ve seen, humans aren’t all that interested in celestial matters. Sin consumes them. It’s really very interesting—”

“I sent you to Earth to fight sin,” Raphael said tightly. “Not to wallow in it.”

“I have to know my audience,” Michael protested. “Humans are very emotional. They’ll fight about anything. Power, money, parking spaces—you name it. And if they’re not fighting, they’re fu—”

“Cease! I’m thinking you’ve come to know your audience far too well.” Raphael looked Michael up and down. “And what in Heaven’s name are you wearing? Where are your celestial robes?”

Gone. Michael found denim pants to be surprisingly comfortable. He’d shrunk his righteous sword down to a deadly six-inch switchblade, now hidden in his sleeve. He was equally pleased with his Doc Martens and the frogged military jacket he’d picked up in a vintage shop in SoHo.

“You don’t have a problem with Gabe’s Earth garb,” he said. “What’s wrong with mine?”

“You’re wearing black, for Heaven’s sake. What kind of self-respecting angel wears black? And hides his wings?”

“One that’s undercover,” Michael said testily.

Gabriel tittered behind his hand. Raphael shot him a glare. Gabe sniffed and turned his head.

“Undercover is one thing,” Raphael said, “but dignity must be preserved.”