Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days #1)(60)

“You don’t think he’s involved?”

“In kidnapping children? Not his style. Don’t worry. It’s damned near impossible to keep a secret among angels. We’ll find someone who’s willing to tell.”

He heads for the door.

“Are you really an archangel?” I whisper.

He gives me a cocky grin. “Impressed?”

“No,” I lie. “But I have some complaints I’d like to file about your personnel.”

“Talk to middle management.”

I follow him out the door, giving him my death-by-glare expression.

~

As soon as we push out of the double doors from the club, we’re out of the stifling heat and noise. We head into the cool marble foyer toward a row of elevators. We take the long way through the room, staying near the walls where the shadows are thickest.

Raffe makes a quick stop at the check-in counter where a blond servant stands behind the counter in a suit. He stands like a robot as though his mind is elsewhere until we come near him. As soon as we’re in smiling range, his face animates into a courteous and professional mask.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Up close, his smile looks a little stiff. His eyes, although deferential when looking at Raffe, turn cold when he looks at me. Good for him. He doesn’t like working for the angels, and he likes humans cozying up to them even less.

“Give me a room.” Raffe’s arrogance dial is cranked all the way up. He stands at his full height and doesn’t bother to do more than glance at the man as he talks. Either he wants the clerk intimidated enough to not ask any questions, or all the angels behave like that toward humans and he doesn’t want to be remembered as being different. I’m guessing both.

“The top floors are already all taken, sir. Will something a little lower be all right?”

Raffe sighs as though that’s an imposition. “Fine.”

The clerk glances my way, then scribbles something in his old-fashioned ledger. The clerk hands Raffe a key and says we’re in room 1712. I want to ask for an extra one for me, but think better of opening my mouth. Based on the women trying to find escorts into the building, I have a suspicion that the only humans allowed to move around on their own are the servants. So much for asking for my own room.

The clerk turns to me and says, “Feel free to take the elevator, Miss. The power is reliable here. The only reason we use keys instead of electronic cards is because the masters prefer it.”

Did he actually call the angels the masters? My fingers turn cold at the thought. Despite my determination to grab Paige and get the hell out of here, I can’t help but wonder if there’s anything I can do to help bring down these bastards.

It’s true that their control of what was once our world boggles my mind. They can power lights and elevators and ensure a steady supply of gourmet food. I suppose it could be magic. That seems to be as good an explanation as any these days. But I’m not quite ready to throw away centuries of scientific progress to start thinking like a medieval peasant.

I wonder if, a generation from now, people will assume everything in this building is run by magic. I clench my teeth at the thought. This is what the angels have reduced us to.

I take a good look at Raffe’s perfectly formed profile. No human could look that good. Just one more reminder that he’s not one of us.

I catch a glimpse of the clerk’s face as I look away. His eyes warm just enough to let me know that he approves of the grim look on my face when I look at Raffe. Smoothing his face back to polite professionalism, he tells Raffe to call on him should he need anything.

The short elevator hall leads to a vast open area. I take a quick peek after pushing the button for the elevator. Above me are rows and rows of balconies that go all the way up to the glass domed ceiling.

Angels circle above, flying in short hops from floor to floor. An outer ring of angels spiral up, while an inner ring of angels spiral down.

I suppose they do this in order to avoid collisions, just the way our traffic patterns look organized from above. But despite its practical origins, the total effect is a stunning array of celestial bodies in a seemingly choreographed air ballet. If Michelangelo had seen this in daylight with the sun streaming down from the glass dome, he’d have fallen to his knees and painted ’til he was blind.

The elevator doors slide open with a ding, and I tear my eyes away from the magnificence above me.

Raffe stands beside me watching his peers flying. Before he shutters his eyes, I catch something that might have been despair.

Or longing.

I refuse to feel bad for him. Refuse to feel anything for him other than anger and hatred for the things his people have done to mine.

But the hatred doesn’t come.

Instead, sympathy trickles into me. As different as we are, we are in many ways kindred spirits. We’re just two people striving to get our lives back together again.

But then, I remember that he is, in fact, not a person at all.

I step into the elevator. It has the mirror, wood paneling, and red carpet you’d expect from an elevator in an expensive hotel. The doors start to slide shut with Raffe still standing outside. I put my hand out to keep the doors open.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances around self-consciously. “Angels don’t go into elevators.”

Of course, they fly to their floors. I playfully grab his wrists and spin him in a drunken circle, giggling for the benefit of any who might be watching. Then, I waltz us both into the elevator.