No Shadows Fall (8 page)

Penemuel nodded slowly, beginning to pet his cat. He felt a little more at ease now; Raziel could see the infinitesimal relaxing of muscles beneath the tweed coat that Penemuel wore.

“I will do whatever I can to get that information for you, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Raziel stood. “Chloe, Chloe’s mum, it was lovely to meet you both. I only wish it were under less dire circumstances. Penemuel, I will see you tomorrow night.” He inclined his head to them and vanished.

“W
ELL
?” T
ZADKIEL
demanded when Raziel returned to him, Brieus, and Sophiel.

“You are
not
going to believe this,” Raziel said. “As a matter of fact, I’m still processing it.”

“What happened?” Sophiel asked.

“I was summoned to London,” Raziel said. “By a human girl named Chloe. She and her mother were in an apartment there. With Penemuel.” He grinned at the stunned expressions on the faces of the three angels.

“Penemuel? Seriously?” Tzadkiel was stunned.

“The Grigori?” Brieus asked.

“One and the same, yes,” Raziel said. “I tell you, I was so surprised, you could have knocked me over with one of my own feathers. Anyway, he asked me for help, for protection from Semjaza.”

“What did you tell him?” Tzadkiel asked.

Raziel shrugged. “I had to go upstairs and talk to God. It’s way out of my department. I mean, it’s Holy Writ that the Grigori be punished for eternity, and your judgment back in the day didn’t make it any less so, Tzad.”

Tzadkiel shook his head. “Whatever. That was then, this is now. What did God say?”

“He said that I should give Penemuel what he wanted, but not without him earning it. That parable about appreciating something more when it’s earned rather than just given.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Tzadkiel nodded.

“So, I went back and told Penemuel that what I wanted in exchange for protection was information. He wibbled a bit but finally agreed.”

“Wibbled?” Sophiel arched an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“He’s a coward,” Raziel said and rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t turn himself into a mouse. Actually, now I think about that, he probably didn’t because his cat would have eaten him. But he realized that he did have to earn the protection and God’s forgiveness, so he put on his big boy pants and agreed.”

“You have
got
to stop spending so much time with Uriel,” Tzadkiel said. “Big boy pants? Really?”

“Hey, if the description fits.” Raziel shook his head in disgust. “He’s not what he was, Tzad. He’s literally a yellow-belly coward. I don’t know how he managed to survive as long as he has.”

“Unbelievable,” Tzadkiel said, running a hand over his short cropped hair. “The others are going to freak out, you know.”

“I’ll deal with Uriel.” Raziel smirked. “As for Michael and Gabriel, well, they can deal with each other.”

“And on that note,” Sophiel said, wrinkling her nose, “we should get to work and find Ahijah.”

“You are quite right, Sophiel,” Raziel said, giving her a florid bow.

She laughed. “You’re incorrigible, Raziel.”

Raziel winked at her. “It keeps me young. Come on, then, let’s find Ish’s son.”

A
GRAT
WAS
charming a Russian official, and Uriel was bored.

He had no time for bureaucracy of any sort, but Samael’s suggestion that they try getting their information by stealth first rather than violence had been accepted as a better option by Shateiel and Agrat. Uriel wasn’t happy at being outvoted. He had wanted to set fire to things, beat a few people up, and blow something to pieces, but now here he was, standing just out of sight of the official with Shateiel and Samael, watching as Agrat worked her magic.

Agrat had adopted a glamour that made her look like a blonde Russian pinup girl. She was sitting on the edge of the official’s desk, giving him a close-up view of her cleavage and twirling a strand of blonde hair around a finger as she asked him questions. Every so often, her free hand would brush against the official’s, and there would be a tingle of power in the wake of her touch. Each touch made the man more and more eager to talk to her, to tell her what she wanted to know. He spoke quickly, excitedly, his gaze darting between her chest and her face, and he licked his lips frequently. Uriel was privately astonished that Shateiel had not marched around the corner and buried his sword in the official’s stomach.

With a soft, frustrated sigh, Uriel turned away from the display that Agrat was putting on and looked up at the ceiling. The offices were in a rundown building in the middle of Moscow and, like all Soviet-era architecture, seemed to be standing purely out of stubbornness rather than structural integrity. The plaster on the walls was peeling, revealing brick and wood, and the rosette in the middle of the ceiling where a light bulb hung from a moldy cord was cracked and chipped and painted an ugly shade of bright, baby blue. The light bulb flickered every so often, and Uriel wondered about the safety of the wiring. The whole building was rickety and should be condemned, he thought. He was certain that there were rats in the walls, too, as his sharp Archangel hearing could pick up the pitter patter of tiny, scampering feet with claws.

Uriel was uncomfortable in Russia. It was too cold, too big, and the cities too cramped. He always felt a strange sort of shrinkage whenever he had to come to Russia; the vastness of the country, the seemingly endless stretch of tundra in spring and snow in winter that stretched over half the world made him feel small and insignificant. He knew that Gabriel and Raziel were very fond of the country and its people, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

“It is not that bad,” Samael murmured.

Uriel quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you reading my mind?”

“No, your face. You seem ill at ease and displeased.”

Uriel grunted and said nothing.

“Have you been here during the spring or the summer, Uriel?” Samael asked. “Russia is beautiful and diverse, and her people are strong-willed and refuse to be downtrodden. Is that not admirable?”

Uriel grunted once again.

“I like Russia.”
Shateiel shrugged as the two Archangels looked at him.
“I spent many years here in the twentieth century on Lord Gabriel’s orders. The people are truly remarkable. And their food is delicious. Pelmeni is, I am sure, a dish divined from Heaven.”

“Pel-whatti?” Uriel wrinkled his nose. “No, never mind, I don’t
care.”

“So where is your preferred land, then?” Samael asked.

Uriel had to think about that. “I like the Americas. All of them, not just the USA. They’re pretty countries. Canada, the US, Cuba, Argentina, South America—all of the Americas. Cuban cigars are the best damn cigars in the world. Also fajitas don’t offend me.”

“You prefer the warm to the cold.” Samael nodded.

“And tequila to vodka. Tequila’s a fine brew.”

Agrat had finished her discussion now. She slid off the table and walked away from the official with a swing in her step that kept the man’s attention firmly fixed on her posterior. She did not look back at him, and she rounded the corner to join the angels, running her hands down her sides. “What are we discussing?”

“Uriel does not find Russia to his taste,” Samael said.

Agrat looked up at Uriel with some surprise. “Really? I would have thought you would feel right at home in Russia.” She ran her hands through her hair, and the glamour disappeared, returning her to her usual form of a Korean woman dressed in jeans and a blue long-sleeved T-shirt.

“What makes you say that?” Uriel demanded.

“They are a no-nonsense, tenacious people.” Agrat pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail. “And you’re a no-nonsense, tenacious Archangel. I’m really amazed you don’t like it here.”

Uriel blinked. “Maybe I should spend more time here,” he mused. “Though it’ll be a damn miracle for a carbon ape to impress me.”

“Do.” Agrat patted his arm. “I think you’ll be impressed with them. I mean, considering how cold it gets in winter, their refusal to give up to it and to fight it and stay warm and alive—that’s the sort of thing you’d do. You’d draw your sword and battle the weather if you felt there was a reason to.”

Shateiel and Samael turned away to hide their identical grins as Uriel stared at Agrat in surprise.

“I would not,” he spluttered after a moment.

“Yes, you would.” Agrat grinned. “So, I found out where Hiwa is.” She changed the subject before Uriel could launch into a rant about how wrong she was and why.

“Good. I hoped your ruse was not for nothing.”
Shateiel’s smile turned into a frown, a foreboding expression that spoke volumes about how much he disliked Agrat’s performance for the benefit of a horny official.

“Beloved, it was all to the good.” Agrat looped her arm through
his.

“Where is he, then?” Samael asked, eyes intent.

Agrat sighed. “He’s in prison.”

Uriel gaped at her, aware that Samael and Shateiel were staring at her in stunned amazement. “Why? I mean, what did he do?”

“It seems that Ish’s eldest son is something of a hired mercenary.” Agrat shook her head. “What are we going to tell her? We can’t tell her Hiwa is a Russian gangster, can we?”

“No.” Samael shook his head. “No indeed. If Hiwa wishes to tell her, then he should, but it is not for us to do so.”

Uriel bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Sammy. I mean, she has a right to know.”

“Let us tell Remiel, then. He can decide.”

Uriel nodded. “Passing the buck. I’m all for that.”

“Men!” Agrat rolled her eyes.

“Which prison is Hiwa incarcerated in?”
Shateiel asked.

“Butyrka. Maximum security, of course.” Agrat sighed. “Apparently, he was caught leaving the scene of the murder of a very wealthy family related to one of the high-ranking members of the FSB—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.”

“Fabulous,” Uriel drawled, shaking his head. “Well, let’s get our game faces on and go pay him a visit.”

“We will have to wipe the memories of a lot of people,” Samael said. “If we go in as we are, as Archangels and angels, everyone will know. Everyone will talk. That could spread to the ears of Semjaza. We cannot allow that to happen.”

“Excuse me,”
Shateiel began respectfully,
“but could we not instead create papers to say that we are taking him to trial or something? Something that would be less potentially harmful to the humans? As you say, Samael, sir, that would be a lot of memories to wipe. Would not guile serve us better?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Samael approved. “What do you think, Uriel?”

Uriel scowled as he considered it. “It’s better than anything else I can come up with. We’ll try it that way. So, what, we pretend we’re part of Russia’s prison service? What are they called, anyway?”

Samael nodded. “Why not? And they are called the FSIN.”

“Let’s just not cause an international incident.” Uriel grinned. “Raz would be really put out if he had to clean up after us.”

“
I’d
be really put out that we botched so simple a mission,” Agrat retorted. “After all, we’re ancient. We’re not wet-behind-the-ears baby angels, are we? We can do this easily. It’s not outside of our abilities or experience.”

“As you say, lovely lady,” Samael said with a shallow bow.

She laughed fondly and squeezed his hand. “So, shall we go to Butyrka?”

“Let’s do that.” Uriel nodded, concentrating and blurring into the uniform of a high-ranking member of the Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia. The others followed suit, and Uriel straightened his official cap, squared his shoulders, and ’ported the four of them to Butyrka Prison.

T
HE
FOUR
angels walked down the corridor between the cells, their heads held high and their shoulders back. The uniforms they wore were those of the FSIN, Russia’s prison bureau, and they were starched, pressed, and immaculate. Agrat walked between her husband and Samael, dwarfed by their muscled bulks. She was glad of it, for the lewd catcalls and insults coming from the overcrowded cells in a variety of Cyrillic dialects and Chinese, Mongolian, and Vietnamese were loud and not a little crude.

“My Archangel senses are tingling,” Uriel muttered as they walked.

“Fee, fie, foe, fum, you smell the blood of a Nephilim man?” Agrat asked.

“Yes. But without the rhyming.” Uriel shot her a tight grin, and she grinned back.

The cells were full, cramped with sweaty, half-naked male bodies, most of them covered in the elaborate tattoos that were the badges of honor and rank in the Russian prison system. Many of the men had shaved heads, and not a few of them had scars and missing teeth. Quite a few of them were undernourished, the bones of their ribcages visible through their sallow skin.

Agrat ignored the shouts and abuse as best as she was able as they followed the prison guard toward the cell that contained Hiwa. The guard was bored, overweight, and clearly not pleased to be dealing with four superior officers who had arrived in his prison wing unannounced. His walk could best be described as a languid stroll; it was obvious from the smirk on his face that he was enjoying the abuse being hurled at the four angels.