《Moonrise Blue》 Prologue, or Fives Letter I miss you. I love you. I wish I could stop what¡¯s going to happen to you. It¡¯s my fault, really. You could say it¡¯s actually God¡¯s fault, that She orchestrated the perfect drama, with our universe as the backdrop and her angels the characters. You¡¯d be absolutely right, it is her fault in that way. The same way it¡¯s the author¡¯s fault when the tragic hero dies. But arguing with your own author does nothing. Arguing with God gets you nowhere. Believe me, I¡¯ve tried. Blaming the author is as useful as blaming the audience. Anyway, I¡¯m the character who actually did it. Sure, I had my reasons. Not even all of them were bad. And I can¡¯t pretend I¡¯m the only one to blame here. But still, I said those three words all those years ago, I did what I did, and now we¡¯re all paying for it. I know what¡¯s going to happen to you. The funny thing is, I know this warning won¡¯t reach you. I know there¡¯s nothing I can do to save her, or any of them. Everyone who you¡¯ll see die in this book has been dead since the beginning. Will die, is dying, is dead. The story was written long before any of us existed to play it out, and the story will be told long after we¡¯re all gone. That¡¯s how it was meant to be. That¡¯s how our Parents planned it. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Because of this, I know the words I¡¯m typing will sit here, read by all the wrong people until the fires have been lit and snuffed out, the wars have been waged and abandoned, and everyone has already gone to bed. But I have to warn you anyway. I¡¯ve suffered through enough to have special knowledge of how the story is intended to play out. I did things I can never truly come back from, and so now I am the omniscient narrator. The role is my reward, and my punishment. For instance, I know what you look like down to the smallest details: the faintest hint of pink on your fingertips and knees, the silver buttons of your favorite coat engraved with tiny lions, the single blue feather hidden on your left wing. And yet I can¡¯t conjure up an image of your face because I don¡¯t remember the times I saw you. I know we grew up together, but I can¡¯t remember any of it. And I¡¯m powerless. And alone. So I have no choice, do I? No choice but to sit down in the dark and pour my heart out to this incomplete image of you in my head and do my best to tell you that I¡¯m sorry, and I know I missed you as much as you missed me even if it seems like I was having the time of my life away from you. Every word I type, the closer I feel to you. Every secret I divulge feels like another brick in the path that¡¯ll lead me back home. So I¡¯ll tell you what¡¯s going to happen to you. To us. And in the way as is customary of our Family, I¡¯ll make it a story. In the Forests of Mount Vexation TIMESTAMP: November 3, 7999. 4:27 p.m. September Morningstar did not make sense. Imogen watched curiously as September scanned the woods around them. They were supposed to be looking for sixteen-year-old Marya Kuzmitch, who was last seen three days ago hiking along this rural trail at the base of Mount Vexation, but Imogen allowed herself to get distracted by the simple fact that the girl she always seemed to get paired up with on searches was, quite frankly, odd. First, there was her general appearance. September had pearly white skin and tiny hands. She had silvery-white hair that fell in a sleek, straight curtain that in the right light appeared to glow. She barely cleared five feet standing on her toes, and big doe eyes in a teal jewel tone that Imogen had to admit were positively gorgeous. Looking at her from a distance, you¡¯d think she looked like a princess in a fairy tale with simple lace dresses and stockinged feet, until you got closer and realized this princess is anything but pure of heart. Imogen remembered vividly the one time anyone had dared try to pick her up: Jeptha Jenkins held her upside-down, and she¡¯d bit his leg so hard he had to go to the hospital, thus earning herself the nickname Anklebiter. Then there was the dog. It was a shepherdy looking thing with fur the same color as September¡¯s hair, and she refused to go anywhere without it. ¡°If Hester likes you, I like you,¡± she¡¯d once said, as if that was all the explanation she needed. ¡°And her judgment has never once been wrong.¡± Hester didn¡¯t like Imogen all too much. Actually, the dog didn¡¯t like just about anyone. Sure, she never growled, but she also never wagged her tail or barked in the way happy dogs do. Even now, Hester simply stuck her nose to the ground, keeping close to September. Come to think of it, Imogen couldn¡¯t remember a time when September or the dog ever appeared to run out of breath. Or eat. Or blink. As she called out Marya¡¯s name, she followed September and had a sudden ridiculous thought: was September¡­? No. She shook her head. Ridiculous. Laughable. Absurd. She couldn¡¯t be an angel. Angels probably weren¡¯t real, instead simply products of the overactive imaginations of the novelists and playwrights of her mother¡¯s home country, Svetolina. Angels existed in the same fairy tale forests that pond mermaids and vampires and the Eternal Princess of Jazira Mukha liked to hang out. Besides, if the girl next to her were an angel, Imogen, Hester, and any human within a ten- mile radius would already be dead. ¡°I have a theory Marya wasn¡¯t taken,¡± September said suddenly. Every time she spoke, the trees and clouds seemed to slow in their movements as if to hear her better. She talked with the prim and proper accent of the highest classes, though Imogen had heard that she¡¯d worked as a cashier in a thrift store before joining the Rose. She wondered if she ever missed life before Celestial¡¯s unofficial search and rescue organization had offered her a position. Imogen certainly didn¡¯t. ¡°Oh yeah? Why would a girl who could get any material possession she could ever want with the snap of her fingers run off to live ¡­here?¡± The two were just one pair of about ten; several other people had gone missing on Mount Vexation besides Marya. ¡°Call it a hunch.¡± Imogen raised her eyebrows, but September wasn¡¯t looking, instead peering into the trees to their right. ¡°Uh huh.¡± But she humored September anyway, because odd though she was, September almost always found who they were looking for. Sure, the target might be dead, or two thousand miles away in southern Alhaaya. But nine times out of ten, she found them. Hester tilted her head to the right. September beckoned Imogen closer, pointing to the grass. ¡°See that? Marya went that way. There¡¯s footprints, but they show no signs of a struggle.¡± Sure enough, there was a faint trail of trampled grass and bent tree branches that Imogen never would have seen otherwise. Call September weird or unfriendly or vaguely creepy all you want, she got the job done. Imogen started forward, but September put a hand up. ¡°Hold on. There¡¯s not one set of footprints, but two. She left the trail to meet someone, then followed them.¡± ¡°Somebody else who¡¯s missing?¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± September led the way cautiously, checking the ground for prints every few feet. The woods darkened, the sun blocked by broad-leafed branches of mossy trees each more twisted and gnarled than the last. Imogen loved the woods in general as much as anyone else, but Celestial¡¯s rural mountain range was surrounded in the south by a swath of forest sixty miles across, lovingly referred to by the locals as simply The Wood. And these same locals, as well as anyone who visited, knew without a doubt that The Wood was alive. And it sure as hell didn¡¯t care if you were, too. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Imogen Campione did not make sense. As they followed the footprints Marya Kuzmitch had made, September watched her assigned partner out of the corner of her eye. Long black hair, warm brown skin, heart-shaped face. Twenty-four, five foot seven, one hundred fifty-eight pounds, mostly muscle that she kept hidden under a navy blue Crown-issued coat that somebody had taken the logos off. It was this very coat that made September wary of Imogen, despite the average Score on her badge. Every citizen of Celestial was required a Score. To get one, you had to go to the local government facility and perform hours-long, exhaustive tests on your individual beauty, intellect, and physical health. Days later, you¡¯d be given a badge in the color of your choosing engraved with three numbers, zero through nine. Add up those numbers and there¡¯s your Score. 24 to 27, and congratulations. You are placed in A Tier, and your assigned color is blue, the rarest of pigments. Blue Tier gets almost everything you could ask for. Best jobs, best houses, best hospitals, schools, doctors¡­ of course, you¡¯d be required to get married to another A Tier and have at least one biological child under threat of jail time, but other than that everything¡¯s blue skies and sunshine. The Glorious President thanks you! 23-20, B Tier. Not bad. Your color is purple, and you still get the best picks of everything, unless somebody in A Tier wants it first. You¡¯re pressured but not required to have a child. Considered by many the true best place to be. 19-16, C Tier. This is where most (white) people end up. The color is green, and you¡¯re mostly left alone by the government, unless you¡¯re poor. Life for you will probably be modest, but comfortable. 15-12, D Tier. There is a significant drop in privileges here. You are most likely hovering right above the poverty line. The color is red, and if you live in the capital city, there are many neighborhoods you aren¡¯t even allowed to walk past. The test is required at age 12. Middle schoolers in D, E, and F are required to learn modern makeup techniques to cover themselves up. You are not allowed more than three children. Under punishment of death. 11-8, E Tier. Orange. You are not allowed into the capital city. If you¡¯re arrested, you won¡¯t be given a lawyer. You¡¯ll be lucky to get a managerial position; you¡¯ll never be allowed to own a business. You are not allowed more than one biological child, and that child may be taken from you at any moment by the government if they feel you won¡¯t raise them to be proper little pawns for the Glorious President to control. 7-0. F Tier. Yellow. You have barely any rights as a Celestial citizen. The Glorious President does not care whether you live or die. You¡¯d better live within crawling distance of an apothecary or a very kind medical professional working out of his own pocket, because you won¡¯t be allowed in any hospital or doctor¡¯s office. Basically, if you don¡¯t have a loving family in a higher Tier, you¡¯re fucked. You will be forcibly sterilized. For you, the concept of following your dreams does not exist. A few streets down from the store September used to work, a mural of a rainbow over a map of the country was painted on a brick wall. The yellow of the rainbow had been switched out for white. Those were the general castes of this country, but there existed two other categories. Financial class was often considered the secret Score, with the richest often bribing the authorities into getting the highest Scores. The Glorious President took the system very seriously and cheating it was, on paper, punishable by death, but bribery never seemed to get reported. You could see it happening, though. The CEO with a perfectly shiny head and bulbous nose. The cotton baroness with cataracts sporting a shiny blue badge. And the final way Celestial had of pitting its citizens against each other: X Tier. This isn¡¯t a state secret, in fact every school taught about this, usually as a warning to get kids to behave. X Tier was reserved for those convicted of treason, as well as anyone deemed unnatural and dangerous. Anyone legally declared X Tier was from then on living on borrowed time. Rewards were given to those who killed them. Half the people in the Rose could be found guilty and shot on sight, if the Crown ever got smart and found out that not one of them cared about the caste system. They were recruited specifically because of it. Celestial had three branches of justice: the Sword, which governed only the military; the Shield, which existed to protect the higher classes; and the Crown, created to keep the lower classes in line. September hadn¡¯t had much experience dealing with the Sword or Shield, but she had plenty of personal reasons for disliking the Crown and anyone remotely associated with them. Adding on to that, you and I both know September was an extreme empath. She didn¡¯t need to see a frown or furrow of the brow to know exactly how a person was feeling, because she felt those emotions almost as if they were her own. September had gathered a lot of emotions from Imogen: righteous anger, caring gentleness, and an almost childlike curiosity. But all of these carried underneath them an undercurrent of intense secrecy. There were already rumors of a spy within the Rose. Sure, the Rose had its own spies watching the Crown, but still. A thousand enemies outside the house are better than one within. The staircase appeared as if out of nowhere. The steps were of rusted metal once painted white, and spiraled up beyond the tree branches. She couldn¡¯t see past to where it led, but it probably stopped into nothing. This was a somewhat common sight, especially out this deep into the Wood. It was probably the last remnants of some long abandoned structure, waiting to rot along with the building it came in, though nothing near it looked manmade. But still, Imogen and September gave each other a look and moved on, not quite turning their backs on it. Nobody really knew why they were so common. This was an area people didn¡¯t frequent enough to build anything here. Ten minutes later, they reached the top of the hill. Hester stuck her nose to the ground, whacking her tail against Imogen¡¯s calf. The hill sloped into a steep, grassy slide, and at its bottom lay a heap of flesh and blood. September could see from here the body had been torn to shreds, but she recognized blonde hair, painted toenails, and a satin periwinkle nightgown. They¡¯d found their target. Hester pawed the ground, getting their attention. September knelt by her paws, picking up what the dog had found. She instantly understood what had happened here. ¡°Marya didn¡¯t go willingly at all. She was Commanded to by an angel.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± September turned and held up her hand, showing her find: a mint-green flight feather the size of her forearm. ¡°This doesn¡¯t belong to any bird.¡± ¡°You said Commanded, what do you mean by that?¡± Imogen examined the feather so as not to have to look at Marya Kuzmitch¡¯s body. September knelt over the corpse and held her breath. She¡¯d been dead for at least twelve hours. Flies buzzed around the poor girl¡¯s head, which hung onto her neck with only a thin flap of skin. One landed on her glassy eye; September half expected her to blink it away. ¡°Commands are final. They are vocal orders that can¡¯t be resisted. When the angel told her to follow it, her entire thought process was rewritten so that all she wanted to do was follow. I¡¯d say this was the work of a Seraph.¡± ¡°Since when were you an expert on angels?¡± Imogen asked, incredulous to the whole thing. ¡°I¡­used to hunt them,¡± she replied. It wasn¡¯t entirely untrue. She stood up, looking down on Marya¡¯s body with pity. This girl had a Score of 23. She had everything, and yet. ¡°She never stood a chance.¡± Imogen still wasn¡¯t sure she believed September, but didn¡¯t have any other explanations. What Imogen didn¡¯t know was that angels frequented Celestial, and if caught would be labeled X Tier. What Imogen also didn¡¯t know was that September actually was one of them. City of Angels TIMESTAMP: November 3, 7999. 5:15 p.m. ¡°So how did you know it was a seraph, anyway?¡± Imogen asked over the chittering of the two-seated automobile¡¯s engine. They¡¯d had to crank the car a good ten minutes until it coughed and came to life. Now they were bouncing along the winding road away from the Wood and hanging on particularly tightly whenever the car twisted round a bend. Hester sat squashed at September¡¯s feet. She preferred the kind of automobile with seatbelts and a roof, but this was what the Rose had had available at the time. Imogen gripped the wheel while she drove, and September gripped the mint feather. ¡°Two reasons. First, only seraphim ever kill. The rest just do the deed and then erase the victim¡¯s memory of themselves to cover their tracks.¡± Imogen didn¡¯t bother asking what the ¡®deed¡¯ was. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°To get the emotions. They¡¯re empaths to the extreme. See, when a human wants to have a thrill, they go on rollercoasters or to the carnival or tell a ghost story. When an angel wants that feeling, they can either genuinely risk their own lives by antagonizing a bigger, deadlier creature, or they take the safe route and terrify a human to experience it secondhand.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re telling me it did that to Marya simply because it was bored?¡± September didn¡¯t answer. They fell into a silence, feeling the mountainous road even out and watching the trees thin out into failing farmland and clusters of small, clapboard houses. Celestial¡¯s crop production had always been significantly lacking, since long before September had even arrived five years ago. ¡°What was the second reason?¡± ¡°Hmm?¡± ¡°The second reason,¡± Imogen repeated, slowing down a bit once the steering wheel started to quake. ¡°For how you knew a seraph did it.¡± ¡°Oh. That¡¯s easy,¡± September said. She held up the feather. ¡°I knew the angel who this be longs to.¡± Imogen almost crashed the car. ¡°You what?¡± ¡°Israfel. Tiny. Blonde. Skittish. You know, no two angel wing patterns are exactly alike? No two feathers, either. Like fingerprints.¡± ¡°Moving on from the fact that there is no reason for you to have said any of that so nonchalantly,¡± Imogen stopped to let a big brown delivery truck pass, it was the only other vehicle they¡¯d seen for miles. ¡°There¡¯s not a chance he¡¯d be after the two of us, is there? I mean, we did stomp all over his hunting grounds and send the Shield to recover Marya''s body.¡± ¡°I doubt it,¡± September said to put her at ease. ¡°Angels are violent, but only vengeful if harmed directly. What matters to him is that he got his kill.¡± What she didn¡¯t say was that angel feathers don¡¯t fall out naturally. Ever. Marya couldn¡¯t have ripped one out as he tortured her; she was under his Command and she¡¯d have had to have yanked with the strength of a fully-grown bear to pull it out. No, it had been placed carefully nearby. Which meant he had meant it as a message. But of what? And for whom? Twenty minutes later, the foliage got sparser and the buildings taller as they neared Celestial City. Angels have an almost transparent quality; we are only noticed if we want to be, especially in crowds. Human eyes tend to skip over us unless we draw attention to ourselves. September was glad of this as they drove through the one place in the world where a choice few human beings knew her real name: Uriel. Evening drew close, seeming to bathe the pristine high-rises of the upper castes in a warm golden glow and the grimy apartment complexes of the masses in washed-out shadow. Celestial City¨Cdespite the government¡¯s love of order and rigidity¨Cwas not by any means known for its city planning. It was, however, known for its crazy-quilt mishmash of cultures. Throughout time, people from the icy tundra of Isspaika to the sun-blessed plains of southern Alhaaya to the sky-high mountains of Chou So got up individually and made the decision to migrate¡­ here. Uriel didn¡¯t understand why, but could see how readily these millions of migrants had made this place home. The porch railing of one house was painted a demure shade of violet and decorated with daisies, a common custom in Ghabai. The long multicolored robes of Chou So hung on clotheslines between windows. A trolley driver they passed bore the geometric tattoos on her arm, traditional for Stupefian women. Flags of every color and country flapped in the weak wind. The Glorious President didn¡¯t officially care which country you come from, as long as you agree that Celestial is the best one. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. And, of course, as long as you stick strictly to the confines of your Tier. The city streets may not have been built with much foresight, but signs everywhere indicated who exactly could use which street and when. Every little thing was segregated to the finest degree: parks, cinemas, cemeteries, subway cars, hotel rooms, hospitals, phone booths. The goal was to save the country¡¯s best and brightest the trouble of having to look at those it looked down on. Which gave plenty of people plenty of opportunities to hide. If you we re to look past what the Glorious President wanted you to see, past the gleaming skyscrapers and reservation-only restaurants, you¡¯d see filth. And rust. And a quiet despair. And a quiet hope, too. To Uriel, Celestial City for the most part carried the air of someone who had long ago given up. I haven¡¯t seen this city with my own eyes yet, but I will, someday, and I will see instead the air of someone holding an important secret. Just look around: rusted fire escapes that reach all the way to the sky, stores selling broken guitars and nail polish only in shades of green. I¡¯ll see One Eyed Andrew Farlough, who lost an eye and a hand in a house fire and can see ghosts out of the missing socket. I¡¯ll see Hyacinthus, the purple-haired prophet who sings to the flowers. Sometimes they sing back, and she makes a living shouting their prophecies at people from her tiny garden. Maybe I¡¯ll even catch a glimpse of Elli Wolfsbane, an on-and-off visitor of the Rose, who¡¯d faked her death a grand total of eighteen times. Uriel didn¡¯t quite realize this yet, and neither have you, but there are plenty more people here worth fighting for than you think. But it¡¯s easy to forget this fact when the traffic sucks this bad. Like with all big and crowded cities, everybody in Celestial seemed like they all had someplace to be, but all the sweet time in the world to get there. It was lucky angels aren¡¯t typically bothered by noise: Uriel could hear every single sound within fifty miles perfectly clearly. She could hear every car horn, every shout from every angry driver, and every footstep of every pedestrian. And the shit from every single horse¡¯s ass hitting the pavement. There were a lot of horses. Every now and then, they¡¯d pass a building with its black blankets still covering the windows, or an army of poorly paid construction workers would be clearing away the rubble of a bombed apartment complex, or fighter jets would soar overhead, reminding everyone there was a war on. Luckily the Rose¡¯s headquarters wasn¡¯t situated too far into the heart of Celestial. Unfortunately, it sat on the beach on the opposite side of Lake Dilemma, Celestial¡¯s most unique and unexplainable natural features. Lake Dilemma was a narrow little slice of water that separated the eastern tip of Celestial from the greater ocean. Lake Dilemma, you see, had no fucking business being as deep as it was. About five thousand feet deep. No historical sources can agree on how the bridge across it stays up. Some sources say it was there even before the country was founded. Every time she crossed it, Uriel resisted the urge to let her wings out¨Cthe angel¡¯s instinctive response to fear. I don¡¯t have to explain to you that every angel has a deep-rooted fear of the ocean. I may have to, with time, explain to you why. They reached the tall blonde brick apartment complex on Cabaret Street, the one with green window boxes, reserved for C Tier. A bare, slimy human eyeball sat naked and glistening on the corner of a window ledge and followed them as they passed. They parked the car in the garage next door, then entered the hidden back door of the apartment complex. The one with the staircase leading down. The Rose¡¯s headquarters was entirely underground, and had eight levels, most of which were for either employee¡¯s offices or dorms. Imogen and Uriel had adjacent dorms on Floor 7. January, the director, rarely left Floor 8. Floor 4 had amenities such as the library, the maps room, a game room, a war room, and a cafeteria, where the three of them headed now. As they entered, Rooster Claws Randy, whom I should clarify had rooster claws for hands, bent down to pet Hester, which Hester did not enjoy. The kitchen was packed with people who either just came back from searches or had nowhere better to be. Several people in the room were on the run from the Sword or the Crown, and every single one of them in the room could be jailed for life: almost everyone¡¯s badge was taken off or covered up. Casey Griffiths, just thirteen years old, had hidden his under his stovepipe hat. A bulletin board on the far wall announced things like updates on the war effort and Seraglio Jones¡¯s 68th birthday party. ¡°Oi, Campione!¡± Charlie Hoshi welcomed Imogen warmly. He asked how their job went, and she obliged, telling everyone about the girl killed by an angel. The second she said the word, the entire crowded room hushed. ¡°A real angel?¡± Ethel Greene asked, pondering. ¡°Did you see it?¡± ¡°No, but we found its feather. It¡¯s the real deal, according to September.¡± The whole room¡¯s attention suddenly shifted at once to Uriel. ¡°It¡¯s true.¡± She held up the feather, which immediately got snatched and passed around like show and tell. Any doubt to the feather¡¯s authenticity was squashed when Casey sliced his finger open running it along the edge. Uriel had forgotten humans were fragile enough to get cut that way. As someone bandaged Casey¡¯s finger, he started babbling off ¡®facts¡¯ about angels: how our favorite food is babies, how our blood can be used to make pure cocaine, and how, apparently, an angel named Gabriel once snuck into Franz Ferdinand¡¯s house and stole everything but the cat and the garlic salt (this one¡¯s actually true but it happened in another universe entirely, so I¡¯m not sure how he got this information). ¡°Kid, there¡¯s no way that happened,¡± Imogen told him. ¡°Says the girl who believes in the moon,¡± Duck Helquist said. ¡°There¡¯s no way a big rock in the sky existed and then just disappeared.¡± ¡°The moon was totally real!¡± Casey said, predictably. ¡°They found fossils in the ocean that fel l from it that came from the empire that lived there¨C¡± ¡°Oh, not the space werewolves thing again¨C¡± ¡°They¡¯re CALLED lunacanthropes¨C¡± Lotta Baudelaire knocked on the doorframe. ¡°September? January wants you in his office.¡± Uriel slipped into the hallway, reluctantly heading to Floor 8. It¡¯s not that she disliked January, in fact he often put her at ease just by the calming command of his presence. But she didn¡¯t want to talk about what she¡¯d seen on Mount Vexation. It had been a while since she¡¯d had to really think about what she was doing on earth. Any reminders of the war in Heaven just made her anxious. l from it that came from the empire that lived there¨C¡± ¡°Oh, not the space werewolves thing again¨C¡± ¡°They¡¯re CALLED lunacanthropes¨C¡± Lotta Baudelaire knocked on the doorframe. ¡°September? January wants you in his office.¡± Uriel slipped into the hallway, reluctantly heading to Floor 8. It¡¯s not that she disliked January, in fact he often put her at ease just by the calming command of his presence. But she didn¡¯t want to talk about what she¡¯d seen on Mount Vexation. It had been a while since she¡¯d had to really think about what she was doing on earth. Any reminders of the war in Heaven just made her anxious. More anxious than normal, anyway. Gotcha TIMESTAMP: November 3, 7999. 8:51 p.m. Uriel¡¯s cello didn¡¯t just play music. She made sure of that. She made the instrument, as well as any she had ever or would ever play, sing. She played on it a very old song from our childhood, one she¡¯d learned from the spiral sheet music she¡¯d found long ago on a very top shelf at the Library of Mercy. None of us then had had a clue where any of the Library¡¯s material had come from, aside from the fact that our Parents had put it there for us, and that it was incomplete. I know where it comes from. So will you, one day, and so will she. The song she was playing then was called Moonlight Sonata. She, like any angel, loved music. Playing music to her was like figure skating: when she drew the bow over the cello strings, she didn¡¯t need to worry, instead she could let her mind wander. And depending on the song, it wandered in any and every direction. Uriel Morningstar was the Archangel of Brilliance, and she thought an awful lot. Today, despite her efforts not to, she thought of Jack McIntyre. Think of the Moon Goddess, Marama, she tried to tell herself. Or even her arrogant sister, Youali. She¡¯s probably not been killed yet. I don¡¯t think Lucifer¡¯s armies have found her yet. I haven¡¯t been told they have, anyway. But her subconscious was instead drawn to a little bookstore tucked cozily between several stores of its kind on Morbid Avenue, known colloquially as Body Snatcher Street for the thing all these businesses had in common. When Uriel had fallen from Heaven¡¯s Gate five years prior, she had plummeted to the ground and smacked the water like an egg hitting a concrete wall. Unlike an egg hitting a concrete wall, the force didn¡¯t shatter her. All six of her wings had been out, and they kept her buoyant for about two seconds before she began to slowly sink. A bit dazed from the fall, she didn¡¯t quite realize where she¡¯d landed until the high concentration of salt in the water that had just flooded her mouth and nose woke her up with a sudden jolt of panic. She floundered in the water, already imagining she could feel the hands and tentacles and pulsing membranes of whatever angel-eating creature lay in wait for her. A ferry passed by, and she scrambled up to it, clinging on like a barnacle. Whe n all this was over, she and her cherubim were going to have to teach themselves saltwater swimming. She didn¡¯t know this, but she¡¯d landed not too far from the Rose¡¯s headquarters. And directly in front of a house on Mercy Street with a blue door and morning glories in the window boxes. But I¡¯m getting ahead of myself. The ferry, however, reached its dock on the opposite side of the lake, where she splashed her way gratefully onto sour sand. It was only then, as Uriel dragged herself onto dry land and shook herself off like a dog, that she realized she had next to no memory of how she¡¯d ended up here in the first place. She was guarding the Gate like she¡¯d been told, she remembered being bored, then only the panic of falling. There was no way she¡¯d simply fallen, she wasn¡¯t careless enough to just tip over the side. Probably. Which led to the vaguely frightening possibility that she¡¯d been pushed. But by whom? Leaning against a garbage can that smelled disgustingly of humanity and seagull, she tried to remember. Who had she been talking to up there? She remembered using Hester as a trumpet¨Cshe patted Hester now, in knife form (why was she in knife form?) ¨Cto call somebody, but who? All she got was the thought that she needed to find Jophiel, and if not her then Raphael or even Samael. But why? Raphie and Sammi were the enemy. What was so bad that she needed help from them? Either way, looking for either of her brothers would be suicide. Much safer to find Jophiel. But then what would she say when Uriel had found her sister? What threat was there to warn her of? Uriel herself didn¡¯t even know. All the same, she¡¯d only feel better once she found Jophiel. Going back up to Heaven would probably be suicide, too. Besides, angels are expert hunters and were divinely created to never be hunted. We carry no natural scent, and tread lightly on the ground. If an angel didn¡¯t want to be found, she wouldn¡¯t be. The humans of Celestial City didn¡¯t notice her walking by, even with her wings out. Their eyes slipped right over her as if she wasn¡¯t there. Uriel suddenly remembered they couldn¡¯t see her at all¨C human eyes weren¡¯t structured to see angels properly without help. This didn¡¯t bother her, she liked slipping through a crowd unrecognized and unseen, but the fact that she¡¯d momentarily forgotten why certainly did. Just what had caused her lapse in memory? The city itself soon lured her in. The sights and sounds and smells were far too much to resist, now that she¡¯d actually gotten up close. She¡¯d only visited Earth maybe four or five times since the war started eight thousand years ago, and only when her cherubim pleaded for a much-needed break while they were already in the area. Earth was Lucifer¡¯s base, the enemy¡¯s center of command. It was also where Luci had been locked up for the past four billion years. So while she wandered the city watching the humans do peculiar things like exchange business cards and play kickball in the street, there lay beneath the surface an undercurrent of fear that not once in her five years on earth had ever gone away. Something she noticed very early on was the Score, and how religiously people stuck to it. The higher-Scoring citizens had been trained from birth to treat the lowest Scorers like dirt. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Her memory of that first day in Celestial had fractured, faded. Not many details of that day had stuck with her, but that was rather understandable because what happened that evening eclipsed everything else. She had sat on a bench swing in a deserted park on the poorly kept side of town. The side where cockroaches had gang wars with rats and garbage bags formed mountains on the sidewalks. She hadn¡¯t tired, exactly, but she had gotten a bit overloaded with new information. Still, she kept her ears open for the voices of her siblings. Finally, as night neared, she heard it¨C the tiniest whoosh of large wings landing nearby. She stilled, angling her head in the direction of the noise. Nothing but rustling for a while, then¨C ¡°Uri?¡± She recognized the voice. Cassiel, one of her younger cherubim, just barely two million years old. She tried not to pick favorites, but Cassiel had long ago won over everyone¡¯s hearts. He¡¯d whispered her name, worried someone may have been listening. ¡°Uri, are you okay? I saw you fall. Where are you?¡± ¡°Hush,¡± she called back. She still couldn¡¯t see him. ¡°I¡¯m okay. You should go back to your post. Retreat, just get out of here.¡± He was around twenty yards away, blocked by several wide apartment buildings. ¡°Okay.¡± He was getting farther away. ¡°Are you okay?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, just go find your sisters.¡± She heard him take flight, then saw him flapping above the buildings a few blocks away. She then heard something two hundred feet to her left that she didn¡¯t notice until it was too late. If she had, things may have gone very, very differently. It was the slightest gasp, the smug whisper of ¡°gotcha,¡± and the pulling of a trigger. Cassiel fell from the sky with a terrified yelp. Uriel shot toward him, catching him just before he hit the ground. She held him, tried to stop the bleeding, but that wouldn¡¯t have helped anyway. The bullet had caught him right through the chest and killed him almost instantly, but she didn¡¯t want to believe it. The golden blood spilling from the wound couldn¡¯t have been real, the cracks snaking along his skin couldn¡¯t belong to Cassiel. He was her baby. He¡¯d survived eight thousand years of war against thousands of his kind and survived. He couldn¡¯t have died so suddenly by the hand of a mere human. And yet. A loud knock at the door jolted Uriel out of her miserable memory, ending the song with a sudden shriek. Duck Helquist, a frail girl wearing a feather boa and thick round spectacles, stood in the doorway. ¡°There¡¯s a woman who wants to see you. Well, us. By the back door.¡± Uriel sighed heavily, feeling no relief from the breath. Hester got up to press her nose against Duck¡¯s palm in an effort to be petted, tail wagging. Duck obliged. ¡°And there¡¯s nobody else you could¡¯ve gone to?¡± ¡°Everyone¡¯s at Seraglio¡¯s party over in the Broken-Door District. I mean, there¡¯s Imogen, but she¡¯s doing target practice, and I¡¯m scared to go interrupt her.¡± ¡°What about January?¡± ¡°I¡¯m too scared to interrupt him, too.¡± Uriel stood up. She wasn¡¯t planning on doing much tonight anyway. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll go get Imogen. You bring whoever it is into the kitchen, offer her whatever food we have.¡± Uriel went down to Floor 8, through the disguised door in the wall that led down a corridor into the shooting range, which was actually held in an underground room six blocks away designed to dampen sound. Imogen fired a pistol at various objects hung about the room, hitting every target with startling accuracy¨Cthe last bullet catching a stenciled dragon in the eye. The dragon lay twenty-four yards away. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you enjoying the party?¡± At the sound of Uriel¡¯s voice, Imogen jumped a foot in the air. ¡°Gracious Gods, you and your dog move like ghosts,¡± Imogen muttered. ¡°And I don¡¯t do parties.¡± ¡°Really?¡± This was surprising. Imogen seemed to be rather friendly and extroverted. More friendly than Uriel herself, anyway . ¡°Really. Now did you come here for a reason, or did you just want to come distract me with your pretty face?¡± Pretty? The compliment made her buffer for a second, but she shook her head. ¡°Some lady says she needs our help.¡± ¡°What does January say?¡± Imogen had already stowed her pistol in its holster and was heading out the door. ¡°I¡¯m sure he won¡¯t mind.¡± In reality, Uriel simply wanted to relish the feeling of doing something January didn¡¯t know about. As they entered the kitchen and got a look at the woman sitting at the table looking completely out of place, Uriel realized this was going to be a very long night. She had no badge. This in itself wasn¡¯t necessarily unusual, plenty of people who showed up to the Rose had their reasons for forgoing the Score and all that it entailed. She had the bronze-brown skin and no-nonsense look of the Ulisdidanelvi people, but the clothes she wore did not resemble the intricate furs of Ulisdidanelv in the slightest. Denim trousers cut scandalously above the knee, and a thin gray jacket with a zipper instead of buttons covered a pink cotton shirt. On her feet were gray sandshoes with bright pink laces. What struck Imogen and Uriel the most, however, was that this woman looked shaken. Her jacket had a tear in the shoulder, and her shoes were streaked with mud. Her black hair was disheveled in its ponytail. She had refused Duck¡¯s offer of watery tea, the cup sitting forgotten on the table beside her. Before Imogen or Uriel could speak, the woman said, with the slightest accent neither of them recognized, ¡°My name is Cosette Nines. And I¡¯m looking for my husband.¡± Uriel had the urge to thank her for getting to the point so fast. In her experience, humans could talk around in circles for hours if you let them. ¡°When did you last see him?¡± ¡°About two hours ago.¡± Cosette fidgeted with a tarnished key around her neck. ¡°And how are you sure he¡¯s missing?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a very long story.¡± ¡°Do you think he¡¯s in any danger? What¡¯s his Tier?¡± Cosette frowned. ¡°Excuse me?¡± Imogen and Uriel shared a look. ¡°The Score on his badge. The badge that is legally required of every Celestial citizen. What is his Tier?¡± Her eyes flickered with some kind of understanding at the word ¡®Celestial¡¯. ¡°He doesn¡¯t have one of those. And neither do I. We¡¯re not from around here.¡± Imogen smiled a little. ¡°I can tell. Where are you from, then?¡± ¡°A little town called Blue Hill, Mississippi.¡± ¡°Never heard of it. Your husband, what¡¯s his name? What does he look like?¡± ¡°His name is Jericho Edward Nines, twenty-eight or so. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. He¡¯s with a few other people.¡± ¡°If you know he¡¯s with them, how is he missing?¡± ¡°I told you, it¡¯s a really long story. We got separated. I have a device that¡¯s meant to help me find him, but¡­ I found something else instead. You cops?¡± They shook their heads. ¡°We¡¯re not affiliated with the Crown in any way,¡± Imogen said. Uriel raised her eyebrows at that. ¡°Good. I''ve seen your cops, and I don¡¯t trust them with a homicide.¡± So much for getting straight to the point. ¡°Homicide? You should have led with that!¡± ¡°I think it¡¯s best if you start from the beginning. All the way at the beginning,¡± Imogen said. Cosette stood up. ¡°I should show you what I found. I¡¯ll explain on the way.¡±