“The Angel Carasel is dead. It was given to me to find out why he died, who killed him. This I have done. Now, the Angel Carasel was a designer in the Hall of Being. He was very good, or so I am told . . .
“‘Lucifer. Tell me what you were doing before you came upon Phanuel, and the body.’
“‘I have told you already. I was walking.’
“‘Where were you walking?’
“‘I do not see what business that is of yours.’
“‘Tell me.’
“He paused. He was taller than any of us, tall, and proud. ‘Very well. I was walking in the Dark. I have been walking in the Darkness for some time now. It helps me to gain a perspective on the City—being outside it. I see how fair it is, how perfect. There is nothing more enchanting than our home. Nothing more complete. Nowhere else that anyone would want to be.’
“‘And what do you do in the Dark, Lucifer?’
“He stared at me. ‘I walk. And . . . There are voices in the Dark. I listen to the voices. They promise me things, ask me questions, whisper and plead. And I ignore them. I steel myself and I gaze at the City. It is the only way I have of testing myself—putting myself to any kind of trial. I am the Captain of the Host; I am the first among the Angels, and I must prove myself.’
“I nodded. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
“He looked down. ‘Because I am the only angel who walks in the Dark. Because I do not want others to walk in the Dark: I am strong enough to challenge the voices, to test myself. Others are not so strong. Others might stumble, or fall.’
“‘Thank you, Lucifer. That is all, for now.’ I turned to the next angel. ‘Phanuel. How long have you been taking credit for Carasel’s work?’
“His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“‘I . . . I would not take credit for another’s work.’
‘But you did take credit for Love?’
“He blinked. ‘Yes. I did.’
“‘Would you care to explain to us all what Love is?’ I asked.
“He glanced around uncomfortably. ‘It’s a feeling of deep affection and attraction for another being, often combined with passion or desire—a need to be with another.’ He spoke dryly, didactically, as if he were reciting a mathematical formula. ‘The feeling that we have for the Name, for our Creator—that is Love amongst other things. Love will be an impulse that will inspire and ruin in equal measure. We are . . .’ He paused, then began once more. ‘We are very proud of it.’
“He was mouthing the words. He no longer seemed to hold any hope that we would believe them.
“‘Who did the majority of the work on Love? No, don’t answer. Let me ask the others first. Zephkiel? When Phanuel passed the details on Love to you for approval, who did he tell you was responsible for it?’
“The wingless angel smiled gently. ‘He told me it was his project.’
“‘Thank you, sir. Now, Saraquael: whose was Love?’
“‘Mine. Mine and Carasel’s. Perhaps more his than mine, but we worked on it together.’
“‘You knew that Phanuel was claiming the credit for it?’
“‘. . . Yes.’
“‘And you permitted this?’
“‘He . . . he promised us that he would give us a good project of our own to follow. He promised that if we said nothing we would be given more big projects—and he was true to his word. He gave us Death.’
“I turned back to Phanuel. ‘Well?’
“‘It is true that I claimed that Love was mine.’
“‘But it was Carasel’s. And Saraquael’s.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Their last project—before Death?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘That is all.’
“I walked over to the window, looked at the silver spires, looked at the Dark. And I began to speak.
“‘Carasel was a remarkable designer. If he had one failing, it was that he threw himself too deeply into his work.’ I turned back to them. The Angel Saraquael was shivering, and lights were flickering beneath his skin. ‘Saraquael? Who did Carasel love? Who was his lover?’
“He stared at the floor. Then he stared up, proudly, aggressively. And he smiled.
“‘I was.’
“‘Do you want to tell me about it?”
“‘No.’ A shrug. ‘But I suppose I must. Very well, then.
“‘We worked together. And when we began to work on Love . . . we became lovers. It was his idea. We would go back to his cell whenever we could snatch the time. There we touched each other, held each other, whispered endearments and protestations of eternal devotion. His welfare mattered more to me than my own. I existed for him. When I was alone, I would repeat his name to myself and think of nothing but him.’
“‘When I was with him . . .’ he paused. He looked down. ‘Nothing else mattered.’
“I walked to where Saraquael stood, lifted his chin with my hand, stared into his gray eyes. ‘Then why did you kill him?’
“‘Because he would no longer love me. When we started to work on Death, he . . . he lost interest. He was no longer mine. He belonged to Death. And if I could not have him, then his new lover was welcome to him. I could not bear his presence—I could not endure to have him near me and to know that he felt nothing for me. That was what hurt the most. I thought . . . I hoped . . . that if he was gone, then I would no longer care for him—that the pain would stop.
“‘So I killed him. I stabbed him, and I threw his body from our window in the Hall of Being. But the pain has not stopped.’ It was almost a wail.
“Saraquael reached up, removed my hand from his chin. ‘Now what?’
“I felt my aspect begin to come upon me; felt my function possess me. I was no longer an individual—I was the Vengeance of the Lord.
“I moved close to Saraquael and embraced him. I pressed my lips to his, forced my tongue into his mouth. We kissed. He closed his eyes.
“I felt it well up within me then: a burning, a brightness. From the corner of my eyes, I could see Lucifer and Phanuel averting their faces from my light; I could feel Zephkiel’s stare. And my light became brighter and brighter until it erupted—from my eyes, from my chest, from my fingers, from my lips: a white searing fire.
“The white flames consumed Saraquael slowly, and he clung to me as he burned.