Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Eighty One: Wings

The man's hands were covered in blood. That was the first thing Jeorge noticed when he walked in.

The second thing he noticed was the clump of ash grey feathers on the table.

The third was that Captain Ellara Quintus was glaring at him over a gag in the corner, with Arlen Blackheart's Varthian thug holding her still with one meaty forearm.

It made a bizarre tableau, in such a strange setting. When he'd first seen the steel quarter warehouse, he'd been certain they'd come to the wrong address. For a start, it had no roof. It was right in the centre of the industrial district where patrols went past on a regular basis; he and Hap had passed two of them on their way here. It seemed Blackheart was determined to wring out his temporary political immunity for all it was worth, sitting like a ragged king in the centre of this dank and dripping building, covered in blood.

"Order's been fulfilled," was the assassin's only greeting. One red-crusted finger pointed out the bloody clump of feathers on the table, as if Jeorge hadn't already noticed them and felt a sympathetic ache in his wings, a roll of nausea in his belly. As ever, Nictaven echoed his thudding pulse, so it felt like it rang around the whole building.

"Ilan's dead?" Jeorge asked. His voice sounded tiny in such a huge space.

He noticed others in the shadows; more assassins. A woman, filing her nails and smiling at him from atop a pile of crates. A tall, gangly man that had been at their last meeting with Blackheart. A shorter, stockier man with alarmingly few teeth, swigging what looked like straight spirits from a bottle bigger than his head. Slightly apart from the three of them was a younger man, tired-looking but still pretty, with thick dark hair and large eyes, who was watching the back of Arlen's head and didn't even seem to have noticed they had visitors.

Then, of course, there was the Varthian.

"Very," Arlen rasped. Even his blinded eye glittered, visibly delighting in Jeorge's discomfort.

A tide of conflicting emotions washed through Jeorge, leaving him dizzy. Hap put a hand on his arm as he swayed, but with an effort he steadied himself, because the last thing he wanted was to sit in the empty chair opposite the assassin with that awful clutch of feathers between them.

It wasn't freedom; Lucifer wouldn't forgive his debt just because his chosen broker was dead. But knowing Ilan wasn't here, in the city; knowing the man who'd sold out their whole political movement was dead...it wasn't freedom, and it wasn't absolution for what had happened. But it was something.

"I'm surprised that pile of wet cabbage was enough of a threat for Harkenn to get him killed for you," Arlen continued. "I didn't even have to track him down, and he looked almost offended when I topped him. Don't know how Marick tolerated him for that long."

"He knows a lot of people," Jeorge said weakly. "He never did much for himself."

"I suppose Lucifer will be upset I killed his lapdog." Arlen pretended to think for a moment. "Oh well. He'll live. More's the pity."

The man seemed far more animated in this meeting; far from friendly, but not the scowling, hateful figure that had greeted them on first introductions. Jeorge scanned the man's aura, subtly — the assassin had an uncanny knack for noticing when he was doing it – and found a buzzing mix of adrenaline and fear, locked up in a tangle of conflicting feelings. It was hard to tell if he was more excited or scared.

"I'm not sure what the protocol is for these circumstances," he made himself say, when an expectant silence fell. "Do you often receive thanks?"

The assassin snorted. "It was a job, not a favour. Fuck your thanks." He scratched his cheek, heedless of the blood on his fingers. "The challenge is set. I hope his lordship is ready to move."