At promptly five past three, Raziel shifted to his angel form with a smooth ripple; wings spread, he glided out into the Mexico City afternoon. The metropolis of over twenty million people stretched out to the horizon in every direction, ringed by low purple mountains in the far distance. Raziel could feel the unnatural calmness here since the Council had been interfering, as if a soothing blanket had been draped over everything. It irked him, so that he was almost glad the place was about to be levelled.

A shame about the cathedral though. He circled it once on his way to the Torre Mayor, taking in its ornate, ancient lines and the golden angel newly gleaming at its peak. Once the interior damage caused by the rioters had been repaired, it would have been a fitting place of worship indeed. Still, it was satisfying to know that Tyrel was about to have such a prize snatched away from him.

Why Raziel, that’s rather dog-in-the-mangerish of you, he thought, and chuckled as he flew on to the Torre Mayor. It rose up over the city, its green glass curves reflecting the clouds.

At exactly three-fifteen, Raziel landed on the building’s helipad, touching down at its precise centre. The view from here was no better than when flying, but it was still pleasant to change to his human form and survey the city with his hands behind his back, feeling the wind lick at his hair and suit jacket. He’d pondered for some time before deciding what to wear. Even a gatecrasher wanted to look his best – especially if the clothes he put on might be either the last thing he ever wore, or the outfit in which he’d finally take leadership. At last he’d decided on a dark grey, almost black suit, with a rich purple shirt, open at the neck.

When Raziel finally received the psychic call from Charmeine, he’d long since become bored with the view and started to pace about the helipad. He stopped in his tracks, pulse quickening as he felt the unmistakable pull of her energy. “About time,” he murmured.

He shifted to his angel form and glided into the glass portion of the building. The plan was for him and Charmeine to be in an adjacent room when the shootings took place, so that they could properly savour it. Feeling the Twelve’s deaths would no doubt be painful if he survived, but Raziel was looking forward to it anyway, with a dark anticipation. Every death-pain would mean that another of the Twelve was gone.

He cruised over the VIP floor, taking in the lavish afternoon reception: waiters gliding about with silver trays; a high, slanted glass ceiling overhead; a crowd of excited-looking humans. Some of the Twelve’s angelic entourage were there too, feeding from starry-eyed victims, and Raziel smiled to himself. Don’t look like you’re having too much fun; you’ll get into trouble.