Her hand wandered up to the nape of his neck, playing with his hair. “Of course; they delved my mind and found everything I wanted them to see,” she said. “And so they know I hate you very, very much, and would do anything to get back at you.”

Raziel started to say something else, then stopped as they both felt it – a harsh tugging at their minds, as if they were a pair of fishes being reeled in by invisible fishermen. “Showtime,” murmured Charmeine, dropping her hand. “By the way, your cathedral is about to be used for something pretty disagreeable. Necessary, I suppose, but...disagreeable.”

The riddles were doubly annoying when the place under discussion was his own territory. Without answering, Raziel shifted into his angel form and flew from the room, gliding silently through the walls. Charmeine followed with a bright flash of wings. As they soared out into the main space of the cathedral, with its high, arching dome, Raziel saw the Twelve gathered in their human forms below, near the white-winged pulpit. And what fun; they’d brought an audience with them – there were around fifty angels seated in the pews nearby.

Raziel’s ethereal eyes narrowed as he saw the results of the half-angel’s attempt to destroy the gate: the buckled floorboards; the missing ceiling panels; the metal scaffolding that stood in place. Fury seared through him again that she’d even attempted such a thing – and that the damaged fruits of her work were now on gruesome display for the Council and their sycophants to view. Mexico City. She’s there, he thought again. And though he shoved the knowledge away for now, he dearly hoped it was true. Knowing the creature’s whereabouts would mean he was only a few steps away from having her and her assassin boyfriend destroyed.

He touched down in front of the Council and changed back to his human form; Charmeine followed suit. The Twelve looked nothing alike, yet there was a commonality between them, all the same – a similar bland expression, perhaps, or a certain way they all held themselves. Six males and six females who’d been leading the angels’ affairs for millennia, since long before anyone could remember. From what Raziel had heard, most of them loathed each other heartily, though they were far too entwined, both psychically and politically, to ever separate now.

“Welcome to my cathedral,” said Raziel, inclining his dark head.

He managed to keep the irony from his voice, but knew they’d pick up on it psychically; he wasn’t especially bothering to hide it. “Thank you,” said Isda, who was often the spokeswoman for the Twelve. “It’s a pleasure to be here.” She was tall and statuesque, with sculpted features; her grey eyes rested on Raziel with no visible emotion. “Shall we get the unpleasantness out of the way first?”