Holding up a hand to his chest, he formed a circle with his forefinger and thumb. Then he spoke, his words crystal clear and tinged with appropriate anxiety. “Oh, God, what am I thinking . . . I can’t do this. This is not right. I’m sorry, Isaac . . . I can’t do it. I can’t help you.”

Just as Grier opened her mouth, Isaac caught her and squeezed her wrist to shut her up: Her father was now surreptitiously pointing in the direction of what had to be the basement stairs.

“Are you sure,” Isaac asked him in a warning tone. “I need you and I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

“You’re the one making a mistake, son. And I’d be calling Matthias right this second if you hadn’t already done it yourself. I will not be a part of any conspiracy against him—and I refuse to help you.” Childe let out a curse. “I need a drink.”

With that, he turned away and headed across the room.

At which point, Grier grabbed the front of Isaac’s windbreaker and yanked him head-to-head with her. In a nearly silent hiss, she said, “Before either of you even thinks of hitting me with another round of classified-info crap, you can shut it.”

Isaac popped his brows clear to his hairline as her father opened the door to the cellar.

Shit, he thought. But she obviously was not going to budge on this one. Besides, maybe being involved would help her and her father patch things up.

“Ladies first,” Isaac whispered, indicating the way with a gallant hand.

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 30

Heaven, South Lawn

Nigel granted an audience to his two favorite warrior angels not out of the goodness of his heart and not with anticipation—and in spite of the fact that he and Colin, Bertie, and Byron were in the midst of a repast. There would be no turning these visitors away, however: He knew why Edward and Adrian were coming and they were not going to like what he had to say.

Thus he felt as though he should handle them in person.

And indeed, when the two angels took form far across the lawn, they strode o’er to the grove like the avengers they were.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Nigel murmured to his advisors, “but will you please excuse me for a moment.”

He folded his damask napkin and rose, thinking there was no reason to ruin the meal for the others—and what was about to transpire verbally was going to be a gastronomic murder of the very bloodiest sort.

Colin got up as well. Nigel would have much preferred to do this alone, but there would be no dissuading the angel. No one and nothing could change Colin’s mind about what to have for his pudding, much less on matters of import.