Colin’s laugh was deep and for once lacking in sarcasm. “Ah, there’s the lad we know and love. I’d wondered where you’d gone, given how badly you’d played.”

Keeping his back to his best mate, Nigel stared across the lawn at the high castle walls of the Manse of Souls. Beyond the vast stone fortification, in an infinite mansion of fine appointments and leisurely accoutrements, were the life-lights of those who had proven themselves of good and fine nature during their time on Earth.

If the angels did not prevail, all of those who so deserved what they had now would be lost to the pits of Hell. As would all else—including himself and his three associates.

“Adrian and Edward are not in the rules,” Colin pointed out.

“They take direction from him. It is a far sight different from what she is doing.”

“Granted. But we are not unrepresented down there.”

“She is toying with the fundamentals of the conflict.”

“Are you truly surprised.” Colin’s tone, always sharp, turned deadly. “We have battled her too long to be taken unaware by her duplicity. Which perhaps is why the Creator allows you to persist with our two emissaries.”

“Perhaps also the Creator wishes us to win.”

Nigel forced himself to start walking again, and his eyes could not depart from the bridge over the moat and the stout entrance to the manse. The sight of the massive, locked portal, to which only he had the metaphysical key, reassured him—but alas it was for no good reason. The souls were safe only if these contests were won.

“Are you going to take further action?” Colin asked as they made a fat loop over the lawn and headed toward the table upon which tea had been set out.

“How can I?”

“You’re willing to risk losing just to be honest?”

Nigel waved at Bertie and Byron, who were seated off in the distance before a teapot and a carousel of tiny sandwiches. As was proper, they had neither poured nor partaken, and they would not until the other two chairs at the table were filled. Meanwhile, Tarquin, Bertie’s beloved Irish wolfhound, was curled into a sit at the archangel’s side, the great beast staring over at Colin and Nigel, his wise, calm eyes missing nothing.

Nigel fussed with his cravat. “Victory and deceit are incompatible. And Adrian and Edward were your idea. I don’t know why I’m allowing it.”

Colin cursed, his aristocratic intonation adding precise corners to the naughty words. “You know damn well we don’t stand a bloody chance unless we bend the rules as well. That’s why you’re consenting.”