‘You think Lucifer’s angels got leniency just because they were following orders when they revolted against heaven?’ asks Raffe. ‘You think they understood the archangel politics behind the revolt and knew what was really happening? They were just wing soldiers, like you. Many of them probably thought they were doing the right thing. Some of them even thought that they were fighting to defend the Messenger. But that didn’t help them when the smoke cleared. Every one of them fell.’

The angels look at each other. A low mutter rumbles through the crowd. Their wings flutter in agitation.

‘If Gabriel is still alive and out there somewhere,’ says Raffe, ‘he won’t have any mercy for the angels who lost faith in him. If Michael comes back and realizes what happened, he might not have a choice but to declare you all fallen to nullify the election. And if the angels back home catch wind of what’s been happening down here . . . my brothers, this could be the start of a bloody civil war. The angels here won’t have a choice but to stand behind Uriel as your chosen Messenger.’

‘How are we supposed to know who to believe?’ asks an angel.

‘There is no way to know,’ says another.

‘Trial by contest,’ declares one.

‘Trial by contest,’ says another. Others murmur in agreement.

I don’t like it when angels murmur in agreement. Nothing good ever comes of that.

‘God has spoken to me. I am your Messenger, and I have given you a command.’ Uriel’s voice is thunderous and filled with the promise of retribution.

‘So you claim,’ says Raffe. ‘But the election isn’t complete.’ He turns to the angels. ‘It’s quite a string of coincidences, isn’t it? Messenger Gabriel being killed without telling anyone why we’re here. Uriel being the only archangel available for the election. Every time there’s any doubt, another apocalyptic monster appears as a sign.’

Raffe looks at Uriel. ‘How convenient for you, Uri. Yes. I agree to a trial by contest.’

Angels nod and echo. ‘Trial by contest.’

As in winner takes all and is declared to be telling the truth? What are we, living in the Middle Ages?

Uriel sweeps his gaze over the crowd.

‘Fine,’ says Uriel. ‘So be it. I call Sacriel as my second.’

Everyone looks to the largest angel in the group and his enormous wings. ‘I accept,’ he says.

Raffe looks at the angels, gauging them. Who is loyal enough to back him as his second? There were angels who voted for him, but voting for him and dying for him are two very different things.

‘I’m flattered that you need the biggest, meanest warrior on your side to best me, Uri. Let’s see, how big a warrior do I need as a second to beat you and Sacriel? Hmm . . . I’ll take . . . the Daughter of Man. She should even out the odds.’

Angels laugh.