Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“A tattoo?” Kit sniffled, then tilted her head. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Something to mark the occasion,” Fleur declared. “Kit Craig’s return to the real world!”

Grif could have kissed the woman for that.

But Kit shook her head. “No. Not that. But something to mark that I’m different. That I’ve changed not in spite of Griffin Shaw, but because he was here.”

“Oh, come on, Kit. You can do better than that.”

Suddenly Grif no longer wanted to kiss her.

“Get some ink as a badge of honor. You survived Griffin Shaw and now you’re ready to start a new life. One without him in it.”

Was she? Staring at Kit, not blinking, Grif realized he was holding his breath.

“Maybe,” Kit said, biting her bottom lip. Then, after a long moment, she frowned. “But only under one condition.”

“What?”

Kit pushed into a sitting position and leveled her friend with a hard stare. “I don’t want anything with damned wings.”

Your knowledge does nothing for me,” Grif told Frank now, his whisper harsh enough to scratch his throat. Suddenly he didn’t feel sorry for the Pure. He damned well should feel it all.

“I know,” Frank whispered, and his eyes were shining with tears, too. It was novel, and it was shocking. It was as unnatural to see a Pure feeling human emotion as it would be to hear a dog meow.

And all Grif could think was, Good.

“Then what do you want?” Because it wasn’t just to reminisce about old times.

“I have a message from the Host.”

Grif closed his eyes. The entire legion of angels. Every order in the hierarchy of Pures, from Seraphim to Rulers to Guardians.

“Your refusal to carry out the will of God as outlined in the agreement formed as a condition of your return to the Surface has angered them.”

“Well. That’s a mouthful,” Grif said at last, flashing again on Kit’s heart-wrenching sorrow. “So what are they taking from me now?”

His wings, he hoped. There was little else left.

The voice struck, clapping like thunder behind him. “We’re not taking, Griffin Shaw. This time we’re giving.”

Whirling, Grif cringed, immediately shielding himself with his arms against the light that flared before him. If Sarge had radiated with light, this being was light. The image that burned itself beneath his eyelids had wings of flame, tips dripping with lava, and a burned-out double negative of blackened holes where eyes should be.

A Seraph. The power emanating from it was unfiltered, raw as a lightning bolt and as sharply static on the tongue. Angels, unmasked, were awesome in the original sense of the word, and reverence, like survival instinct, forced Grif to his knees. He felt his next breath, heated from the flame, shaky in his chest.

I am God’s child, he thought, over and again, trying not to be overwhelmed.

The Seraph knew he was glorious, created of the first triad and the highest order. His mighty wings arched across half the room, rippling with muscle. Sarge, who was of the Cherubim tribe, shielded his true nature by taking on the aspect deemed most familiar by the mortal souls who viewed him. Yet this angel, and the four flared behind him in an offensive phalanx, didn’t bother. That, more than anything, told Grif he was in trouble.

The realization brought forth an abrupt dimming of the blistering light. Grif removed his hand from his eyes and caught sight of a veil being dropped between them as he straightened from his prone position. It was a see-through scrim, likely sewn from starlight and dark matter, and it would keep any of the Seraph’s errant rays from attacking Grif. The Seraphim could never truly hide what they really were.

Monsters, Grif thought, lifting his chin.

Though the Seraph had to have heard the thought, he gave one short nod, and Grif stood. With his glory dimmed, the angel was youthful in appearance, with long, dark hair shining and thick and skin as smooth as a polished opal. Yet he was alien in his perfection. But for mankind, all of God’s creatures were.

“What are you giving, then?” Grif said, still blinking.

“More than you deserve, but less than you would like,” answered the Seraph, his voice like a rushing river. “Though that always seems to be the case with your kind.”

“Donel,” Sarge reprimanded. A stone in that river.

“Don’t you presume to correct me!” Donel’s head whipped Sarge’s way, rapids roaring in his throat. “One look at the two of us and it’s clear exactly where righteousness lies!”

Protectiveness welled inside of Grif, and he shifted to shield the Pure behind him with his own body. He and Sarge weren’t always on the same side of the playing field, but he had more history and fondness for this angel than any other.

There was no way to look directly into the faces of angels if they didn’t will it, and even with the veil between them, it wasn’t easy to face Donel full-on. After only a glance that felt like looking into the full sun, Grif wondered if the Pure wanted him to see the contempt that lived among the burned-out embers of that celestial gaze.

After a long moment, Donel held out an arm to the side, palm upright. The limb extended longer than it should have, with fingers that did the same. One of the Pures behind him handed over a scroll. Grif’s heart thumped. An official decree. Holding it straight out before him, Donel unrolled it, then began speaking in tongues.

Grif understood none of it, though he recognized the pattern of jumbled sounds, intonations, and pitches. The heralds trumpeted it regularly in the Everlast, and he’d once asked Sarge what it meant.

“It’s the angelic anthem. It’s a call to arms, a war cry for the Pure.”

“What does it say?” Grif had asked.

“It begins with an introduction to the angelic orders. ‘We are Pure spirit, the mighty who dwell in and of Paradise, we are the Orders charged with dispensing God’s divine Will . . .”

Grif stopped listening after that. To him it was just posturing and posing and politics. All it meant was that the Host was throwing its weight around. Again. The Pure could do whatever they wanted in the Everlast. For now, he breathed a little more deeply and relaxed enough to tuck his hands into his suit pockets. Next up would be a formality, a recitation similar to the Miranda rights, and that, too, mattered little to Grif. As far as he could tell, he was already eternally under arrest. So he tuned out until he once again recognized the English language.

“Griffin Shaw,” Donel said, lifting his voice so the syllables sluiced. “You have been found guilty of violating the conditions of your unprecedented return to the Surface, and failing to actively pursue your true purpose on earth. Therefore, it has been decided after much deliberation that there is no other recourse but to invoke the sacred act of prophecy . . .”

Donel, eyes like banked coals, paused long enough to look up and gauge Grif’s reaction. Apparently the way Grif’s knees automatically weakened was satisfactory.

“. . . hereby ordering you to fulfill additional conditions as outlined by the Host,” he continued. “These shall commence directly upon utterance.”

Hell, Grif thought. That’s not prophecy. That was an ultimatum. And it was just like the Host. A bunch of winged monsters with nothing better to do than micromanage God’s Chosen.

“That’s right,” Donel hissed, breath roiling as he made no attempt to pretend he wasn’t reading Grif’s mind. “And make no mistake, we will strip down every memory you hold dear and dissolve them in the waters of incubation before allowing you to cause any more harm.”

Grif froze, and not only out of fear. No way, he thought, swallowing hard. Forgetting himself and his past wasn’t an option. He’d come too far. “I don’t understand. What did I do?”