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place?”
    Death actually blinked. “If I were responsible, why in Creation would I be questioning the dead about what happened?”
    “It could be a trick,” the angel muttered, his tone obstinate beneath the overt pain.
    “A trick. To fool observing angels that I couldn’t even see were
here
? Apparently, you think me so cunning that I even outsmarted logic and sense.”
    “Maybe—”
    “Is there someone in command I can speak to? Someone
with
a brain, if that’s not asking too much?”
    “No. I’m alone.”
    Death shook his head. “Stupid
and
a bad liar. Your cannon was actually the thinker in the partnership, wasn’t it?” Then, before the angel could retort, Death turned his face to the canopy and raised his voice.
    “I know you’re out there! I know you’ve hidden yourself! I know what I see isn’t real!”
    That was, after all, the only possible explanation for how the angels had mysteriously appeared, and why the woods showed so little sign of damage. The Horseman was actually impressed; the illusion had to be a potent magic indeed to have worked on
him
.
    For long moments, nothing happened, no one answered. And then the entire forest … 
rippled
.
    Enormous gaps appeared in the trees, swaths of devastation where the soil was melted into solid rock and no living things remained. Twisting helixes of smoke wrestled their way upward, each struggling to be the first to reach the lowering clouds. Flurries of cinders still hovered above the empty places,and Death was suddenly struck by the thick aroma of burnt wood and seared flesh.
    A
very
powerful magic, then.
    More of the White City’s soldiers appeared as the phantasmal image retracted, some standing, some hovering on slowly flapping wings. Most bore deep scores in their armor and dried blood on their flesh. All carried weapons of lethal design. And none looked anything less than enraged.
    “Don’t be foolish,” Death told them. “I’m not the enemy here. Not
yet
 …”
    “And how many of us would you have killed if you
were
the enemy?”
    Death glanced up at the one who spoke. The angel descending to land before him was unlike the others. The same pale hair, yes, the same white eyes. He wore no armor, however, and carried no obvious weapon. His ornate robe, an emerald green with trim and all manner of avian designs in gold, was so long it dragged in the dirt while its wearer yet drifted a spear length above. A semicircle of gold, also engraved and sculpted into winged patterns, formed an arch over his head.
    Death bowed his own head in respect—a shallow gesture, to be sure, but one he would have offered to few others in Creation.
    “Azrael,” he said in greeting.
If Abaddon managed to drag
him
away from his libraries and the Well of Souls, this must be even worse than the Council suspected …
    “Death,” the angel replied.
    “Your soldiers attacked me, Azrael, not the other way around. And in answer to your question … All of you.”
    “I suppose you might have tried, at that.” The angel touched down a few paces from the Horseman. His robes, despite their previous length, now hung only to the ankles of his supple boots. “Fortunate for you we were some distance awaywhen this little skirmish began. Had we reached you while you were still in battle, I doubt I could have prevented my friends here from attacking you instantly.”
    “
Someone
was fortunate, anyway,” Death retorted. “You’re welcome to believe it was me if that makes you feel better.” He gestured vaguely in the direction from which the soldiers of the White City had appeared. “Your work?”
    “Of course. The sorceries I’ve mastered in my millennia would surprise even the Charred Council’s vaunted Riders.
If
such a time should come, Creator forbid, that I should have
need
to surprise you.”
    “I’ve never heard of angels hiding behind figments and phantasms before.”
    The glowers of the soldiers grew even fiercer. Some, the wounded angel included,