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Metatron, the most recent of the Fallen, was huge, with arms of granite and legs the size of tree trunks. “What do you think?” he rumbled, looking at Cain with his usual disdain. “We’re going to have to be careful of Martha. She may seem quiet, but I don’t trust her. She knows things. And I don’t mean just her visions.”
    “I’ll be taking care of Martha,” Cain said, dropping down on the white sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable—at least the Fallen weren’t entirely intent on living like penitents. He’d half expected a monk’s cell with a narrow cot. That had been his allotment last time he’d been forced to live here. But then, as usual, they hadn’t wanted him. He reminded them of things they wanted to forget.
    Metatron simply grunted. Cain liked that aboutthe man. He seldom spoke, and when he did, he was usually worth listening to. Cain had no illusions about himself—he’d rather listen to his own voice than someone else’s droning on and on. In this, at least, they made excellent coconspirators.
    “Do you think they suspect anything?” He stretched out his legs in front of him, propping his booted feet on the white coffee table with its fragrant cluster of gardenias floating in a white bowl. Damn, he hated white. His own black clothes were a bit singed from his little magic trick, and he would probably leave scorch marks on the spotless linen. Too fucking bad.
    “Raziel and the others?” Metatron gave a derisive snort. “Not a bit. They’re so busy getting ready for the next big battle that they haven’t time to worry about the likes of you.”
    Cain didn’t particularly care for the “likes of you” slur, but he didn’t argue. “Any idea when this next great battle is coming up?”
    “You’d have to ask the seer about that one.”
    Cain smiled reminiscently. “Oh, I intend to. Though I gather her prognostications are a bit . . . uneven.”
    Metatron shrugged. “Sometimes she’s right on. Other times it would be better if she just kept her mouth shut—it only confuses things.”
    “But Raziel trusts her?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Cain leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head as he considered it. “That could be extremely helpful. I shouldn’t have any trouble manipulating her visions to our advantage.”
    “She’s stronger than she appears,” Metatron said.
    “I always did like a challenge. Then again, I like when things are dead easy as well. What about the Alpha and his Source? A heads-up about Azazel abdicating his post might have been helpful. And how the hell did the new Source get pregnant?”
    Once more Metatron shrugged his massive shoulders. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
    Cain controlled his instinctive snarl. “Why don’t you let me decide what matters?” He looked out the window into the garden, shrouded in the soft light of Sheol. It was a glorious patchwork of color, unlike everything else here. Life in Sheol was bleached of color. He wanted red splashed across everything, the rich, deep, garnet red of the blood he loved. Blood on his tongue, blood on his skin.
    He turned back to Metatron with an easy, deceptive grin. “Anyone you need to warn me about?”
    “Michael’s suspicious, but he’s newly bonded, and what with training the Fallen for battle and bedding his wife, he’s easily distracted. Particularly since his wife is Victoria Bellona, the Roman goddess of war.”
    Cain cocked an eyebrow. “How did he manage to pull that off?”
    “The seer. She had a vision, and he fought like hell, but in the end she was right.”
    “Interesting,” Cain murmured. “Who else?”
    “Azazel hates you.”
    “Azazel has always hated me. With good reason. Ezekiel was one of his closest friends. My reasons for hating him are stronger. I’ll be taking care of Azazel. You said both Sammael and Asbel are dead?”
    Metatron nodded. “As we will be if they realize what we’re doing.”
    “Then the trick, dear friend, is not to get