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quiet desperation underlying the Highest’s voice. The thread of despair.
    The utter desolation.
    In silence, he stripped the remaining armor from his other leg. Verchiel’s pain hung between them, heavy in the air, heavier yet across his shoulders. Damn it to Hell and back. Damn Lucifer, damn Samael, damn the Nephilim, damn the—
    Mika’el whirled and pitched the quisse he held at the door. It burst through the four-inch-thick oak and clattered against the stone wall of the corridor beyond. The building shuddered beneath the violence. Verchiel flinched, but didn’t move from her place. No one came to investigate. In all likelihood, no one had been near enough to hear, because they were all assigned to the front, fighting to save their realm, themselves, the seven billion souls the One had left to their stewardship.
    He closed his eyes. Tipped back his head. Sighed.
    “Fine,” he growled. “Locate Alex. I’ll speak with her.”
    *
    Grocery bag in hand, Emmanuelle paused on the wooden steps of the beach house, staring at the nearly leafless climbing rose bush beside the door with its single pink blossom waving in the breeze. She scowled at it. Three times she’d dug that damned bush out of the ground over the last ten years, and three times it had come back—and now it had started blooming in the middle of November?
    If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d conjured the thing up, given how much of her thoughts had been preoccupied with past events lately. Ever since—
    She broke the thought off with another scowl.
    She’d promised herself she wasn’t going there again today, and she knew damned well she hadn’t caused the rose to bloom. She’d made it such a habit over the last five millennia not to conjure anything, she sometimes wondered whether she’d even remember how.
    But if it hadn’t been her—
    She sent the pink bloom a last baleful look. If the damned thing wasn’t so close to the house, she’d pour gasoline on it and set fire to it.
    She wrenched open the door and stomped inside.
    “I thought I heard you,” said a bleached platinum blond, coming into the kitchen. “Good ride?”
    “Cold,” Emmanuelle said. “But yes, it was still good.”
    She shrugged out of her leather jacket and hung it on a hook by the door as Jezebel took the groceries from the bag. Coffee, bacon, eggs, salted caramel ice cream, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. Jezebel shot her a look.
    “Interesting selection.”
    “I forgot to take a list with me.”
    “So you thought you’d just pick up the staples?”
    Emmanuelle sent the groceries a dour look. Then she sighed. “They were all I could think of while I was in town.”
    Lips pursed, Jezebel put the ice cream in the freezer, then leaned against the counter.
    “Manny, what’s going on? You haven’t been yourself in weeks. Even Spider has noticed, and you know how observant he is.”
    Emmanuelle opened her mouth to deliver an outright denial, but she couldn’t quite utter it. Neither could she tell the truth, however, and so she settled for shaking her head.
    “I’m just feeling restless, I guess. Must be the time of year. You know how I get in winter, when I can’t get out onto the road as much.”
    Jezebel crossed her arms. “Actually, I don’t know, because in the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve never seen you like this.”
    Emmanuelle sighed. Creation save her from too-perceptive friends. “It’s nothing, Jez, really. Family stuff. Old memories. I’ll get over it.”
    “Would it help to talk?”
    She shook her head. She’d made it five thousand years without having a shoulder to unload on. She didn’t need to start now. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
    Jezebel watched her for another few seconds, then shrugged. “Well, I’m here if you change your mind. In the meantime, how about breakfast, seeing as how we have all the necessary ingredients now?”
    “That would be great, thanks,” Emmanuelle agreed. “I’ll change and then