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hierarchy of Pures, from Seraphim to Rulers to Guardians.
    â€œYour 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.”
    â€œWell. 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.
    â€œWhat are you giving, then?” Grif said, still blinking.
    â€œMore 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.”
    â€œDonel,” Sarge reprimanded. A stone in that river.
    â€œDon’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