Page 36 of Angel's Smoke

“I need to know what everyone’s feeling. Right now, tune into your celestial senses and tell me if you notice anything different.”

The demolition site grew eerily quiet for several heartbeats as each of the angels closed their eyes and did exactly that. Steel, Rhode, and Bronze were the first to return their attention to the group, with a whole lot of headshaking happening. Chrome, Tungsten, and Titan, however, came away with a more solemn look, and Iron’s insides twisted into a knot. All three of them wore an expression that had been . . . triggered. Whatever they’d finally picked up on wasn’t enough to notice outright, nor was it enough to ignore entirely once it’d been made known to them.

Iron, on the other hand, sensed absolutely bupkis.

Chrome massaged the center of his chest. “What the hell is that?”

“Do you remember what it felt like to move through the realms?” Brass asked.

There were headshakes, thinned lips, and a boatload of disappointment as every one of them tried to recall a behavior that had once been as natural as breathing.

“My flames were the last to hit the relic,” Brass added. “When they did, I got sort of a kickback of energy. It was like a returning ripple after you’ve floated your arm through the water. A sympathetic bump against my power. Almost like an acknowledgment.”

Iron scratched at his beard along his jawline. “The magic was calling to you?”

Brass shook his head. “I’m not entirely certain what to make of it, but it damn sure reminded me of what it felt like when I used to move through the realms. When I’d pulse my celestial power out and hear the energetic reverberations from each of the different worlds. That was how the tracks were laid down, if you remember. It was a magical call-and-answer sort of system.”

“Holy shit. Yeah, I remember. Man, I haven’t thought about that in so long.” Steel ran his fingers through his short blond hair and let a smile of bygone fondness break free.

“I felt it,” Brass said, punching at his chest. “It was the echo of that magic, the magic we used to use to travel to the Empyrean and other realms. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff was faint, but it was there. Like the hum of a car battery that needs just a bit more juice before it can fire up fully.”

A torrent of shock had punched all the air from Iron’s chest. He threw his hand out, grabbed the first thing he could find—a graffitied jersey barrier—and plopped his ass in front of it, more than happy to let the steel-reinforced hunk of concrete support him for the moment.

The ramifications spiraled out of control from there, with every one of his brothers running through the very likely scenario that they could, one day soon, actually make it back home.

A soft relief tickled the inside of his chest as every single sentinel and seraph around him let the weight of the discovery bring them to the ground in one form or another.

“We can finally go home,” Titan breathed, leaning his athletic bulk against the side of a dumpster.

Damn. He’d gone and said it. The five words that had eaten away at them for eons. The main thing that ruled their actions in a world that could barely rule itself. Each one of his brothers had found sparks of the Empyrean’s guiding light on Earth. Each one of them had not only regained their long-lost powers but found their soul’s bond and purpose.

Each one of them had finally found a means to return to their home and deliver the might of the Empyrean down on Cyro’s head once and for all.

All of them except him. He was the broken axle holding the caravan back, and the reason had just been illuminated for all to see.

“I need my full fire,” he whispered, knowing everyone could still hear him. “Once my powers are free, we’ll all be able to hit the relic with the full force of our celestial magic. There won’t be anything to hold it back, no restrictions or breaks in the resonance between realms.” He swallowed around the enormity of it all. “We’ll be able to return to the Empyrean.”

A sad awareness passed from one brother to another, until their combined realization settled heavily on Iron’s thick shoulders once again.

If he wanted to make sure his brothers finally made it home, he needed Anna to help them get there.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t see a way around it.

Anna smiledinto the screen and settled for adjusting her glasses, instead of rubbing her palms into her eyes like she wanted. The morning was off to a banger of a start. It was only her first nutrition counseling session of the day and already she was fighting off the eye twitches.

She’d somehow misplaced her low-grade glasses, the ones she wasn’t worried about accidentally dropping in the toilet or sending skittering under the bed, as she’d been known to do when pregnancy coordination hit her hard during her three a.m. bathroom visits. That pair had been her default when she wasn’t working, and the frames were the most comfortable, unlike her work glasses, which still felt too stiff on her face, even after months of owning them. The result was her having to finally adapt to her proper prescription and muddle through the visual transition that came with it. Likewise, the coffee had been a mistake, but there was no going back from that. She’d broken the seal on the habit the second that bag of ground beans had found its way into her cabin on the heels of a snowstorm and a reluctant angel savior.

She’d have to cut it with decaf tomorrow.

“And that’s why I had to buy a new food scale. As you know, I have no love for the imperial system, and the scale I have doesn’t do grams. That’s why I overindulged in those twenty-five-percent-less-sugar brownies, I think. You know, the ones with the added fiber? I even put black beans in them like my neighbor who’s in that weekly walking group recommended. Not sure why she wanted to bite down on beans in her brownies, but once you get past the texture, they weren’t bad.” The sallow face of the man in front of her was only heightened by his balding pate and equally shiny mustache.

Martin Belknap, a sixty-year-old with an eye toward retirement and a sudden penchant to reverse decades of damage caused by the Sad American Diet, was always her first appointment on Wednesdays. Ever the punctual client, Marty usually sat in her virtual waiting room for a good fifteen minutes before she opened up the call each session. No matter how many times she reminded him he didn’t need to be so early, he always responded the same way: “If someone’s carving time out of their day to spend it with me, the least I can do is show up. I never want to have someone waiting on me. Besides, life’s too short to owe anyone what you could easily give for free.”

She used to think it was cute, that it was some sort of wisdom he was saving to pass down to his progeny when he finally became a grandpa.

Now, that adage rang like a record scratch on repeat.

“I hate owing people. That’s how ghosts are made.”

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