Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (6 page)

“Hey,” Clark said with a shrug, “I was in a hurry.”

“So it would appear. Bailey, did you find anything when you, ah, sorted through the remains?”

Everyone cringed, clearing their throats. They would have a slight tickle back there for a few days.

“Nothing that would give us any leads. The fire was quite thorough, but we have a few prints to examine. Running those will take some time since we’ll have to use the back-up generator to scan through our internal database. Also, we ran back over the entire apartment for signs of forced entry, but it’s obvious she knew her killer. There was one thing…”

“What’s that?” Liam asked.

“A leather jacket that I believe belongs to Clark?” To illustrate his point, Bailey held up Clark’s jacket. “This is yours, right?”

“It might be mine,” Clark said, using his best lawyer voice.

Camille rolled her eyes beside him; she knew he hadn’t killed Jenna because she’d been with him the entire night. It was a fact that Clark didn’t want to say unless he had to. Sleeping with a Throne angel wouldn’t win him any fans among the Descendants, who were feeling wary of the angels. And he really doubted the Nephilim would be too happy about it either. They were sensitive about topics that involved sex and angels spoken in the same sentence.

“What was your relationship with Jenna?”

“I would call her a friend.”

From across the table, Dylan snorted. Liam turned and glared at the ugly Descendant. “Okay. Thank you, Clark,” Liam said pointedly, still staring Dylan down.

“We have to keep your jacket for a bit as evidence,” Bailey said.

“Fine.”

After a tense silent moment, Liam spoke again, “I know this murder is upsetting—”

“Upsetting?” Ezekiel interrupted. His gray hair was greasy and unkempt, as if he hadn’t showered for days. His simple Amish dress looked drab in the candle-lit darkness of the hall. From where Clark sat, he saw the man’s yellow teeth flashing through the dense folds of his beard. “The Nephilim came here for peace. We were promised—”

“Excuse me,” Liam said, his voice low and slow as he stared the Nephil down. “This is my meeting. I don’t know how it works with the Nephilim, but when a leader is talking, he is not interrupted.”

Ezekiel worked his mouth in anger, the dryness of his tongue slapping stickily against the roof of his mouth. Clark was making a disgusted face when the Nephil directed his glare to Clark. “We wouldn’t know. Our leader isn’t exactly the meeting type.”

Clark raised his eyebrows, inwardly shocked at the Nephil’s nasty tone. Everyone, including the other Nephilim at the table, seemed just as surprised, but Liam recovered first.

“As I was
saying
,” he snapped off the word, “this murder is upsetting, but as an order, we’ve dealt with these sort of things in the past. We will deal with them again. That being said, I want this cleaned up quickly. I don’t want anyone talking about it or spreading around the details. And for the love of the angels, don’t go around telling refugees that the body fell apart. I don’t want people getting nervous or feeling unsafe. This compound is supposed to be the nation’s safe house. We,” Liam gestured to the Descendants and Nephilim and Camille, “need to make these people feel like they can catch their breath here. The road ahead is going to be long and tiresome. We can’t have a murderer on the loose too.”

Everyone nodded quietly when Liam was finished except for Ezekiel, who sat with his arms tightly crossed like a child in timeout. Clark found that he couldn’t stop glancing at the Nephil; he didn’t know what he’d done to lose the man’s favor, but it must have been bad. Clark wished he couldn’t think of one instance where he might have offended Ezekiel, but, really, it was the opposite. Clark offended people all the time. It was, quite simply, his nature to piss people off. The fact that he liked it was just a side benefit.

Outside of Clark’s inward reflection, Liam let the silence stretch out even longer this time so that his words could settle in with everyone. He sighed heavily and continued. “So, now let’s talk about the upcoming gathering of government officials. In a week’s time, the secretary of state, who is also the president of the United States now, and some United Nations officials will be here to discuss the re-establishment of a standing government. As Descendants and Nephilim, we play an important role in the rebuilding of our world because we’ve worked with the angels in the past, and we are the government’s only connection with them now. Both the people and politicians will be looking to us even more now. They need our help to fix this county. So I want things
tight
around here. I want to show them how we’ve handled things, saved people and a shred of humanity. I want everything to be a gleaming and shining beacon of hope. Hear me?”

Everyone grumbled their acknowledgment, even though there was nothing ‘gleaming’ or ‘shining’ about a world post-war, especially a world destroyed by angels and plagues. With barely ten thousand humans still alive in the United States and four surviving government officials, the Descendants and the Nephilim were the only semblance of order in the world, and it was a semblance of gritty, hard-won mettle that powered them through the days. There was no beacon of hope; it was just begrudging survival.

“I want this murder solved and tucked quietly away well before then,” Liam went on. “I don’t even want it to come up when they are here. I want our people to see these officials and think everything will return to normal. That the world will go on, and everyone can return to their suburbs and Suburbans, cell phones and reality television. That’s what I want.”

“That doesn’t sound unrealistic at all,” Clark said, brow cocked to illustrate his sarcasm for the more dimly witted people at the table, namely Ezekiel and Dylan.

“I know,” Liam acknowledged. “But that’s the feeling that I want to cultivate. These people have survived enough. Now they need some hope.”

Clark couldn’t argue with that. He could use a little hope right now too. Liam droned on for a while—hours—about preparations for the meeting and other day-to-day things that Clark really didn’t care about. When the meeting was finally called to a close, the priest—a bent and stooped old man—went around the table and blessed the seated Descendant members, Nephilim, and Clark. The angels were the only ones exempt from the purification. With a flick of his fingers, the priest flung holy water on each person, his sagging mouth muttering a half-hearted prayer. When the priest stopped in front of Clark, the old man grunted, the blessing prayer noticeably silent. The putrid holy water landed with disturbingly accurate aim right in Clark’s mouth. He glowered at the priest, who didn’t try too hard to hide his satisfied smirk.

Clark truly believed the priest was evil.

When it was over, Clark hurried from the hall, feeling Ezekiel’s beady eyes on his back. Camille brushed by him without a word, her nose lifted in distaste. Maybe she was finally smelling herself, Clark thought with a shrug. Outside, beside a sweeping set of stairs, Zarachiel leaned against a wall. He was framed on either side by portraits of bored-looking Keepers of the Descendants. The paintings lined the hall in an eerie sort of homage to the past.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” Clark said, looking over his shoulder. Ezekiel hovered inside the hall, his head bent in a huddle with the other Nephilim. Clark didn’t know for certain, but he really believed they were talking about him.

“What?”

Zarachiel handed him a cold water bottle, which Clark took a long swig of before answering. “I think I pissed that Nephil off. The one Mom sent down from Pennsylvania.”

“How did you anger him? He hasn’t even talked to you.” The angel cocked his head, an amused look glinting in his eyes.

“I know! I’m a really likeable guy. I don’t get it.” Clark cut his eyes back to the Nephilim gossip group. Ezekiel looked up right then, and Clark couldn’t resist the urge to flip him off. Ezekiel snarled and turned back to his group, gesturing wildly. Now, Clark was certain they were talking about him.

“You’re right,” Zarachiel said dryly. “I have no clue either.”

Clark cursed for a minute; Zarachiel waited patiently. “Anyway,” Clark said, letting out a breath. He felt better already after a good colorful rant full of descriptive combinations and physically impossible tasks involving inanimate objects. “What’s up?”

“I talked to Maya,” Zarachiel said.

“And?”

“And she’ll only talk to you.”

Clark cocked a brow at the angel. Zarachiel’s eyes were dark shadows beneath the hollowed angles of his face. He was perpetually too skinny, and much too bent to be beautiful anymore, though his quiet sadness had a beauty of its own.

“So you really didn’t talk to her,” Clark said.

“Just long enough to get the basics.”

“The basics being that she’s only going to talk to me.”

“Seemed pretty basic at the time.” The corner of Zarachiel’s mouth trembled, the closest the angel came to humor these days. Clark rolled his eyes.

“You are such a diva. Let’s go then.”

“Uh, Clark?”

Clark looked back at his friend. “What?”

“It’s four in the morning. I really doubt she’s going to be awake. Might be rude to wake her after her long journey.”

“True.” Thinking, Clark frowned. “How in the hell did she get over here? I thought the United Nations—or what’s left of it—had banned all international travel?”

“Maybe the Nephilim are growing wings these days.”

“Hilarious,” Clark drew out the word, rolling his eyes again.

“Your eyes are going to get stuck like that one day.”

Clark dismissed Zarachiel’s words with a wave of his hand. “I know what we can do.”

“Sleep?”

“Sleep is for pussies. Let’s go investigate Jenna’s room.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” a snarky voice said from behind them.

Clark spun around to see Camille standing behind him. “Shit, woman. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Maybe you should pay more attention to your surroundings.”

“Be nice, Camille.”

“Why don’t you shut up, Zarachiel?”

“Children!” Clark snapped. “Both of you behave.”

Camille sniffed before asking, “Why are you so jumpy?” She crossed her arms over her chest, where her breasts were pushed up tightly in a very uncomfortable-looking black corset. Clark couldn’t breathe just looking at her, and not in a good way. But at least she’d changed clothes.

“I think a Nephil wants to kill me.”

“What?” Camille straightened, her hand going to the curving, lethal-looking sword on her hip. Her jeans were tight enough to not get in the way of her weapon, and her knee-high boots were the shit-kicking sort.

“Calm down. It’s nothing serious. He’s just being dramatic,” Zarachiel said.

“So you say. He’s got creeper eyes.” Clark waved a hand in front of his face to illustrate ‘creeper eyes.’ “Stranger danger.”

“What?” The two angels asked in unison. Their agreement obviously worried them because they slanted suspicious glances at each other.

“Never mind. If you two can keep it in your pants, you can come with me,” Clark said.

Camille pursed her lips, and the corner of Zarachiel’s mouth twitched again. The Archangel lived for riling up Camille; it was a game that Clark normally participated whole-heartedly in, but right now, he had other things on his mind.

“Let’s go then.” Zarachiel gestured for Clark to lead the way.

Jenna’s apartment was locked, but as the leader of the Nephilim, Clark had a skeleton key to the entire compound. It was a delicate piece of bronze metal with an elaborate fretwork design in the shape of a bird’s talon. It was probably nearly as old as Zarachiel. Carefully, Clark slipped it into the lock and jiggled the ancient knob while Camille and Zarachiel kept watch behind him.

Technically, no one was allowed in the apartment, but Clark wasn’t one for technicalities. Easing the door open, he slipped through, holding it for the two angels, while his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. He didn’t bother with looking around in the other rooms. Instead, he walked straight down the hall and into her old bedroom.

How many times had he been in this room? Technically, he’d known Jenna for far longer than Sophia. But measuring his feelings for Sophia in terms of time just didn’t compute. He knew it was irrational to love Sophia like he did; he’d barely known her. But war and fear and constant danger did something funny to the math of logic. It completely threw it out the window. He knew, beyond any doubt, that he’d loved her with every fiber of his being. He would’ve loved her until the end of days, even if the end had turned out to be tomorrow. Because, when it really was the end, the timing of it all didn’t matter. Because she was gone, and Clark felt like he would love her forever anyway.

A metallic tang in the air irritated his eyes and stuck to the back of his tongue. Moonlight spread across the room from the large window overlooking the back of the compound. A small fireplace adorned the wall beside the door from a time back when there hadn’t been central heating and air. Of course, times were different now, and the recent fire had burned to smoldering embers because there was no power to run the central heat. Everyone who was lucky enough to have a fireplace in his or her room used it in the winter. Otherwise, it was only thick blankets, long underwear, and hopefully a not-too-ugly partner to share body heat with.