Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

cylinders of wax.
    On his dining-room table, his cell phone vibrated, jarring his attention away from the yellow flame. It was a message from Michael, the patron saint of cops and warriors himself. From the Archangel who was now his direct boss. The words he read on the phone’s screen made him frown.

You have a new assignment. Return to your unit headquarters immediately. Assemble your unit and contact Arielle.

    Brandon pinched out the flame of the candle with his bare fingers. Then he headed out the door.
    Heaven had called.

Chapter Two
     
    I f humans knew the extent of the unseen elements at work in the world, it would probably drive most people bat-shit crazy.
    Behind the wheel of his self-modified Dodge Challenger, Brandon sped through the empty streets of downtown Chicago, blaring the stereo so loud he could feel the guitar riffs buzzing in his bone marrow. He made the fifteen-minute drive to his destination in ten.
    Punching his code into the electronic security system, he entered the mirrored-glass office tower. Took the elevator up to the forty-seventh floor. The office might have been just another upscale business—a law office or a consulting firm.
    Instead, it housed the city’s unit of the Company of Angels.
    He unlocked the massive glass front doors, slid them open, flipped on the lights. One by one, the other Guardians began to trickle in. Every seat around the circular boardroom table was filled, all thirty angels assembled. Brandon clicked on the plasma video screen to start the three-way conference call with Michael and Arielle, along with the thirty angels in the L.A. unit.
    “Guardians, a very serious situation has developed,” Michael said.
    The Archangel’s image appeared on one-third of the screen, his luminous wings spread behind him, iridescent and beautiful. But the wrinkles in his face were deep set with worry. The words he spoke brought a hush over the two units of Guardians present. All pairs of jeweled eyes watched, riveted to the screens as Michael continued.
    “Luciana Rossetti has escaped.”
    The name meant nothing to Brandon. One-third of the screen showed the L.A. unit, and on it, Arielle’s face registered the smallest twinge. A tiny flicker of annoyance passed over her habitually neutral expression. In the ramshackle legal-aid clinic that served as the L.A. unit headquarters, she sat at the head of her boardroom table, her posture ramrod straight, her blond hair as perfectly coiffed as ever.
    But she had definitely cringed. Brandon had seen it.
    “Luciana is a Rogue demon,” Michael said quietly. “As you all know, Rogue demons are not ordinarily at the top of the Company’s priorities. They rank in the middle of the demon hierarchy. However, Luciana Rossetti is in possession of an extremely dangerous poison. A poison that could cause serious harm to every one of us.”
    There was a long, horrified pause before the angels began murmuring to each other.
    Arielle spoke over them, her smile unnervingly calm. “With all due respect, I don’t understand why the Chicago unit needs to be involved in this assignment.”
    Behind her, the thirty angels of the L.A. unit nodded, settling back into quiet.
    Michael said, “Every city in the world has a unique unit of Guardians dedicated to protecting it. We all know that. But Brandon’s approach is different. We Archangels contacted Brandon because we thought the assignment could benefit from his particular approach.”
    No hand-holding. No babysitting. No New Age bullshit.
    The total opposite of Arielle and her crew.
    “The L.A. unit is totally capable of handling this assignment. Luciana Rossetti escaped on my watch,” Arielle said in that infuriatingly neutral tone of hers, which he had endured for three years under her supervision. “The L.A. unit has this covered.”
    “What’s your plan?” Brandon said tersely. “Are you going to hold a yoga class and hope the target shows up? Break out the acoustic guitar, start singing a round of ‘Kumbaya’ and pass a communal joint?”
    Behind Brandon, some of the angels in the Chicago unit snickered.
    “Stop,” ordered Michael. “I didn’t call you in to start an argument.”
    “Does Brandon even know who Luciana Rossetti is?” Arielle said to Michael. “He doesn’t even know who we’re talking about.”
    “Then we’ll show him,” said Michael.
    On the video screen, a full-color image of the demoness appeared, a grainy image, captured from afar. Whoever had