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That's the voice he'd first used to get my attention, and it was the one he now used to calm Janah. But
when he switched to conversation mode, he adopted a more "normal" tone, one that would be a DJ's
dream, but not so spellbinding that you'd ignore what he was saying.
Finally, he changed to English for my benefit. He explained my mission, and with each word, Janah's gaze
unclouded, as her mind cleared and focused. Then she turned to me, eyes narrowing.
"They send this one after her?" She snorted. "And they call me mad."
I started to retort, but Trsiel cut me off.
"The Fates know what they're doing," he said.
"No, they do not. She will fail."
"Perhaps, but "
"She will fail. No 'perhaps.' This is a job for an angel, and she is not an angel."
"Not yet."
"Not yet what?" I said.
"This is her inaugural quest?" Janah leapt to her feet. "This is not it cannot be Fools!"
Trsiel tried to quiet her, but she lunged at him so fast I saw only a blur. Trsiel didn't move. She stopped,
with only an inch between them, and pulled herself up straight. She barely reached his chest, but that
didn't keep her from rattling off a tirade of invective or what I assumed from her tone was invective,
though she'd reverted to her own language. Trsiel put his hands on her arms, but she flung him off and
stalked to her window.
"Without the gift, she will fail," Janah said. "Do not ask me to lead her to her destruction. I will not."
Janah dropped to the floor with a thud, pulled her knees to her chest, and turned to stare out her
window. Even from across the room, I could see that stare go empty as her mind retreated.
Trsiel laid his hand on my forearm, and we zapped out of Janah's room.
Trsiel didn't take me back to the foyer, but to some kind of waiting area, empty except for two white
armchairs.
"She's right," he said, dropping into one of the chairs. "You can't do this without the gift."
"What gift?"
He waved me to the other chair, but I shook my head.
"What gift?" I repeated.
"An angel's power. Full-bloods always have it. The others get it when they ascend. The Fates must know
you need it for this, so what could they be& " His voice trailed off, his brow furrowed.
"Is it the sword? I wouldn't mind the sword."
A tiny smile. "No, the sword is a tool. You'll get that, too, when you ascend "
"Ascend?"
"Yes. But the gift is a skill, an ability. Not essential in most of an angel's tasks, but obviously Janah thinks
you need it for this one, and she's not talking until you have it. But you won't get it until you ascend and
you won't ascend until you complete your inaugural quest."
" 'Complete'? You think I'm auditioning for angel-hood?"
"It isn't something you can audition for. You must be chosen, and if you're chosen, then you have to
complete an inaugural quest. Finding the Nix is yours."
"I'm fulfilling a promise here, not completing an entrance exam. The Fates did me a favor a couple of
years ago, a very big favor, and this is how they want it repaid."
"Perhaps I was mistaken, then."
His tone said he didn't believe it for a second, but I fought the urge to argue. The Fates would set him
straight eventually. Maybe the misdirection was intentional assuming Trsiel would be more apt to help a
future fellow angel rather than a mere contract bounty-hunter.
"So this gift," I said. "What is it? Maybe we can see whether "
"See!" He shot up straight in his seat. "That's it. Your father is Balam, right?"
"So they tell me."
"That explains how the Fates expect us to get around the problem." A slight frown. "Or so I think." The
frown deepened, then he sprang to his feet. "We'll need to test it."
He grasped my forearm, and the room disappeared.
We emerged in a long gray hall that stank of ammonia and sweat. A young man in an orange jumpsuit
mopped the floor, swishing the water around haphazardly, coating the floor in a layer of dirty soap, with
no apparent interest in cleaning the surface beneath. At the end of the hall, a door swung open and two
armed guards strode through. Their shoes slapped against the wet concrete. The young man gripped the
mop handle tighter, putting a little elbow grease into it, even whistling for good measure.
"Exactly what kind of 'gift' is this?" I asked Trsiel.
"You'll see& or so I hope."
He led me through the door the guards had used. On the other side was a huge industrial space flanked
with two layers of prison cells.
"Uh, any hints?" I asked.
Trsiel kept walking. "If I tell you what to expect, then you'll expect it."
"Uh-huh."
He continued walking, without a glance either way. We passed through two sets of armored doors, and
came out in a long hallway. The moment we moved through those doors, a preternatural hush fell, and the
temperature dropped, like stepping into an air-conditioned library. But even in a library, you can always
hear sounds, the steady undercurrent of stifled coughs, whispering pages, and scraping chairs. Here,
there was nothing. Life seemed suspended, waiting with bated breath.
As we drew closer to the end of the corridor, we heard faint noises the clatter of a dish, a mumbled
oath, the shuffle of feet on concrete. Then a softer sound, a voice. A supplication carried on a sob.
Prayer.
We stepped into a single-level cell block unlike the earlier ones. At the ice rink, I'd reveled in the
sensation of cold. Here, the chill went right to your bones, and had little to do with air-conditioning.
Each cell here had only one bed, and we passed two vacant ones before reaching an occupant, a man in
his late twenties, head bent, face hidden as he prayed. The words tumbled forth, barely coherent, voice
raw as if he'd been praying for days, and no longer expected a response, but wasn't ready to give up
hope, praying like he had so much to say and so little time to say it in.
"Death row," I murmured.
Trsiel nodded and stopped before the man's cell. He went very still, then shook his head sharply and
moved on. "We need someone to test this on. Someone who's guilty."
"Guilt you mean he's innocent?"
My gaze slid back to the praying inmate. I'd never been what you call a religious person. I've even been
known to be somewhat disparaging of faith, and those who throw themselves into it. Too many people
spend their lives focused on insuring a good place in their next one, instead of embracing the one they
have. That smacks of laziness. If your life sucks, you fix it, you don't fall on your knees and pray for
someone to make it better the next time.
But here, watching this man pray so hard, with so much passion, desperation, and blind hope, I couldn't
help feeling a twinge of indignation.
"Isn't this what you guys are supposed to do?" I called after Trsiel. "Right wrongs? See justice done?"
He slowed, but didn't turn.
"This justice belongs to the living," he said softly. "We can only right it after they've exacted it. He'll see
his freedom soon enough, on the other side."
Trsiel moved between two cells. There was a man in each, one about fifty, but looking twenty years
older, shoulders stooped, hair gray, skin hanging off his frame as if he'd lost a lot of weight, fast. The
other man was maybe thirty, hunched over a pad of paper, writing as furiously as the first man had been
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