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it, or if he would want to. It’s impossible that this soft-spoken Michael is the same archangel I remember.
    But maybe he’s changed. I’ve felt his presence before, opposing mine in war. His eyes, his voice, the way he spoke unapologetically about what he thought… He has the same streak of strength that I remember. His presence is like a memory falling just out of reach. I could almost see the old Michael in this younger boy, but it was clear he didn’t remember me.
    And why would he? The old Michael paid little attention to anything that was outside his immediate interests. He was devoted to duty and nothing, or no one, else. I was nothing special when we first met. During my time in heaven, I made little impression and was an angel of small significance. After I fell I was just another demon in a teaming mob of violence.
    But the way he watched me, kept his eyes on me, made me believe he was trying to remember, like if he concentrated he would suddenly recall the last time we met. But the memory of me slipped between his fingers like water.
    It’s probably for the best. The last time I saw him was the day he died. I don’t want him to remember me from that day, to know what part I played in his death. It would be better for us both if he never remembered.
    As much as I try to convince myself it’s not him, I know it’s useless. I know he’s back. He’s back . And strangely, I feel a thrill at the thought of his return, a pinch in my stomach that is like excited anxiety. As impossible as it may be, I know, without a doubt, that the golden angel boy we saw today was telling the truth.
    Michael’s back.

Chapter 4

    I break out of my reverie just enough to see the ruins coming into view. I drift down into the dense forest, my wings setting me gently on an empty patch of dirt, and find Azael waiting for me in the grassy clearing that was, at one time, a cemetery. Crumbling tombstones create a ring around the soft, green grass. The clearing is all but empty, with just Azael and a small fire pit in the center.
    “There you are. So, what should we do?” he asks, raising a sharp eyebrow.
    “About what?”
    “Not about anything. What should we do until Gus pays us a visit? We’re not allowed to reap anyone or do any hell raising. ‘Lay low’ was what he said. ‘Don’t get into trouble.’ How do we even do that?”
    I blink at him blankly. “I don’t know.” It’s difficult to concentrate because I keep seeing Michael’s face when I close my eyes. His blue eyes watch me, amused, and I can smell the syrupy sweet scent of honey. It hangs in my mind like heavy curtains, blocking any clear thoughts.
    “Wow, Pen, you’re very helpful,” he jeers. “Thanks for all of your wonderful suggestions.”
    I punch him in the arm and roll my eyes. “Fine, you want a suggestion?”
    “I would love nothing more.”
    “We may have to lay low, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun. You still have those souls you reaped from the loony bin, right?”
    “Yeah,” he answers, holding up the dark velvet satchel and jostling it roughly. He sets it down on top of a tombstone that sticks out of the mossy ground at an improper angle. “What a mess you left in there, too. Enough blood to fill a swimming pool. A bit disappointed that you weren’t more creative with your kills, though. The receptionist… her throat? Really? So cliche.”
    “What, I’m not allowed to have any fun?” I force a smile.
    “Oh, no. Clearly you can have all of the fun you want.”
    I laugh.
    “So, my sister, since you are so accustomed to having a good time, teach me your ways.” He spreads his arms wide. “Show me it is possible to have fun without trouble, blood, or death. Because I’ve yet to experience this.”
    “Have a little faith.”
    “Bad choice of words,” he says, grinning back at me.
    I wave away his words and grab the cords that tie off the opening of the satchel. I swing it from my fingers, inches from his