The lingering memory of wings tugged at her shoulders and sides, a lonely reminder of her sadly crippled state. Lightner and Liz sat side by side across the room, bent over coffee. Hitherby's bugs fluttered about the sweetwater; Sephar's bat snoozed beside a whirring, chuckling computer. The office was snug and, for the moment, safe.
The temptation to lay down her head and weep was close to overpowering.
Failure. Failure, failure, failure. The Game alerted, the Shedite loose. The Shedite's host lost beyond redemption. Dominic's folk, too, would be alerted; it would not be easy to protect Lightner from them then.
Nonetheless, the possibility of sacrificing the Comedian did not occur to her. Certainly he was lying to them. Probably manipulating them to some end, which might or might not be the end he had stated. Possibly he was or would become a major risk for all of them.
Still: he had learned that Liz was an angel, and Sarah, and Hitherby -- and he had stayed. For all the barbaric horrors he believed the angels capable of toward the Redeemed, he had stayed. No, she would protect him if she could. Show him the truth, and perhaps, in time, his choice might change. He must be given that chance.
Something might yet be gained from her failure.
Hitherby's wings buzzed softly. Guilt rose up again, and she writhed deep within her at the memory of the way the Habbalite had defiled her. First striking at the core of her, at her capacity for purpose, then twisting her into violence against one she should protect. Hitherby had forgiven her. Jordi itself had forgiven her. Still, until she had acted again, she could not forgive herself.
Failure; impurity; a weapon blunted and dulled.
She yearned silently for the Archives, for her home.. For known quantities. For simplicity and essence, all about her, plain. For wings at her sides, a tail lashing behind her. Failing that -- for a library, warm and secure; for her work, piecing together a page, preserving a book or document for future eyes to see, minds to inspire. Small, pure things, the sort of thing she was meant and made to do. Not the War.
But the War existed, and here was the risk of a Fate close at hand. Lightner was capable of better. Even demons had Destinies. She would trust his plan.
And love and trust, Chephirah thought, might give her redemption; might give even a demon, in time, the choice of wings.
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