then waist and ankles. His icy blade rubs against the chains of fire, sending up a haze of steam, but Pearla can still see Damien’s wings unfurl as the chain around his waist is cut through. They spread wide, like sails released after a storm’s confinement. Relief shivers through him, a growl escaping his lips and sending tremors through the hall.
Maka turns and marches away, his talons clacking against the stone floor. The Prince examines Damien like a bird eyeing the worm beneath its feet.
“So subservient, so docile you are, Damien—here in my fortress. And yet, it seems, you cannot be trusted beyond these walls.”
Damien stands tall. “I can be trusted.”
“Can you?” Dark brows lift over those pale eyes, but the Prince’s voice remains silken. “I do not recall asking you to rally your brothers for a heroic battle. Nor did your assignment require it.”
The Prince squeezes the ball of fear in his hand. Like sickly blood, it clots and coagulates inside it, oozing between his fingers.
“If I’m not mistaken, and correct me if I am, you developed a fascination that pulled you from the enslaved. Am I mistaken, Damien, or are your ears as damaged as your eyes?”
Silence.
“I require an answer.”
“You are not mistaken, Lord Prince.”
“Ah.” The Prince flings the ball of goo from his hands and twines his fingers together. He peers over loosely bound knuckles at Damien as the fear continues to drip. “I didn’t think so.”
“You must admit, there was ample cause for my fascination.”
Damien’s outburst is dismissed with a shrug. The Prince drops into his seat, his wings lowering him slowly.
“I admit nothing. I’ve spoken to Maka, to Javan. I’ve spoken to the Twins, Damien. I know what it is that captured your imagination.”
“Then you know I was right.” Damien is shaking now. Fear, rage. It all seems bottled inside this one. “That boy can heal, Lord Prince. If corrupted, his value to darkness is insurmountable.”
Fear trails from the Prince’s elbow now, running down the arm of the throne. He watches it.
“Others claim to heal, Damien. He is not the only one.”
“But this boy can do it with a touch. He’s different, Lord Prince. Like me. Like you.”
The Prince stiffens. His nose flares and his eyes narrow. The idea of another being approaching his glory in any manner has always unsettled him.
“Oh, I doubt very much he is like me.”
“No, no. Of course not, but beyond the gifts bestowed to other men, this boy has something, Prince. Something.”
The Prince glances sideways to Maka, who has established himself against a pillar. Maka seems uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but nods slowly.
It seems they’re holding a private conversation: Maka and the Prince. The ability angels have to control just who hears their thoughts is a frustration to the cherubic order, to those who gather information. Pearla grows frustrated that they’ve closed out the assembly. She’s not the only one: growls and hisses sound all around, and the twitching wings of the accused say they’ve closed out Damien as well.
Finally, with a decidedly more curious expression on his face, the Prince opens his mind to those gathered.
“I see.” He stretches his wings luxuriously wide so they gently brush the arms of his throne. Then he settles back and raises a fear-streaked hand before his face. “Hands like ours.”
“Yes, Lord Prince.”
The Prince doesn’t sigh, but everything about his posture says he’d like to. “It is now widely known, Damien, that you and your brothers allowed a Shield to claim the victory that night.”
Before Damien can unleash an argument, Maka intercedes. “There were two, Lord Prince. Two Shields.”
“Two? Well then.” The Prince turns his eyes on Maka, quelling him with sarcasm. “I’ll not patronize you, Damien; this information is valuable and something must be done with the boy. And yet the question begs to be asked: of what value are you to me? You, with eyes so frail and weak . . .”
“You could fix that.”
They’re dangerous words for Damien to utter, and the assembly reacts as such. Pearla expects nothing but satanic fury at the near-demand, but is surprised at the Prince’s docile treatment.
“I could, yes, but I’d prefer to return you to the pit for a millennium or two while another of your brothers—Maka, maybe—handles this boy.”
“Lord Prince—”
“What’s to stop me from doing that, Damien?”
“Because this thing, whatever it is, has grown beyond just the boy, and I deserve a chance to make it right.”
“Deserve?” It’s Maka.
But the Prince interrupts. “Beyond the boy?” His mawkish voice is