Read Online No Shadows Fall by L.J. LaBarthe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L.J. LaBarthe
Ads: Link
just out of sight of the official with Shateiel and Samael, watching as Agrat worked her magic.
Agrat had adopted a glamour that made her look like a blonde Russian pinup girl. She was sitting on the edge of the official’s desk, giving him a close-up view of her cleavage and twirling a strand of blonde hair around a finger as she asked him questions. Every so often, her free hand would brush against the official’s, and there would be a tingle of power in the wake of her touch. Each touch made the man more and more eager to talk to her, to tell her what she wanted to know. He spoke quickly, excitedly, his gaze darting between her chest and her face, and he licked his lips frequently. Uriel was privately astonished that Shateiel had not marched around the corner and buried his sword in the official’s stomach.
With a soft, frustrated sigh, Uriel turned away from the display that Agrat was putting on and looked up at the ceiling. The offices were in a rundown building in the middle of Moscow and, like all Soviet-era architecture, seemed to be standing purely out of stubbornness rather than structural integrity. The plaster on the walls was peeling, revealing brick and wood, and the rosette in the middle of the ceiling where a light bulb hung from a moldy cord was cracked and chipped and painted an ugly shade of bright, baby blue. The light bulb flickered every so often, and Uriel wondered about the safety of the wiring. The whole building was rickety and should be condemned, he thought. He was certain that there were rats in the walls, too, as his sharp Archangel hearing could pick up the pitter patter of tiny, scampering feet with claws.
Uriel was uncomfortable in Russia. It was too cold, too big, and the cities too cramped. He always felt a strange sort of shrinkage whenever he had to come to Russia; the vastness of the country, the seemingly endless stretch of tundra in spring and snow in winter that stretched over half the world made him feel small and insignificant. He knew that Gabriel and Raziel were very fond of the country and its people, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
“It is not that bad,” Samael murmured.
Uriel quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you reading my mind?”
“No, your face. You seem ill at ease and displeased.”
Uriel grunted and said nothing.
“Have you been here during the spring or the summer, Uriel?” Samael asked. “Russia is beautiful and diverse, and her people are strong-willed and refuse to be downtrodden. Is that not admirable?”
Uriel grunted once again.
“I like Russia.” Shateiel shrugged as the two Archangels looked at him. “I spent many years here in the twentieth century on Lord Gabriel’s orders. The people are truly remarkable. And their food is delicious. Pelmeni is, I am sure, a dish divined from Heaven.”
“Pel-whatti?” Uriel wrinkled his nose. “No, never mind, I don’t care.”
“So where is your preferred land, then?” Samael asked.
Uriel had to think about that. “I like the Americas. All of them, not just the USA. They’re pretty countries. Canada, the US, Cuba, Argentina, South America—all of the Americas. Cuban cigars are the best damn cigars in the world. Also fajitas don’t offend me.”
“You prefer the warm to the cold.” Samael nodded.
“And tequila to vodka. Tequila’s a fine brew.”
Agrat had finished her discussion now. She slid off the table and walked away from the official with a swing in her step that kept the man’s attention firmly fixed on her posterior. She did not look back at him, and she rounded the corner to join the angels, running her hands down her sides. “What are we discussing?”
“Uriel does not find Russia to his taste,” Samael said.
Agrat looked up at Uriel with some surprise. “Really? I would have thought you would feel right at home in Russia.” She ran her hands through her hair, and the glamour disappeared, returning her to her usual form of a Korean woman
Agrat had adopted a glamour that made her look like a blonde Russian pinup girl. She was sitting on the edge of the official’s desk, giving him a close-up view of her cleavage and twirling a strand of blonde hair around a finger as she asked him questions. Every so often, her free hand would brush against the official’s, and there would be a tingle of power in the wake of her touch. Each touch made the man more and more eager to talk to her, to tell her what she wanted to know. He spoke quickly, excitedly, his gaze darting between her chest and her face, and he licked his lips frequently. Uriel was privately astonished that Shateiel had not marched around the corner and buried his sword in the official’s stomach.
With a soft, frustrated sigh, Uriel turned away from the display that Agrat was putting on and looked up at the ceiling. The offices were in a rundown building in the middle of Moscow and, like all Soviet-era architecture, seemed to be standing purely out of stubbornness rather than structural integrity. The plaster on the walls was peeling, revealing brick and wood, and the rosette in the middle of the ceiling where a light bulb hung from a moldy cord was cracked and chipped and painted an ugly shade of bright, baby blue. The light bulb flickered every so often, and Uriel wondered about the safety of the wiring. The whole building was rickety and should be condemned, he thought. He was certain that there were rats in the walls, too, as his sharp Archangel hearing could pick up the pitter patter of tiny, scampering feet with claws.
Uriel was uncomfortable in Russia. It was too cold, too big, and the cities too cramped. He always felt a strange sort of shrinkage whenever he had to come to Russia; the vastness of the country, the seemingly endless stretch of tundra in spring and snow in winter that stretched over half the world made him feel small and insignificant. He knew that Gabriel and Raziel were very fond of the country and its people, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
“It is not that bad,” Samael murmured.
Uriel quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you reading my mind?”
“No, your face. You seem ill at ease and displeased.”
Uriel grunted and said nothing.
“Have you been here during the spring or the summer, Uriel?” Samael asked. “Russia is beautiful and diverse, and her people are strong-willed and refuse to be downtrodden. Is that not admirable?”
Uriel grunted once again.
“I like Russia.” Shateiel shrugged as the two Archangels looked at him. “I spent many years here in the twentieth century on Lord Gabriel’s orders. The people are truly remarkable. And their food is delicious. Pelmeni is, I am sure, a dish divined from Heaven.”
“Pel-whatti?” Uriel wrinkled his nose. “No, never mind, I don’t care.”
“So where is your preferred land, then?” Samael asked.
Uriel had to think about that. “I like the Americas. All of them, not just the USA. They’re pretty countries. Canada, the US, Cuba, Argentina, South America—all of the Americas. Cuban cigars are the best damn cigars in the world. Also fajitas don’t offend me.”
“You prefer the warm to the cold.” Samael nodded.
“And tequila to vodka. Tequila’s a fine brew.”
Agrat had finished her discussion now. She slid off the table and walked away from the official with a swing in her step that kept the man’s attention firmly fixed on her posterior. She did not look back at him, and she rounded the corner to join the angels, running her hands down her sides. “What are we discussing?”
“Uriel does not find Russia to his taste,” Samael said.
Agrat looked up at Uriel with some surprise. “Really? I would have thought you would feel right at home in Russia.” She ran her hands through her hair, and the glamour disappeared, returning her to her usual form of a Korean woman
Similar Books
