The hour was early, but the coffee shop already buzzed with mortals.
A tall, ascetic woman and a dark-eyed, slight man sat together at a table. They very carefully did not look at each other. Coffee cooled in cups in front of them. An observer might have blamed domestic strife.
"I congratulate your sources," the man murmured, "on finding me so rapidly."
"Thank you. It is, in truth, no more than a good private investigator could accomplish."
His eyebrows quirked at the word 'truth.' "Come to the point. What is it you want?"
"Information, as usual."
"I have no information to give you." His eyes remained steadily on the steam curling into oblivion beyond the cup's rim.
She laughed softly. "And do you sleep so soundly, Dinhabah --"
"It is Professor O'Connell now."
She smirked, inclined her head. "Professor, then. . . can it be you did not hear the din raised in the Symphony this morning?"
"I was not a part of it."
"As may be -- are you not informed of such things?" She wrapped long fingers around her cup, swirled its contents lazily.
He allowed himself a narrow smile. "Do you think many rush to inform me of their plans?"
"But you heard it."
"I did. Songs, and a Calabite's resonance, I believe." He raised dispassionate eyes to hers, read impatience and anger radiating from her. "It seems to me that the angels may have found a demon and exterminated it." He suspected -- given the nature of the angels involved -- that the death was of the permanent sort.
"Indeed." Her mouth made a thin slash across her face, eyes suddenly cold. Yes, he thought -- the Calabite was a loss. Then, sudden shift: "It is not like you to shield Renegades."
One dark eyebrow rose. "I know of no Renegades."
"The Habbalite -- "
"There are no Habbalah here. You must be mistaken." His eyes matched hers for coldness.
Her jaw locked; muscles twitched. "I find it hard to believe you defend him."
"You should not." He bit off the words.
A breath passed, and another. Then: "It must gall you to defend him, after the damage he caused. . . what was her name? That Mercurian -- "
Real anger flashed through his eyes, then -- because it *did* gall that his only error in Judgment had resulted in a Fallen. She read the emotion for what it was, and smiled. He turned his attention to his coffee, and locked his hands around the hot ceramic until the pain brought him focus. His breathing steadied.
"And yet you defend him."
He met her eyes -- foolish, that -- and willed himself to utter impassivity. "It is what I am."
"We could, you know. . . share information. You tell us what you can about him, and his defenses. . . and we may be able to help your with one of your Master's difficulties. You would regain favor in your Master's eyes. I am your ally, you know that."
He knew what she was. Lies always sounded sweet; he had learned that, over the years. To actually please his Superior. . . what angel did not want that? Still. He looked away again, found his reflection in the window. Found hers, too, with eyes too bright and too focussed on him, predatory. That was enough.
"You can offer me nothing, Liar." He stood, looming over her for a moment, his own resurgent anger evident in the line of his shoulders.
Dissonance shadowed her eyes, hedging rage as the dominant emotion. "As you wish it, then, *Professor.* We are at odds."
"We are *ever* at odds." He turned and walked away, conscious of her eyes on his back.