He paid no attention to the bottle. He was too busy taking in Azrael, trying to read his face, get a feel for who he was and what he was and what he might do next.
Before he’d arrived in Preya, Michael had been visited by visions while isolated in a forest, delirious, sleep deprived and dehydrated. God had sent children to him, little girls and boys who came bearing gifts of food and drink. Come to the light, and God will embrace you. It’s not too late. He saw an angel, or the visage of an angel, and Michael had wanted to go to him, had wanted to crawl to him, and beg him to lay his hands upon him, to see if the touch of God would burn away his flesh.
God loves you. Isn’t that what the angel had said?
What a cruel joke.
God loved him, but his own father couldn’t spare the energy or time it would take to bring him just a moment of comfort. He’d been desperate and heartbroken and alone, and all his father could do was send him a goddamn goat. He’d ripped the animal to shreds, until it bled serpents.
Consorting with an angel would be the last thing Satan would want him to do.
Too bad.
“I make your skin crawl?” He was asking out of authentic curiosity. Was his blood so tainted, that his mere presence would cause an angel to feel dread? A pang of satisfaction passed through him at the thought.
Without waiting for Azrael to answer his question, he went on. “I’m your nephew.” He was looking at the bottle now. “What’s in that?”