"The opposite of a mortal would be an immortal, something that doesn't exist," I said as he returned with our drinks and took his seat. "Unless there is some definition to immortality that I'm not aware of."

"There are many concepts I suspect you are not aware of, and will probably resist accepting, but time is limited, so we will have to do this as quickly as possible. You recall the discussion we had about the Court of Divine Blood?"

"Yes. You claimed that Hope was something called a virtue, a person who controlled the weather, and that members of the Court couldn't be killed."

"They can be killed; it's just incredibly difficult," he said, sipping a glass of whisky. "More so than most immortals, and yes, Virginia, Santa Claus does exist. Or rather, immortality does. Would you care to hazard a guess as to how old I am?"

Since I was being offered the opportunity to examine him freely, I did so. Although his black hair was untouched by grey, there were faint laugh lines around his eyes that made me believe he might be older than he first appeared. "I would say somewhere in the mid to late thirties."

"If you add approximately seventeen hundred years to that, you would be correct."

I goggled at him. It's not a pretty expression, nor one I cultivate, but when someone tells you they are older than a millennium, a goggle is called for. "That's…very, very unbelievable. You do realize that, don't you?"

"I am a nephilim," he said simply, and went on to explain before I could ask him what that was. "A nephilim is the name given to products of the mating between members of the Court of Divine Blood and mortals. We are considered fallen because our immortal parent more or less breached the laws of the Court in order to reproduce with mortals. In the eyes of the Court, we are damned, non-beings, immortal, but not allowed any of the benefits of Court membership."

"So, you're seventeen hundred years old, but you know about Santa Claus and things like that?"

The look on his face was vaguely offended. "I'm long-lived, not an idiot. Of course I know about Santa Claus. I also know about iPods, the Hubble Telescope, and nanotechnology."

"My apologies. I didn't mean to imply…oh man, this is a bit hard to get a handle on. Let me see if I have it straight," I said, setting down my drink. "I'm some kind of a weather angel, and you're a fallen angel? A kind of mixed-race fallen angel?"

"I've told you—the concept of an angel is something Christianity and other religions formed based on the Court, but it is not an accurate representation. My father was a power, one of the members of the Court. Seventeen hundred and eight years ago he mated with a mortal woman located in what is now southeast India. I was the product of that relationship."

I took a deep breath. A wholly irrelevant question popped into my mind. "Why do you have an Irish accent if your mother was Indian?"

"My father settled in Ireland once he was banished from the Court. He died a few years later, decapitated during a battle. I never knew him."

I mused for a few moments on the idea of angels being able to be killed, but decided the resulting headache wouldn't be worth it.

"I know this is asking a lot of you to digest in such a short time, but digest it you must. You are a virtue, although you have yet to be admitted into the Court. You are undergoing seven trials to test your fitness for the position. If you fail three of the seven trials, you will be refused admittance, and have your powers stripped from you."

"I'm going to take a grain of salt approximately the size of Montana, and just pretend that everything you've said is true and not in the least bit impossible. That being so, where exactly do you come into this whole thing?"

He sat back, lacing his fingers together on his belly. "As I mentioned, I am considered fallen. There is only one way a fallen may be redeemed—a pardon must be granted by either a member of the Court, or by a demon lord. The latter is almost impossible to obtain, since demon lords are notoriously shy about releasing someone they consider in their domain. The former is almost as impossible, but it has been done in the past."

A light began to dawn. "You were chasing Hope because you wanted her to pardon you?"

"I have worked through all of the other members of the Court without success. Hope had always been sympathetic to me, and I believed I could persuade her to grant me a pardon." He frowned into his glass of whisky. "Unfortunately, something happened at Court to scare her, and she went into hiding. I had just tracked her down when you summoned her. She obviously used the opportunity to pass on her position to you in an attempt to escape whatever trouble she was in."

"Where angels go, trouble follows," I quipped.

Theo gave me a look.

"Sorry. So, now you want me to give you this pardon so you can be a member of heaven…er, the Court of Divine Blood again?"

"Yes. It is the only way. For that reason, you must succeed at the trials, thus I must serve as your champion to make sure you pass them."

My grain of salt grew to encompass North and South Dakota. "That seems like a horrible amount of trouble. Why don't you just go the other route and talk to a demon lord?"

It was amazing how much expression could be seen in his black eyes. Amusement, anger, frustration, sincerity—they'd all been visible during the last twenty-four hours. But at my words, a screen seemed to fall, giving his eyes a dead look. "That would not be wise. Demon lords do not perform favors without exacting a steep price—too steep. I won't do it."

"Ah. Gotcha." I swallowed the last of my drink and set the glass down on the cocktail napkin, smiling as I stood up. "Thank you for the drink, and for not abducting me. It's been a trying day, so I think I'll be going to bed."

Theo slowly got to his feet. "You don't believe anything I've said, do you?"

"No. It was creative, though. You should talk to Sarah about writing it all down. I bet it would make a good book."

"You don't believe that I am a nephilim."

"Nope. I think you're an extremely handsome, quite possibly troubled man, but as for the fallen business? I'm afraid not."

I walked to the stairs that led to my room on the upper floor. Theo followed me.

"You don't believe that you and you alone have the power to save me?"

The laughter that burbled forward died in my throat at the look in his eyes. I stopped in front of my door, oddly disconcerted. "Theo, despite everything you've done to me, despite all the trouble you've been, I kind of like you. If there is something real I can do to help you, I would consider it, but this…" I waved my hands around in a vague attempt to explain. "This is beyond me."

He took a step closer to me, and his woodsy scent curled around me. "All you have to do is believe, Portia. You just have to have faith."

There was that word again. "I lost my faith when I was eight. It is long gone, never to return."

His jaw tightened. "Then I will help you find it in return for your assistance."

I did laugh that time, even though the expression on his face was one of grim determination. "Putting aside the fact that I am getting along just fine without faith of any sort, just how do you expect to do that?"

"The third trial is tomorrow." He took my chin in his hand, tipping my head back to look deep into my eyes. "It will be very difficult."

"More old ladies beating the crap out of me? I could really do without that."

He leaned closer, and for a second I thought he was going to kiss me right there, outside my room. "I will make a deal with you—if you can give me proof that the trial is mundane, I will serve as your champion without requiring you to pardon me when you are admitted to the Court. If you cannot provide proof, you will accept the truth, and will reward me when you are accepted."