Phoenix Contract: Part One (Fallen Angel Watchers Book 1) by Melissa Thomas Page A

rest sat on the stacks, gathering impressive amounts of dust.
    Morning sunlight filtered through the grimy glass of tall, vertical windows, and ceiling-mounted fluorescent fixtures provided additional light. However, even with optimum lighting, the library remained too dim for reading between the rows. A prospective student would have to crouch directly beneath a light and angle the book just right to decipher a page.
    Katsue’s nose twitched like crazy, and she blinked rapidly. She fought as long as she could before a sneeze finally tore free.
    “Gesundheit.”
    Following another sneeze, Katsue replied with a watery, “Thanks.”
    Troy reached the designated conference room first. He opened the door, and his considerable bulk blocked her view of the interior. “Good morning, Watcher,” he said. Then he stepped aside and revealed the trim figure of Desdemona Leromenos.
    Desdemona cut a severe figure in a plain, gray wool dress and practical shoes. The Grecian woman was imposing in the manner of royalty. Her entire face was thin-profiled from her hawkish nose to her clenched lips. Her eyes were as black as her soul. Her brow formed a “v” over the “v” of her chin. She wore her ashen hair in a tight coif from which not a single stray strand escaped.
    “Good morning, Alastors,” Desdemona greeted them with cool deportment. Stance stiff and regal, the elder woman faced a window with her back to the door .
    “Good morning, Watcher Leromenos.” They spoke in unison—Troy with respect and Katsue resentment.
    She despised Desdemona with a passion, so it shafted her pride to show the matron the required deference. However, tradition made anything else absolutely unacceptable.
    Curious, Katsue approached Desdemona and looked out the window. The grime-encrusted glass obscured the view of the quad below. A contingent of ROTC, one drill instructor and perhaps twenty student soldiers, performed their daily drills on the lawn below.
    “I watch them every morning at this time,” Desdemona said. “When I was a girl, living with my mother in our home in Greece, soldiers would march past our home. I would hide behind the curtains in the front window and watch them. How bold! How brave and noble they were in their uniforms, marching in step. Oh, they were truly heroic. How I adored them. The sound of their boots was like thunder.”
    “Was this during the Second World War, Watcher?” Troy asked. He hooked a chair with his foot, pulled it out, and dropped into his regular seat. He set the duffle bag on the floor beside him. The large, rectangular conference table sat eight comfortably, ten people if they crammed together. The ends of the table were reserved for the elders. Typically, Troy sat beside Katsue on one side, Thrash and Aiden on the other.
    “Yes, during the war.” Desdemona’s distant gaze stared into another time and place. Watcher Leromenos often succumbed to moments of reverie when it came to the past, especially her childhood in Greece.
    Anger burned in Katsue’s eyes. Her jaw clenched, and her hands fisted. Desdemona’s penchant for romanticizing the past always got on her nerves, especially when it came to World War II. The Leromenos family had weathered the conflict virtually unscathed due to their wealth and political climbing.
    “My Japanese American family was interred at a camp in Salinas, California by the government,” Katsue said, her tone acidic.
    Troy turned his head and gazed at Katsue with sad, sympathetic blue eyes.
    Desdemona cast Katsue a brief glance. Her lips curved with brief amusement, and she turned from the window. “What happened to your hand, Ms. Ishimura?”
    “I burned it by accident. Forgot a potholder and grabbed the handle of a hot pan,” Katsue said, providing the lie she had rehearsed. She shot Troy a glance, daring him to contradict her.
    Her partner looked unhappy but otherwise kept his mouth shut.
    “You should be more careful,” Desdemona told her primly.
    Katsue