

FALLEN ANGEL:

PURGATORY

Sean P. Martin
Copyright © 2010 Sean Martin

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

1456507176
For Sarah, and all those who said I could do it.

Also, for everyone who thought I couldn't.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the support of my wife and our wonderful children. She gave me the encouragement and time I needed to write, offered helpful questions, and provided the motivation to finish, courtesy of asking repeatedly when I'd have more for her to read. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to B and C, who graciously took a month of evenings off their 'nag at dad' schedule. I appreciate it.

Thanks as well to my test-readers, Pamela and Peter, for their comments, questions and error-spotting. Any errors that remain in the final manuscript are completely their responsibility. Please feel free to let me know if you find any, so that I may beat them without mercy and withhold their daily ration of gruel.

Further thanks to everyone involved with NaNoWriMo 2010 for getting this whole ball rolling, and to fellow WriMo DancingQueen1994 for the majority of Adams' final speech.

The cover was designed by another WriMo, ink.black.sky, using images courtesy of http://mousiestock.deviantart.com and http://antiretrovirus.deviantart.com
Chapter 1

I woke up in Hell. Again. As I've done every morning for far too long, I stretched, yawned, rolled out of bed and stumbled to the mirror. Yep, there I was, staring right back at me. I continued my routine.

Bloodshot eyes. Check. Two days' stubble. Check. Memory of last night. Missing. Hmm. Nothing surprising there. All seemed well, or at least as well as it ever got, so I stumbled off to the bathroom in search of pain relief. I have to tell you here that, despite the way it sounds, I don't actually have a drinking problem. I know, I know. You've heard it a hundred times, "I'm not an addict. I can quit whenever I want." Thing is, in my case, it's true. I can quit. I've done it before, and gone years without a drink. Then things get on top of me again, and I find temporary solace in the bottle.

I suppose I should mention here that I'm immortal. When I say "years", it can mean one, ten, or a couple of hundred. Hmm. Maybe I should have prepared you for that a little better. Tell you what. Forget I said anything. I'm just some scruffy looking thirty-something guy who may or may not have a drinking problem.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself. Cassiel's the name. Cassiel Malcolm. Was Malachim, but it's a bit of a mouthful, frankly, so I changed it. Also, it led to a few too many questions. I wish it were that easy to change other things... Anyway, I suppose I should get on with my story.

So. There I was, rummaging through the medicine cabinet in my tiny little two-roomed 'apartment' when I heard a knock on my door. It was a quiet little knock, like the person on the other side was hoping whoever was home wouldn't hear, and they could get on with their life while honestly saying "I tried". Well, I heard it, and it worried me. I should point out here that I don't have what you might call a social circle. Not even a social dot, really. I have no family, few friends, no job, and according to Government records, I don't exist. I do have all the necessary documents, of course, just in case I ever need them, but generally speaking the Government doesn't bother me and I don't bother them.

My building technically doesn't exist either. The other tenants were homeless people who enjoyed having a roof over their heads and no hassles from law enforcement. No hookers or dealers though. I made myself quite clear on that one. Anyone caught flouting the rules was politely asked to leave. I never had to ask twice. You might say I've gone to great lengths to ensure a peaceful existence and to avoid being noticed. You'd be right. My point being, almost no-one knew where I was, so why was someone knocking on my door?

I unlatched the bolt quietly, squinting through the peephole. There was definitely someone there. Looked like a male, about 180 cm tall, late forties, heavily built. Hmm. Curious. A slow, deep breath later I yanked the door open.

"What?"

The '6-foot tall 40-something solid guy' turned out to be a five-foot-eight woman who most certainly was not heavily built, and looked a good fifteen years shy of forty. She had long, wavy brown hair that hung past her shoulders, vivid blue eyes, and a figure that made me wish I'd at least put clothes on before I answered the door. I made a mental note to clean the peephole.

"Umm, Cassiel?" She asked the question in such a way as to make it obvious she hoped I'd say no. I had to disappoint.

"Yes." Suave, aren't I.

I noticed that her eyes seemed not to focus on me, but rather at some distant point over my shoulder. Actually, they seemed to flick from right to left and back again. I was glad in a way, as Little Cassiel had woken up and appeared to be taking an interest in the conversation, or at least in our visitor.

"I'm Angela. Angela Edgecombe. Um, may I come in?"

This was one of those 'adult movie' moments – you know, the kind where an impossibly endowed housewife doesn't have the money to pay for the pizza, so she offers to pay the also-impossibly-endowed delivery guy in 'other ways'. I had never before had a woman ask if she could come to my place, especially not a woman as attractive as this one. Little Cassiel was busily sending his opinion to my brain, but unlike the majority of males on this planet, his vote did not override my common sense.

"Ah, now's not the best time," I replied. "If I had a maid, it would be her day off."

"Please," she said. Were those tears in her eyes? "It's important."

I shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I don't know you from Adam, and I have no idea what an attractive woman such as yourself would find important enough to cause her to wander into the house of a total stranger." And I had no intention of finding out.

"Okay." She spoke so quietly that I almost didn't hear her. She sniffed a little, then began to turn away. Just then, my cell-phone rang. I know, I don't have many friends, so why do I need a phone? We live in the digital age, remember? Everyone has a cell. Also, how else am I supposed to order pizza?

I hesitated, unable to decide what to do next. The phone trilled again – the not-so-dulcet strains of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' as butchered by a blind, tone-deaf, one-handed keyboardist. "Come in," I said. I didn't wait to see what Angela would do; I bolted back inside and tried frantically to locate the phone before whoever it was hung up, while simultaneously trying to throw some clothes on. I was lucky – the phone happened to be buried under my clothes, so I was able to accomplish both things at once.

I slid the phone up. "Speak."

The voice on the other end sounded like a prank-calling pre-teen. I knew who it was immediately.

"Hey. It's me."

"Yeah."

'Me' was Demid E'mon. Six feet six of ebony-skinned, muscle bound body, and a less-than-forgiving nature. He was the kind of man you prayed you never met in a darkened alley at night. Until he spoke. Then you just prayed he didn't hear you laughing. I wasn't kidding about his nature. He once beat seven bikers to within an inch of their lives when one of them made a disparaging comment about his voice. His name kind of gives it away, if you think about it. It's funny, most of us keep some kind of link with our history, almost as if we're afraid to strike out and forge new identities for ourselves.

"Is she there yet?" Demid asked.

"Who?"

"Angela."

I turned around. Angela had indeed come in, and was trying to sit on my sole chair by resting the absolute minimum of her body on it. Her eyes were flicking around the room, taking in the lack of personal items and the abundance of chaos.

"Yes."

"Good. You need to listen to her. Call me when you've heard what she has to say."

"Will do."

I hung up, strode over to the door and closed it, then turned back to my guest.

"That was Demid," I said. "He said you have something to tell me?"

Angela straightened up and looked me in the eyes. I swear I felt a jolt of electricity when she did, something I haven't known since Marta.

"My father's missing." She said. "He went out to the store ten days ago, and never came back."

I shrugged. "So? That's the kind of thing the police should be involved in, not me."

"They can't help." She slumped then, her strength seeming to leave her in one quick rush. "He was... he... he was like you."

"Like me? What do you mean?" Despite myself, I was interested. It wasn't like Demid to send random women to my place, or to do anything nice for someone he wasn't intimately familiar with. For him to do so must have meant that whatever Angela's story was, it was big.

She pointed one long, delicately tapered finger at me. I noticed that her nail-polish was slightly chipped, and the nail itself was raggedy, as if it had been chewed. The others bore the same scars.

"He had a tattoo the same as yours."

That was a shock. My 'tattoo', a pair of full-sized swan-like wings on my back, wasn't something that I made public. I suppose it could be called a mistake I made in my youth, although that's not really doing the story justice. It's also not really a tattoo; it was the mark given to me long ago when I Fell. Demid has a similar one – a pair of black bat-wings. He Fell too, but not from the same place as me. For Angela's father to have the same mark as me meant that we had a similar history. Not enough to usually convince me to assist a stranger, but something about Angela made me think twice about telling her I wouldn't help.

"What was his name?"

Angela told me. When she did, I was glad I hadn't asked her to leave. I also wished that I owned more than one chair. I needed to sit down, to do something to take the edge off the news. I settled for grabbing the nearest bottle of JD, which was conveniently positioned on the floor near the bed, where I'd dumped it the night before. I unscrewed the cap and took a long pull before speaking again. Angela just waited, hands bunched together in her lap, fingers entwined.

"Jeepers. Your dad was Michael?"

She nodded. Michael. One of my oldest friends, and I hadn't even known he was here, let alone that he had a family. I suppose it's not actually too surprising, given that most of us like to keep to ourselves, but still. That was a piece of news I never thought I'd hear.

I sat on the edge of the bed, wincing at the squeaks of the ancient springs. In a voice I hardly recognized as mine, I asked her to tell me everything. She did, but it wasn't really much more than she'd already said. She lived with her dad in a suburb not dissimilar to mine, in a once-prosperous neighborhood on the other side of town. Mom had died a few years ago. Michael made a living doing handy work for people in the neighborhood, and Angela worked at a homeless shelter. It was a peaceful, fulfilling life for both of them, apparently. Then, ten days ago, Michael had gone out to pick up some groceries, and had simply vanished.

Angela hadn't been able to go to the police because her dad, like me, didn't officially exist, and she was bright enough to realize that the cops would ask her more questions than she'd be able to answer. She'd waited for a week, trying to act normally, then broken into Michael's private office. Inside, she'd found Demid's phone number, written on the back of an old family photograph. It took three more days of not having any other idea of what to do before she'd called him, and he'd passed her on to me.

I needed another drink. I unscrewed the lid again, raised it to my lips, then remembered there was a lady present.

"Want some?" I asked.

Angela shook her head. Her hair, which had looked so lustrous earlier, now revealed itself to be greasy and tangled. She'd obviously forgotten how to take care of herself. I finished my drink, and the bottle, and just sat for a moment, enjoying the warming glow of the alcohol sliding down my gullet.

"Jeepers."

"You said that already. What I want to know now is, can you help me? And what's your connection to my dad?"

I thought for a moment before replying. Not easy, really, with the alcohol and endorphins rushing around my body like roaches on crack.

"I can help you," I said. "Whatever happened, we'll get to the bottom of it. As for my connection to your dad, well, he was one of my oldest friends."

This didn't placate her.

"That's not an answer. I mean, if you and he were so close, how come he never mentioned you my whole life? When did you meet – you're not that much older than me? None of this makes any sense."

I could see that she was close to losing it, so I did what felt right. I leaned closer, rested a hand on hers and looking her in the eye. Zap! There was that lightning again.

"It doesn't matter right now," I told her. "I promise I'll tell you everything later, but right now we need to find Michael."

She shuddered slightly, then sighed.

"Okay."

And that was that. I took a few minutes to shower and dress, and when I emerged from the bathroom, it was to an apartment that looked as if a team of maids had just spent five hours giving the place the works. I could actually see the floor again, and my Leaning Tower of Pizza Boxes had been compacted, tied together, and placed at the door. She'd even tidied my bookshelf.

"Wow." It was all I could think of to say. Angela shrugged, and actually blushed a little too. The moment dragged on, and before it got too awkward I gestured to the door.

"Let's go."

As we left the apartment, I made sure I locked the door behind me. Can't be too careful in a neighborhood like this. We descended the stairs, and I called Demid.

"Don't go anywhere." I said when he answered. "We'll be there soon."

Chapter 2

Demid's residence was above his tattoo parlor. Black Thorn Tattoos was a glass-fronted studio just off Forty-First Street. Coffee shops, bookstores and fast-food joints were his neighbors, mostly built once the University Campus expanded. The exterior of the studio was clean, well presented, and completely the opposite of what you'd expect. Inside was the same. It was well-lit, containing four separate booths for clients, as well as a consultation room and waiting area with free coffee, juice and magazines. The walls were decorated with full-color posters of designs drawn by the tattoo artists, including Demid himself. My personal favorite was a simple front-on view of a black panther. The fluid grace of the panther's muscles was evident in the pose, and gave the undeniable impression it would leap at any second.

Angela and I walked in. The bell over the door tinkled, and Candy, the receptionist, greeted us with a thousand-megawatt smile. The overall effect of the lighting, layout and general set-up was more like a doctor's office than a tattoo studio.

"Mr. Malcolm," Candy said. She always called me that. No matter that we'd known each other since she was twelve, when Demid had rescued her from a life of prostitution and taken her under his, ah, wing. She was nineteen now, and to look at her, you'd never know there was anything shady in her past. Her blond hair was always cut in the latest style, her makeup was flawless, and she always wore the best clothes. She continued speaking.

"He's waiting for you upstairs."

She gestured toward the rear of the studio, at a large door marked "Private". Like she needed to. I'd been visiting Demid here since he first built the place. I nodded, and we moved off. Around us, the air was filled with the curious blend of new-age music, the buzzing of the tattoo needles, and the occasional grunt or whimper of pain.

The door opened silently, and the two of us mounted the stairwell. Demid was never one to skimp on style, as evidenced by the studio itself and Candy's wardrobe, and the stairwell was no exception. The stairs, balustrades and walls were all made from Mahogany, polished and shining. Exactly in the center of the stairs was a thick carpet imported from the Middle East. Evenly spaced along the walls, all in matching frames, were a series of inspirational quotes and images from throughout history. When one finally reached the landing, the motif continued. Antiques from numerous countries and cultures were displayed in thick glass cases above plates describing their origin, age, and cultural significance. At the end of the hall was Demid's front door. I rang the bell.

"It's open."

Inside his apartment, we were greeted by the smell of frying bacon. Demid was in his kitchen, wearing the black leather gloves he was almost never without, a screaming purple shirt, matching pants and a designer apron, of all things. He was busy scrambling eggs. He put the bowl down as we walked in, and practically bounded over to us.

"So glad you've arrived," he said.

He attempted to envelop me in a bear hug, but I sidestepped and punched him full-force in the face. It hurt.

"You knew Michael was here and you didn't tell me? I thought we were friends."

Demid scowled, looked for a moment like he wanted to rip my head from my body and spit down my neck, then reconsidered.

"I suppose I deserved that," he growled. "But let me tell you, you are the only person who has ever gotten away with laying one on me, and if you do it again, I can't guarantee I'll be so charitable."

He turned to Angela, who was standing, shocked at what she'd just seen.

"And you must be the lovely Angela. Sit down, sit down. You're just in time for brunch."

He rubbed his jaw. "If I'm still able to masticate after what Cassiel just did."

I felt the anger draining slightly. I had known Demid for years, and if he hadn't told me about Michael, there was probably a good reason. I answered for Angela and myself.

"No, thanks. We don't really have time."

"Don't have time to eat? Ah, my boy, you need to learn to appreciate the finer things in life. There is nothing nicer than a well-prepared meal, accompanied by the right beverage, except when that meal is in the company of a woman such as this one. But where are my manners. Sit, sit, and tell me why you are in such a hurry."

I did. We took seats at the dining table, Demid having already laid three place settings and placed plates of bacon, croissants and a selection of spreads in the center of the table. For once, Demid was speechless, and the food had gone cold in front of us when I finished.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "When I received the call from Michael's daughter, I didn't think to ask her story. I just sent her off to you, assuming something good was finally going to happen to you."

He turned to Angela, his broad muscles rippling as he moved.

"And to you, my dear, I truly apologize. Had I known the seriousness of the situation, I never would have wasted your time on these trifles." With a flick of one massive arm, he sent the plates flying to the floor. Then he leaned forward, cradling his head in his palms.

"Tell me what I can do."

Angela looked over at me, back at Demid, and then the tears started. They spilled from her eyes like a flood, trickling initially but building to a raging torrent in a matter of seconds.

"I don't know." She managed to gasp out. "I don't..."

"There, there." Demid took her hand in his, and just held it until the tears slowed.

"Cassiel. We need to get moving on this. Have you been to Michael's yet? Seen what you can find?"

I shook my head. I needn't have bothered. When he gets going, Demid almost forgets that there are other people around. He doesn't actually expect people to answer his questions, and doesn't hear them if they do. He slapped himself on the forehead.

"Of course not. You came here as soon as you heard. Well. You go to Michael's and have a poke around. I'll make some calls, see if I can turn anything up. And Angela, dear Angela, will stay here until we know something. "

He stood, and strode off in search of his phone. Angela looked over at me, her eyes asking a thousand questions

"It's okay," I told her. "He must've been pretty close with your dad to give him his number. And he's the man with his finger in all the pies. If anybody knows anything, he'll find out."

I rose slowly, trying to get my bearings and work out the best course of action. I'm not normally a man who rushes into things, but this situation hadn't given me much breathing time so far. I had the feeling it was going to be a sign of things to come.

"One thing," Angela said. "I'm not waiting here helpless. I'm coming with you. He may have been your friend, but he was my father."

There was steel in her voice. The same steel I'd often heard in Michael's. I knew from experience that there was no point in arguing, so I simply nodded. We headed for the door.

"Angela's coming with me," I announced to Demid as we left. For once, he didn't argue. He must be rattled, I thought. Then we were through the door, and on our way to the street. Angela didn't utter a word as we left. She walked like her father, with long, purposeful strides. People saw her coming and instinctively moved out of her way. She didn't even notice, she was so focused on whatever was going on inside her head.

We walked two blocks to the nearest subway station, descended the endless flights of concrete steps, and approached the gate. Being a Wednesday morning, there weren't many other people at this hour. Reasonable people were mostly at work or busy doing whatever they did at home, and the people who called this station home had gone to wherever they went during daylight hours. We boarded the train, and managed to find two seats in a mostly unoccupied car. I looked around at the other passengers, a habit developed over the years. No matter where I am, I like to take note of the people around me. It's saved my life more than once. There was no-one who drew my attention, so I relaxed and let the rhythm of the train calm me somewhat. It came as something of a shock, then, when one of the other passengers approached us.

He was... well... bland. Mid-twenties, white, short brownish hair and green eyes partially hidden behind sunglasses. He wore a suit that must have been pricey when bought new, although that looked to have been around five years ago. In his left hand, he held a black leather briefcase that had also seen better days. Everything about him screamed salesman. As he got closer I noticed a tan line on his ring finger. I tensed, wondering what was going on.

"Excuse me," the guy said.

Before I could respond, Angela did.

"How can I help?"

Gone was the woman who had broken down in tears only twenty minutes earlier. In her place was a warm, compassionate woman who gave off a sense of peace and welcoming. It was weird.

The guy scratched his nose, looking for the right thing to say.

"I don't know how to say this, but..."

Angela looked up at him.

"I know." She said. Just that. And "it will get better."

And just like that, it was over. The guy gave a smile that lit up his whole body, and walked back to his previous location. There was a spring in his step that hadn't been there before, and he seemed to lose a few years as I watched.

The rest of the trip passed in silence. I couldn't quite get my head around what I'd seen. It just didn't make sense, unless... no. Couldn't be. At least, I hoped it wasn't.

Finally, we reached our stop. The doors slid open, we got off, and then Angela turned and watched as the train pulled away. She waved at the salesman, and he returned the gesture.

Not a word was said as the two of us made our way to Angela's home. I was trying to make sense of what I'd seen and what it might mean, and I have no idea what she was thinking. I did notice her steps start dragging the closer we got to the house, however.

It was a little before noon when we arrived. The sun was high overhead in a clear blue sky, it was pleasantly warm, and the spruce trees lining the street were standing tall in all their pointy glory. Number 625 Elm Street (sometimes I wonder about the intellectual capacity of street namers – I have no idea why they would name a street dotted with evergreens after a completely different species of tree) looked identical to its neighbors on either side. It was a two-story, pale blue wooden house with a white picket fence, some flowering shrubs which gave off a pleasing odor, and a Star Wars welcome mat in front of the door. The only thing missing was a dog and a couple of rug-rats scampering across the well- maintained lawn.

Angela led the way up the concrete path, removed a key from her purse, and opened the door. Inside, the house what just what you'd expect from the exterior and the neighborhood. It positively screamed 'happy family' – framed photos in prominent places, everything one could see from the door clean, tidy, and looking like everyone who lived there appreciated a clean environment. I had to swallow a small lump of envy which arose suddenly in my throat. There but for the 'grace' of – no. I refused to let myself complete the thought.

Once I was inside, I followed Angela upstairs to her father's office. I couldn't help noticing the pleasant shape of her rear as she climbed the stairs, or the way it swished gently from side to side. I shook my head. Now was not the time to be thinking those thoughts, and especially not about Michael's daughter. It was practically incest, for Goodness' sake. We got to the door, which looked very much like all the others except for a small hand-lettered sign which read "Private". It looked as if it had been written by a young girl – the dot above the 'I' was a small pink heart. As Angela opened the door, I noticed that the door jamb was damaged. She noticed me noticing, and stopped.

"I did that when I was trying to get in," she explained. "He always kept the key with him, and I don't know if he even had a spare, let alone where he would have kept it."

I nodded, and stepped through the doorway.

Michael had always been reserved and controlled, at least when I knew him. None of that was evident in his office. Piles of papers littered every available surface, along with various depictions of religious imagery, and the words "why" and "love" scrawled over the walls and even the ceiling. I turned to Angela, my lips forming a question which she answered before I even began to speak.

"It was like this when I came in. The only thing I did was have a quick look through some of the papers for anything useful. That's how I found the photo."

She showed me where it was: on the desk in what would originally have been in pride-of-place. Now, it was half-buried under a mound of paper. I noticed a few shards of broken glass stuck inside the frame.

"How did this happen?"

"I did it. I got so frustrated that when I found it, I just picked it up and threw it across the room. It broke, and the picture fell out and landed upside down, which was when I saw the phone number." She took a breath, then continued.

"After I called Demid, I couldn't just leave it, so I picked up the glass and put it back. I didn't want dad to know how bad things got for me when – if –he came back." She stopped then, unable to continue speaking as the reality of the situation came back and hit her again. I know what that's like. You think you're starting to get past something, and then bam! It's like you're experiencing it for the first time. The pain hits you just as hard as it did originally.

I gave Angela's shoulder a friendly squeeze, and pretended not to notice her tears. Carefully, I nudged aside the stack of paper covering the photo, then gingerly lifted the frame so I could get a better look at what the man I'd known had become. Yes, I said gingerly. I may be immortal, but I'm not stupid. Those little cuts hurt, and if you've ever had to sit for an hour trying to pick a collection of tiny glass splinters out of yourself, you know it's better to be safe.

I almost think that my trepidation was less to do with the glass and more because my subconscious had picked up on what I was going to see and was trying to delay the inevitable. Whatever the reason, once I'd lifted the frame and gotten a good look at the photo, all my old pain came back in one humongous hit. The picture was a nice happy family shot of mom, dad and daughter taken outside the house on a day very much like today. The sun was shining on everyone; toothy smiles abounded, and you could see immediately why someone would keep this particular picture somewhere they could see it often. That wasn't the problem. The problem was the people in it. Michael looked just as I remembered him, which hurt a little. Next to him stood a teenaged Angela, and on the other side, the happy smiling face of Michael's wife. Angela's mother. Older, but still easily recognizable. The woman I'd fallen in love with and been banished from Heaven for.

Chapter 3

Her name was Marta. She was raven-haired, coffee-skinned, sweet natured and beautiful. I'd been assigned as her Guardian, to watch over her. I'd done so happily, as I attended to all my tasks back then. I'd watched her grow, seen her take care of animals and younger children in the village, and been glad that I had been given such a rewarding assignment. Of course, it wasn't all smooth sailing. She'd fallen out of a tree aged six, breaking a leg, and I'd had to mend it without her knowing as she lay in a semi-conscious state. Then there was the time she was on the receiving end of a sharp stick courtesy of an older boy and a make-believe sword fight. Restoring her eye wasn't too difficult, but getting it done without anyone (including Marta) knowing, well, that was a challenge. Fortunately, the older boy was known for stretching the truth, and Marta's memory was once again clouded by the trauma, so again I managed to heal her without anyone being the wiser.

They were the most serious incidents in Marta's youth, and she eventually outgrew childhood dangers and moved on to adulthood and all the risk and responsibilities that entailed. She was married off to someone from a neighboring village at age 15, and embarked on her new existence with the joy she had shown in everything almost from birth. Her enthusiasm didn't last long though.

Her new husband Batis was twice her age, overweight, with two other wives and a wicked temper. As the youngest (and prettiest) wife, she was forced to endure his attentions more than the others. The older wives were jealous of her, and went out of their way to make her life as miserable as possible. Marta bore all these burdens stoically, as always, and survived for three years, giving birth to one healthy girl and two still-born boys, before things got really bad.

She had just returned from milking the goats, placed the pail in its usual spot on the floor, and set about tending the fire, when it happened. Batis came roaring out of the tent in one of his rages. They were happening more and more frequently these days. Marta greeted him, and asked what she could do to please him. His response was simple: "Nothing! You've already shown how pathetically useless you are!"

He dashed back into the tent, and returned, carrying their two year old daughter Anushka by the ankles.

"Your useless whelp of a daughter has just soiled my favorite boots. Again!" He yelled.

"I am so sick of her, and you. What kind of useless cow are you, that you can't teach your child to respect her father's property?"

Marta began stammering a response. Anushka was screaming and crying, waving her arms around. Batis didn't wait for an answer. Raising his arm, he smashed Anushka head-first into the rocky ground. Her screams of fear turned into screams of pain. Then he did it again. And again.

Marta stood frozen for a few precious seconds. Her brain couldn't comprehend that what she was seeing was actually happening. Then her mothering instinct kicked in, and she charged at Batis, yelling obscenities. He had time to pound Anushka into the ground once more before Marta was on him, kicking, scratching and screaming. There was no chance she'd win. He was a good head taller, and outweighed her by quite a bit. He hurled Anushka away and backhanded Marta full-force. She stumbled to the ground and crawled toward her daughter, calling her name.

Marta's husband aimed several hefty kicks at her as she crawled. She ignored them all, moving as fast as she was able, until she finally reached Anushka's side. Anushka was dead. Her head had been caved in from the repeated blows, and blood, brain and pieces of skull lay scattered on the ground beside her.

Marta had time for one wail of agonized distress before he was on her, all vicious punches and insults. She didn't even try to defend herself; just lay over her daughter as if trying, too late, to protect her. She didn't seem to feel the blows that rained down on her, breaking bones and rupturing organs. This only served to enrage Batis further, and he continued, punching, kicking and screaming wordlessly at her, lost in the grip of his rage.

It was a tenet written in stone for Guardian Angels: Thou shalt not directly intervene in matters between mortals. According to the rules, it was acceptable for Guardians to shepherd their charges and protect them only as long as no-one else found out. That meant I was supposed to stand by and observe as Marta was beaten to death by her pig of a husband. Fat chance. It was at this exact moment that I realized I had already broken another sacred rule: Thou shalt not fall in love with thy charge.

I threw off my invisibility and charged the pig. He had his hands wrapped around Marta's throat and was squeezing the life out of her. Before he knew what was happening, I had used my sword to lop both of those hands off at the wrist. As the shock of what had just happened reached his brain, I swung again, beheading him. Then I dropped to my knees and took Marta in my arms for the first and only time. I kissed her gently on the forehead, looked deep into her brown eyes, and used the last of my Angelic energy to heal her injuries. She looked mutely up at me, a strange combination of gratitude and fear in her eyes. Then she pointed to Anushka, battered and broken on the ground. I shook my head. The moment I'd interfered between her and her husband, my fate had been sealed; I was unable to do anything further.

It was at about this time that a rope net was thrown over the two of us. The other two wives had been watching everything from the security of the tent, and now took action. They had us bound and trussed within minutes, and one of them went to fetch the village elder. A 'trial' was convened immediately. The two 'grieving widows' spun a tale of a non-existent affair between Marta and myself. They claimed that I had fathered Anushka, and had killed their husband after he had discovered Marta's treachery and executed the proof of her betrayal.

The elder bought the story. Marta and I were given no chance to explain ourselves; Batis had owned the largest flock of goats in the village, and the eldest wife also happened to be the elder's daughter. We were sentenced to death by stoning. Once again, Marta bore her punishment bravely, without protest or even a sound. She simply sat, tears streaming down her cheeks as the stones flew in, pounding, bludgeoning and breaking her body exactly as Batis had done. And this time, I wasn't able to assist. I got to watch helplessly, screaming at them, knowing that the same thing would happen to me.

Once my physical body perished, I found myself again among the Host. I also found myself being tried again, this time for disregarding the rules of Angelic conduct. Michael was presiding. Angels do not lie, 'massage' the truth or deal in any kind of deception, so there was no chance I would be found innocent. Regardless of what I felt was justification, my actions had contravened the laws. Michael stood over me as he pronounced sentence, hands placed on my shoulders as I knelt before him.

"I have known you for a long time, Cassiel," he said slowly. "I have watched you rise through the ranks to become Guardian, and I was pleased. Now, it is my unfortunate duty to pronounce sentence upon you. You broke our Laws. You cannot be allowed to remain among the Host, and so you are to be banished. Sent down to walk the world Below for eternity, contemplating your sins."

I couldn't really process what was going on; Michael had been my closest friend among the Host. It was he to whom I turned when I needed advice about my duties, and he'd always made me feel that he wasn't just doing his job by helping me. Now he was banishing me. It didn't make sense.

"I have been assured that the process is painless. You will retain your memory and personality, but will lose the abilities granted you as a member of the Host. You will walk the earth until God in His infinite wisdom and mercy sees fit to forgive you. Go in peace."

He turned away, took two steps, then turned back.

"It may relieve you to know that both Marta and the child have been granted places here," he told me. Then he walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself here. I didn't know it at the time, but like other Fallen, while I may have lost my Angelic abilities, I had been granted immortality and another Gift, one that I would not learn about until later. Other than these two facts, Michael had been right; the process was painless, at least physically. Emotionally was a different story, as I had once again re-discovered the hard way.

Chapter 4

I dropped to my knees, a wordless cry escaping my lips as I fell. The photo slipped from my hand and wafted lazily to the floor. Angela was beside me in a second, all curiosity and concern.

"What happened?"

I shook my head. I couldn't form any words at the moment; my head was too full of questions. Michael and Marta? Both Fallen? Why? How long were they here?

After a fair few deep calming breaths, I regained some semblance of control. I sat, rested my hands on my knees, and began speaking.

"Angela," I asked carefully, "this photo. It's of you and your parents, right?"

She nodded.

"And you said your mother was dead?"

"Yes. A car accident five years ago. I was at school, and dad told me when I got home. But what's that got to do with –"

I cut her off. You may remember earlier I mentioned that I was immortal. All the Fallen are; it's part of our sentence. I should know. I've survived three car crashes, a plane crash, two horse-cart mishaps and more than a few 'accidental' drownings. The latter occurred during my first years on earth, and despite failing the first couple of times, I persisted in trying unsuccessfully to end my suffering. I gave up after ten attempts, and turned instead to the miracle of alcohol. It just wasn't possible that a car accident had killed Marta. Of course, it was always possible that Angela's mother just looked exactly like Marta.

"Tell me. Did your mother also have a tattoo?"

"Yes. She said that she and dad had gotten them as a symbol of their love, before I was born."

Well, that answered that question. Unfortunately, it raised a whole lot more. I looked up. Angela was still regarding me with a strange expression on her face, and endless compassion in her eyes. I took another deep breath, then hit her with the information she needed to hear.

"I'm not sure how to tell you this," I began, "but there are a few things you need to know. Your parents were both Fallen Angels, like me."

I held up a hand to forestall her questions.

"It's best if I just explain as best I can, and then answer your questions." I told her. "I've got a feeling that this is all tied up with whatever's happened to your father."

I told her then, sat in the mess of her father's office, the sounds of a summer wind whispering outside. I explained my past (the first time I'd done that since I'd met Demid), how that tied in to her parents, and how her mother's 'death' could be related to Michael's disappearance. To her credit, she listened without comment, not even adjusting her position as I prattled on. Finally, I reached the end of what I knew, and moved on into supposition.

"Your parents were both Fallen. They had Gifts, even if they never showed them. It looks like you have too."

"What do you mean?" She asked in a quiet voice. It sounded like I'd possibly overloaded her with information. The human brain is an interesting machine. It is capable of storing limitless amounts of data, but only if it's acquired at a steady pace. What I'd just done was the equivalent of shoving fifteen foot-long Italian sausages into the garbage disposal all at once. The machinery was working, but it was going to take some time to process everything.

"That guy on the subway. Cleaning my apartment five minutes after you met me. None of your behavior so far has been what I'd exactly call normal. It's the only explanation. "

I didn't tell her other things I knew – that children who inherited Gifts often self-destructed, unable to deal with their abilities. Some suicided; others took their frustrations out on the world around them, and had to be put down. I didn't think it would be fair to burden Angela with that knowledge on top of everything else. And besides, so far she hadn't shown any sign of instability. On the contrary, she'd been more controlled than almost everyone I'd ever known.

She grunted.

"Hunh."

Slightly less expressive than I'd come to expect, but whatever. She was obviously still processing. And none of this had actually gone any way towards finding Michael. I had my suspicions about what had happened to him, but I didn't know why, and that was what we needed to find out. I also needed to know what had really happened to Marta five years ago. While the Fallen (on both 'sides') are immortal, we can be killed. It's messy, painful, and not something that's generally known. This ability is also passed on to our children, even half-breeds. This was something else I'd found out the hard way, with Samuel.

He was my son. After wandering the earth for a while – days, months and even years had blurred together, I'd settled down with a woman named Elspeth. She was a plain-looking woman, with a generous smile and a kind, patient nature. To this day I have no idea what possessed her to take an interest in me and coax me out of the pit of melancholy in which I spent my days (at least while sober), but I was eternally grateful. Her patience and kindness had led me to accept what had happened to me, and to begin to move forward with my life. I suppose I began to confuse gratitude with love, and we eventually married. She knew what I was, and accepted the issues which went along with it. A year after our simple country wedding, we were blessed with Samuel. He had inherited my blond hair and green eyes, and brought nothing but joy into our household for ten wonderful years.

Then things started to get strange. Elspeth caught him one day 'playing' with a kitten he'd found. The poor creature had been strung up by its tail, and was mewing pitifully. Elspeth heard the noise and went to investigate. Samuel told her that he was playing pirates, Elspeth believed him, the kitten was released, and that was the end of it. Or so we thought. As I discovered years later, Samuel had learned from his first experiment, and every animal he subsequently caught and 'played with' was first taken somewhere that no sounds could be heard. None of this came to light until the week before his eighteenth birthday, when the daughter of one of our neighbors went missing. She was seven, pig-tailed and buck-toothed, and had last been seen not far from our farm. The plans for the birthday party went out the window, as everyone put their resources into finding her.

Three days of fruitless searching later, I chanced upon a girl's hair ribbon caught in one of the trees on the easternmost border of our property. This was a wooded area which was rarely used; brambles made it too hazardous to walk through, and we had more than enough crop-growing land as it was. This area was one of the last places we could think of for a child to end up. Now, it looked like she had indeed been this way. As I stooped to pick up the ribbon, I caught sight of footprints in the dirt. Carefully moving the brambles aside, I discovered a well-worn path which had been carefully concealed.

I looked to the sky. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and the air tasted of lightning. It looked like the storm would be at least an hour away, and Molly was more important than my staying dry, so I walked forward, calling her name repeatedly, but not getting a response. The footprints were too large to be those of a girl, but almost looked as though the owner had been carrying something heavy. I continued following the footprints, dodging whatever hazards were in my way, and eventually arrived at a clearing. Someone had spent a lot of time removing the plants from the area, and building a pair of wooden tables. I saw one of my axes lying on the ground. In the middle of the clearing, Samuel stood, bent over one of the tables. I had come up behind him, and his body blocked my view of whatever he was doing.

"Samuel?" I called.

He bolted upright and spun around, eyes blazing with a ferocity I'd never seen.

"What?"

As he'd turned, I'd caught a glimpse of what looked like a flowered dress hanging limply off the table.

"What are you doing, son? And what's that on the table?"

Realizing he'd been caught, Samuel let out a deep-throated growl and charged towards me. As he did, I saw enough of what was on the table to know what had happened to the neighbor's girl. The late afternoon light flared off his eyes as he ran at me, picking up the ax and switching it to his left hand as he ran.

I guessed what he was about to do, and held up my right hand to block the ax's descent. Unfortunately, it was a feint; he followed up with a swift kick to the groin, and I doubled over, pain shooting through my lower belly. Then he clubbed me over the head with the flat of the ax.

I woke up tied to the second of the tables. Splinters dug into my back from the rough-hewn wood, and my wrists ached from the rope which bound them. Samuel stood over me, unmoving. In his hands was a pair of shears, acquired, no doubt, from the farm's tool supplies.

"So now you know." He said. "Your 'darling boy' has a secret. Like you."

"What do you mean?"

"How stupid do you think I am, father? The marks on your back, the fact that we've never lived in one place for more than a few years at a time, the fact that no-one trusts you."

That was true. My Gift was the ability to detect lies. On the flip side, I was unable to lie, no matter the reason. It made dealing with people...difficult to say the least. We Fallen have been blessed with Gifts, but also cursed with their opposite side. I have often wondered why.

"And the fact that I can do this."

He held up a small brown rabbit, opened the shears and quickly slashed across its neck. Its nose twitched in time with the blood dripping from its throat. Samuel put the rabbit next to me on the table, calmly sliced his hand open with the shears, and allowed a few drops of his blood to fall on the rabbit's wound. In seconds, its throat had healed, and it sat, sniffing the air warily.

"Well?" That single word was an accusation.

"Son, I didn't know. I promise."

He didn't let me continue speaking, just cut me off by waving the shears in front of my face.

"It's too late now anyway, father. Look at poor Molly." He laughed. It was a chilling sound, one that I'd still be hearing in my dreams a hundred years later.

"There seems to be a limit to the damage I can heal. I wonder how much you can take."

"No!" I shouted the word with as much force as I could. That single syllable seemed to stretch out for a good ten seconds. At the same time, a large gust of wind knocked down a tree branch on the other side of the clearing. Samuel dropped the shears, surprised. By some miracle, they landed blades down, slicing through the skin and tendons in my right wrist. Blood began to pour from the wound, allowing me to slip my hand free from the rope and pick up the shears just as he turned back around.

The wind was stronger now. It whipped Samuel's hair around, making him look like a madman. The madman that I now realized he was. With tears blurring my vision, I slashed with the shears. I caught him across the belly. A line of bright red appeared on the front of his shirt, and a bellow of pain came from his mouth. Curling my arm back at the elbow, I thrust the shears as hard as I could at him. They struck him just below the breastbone and slid deep inside. I could feel them rending flesh, fat, muscle and organs. He dropped to his knees, stunned, hands frantically clasped across his belly.

He was no threat to me now, so I used the shears on my bindings, and managed to get myself free in a few seconds. I slid off the table, and looked down at my son. He was still kneeling, but no longer appeared to be in pain. As I watched, he took his hands away from the wound. I could see the blood flow slowing. He raised his head, looked right at me, and bared his teeth in an animalistic grin.

"Surprise." He said.

He uncoiled himself like a snake, exploding at me faster than I thought possible. I raised the shears by instinct. Samuel took the blades through the throat. Blood poured out, covering me, and he dropped once again to the ground.

I stood, dumb, for a few moments, and then stumbled over to the second table. Molly's Earthly remains lay there, curiously peaceful-looking. I could make out scores of small cuts on her arms and legs, and could see more through the tattered flaps of her dress, which were now waving in the increasing breeze.

I heard a sound behind me, and turned. Amazingly, Samuel was pulling himself upright. The gaping hole in his throat had closed, and he was regaining a healthy color. He stretched his arms up, and over the wind I could hear the sounds of things popping and sliding back into place. I knew what I had to do, so I did it. God help me, I dismembered my own son.

When it was done, I separated the pieces and burned them. The wind had picked up, which caused the fire to spread farther and faster than I had anticipated. It raged through the dry brambles and trees, consuming Molly, Samuel, and me. Of course, I healed. An hour after the blaze had taken me, it had moved on, and I went the other way, once again leaving my life behind.

Elspeth took her own life after the fire. I hope that she never found out what had transpired in those woods. All anyone else knew was that Molly, Samuel and I had tragically perished in a fire during the worst thunderstorm the area had seen in twenty years. It was assumed that Samuel and I had been looking for Molly, found her, but been trapped by a lightning-ignited inferno.

From that day on, I shunned all forms of romantic entanglement, and went to great lengths to avoid fathering any more children. I was mostly successful on both counts.

Chapter 5

Angela was still mulling over everything I'd told her, so I picked myself up and began to hunt through the screeds of paper which were scattered around the office. The majority of them appeared to be news clippings from all over the country. They had been painstakingly glued to plain A4 sheets, allowing Michael space to scrawl notes about them. The earliest was from five years ago, right around the time of Marta's death. There were reports of disappearances and unsolved homicides, all of which seemed to be unconnected.

My phone rang. Demid.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I think I've found something. How are you two doing?"

I quickly relayed what we'd discovered, including the full details of Angela's parentage. I was still annoyed at him for not telling me about Michael sooner. After an uncharacteristic silence, Demid asked if we'd be able to go back to the studio when we finished up in the house. I said yes, and hung up.

We spent another hour trying to make sense of everything we found, without success. Accepting defeat, I suggested that I return to Demid's. Angela strongly disagreed. She told me in no uncertain terms that she was going to find her father regardless of my wishes. She was a grown woman, she said, and more than capable of doing this. The effect of her speech was diminished somewhat by the way she stomped from the room, which strongly reminded me of a tantrum-throwing two-year old. I had to mentally slap myself for watching her hips sway as she walked.

Anyway, we packed the papers into a briefcase, closed up the house and headed out into the street. It was slightly busier now; the neighborhood children were on their way home from school. A few of the mothers smiled and waved to Angela. The children all seemed to stop to tell her about their days, what they were wearing or some other irrelevant part of their lives, and Angela had time for them all. It seemed to take two hours just to make it to the subway stop, which strained my patience. I let out a large sigh as we boarded the train, looking forward to fifteen minutes of peace. As luck would have it, my peace lasted exactly seventeen minutes.

Just as we disembarked the train, Angela's phone rang. She fished it out of her purse as our fellow travelers swarmed around us. A few judiciously placed elbows soon ensured us a reasonably sized safety zone, and gave Angela the chance to answer as we moved over to the wall.

"What the?" She muttered, reading the caller ID as she raised the phone. She didn't have to complete the sentence. I caught a glimpse as well, and even upside down I could read the word "dad". I just knew that this could not be good.

"Dad?"

Her face fell as she heard the response. She listened for a few more seconds, then spoke again.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks. Where did you say you were? Got it. I can be there in... an hour? Great. See you there."

She hung up, and put the phone back into her purse.

"That wasn't him, was it?" I asked. I already knew the answer, but it seemed like the polite thing to say. She looked up, straightened her shoulders, and answered.

"No. Just some guy. He said he found dad's phone, and called all the numbers until someone answered. I'm supposed to meet him at a café called Cuppa Joe's over in Newtown to pick it up."

Something didn't smell right about this to me, and wasn't just the fact that the wall by which we were standing seemed to double as a urinal for homeless people. I mean, Michael had been gone for ten days. If a phone manufacturer had a battery that could last that long, they would be making a killing. Not to mention the fact that it wouldn't take ten days to call everyone in a phone's directory. Especially since "Angela" would be at the beginning of an alphabetical listing.

"So let's get going," I said. We did.

The journey to Newtown involved two transfers, moving through nondescript tunnels decorated with posters for stage shows, films and businesses. I didn't take the subway often, preferring most of the time to walk. I don't tire very easily, and when you're a gentleman of leisure like me, you're never really in a rush to get anywhere. Now, after seeing the mindless drones traipsing from one platform to the next, acting like Olympic sprinters to get on the train before the doors closed, and witnessing two incidents of pick-pocketing, I was glad I didn't travel this way more often. In case you're interested, both would-be thieves found me attached to their arms as soon as they'd lifted the wallet or whatever, and very quickly returned the property with a mumbled "Ithinkyoudroppedthis", before scurrying off as fast as their legs could carry them. I know they probably just moved on to another target, but I couldn't just stand back and do nothing.

We finally exited, walking out of Newtown Station into the fading afternoon sunlight. Angela had told me that Cuppa Joe's was near the Newtown Library, so we followed some convenient signs, and soon found ourselves utterly lost. Don't laugh. I ended up having to ask a stranger for assistance. Ten strangers later, the best response I'd received was a two word sentence which best translated to "go away". Everyone else had just ignored me, or looked at me like I was something they'd scrape off the sole of their shoes. People. Gotta love 'em.

I was just about to give up and suggest catching a cab, when Angela tried. The woman she stopped was in her forties, heavily made-up, wearing a navy business suit, carrying a briefcase, and wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. Everything about her suggested that we'd be lucky if she didn't call the cops on us for daring to interrupt her life.

"Excuse me?" Angela asked.

The woman stopped, scowling.

"What?"

"We're looking for a place called Cuppa Joe's. Would you be able to give us directions?"

That was the exact spiel I'd used, and you know how successful that was. The woman looked for a moment like she was undergoing some inner battle, then answered.

"Sure do. Take a left at the lights. You'll see it on the right."

Well. If I was the type to use profanity, I would have.

"Thanks."

Angela leaned closer, and whispered something in the woman's ear. She walked away smiling, looking twenty pounds lighter and ten years younger. Women.

We started walking quickly toward the lights. I couldn't hold my curiosity any longer, so I asked what she'd said.

"Oh. I just let her know that her son is fine, and will be coming home from Afghanistan soon."

Ah. Her Gift again. It figured.

We made it to the café without further problem, which was nice. Cuppa Joes was nothing like its homely name would suggest. It was a garish, glass and chrome monstrosity that took up the bottom two floors of the building in which it resided. It was hard to believe that only ten years ago, Newtown didn't exist. Urban sprawl had necessitated developing 'unused' forestland, so now, instead of trees, flowers, birds and small mammals, we were treated to glass towers, trashcans and rats of both the rodent and human variety. Some call it progress. I don't. Typically, the geniuses at the Planning Department had failed to come up with an original name for the new town.

I held the door open for Angela, and we entered. Mass produced baked goods were displayed alongside massively inflated prices, and the smell of coffee that wafted out as we opened the door was much less pleasant than I was used to. I read somewhere that coffee beans brew best at around 200 degrees Fahrenheit. It smelled like someone in here was doing it at 200 Celsius.

Even so, the place seemed to be doing a brisk business. Indistinguishable in their business suits, the twenty-somethings gathered here purchased coffees, donuts, bagels and the like and sat around discussing work while doing something computer related using the free wi-fi. It took a bit of work to locate a free table, but we managed it.

"What does he look like?" I asked once we'd sat down.

"I don't know. He said he'd find me," Angela replied.

This felt fishier by the second. I looked around, making a mental note of the doors and trying to come up with some exit strategies. The only one I could think of was to run, which posed a problem if there was more than one of them. Now, I don't want you to think I'm a coward. I have spent time in three different armed services, as well as completing a stint with the Warriors before I Fell. I have certainly seen my share of combat. I just try to avoid fights wherever possible. If I'd actually spent some time thinking about this, I would have brought Demid along. His mere presence is a great deterrent to physical violence, and if that doesn't work, he can brawl with the best of them. He's spent years learning the precise locations to hit on the human body, and the exact amount of force required to cause maximum pain, incapacitation or death. Definitely the kind of guy you want to have on your side during a fight.

But we didn't have Demid. I decided to order a coffee while we waited. When the barista repeated my order (tall black, house blend) and told me the price I was glad I was immune to heart attacks. $7.50 for a cup of coffee! For that price, I hoped it would arrive in a gold-plated cup, served on the backs of a troupe of dancing midgets. I was disappointed.

I walked back over to the table, clutching my polystyrene cup with plastic lid. During my absence, one of the twenty-somethings had detached himself from the rest and taken a seat beside Angela. He was decent-looking, with short black hair, glasses and a monobrow. He looked innocuous enough, but I'm well aware that looks can be deceiving.

"I found this on my way to work last week," he was saying. "I'm just glad I can get it back to you."

He was lying. I didn't know why, but he was.

He took a phone out of his jacket pocket and passed it across to Angela. Tears welled in her eyes as she saw the miniature photo of herself attached to the back of it. It was definitely Michael's. The guy excused himself and walked away. I kept an eye on him, and saw that he went straight for the door to the bathrooms. Angela didn't look like she would be going anywhere for a while, so I followed him. The bathrooms were labeled in English, French and something which looked like Swahili, although it could just have been graffiti. I stood outside the men's room door for a few seconds, but couldn't hear anything, so I crossed my fingers and went in.

The walls were a dirty beige; one of the stalls had an "out of order" sign taped to the door, and the aroma was... well, let's just say I knew I was in a public bathroom. I stepped outside and checked the door, just to make sure that I hadn't gone into the wrong room. I hadn't. Taking a deep breath, I darted back inside. The door to the third stall was closed. Hoping no-one would come in, I positioned myself opposite and bent down, peering under the door. Brown shoes. The guy with the phone had been wearing black ones. Hmm.

Cautiously, I checked the other three stalls. They were all empty. Which meant that either the guy was actually transitioning between genders, or something really fishy was going on. I thought about checking out the ladies', but decided against it, and returned to the table. I could feel something of a headache beginning behind my eyes, probably caused by the aroma of the café, so I suggested we leave. Angela stood without a word and marched towards the door. She was still clutching Michael's cell phone, and that gave me an idea.

Demid's Gift is the ability to 'read' objects. Depending on how recently and intimately something has been touched, he can get all kinds of information. If he was able to get a reading off Michael's phone, we might learn more about the mysterious Samaritan, or even about Michael himself. His curse is an inability to turn it off. Think about the amount of things you touch in the course of a day. Hence his gloves.

Thinking of Demid reminded me that we were supposed to be meeting him. Our hour-long journey had already taken closer to two, and he was not known for his patience with tardiness. As we walked, I fished my phone out of my pocket and called him. He answered after only one ring. I filled him in on what we'd been doing, explained my idea, and told him we'd be back at the studio in no more than an hour. He told me that if I wasn't, we'd be having liver (mine) for dinner. As I hung up, I couldn't help but reflect on the strange ways friendships develop.

It had been raining the morning I first met him, a cold shower that did nothing to refresh. I was in the process of picking myself up from the gutter in which I'd bedded down the previous night when I heard the scream. High-pitched and full of emotion, it cut through my hangover faster than a guillotine through an apple. I was on my feet and moving toward the scream before I was fully aware of what I was doing. By the time my brain had caught up, my feet had already taken me to the mouth of one of the alleys nearby. My vision was still a little hazy, and it was hard to see because of the distance, the early morning light, and the fact that I was panting heavily, but it looked like a woman was being assaulted (robbed? raped?).

Never one to back away from a woman in distress, or possibly because I was suffering an attack of alcohol-induced invincibility, I charged. Dodging trash cans, piles of refuse, vomit and things I did not want to know the origin of, I sprinted as fast as I could. I got there too late.

There was the sound of a gunshot, and the woman fell. Her attacker turned, saw me approaching, dropped the gun, and fled. He had the advantage of sobriety and not having already run what felt like a half-marathon, so I had no hope of catching him. I picked up the gun, tucked it into my pants, and stopped by the woman, crouching down to see how bad her injuries were.

Up close, she was as ugly as sin. She must have weighed over 300 pounds, her black hair was shaved almost bald, and her acne-scarred ebony face looked like she'd been repeatedly beaten by every member of a college fraternity as an initiation rite. She was, without a doubt, the least physically attractive woman I'd ever seen. The effect was not helped by her choice of outfit: black boots, leather gloves, and a floral-print muumuu, now with a blood-red rose slowly spreading across the center.

None of this had any bearing on my actions of course.

She was lying on her side, still breathing thank God, so I moved around to get a better look at the wound. Out of nowhere, an arm the size of a small tree wrapped itself around my neck, and a delicate voice whispered.

"Got you now, fucker."

For someone mortally (or at least seriously) injured this broad was quick. I didn't have a chance to explain myself before I found myself lifted off the ground and held one-handed against a wall. I could feel something squelching behind my back, and the pistol barrel was edging dangerously close to the forbidden zone, but I had slightly more pressing matters with which to be concerned. Upright and up close, something became clear: her Adam's apple. 'She' was a he. And he was pissed off.

"God damn it!" He railed, gesturing at the muumuu. "You ruined it! Do you have any idea how much imported Italian silk costs? Looks like I'll have to take the value out of your hide."

I would have offered the opinion that the stain was hardly noticeable against the garish colors that made up the print, but due to the crushing pressure on my throat, I was unable to talk. It quite possibly saved my life.

He drew back his other fist. I had half a second to come up with an escape plan, but I wasted it berating myself for allowing my heroing instincts to get me in trouble again. He hit me in the ribs. Hard. I felt some of them break, and a curious scraping sensation deep inside. The impact also knocked all the wind out of me, denying me any chance of talking myself out of the situation. He hit me twice more in roughly the same place, and when he'd decided that I was tender enough in that area, he went to work on my face. I blacked out after the first punch, and when I came to (wishing I hadn't – everything hurt like a mother), it was to find that I was now strung up in what smelled like a meat-packing plant. My arms were chained together above my head, and my legs dangled three feet above the concrete floor.

I took a cautious breath. It felt like my ribs had healed somewhat, which was good, and some of the cobwebs in my head had faded. Around me, under the flickering fluorescent lights, I could make out rows of hooks, chains and stainless steel tables. The floor was decorated with rust-colored stains, and my erstwhile rescuee was busily stropping a large bladed implement twenty feet in front of me. The sound echoed eerily around the room. As I watched, he finished up and tested the blade on his thumb, watching with grim satisfaction as he made himself bleed. Then I noticed the cut close up, and the pieces started to fall into place.

"Ah, you're awake," he said. I still couldn't get over the voice. It was at such odds with his physique that it seemed it must belong to someone else. He stalked over to me, swinging the blade like a cane. It looked more like a machete than a simple carving knife, and I felt a knot of panic coil in my belly.

"Wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun, Hunter."

My mouth opened without asking permission from my brain.

"Hunter?"

"Don't deny it. How much am I worth? A hundred? Two? Or do you get paid by the pound?" He raised his arms and pirouetted. "How much did it take for you to turn your back on your own kind? Come on. Don't be shy. You'll tell me all about it soon enough."

He raised the blade again and smiled.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I protested. " I heard you scream and ran to help. Then you got shot , the guy who did it took off, and I went to check you out."

He pondered this for about half a second, obviously decided I was lying, and stepped even closer. The tip of the machete pressed against my throat, and a couple of drops of blood oozed out.

"An interesting story, but highly unlikely." He whispered. "Really, what are the chances of another Fallen chancing upon me in the early hours of the morning just as I'm being attacked by a Hunter? I have to give you points for effort, though. Perhaps I'll make your death slightly faster as a reward."

He tapped the point of the blade against his upper lip, thinking.

"I tell you what. I'll make you a deal. You tell me everything I want to know, and I'll dissect you humanely. Make it difficult, and I'll conduct a live vivisection. What do you say?"

Sometimes I really would like to be able to lie. This was definitely one of those times.

"I told you already," I said.

"Oh, goody," he replied. "I was hoping you'd go for that option. Now, where to begin..."

He lowered the machete, took off his gloves and picked it back up. His eyes flickered for a moment, and he smiled. Something about that smile made me feel like a mouse watching the hawk swoop down, knowing he's going to be dinner, but unable to do anything about it.

He started prodding me with the tip of the blade. I swung wildly, trying vainly to get away. As I did so, the attacker's gun fell from my waistband and clattered to the floor. The sound startled us both. I couldn't imagine how he hadn't found it while lugging me from the alley to here.

"I do so detest guns," he said, bending down to take it in one massive paw. "So... impersonal and lacking finesse."

As he touched the weapon, his expression changed. Although his body was still present, it seemed that his mind went somewhere else for a few seconds. When it returned, he dropped both the gun and the machete. Then he stepped up to me again, all traces of anger seemingly gone from his face. He reached up, unclipped my hands and caught me as I fell. As tenderly as a mother cradling a newborn, he carried me over to one of the tables and lay me on it.

"My apologies. It looks like you were telling the truth after all," he said. "Imagine that. You must have the worst luck imaginable. Demid. Demid E'mon."

He stuck a hand out. I stared at it dumbly, unable to work out how I'd managed to go from 'about to die' to 'likely to live' in a matter of seconds. Then my better manners took over, and I took his hand and shook it.

"Cassiel. Cassiel Malcolm."

After a couple of intense hours of conversation regarding our respective origins (without going into too much detail, of course – couldn't collaborate with the enemy), Demid let me go on my way. He had a good belly laugh at my story. It turned out that the scream which initially sent me to his 'rescue' was in fact a bellow of rage. He gave me his telephone number and instructions to call if I ever needed anything. I thanked him and got as far away from that place as I could.

A couple of years later, I ran into some Hunter trouble of my own. Having nowhere else to turn, I contacted Demid. To my surprise, he remembered me. Together, we were able to solve my problem (albeit in a messy kind of way). We discovered that, origins aside, we actually had some things in common. Over time, he showed me his softer side and I repaid the favor by sharing some of my history with him. From strange beginnings do friendships sometimes grow.
Chapter 6

We arrived back at Black Thorn tattoos within the appointed hour. My liver was pleased. It suggested a drink to celebrate. I declined.

Candy greeted me as always, and once again directed us upstairs. This time, when Angela opened the door, a much different view greeted us. Over the last few hours, Demid had somehow set up what appeared to be a fully equipped CSI style lab in his living room. Glass cubicles with individual ventilation systems housed all kinds of beeping, buzzing and flashing equipment. I couldn't even begin to guess what any of it did.

Demid himself was crawling around on the floor, cables and duct tape in his hands, thumbtacks in his mouth, and a big black plumber's butt staring us right in the face. He was humming something from Motown – I think it was Diana Ross. It didn't look like he'd heard us enter, so I decided to let him know we were there.

"Ahem," I tried. I would've loved to make a comment about his butt, but my sense of self-preservation refused to let me.

He didn't respond. I tried again. "Ahem!"

Demid turned around like a dog looking for the perfect place to poop. His gaze traveled up to our faces, and he hurriedly stood. He doesn't like being caught in compromising positions.

I pretended we hadn't seen anything embarrassing, and filled him in on my idea about Michael's phone. He liked it.

"May I?" He asked Angela gently. "I promise I will return it to you shortly, none the worse for wear."

He really has the most archaic way of talking sometimes. Part of it is because he's been around so long, and the other part is because he enjoys the affectation of it. He also says it's a great way to make new lady friends. He certainly never seems to have trouble in that area, so perhaps there's something to the theory.

Angela gave the phone over without protest. As soon as Demid took it, his eyes glazed over. He stood stock-still for a good fifteen seconds, then started twitching. The twitches became tremors, and after a further thirty seconds he had a full-on seizure. He fell to the floor like jelly, his arms and legs started flopping around, and he began to foam at the mouth.

I tried frantically to hold him steady, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. Angela and I double-teamed him, me holding his arm while she wrestled the phone out of his grip. As soon as she did, the seizure stopped. Demid was still unconscious, but his breathing was regular. I sent Angela into the kitchen for a glass of water. He woke up just as she returned.

"What happened?" He rubbed his face and shook his head from side to side, jowls wobbling.

"Not sure," I said. "You were holding the phone, and then it looked like you flashed back to your years as one of the Break Dancing Boogie boys." When things get a little stressful, I sometimes resort to making lame jokes. Occasionally, I even make funny ones.

"Not funny," he growled. "It was an experimental phase, and I do not want it ever mentioned again."

I helped him over to a royal blue leather couch which had been positioned by the breakfast bar, and he sat down gratefully. Color had begun to return to his face, and he seemed not to be suffering any lasting ill effects from his 'turn'. He took the water Angela offered, and gulped it down. Then he ruminated. He folded his legs up onto the couch and placed his hands, palm up, on his knees. Experience told me that there would be no talking to him for a while, so Angela and I set about trying to go through Michael's papers again.

Twenty minutes of wasted effort later, Demid spoke.

"It's worse than I thought."

We both stopped what we were doing and turned to face him.

"What do you mean?" Angela said.

"I told Cassiel earlier that I may have discovered something. It appears that a group of Hunters has set up in our fair city, and that they may be linked to whatever has happened to your father."

I didn't question the information; Demid has sources in so many places that very little escapes his notice. He was right, though. This was bad news. Hunters were people who accepted contracts on people like us. They came from a variety of military backgrounds, and underwent intensive training on the best ways to dispatch the Fallen. They were well-resourced, likely funded by at least one of the major religions, and highly organized. Usually, they worked alone or in pairs. If a group had set up base here, it spelled trouble for all of us.

Demid continued. "And after what just happened, I have learned something more. That phone was handled by someone like me – a Fallen Demon. Powerful. We are in deep shit, people."

"Maybe the Hunters are here for him." Angela suggested.

Demid shook his head. "No. There's something else going on, something I'm not seeing yet. I need to get the word out – let everyone know it's not safe to be here anymore."

He stood and walked slightly unsteadily to a wall-mounted phone. It was an exact replica of the Batphone from the 1960s TV show. Demid picked up the receiver, punched in a series of numbers, waited a few second, then hung up.

"Done."

I mentioned earlier that the majority of us like to isolate ourselves, and don't make a habit of sharing our origins. Demid was something of an exception. Over the years, he'd become acquainted with a good many Fallen, on both sides of the Angel/ Demon line. We were actually more similar than you might think. Angels usually Fell for disregarding the rules; Demons for demonstrating un-demonic types of behavior, such as a measure of compassion. This put us closer to the center of the moral divide than our compatriots on either side, and, as anyone who's spent a long time in a minority group will attest, our similarities drew us together more than our differences kept us apart. It's important to note, though, that even within our own 'races', there were often marked variations in personality and behavior. I had known Fallen Angels who were more psychotic than any Demon I'd encountered. One such was a former 'business partner' of mine called Lailah.

Chapter 7

It was the era of free love, mind-altering substances and hideous fashions. I'd taken up residence on the East Coast, and had made a few friendships. Three of us, all Fallen, all Angels, were living together in a loft. The heating was broken, the windows didn't close all the way, and the electricity would only work between the hours of midnight and eleven A.M. but we were happy. We spent our days in a haze of substance-induced bliss, reminiscing about our pasts.

The first time I saw Lailah I almost fell off my bean-bag chair. She was tall, willowy, with curly red hair and a lithe grace that reminded me of a panther on the prowl. Dressed to kill in a tight black mini dress, she stalked into the apartment and walked straight up to me.

"I'm looking for T," she said. Her voice was like honey.

"He's in the bathroom," I said, then enjoyed the view as she walked away.

There were no working locks in the apartment, but we never cared. Lailah walked to the bathroom, went in and came out a few seconds later leading Thomas by his beard, which was brown and reached his collarbone.

"Ow," Thomas complained. "That hurts."

"Good."

Lailah dragged him over to the couch and made him sit. He looked up at her, traces of white powder around his nose. I wondered why he hadn't shared.

"So." That one word contained layers upon layers of meaning. "Explain to me what was so important that you blew off our meeting."

Thomas scratched himself, thinking hard. I found myself smiling, wondering what Lailah looked like under her dress. Little Cassiel was quite interested as well. He thought she'd look quite nice, and I was inclined to agree.

After half a minute, Lailah ran out of patience.

"Don't bother," she told Thomas. "There are plenty of others who'd kill to get in on the ground floor of this."

She stood and took a step in the direction of the door.

"Of what?" I heard myself say.

Lailah stopped, noticing me properly for the first time.

"Only the hottest dance club ever to open in this festering sinkhole of a city."

"I like dancing," I told her. I really sound like an idiot when I'm not in complete control of my faculties. "How can I get involved?"

Lailah looked at Thomas, then beckoned to me.

"Why don't we discuss this elsewhere?"

I was on my feet and out the door in less time than it takes to say it.

We went back to her place, a top-floor penthouse apartment complete with mirrored ceilings and a Jacuzzi. Everything inside was in pristine condition. That should have been my first clue that something wasn't kosher, but Little Cassiel was doing the thinking.

The specifics of what we discussed eluded me, but I agreed to partner with her in the opening of a new club where the music would be recorded instead of played by a live band. That would mean more variety and fewer hassles regarding bands not showing up, being a member down, or not wanting to play for 4 hours straight. The way Lailah explained it to me, this was going to revolutionize the dance scene, and we stood to make a tidy sum.

We sealed the deal with a couple of bottles of champagne, and a few rounds of bedroom wrestling. Little Cassiel had been right: she did look very nice under her dress. I particularly admired the wings, almost identical to mine, that adorned her back from the tip of her shoulders to just above her butt.

I hadn't had much experience with business, but Lailah assured me that she would take care of everything. After the initial meeting, we met every week, usually in some swanky restaurant or other. Gentleman that I am, I paid for the dinners. She paid me back in... other ways. I gave her the cash she said it would cost to purchase the land, build the club and get the required permits, but otherwise stayed out of it.

Things ran like that for almost six months, which was the length of time Lailah had told me it would take to get things up and running. I started to get an idea that things weren't right when I asked her to take me to the club.

"Not today, the plumbers are in and the place is a mess," she told me. Every time I asked it seemed like there was a different excuse. I started poking around, seeing what I could find out about her.

Thomas said he'd met her in a park. She'd come up to him and struck up a conversation, then convinced him to partner with her using her feminine wiles. I started getting a bad feeling. The next time I saw Lailah I tried again, but again she refused to take me.

"Don't you trust me?" She spat. "You think I'm, what? Lying to you? Ripping you off? It's not ready yet. Jeez. Don't be such a downer."

She was right. I had considered the idea that she was lying to me, but dismissed it. After all, I had my Gift. There was no way anyone could lie to me without me knowing. No way at all.

She lied to me. Not directly, because I would have known, but she found a way. Every word she said was the truth: it would take about six months to build and open the club. It would cost whatever amount of money. What she didn't tell me was that she wasn't actually opening the club with me; she was doing it with some guy whose name ended in a vowel. She was just taking me for a ride, in more ways than one.

Things finally fell into place when I 'accidentally' knocked her purse off the table one night during dinner, and happened to look through it as I picked it up. Inside was a little black book with names and phone numbers. I copied a couple down and placed her purse back on the table just before she returned. The rest of the meal proceeded in silence. Upon its conclusion, Lailah informed me that we couldn't finish off the night in the usual way as she had an appointment.

"About the club?" I asked.

"Yes." She wasn't lying.

I grunted in response.

When I got home, I called one of the numbers I'd memorized and had a very enlightening chat with a man named Frank. When my conversation with him finished, I tried the other number. A woman named Star answered. Yes, she knew Lailah, and yes, she was involved in an up-and-coming business. I told her what I knew. Suddenly, the gold had been scraped from Star's future, revealing nothing but tarnished brass.

The next time I saw Lailah, I confronted her. I told her that I knew she was scamming me, that I'd talked to Frank and Star, that she'd reached the end of the line. This time she didn't try to deny anything. She laughed at me.

"Well done, Cassiel. And what are you going to do about it?" She poked at me with one of her long painted nails. "Are you going to smack me around, make me beg for forgiveness and plead for the chance to pay you back?"

I hadn't actually thought of what I'd do next. I'd just sort of hoped it would come to me. Lailah continued talking.

"Don't waste your time. This isn't the first scam I've run, and it won't be the last. Why do you think I con Fallen? They usually have the money, and can't afford to get the law involved."

While she was talking, she was scrabbling around in her purse for something. She pulled her hand out, and in it was a small .22 caliber pistol which she pointed at me.

"Goodbye Cassiel," she said, squeezing the trigger.

A .22 might not be the most powerful caliber weapon, but at close range, and when you know what you're doing, you can still do some serious damage. Lailah must've known what she was doing. She shot me right in the, ah, man parts. By the time my body had knitted itself back together, she was long gone.

Now I know not to judge a Fallen by their wings.

Chapter 8

There was a knock at the door, startling me.

"It's me," came a voice from outside.

"Enter."

The door opened. I could feel adrenaline starting to rush through my body; that old fight-or-flight reflex. Unless I had no other choice, I usually opted for flight.

A short Asian guy with frizzy white hair and thick glasses shuffled into the room. How he'd managed to make it up the stairs without suffering a coronary was beyond me – this guy looked old. He was wearing a tweed suit, complete with red waistcoat and matching bow tie. There was no way that this guy was a threat. I could feel the tension easing out of my muscles.

Demid performed the introductions. The 'professor' was a long-time associate, Fallen like us. His name was Shoku, and his Gift lay in pattern-recognition. I couldn't see how that would be useful to us – it wasn't like we had a 3,000 piece puzzle lying around that we needed help with.

Demid pointed Shoku to Michael's papers. He gathered them up without a word and shuffled into one of the glass cubicles.

"He could be there a while," Demid informed us. "How about some dinner?"

He was definitely feeling better if he could think about food. Angela said she was feeling a little hungry, and I concurred. Demid wandered into his kitchen, and soon a host of fantastic aromas flooded the room.

A little while later Demid returned, carrying four plates piled high with some kind of Ethnic food. I had no idea what it was, but it smelled divine. We ate on the couch as all the other furniture was somewhere else. Nothing was said; we were all too busy eating.

Once the meal was finished, Demid walked over to Shoku's cubicle and tapped on the glass. We could no longer see inside: every inch of the wall had been covered in paper. An intercom hissed into life, and we heard Shoku's impatient "what?"

"Just checking on your progress," Demid told him. "And enquiring if you wanted something to eat."

"Well, I was getting somewhere until you interrupted me, and if I need any food I'll let you know. That it? Good."

The intercom clicked off, and that was that. There was nothing to do now but wait.

It was the early hours of the morning when Shoku finally left the confines of his cubicle. In his hand he carried a sheaf of computer-printed pages. None of us had been sleeping, so we were all ready to hear what he'd found. We'd discussed what Demid had discovered about the new Fallen Demon in town, but hadn't really worked out how he fit into the situation.

"It wasn't easy," he told us," but I did find something. Someone less-brilliant than myself would have come up empty."

He peered at us expectantly. No-one said a word. Seeming somewhat put out, he continued.

"There was a method in Michael's madness. What he had done was track all the unsolved homicides nationwide over the last five years which fit a particular pattern. It appears that he was interested in a serial killer who has gone to great lengths to avoid being noticed by the law. What's more, he's been very successful at it."

The three of us were on the edges of our seats now, waiting with bated breath for whatever was coming next. Shoku recognized this, and began to play it up, clearing his throat and sliding his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"Get on with it." That was Demid.

"Ah, well, yes. At first glance it appears that the homicides are unrelated – dissimilar methods of demise, various locations around the country, apparently unconnected victims. It is only when one peers closer that the connections begin to appear."

He leaned forward, looking over the tops of his glasses at us.

"You see, all his victims, every last one of them, was... a pedophile."

He stopped, looking like he was waiting for applause or something. None was forthcoming.

"And how is that relevant to Michael's disappearance? He wasn't a pedophile, so how is he connected?" I asked.

Shoku scratched his nose while he pondered the best way to answer.

"The most logical explanation is that somehow the killer became aware that Michael was on his trail, and, uh," He glanced at Angela. "Removed him from the equation, so to speak."

It made sense. In a way, it was almost a relief to finally hear someone say it out loud. From the beginning, it hadn't seemed likely that Michael had just, say, gone on a bender and would turn up hung-over but otherwise okay. The thing was, though, none of us had wanted to say it, almost out of an irrational fear that by speaking it we would make it happen. At least, that was why I hadn't said anything, and now did not seem the best time to ask the others.

I glanced over at Angela. Her expression looked a little more relaxed than before; some of the worry lines had faded, and there was more resignation than pain in her eyes.

No-one said anything for a while. Then Demid spoke.

"Thank you, Shoku. This alone doesn't give us enough, though. Would you be able to continue the search, see what else you can discover?"

The old man nodded, and shuffled happily back to the cubicle. He still hadn't eaten, but it didn't seem to bother him. I cast a sidelong glance at Demid. I'd never heard him speak that respectfully to anyone before. He caught my glance and shrugged.

"Years spent in Asia. I can't help but respect my elders. You know, sometimes I think that may be why he chose that form."

I still couldn't see how everything fit together; the Hunters, the Demon, this pedophile killer, and Michael. I stood and stretched, joints popping. Out of nowhere, a yawn escaped my mouth. I noticed that Demid looked tired too, and Angela had developed something of a glazed look. I made a show of looking at my watch.

"It is late," Demid said, picking up on the hint. "You two should go to bed. Cassiel, you know where the guest rooms are."

I nodded, and led Angela toward the door.

"What about you?" I enquired.

"I shall be fine here. A little meditation will do wonders for me. See you in the morning."

A single door off the living room led to the bedrooms and bathroom. The guest rooms were all identical. They contained a queen-sized bed covered in pillows, two bedside reading lamps, oak cabinets for storage, and 42 inch flat-screen TVs. The floors were richly carpeted, and the windows were covered in thick, cream-colored drapes. Demid's room was the only bedroom with a lock on the door. I had never seen inside it. The bathroom was just about as large as the bedrooms, holding a heated Bidet-style toilet, full bath and a shower cubicle with (according to Demid) room for three.

I showed Angela to her room, told her where the bathroom was, and went next door to my own room. Something I neglected to mention was the light switches. Every one of them glowed gently in the dark, reducing the whole stumbling around an unfamiliar room in the dark problem.

I flopped onto the bed, exhausted, scattering pillows to give myself some space. My eyes closed of their own volition, and I felt my breathing deepen. As I drifted off, I realized that I'd somehow gone almost the entire day without a drink. See, I told you I didn't have a problem.

Some time later, I came awake. The room was still dark, so I had no idea how much time had passed. I lay still, wondering what had woken me. Then I heard soft footsteps approaching. I sat up, hand reaching under my pillow for the sword I no longer owned. The intruder flinched back.

"I'm sorry," Angela said. "I didn't mean to... I just... I couldn't sleep, and..."

"Say no more." My eyes had adjusted somewhat, and I held out my hand, drawing her close. She resisted a little, then allowed herself to be gently guided next to me on the bed. Her breath came in small hitches. I ran my fingers through her hair, whispering soothing nothings. Eventually, we slept.

Chapter 9

When I woke again, faint traces of morning light were seeping in to the room. Angela lay on her side, head resting on my right arm. During the night, my left arm had curled protectively around her middle. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. We were both still fully clothed.

Carefully, trying not to disturb Angela's rest, I eased my arm out and slowly rose off the bed. I crept across the floor and went out to see Demid. He was still sitting on the couch, in a lotus position. His eyes were closed, but as soon as my feet hit the living room floor, they flicked open. Shoku still appeared to be working in his little glass box. I wondered if the little guy ever slept, ate, or did anything that normal people did.

"Good morning," Demid greeted me. "Slept well, I trust?"

"Well enough." I stretched and ruffled my hair. Hmm, maybe it was getting time for a haircut. Before I Fell, I kept my hair at shoulder length. Since then, though, I'd gone for a much shorter look – basically ash-blond bristles poking out of my skull. I hadn't had it trimmed for a while, and now it was around an inch long, with a distinct tendency toward flopping.

Demid joined me in some morning Tae Kwon Do, something else I hadn't done for a long time. It felt good to work my muscles, and helped to clear my head.

"What's the plan?" I asked as I toweled off when we were done.

"I'm not sure what our next move should be." Demid admitted. "I am concerned at the confluence of events which has occurred, and find it difficult to determine whether the Hunters, this new Demon, or Shoku's serial killer would be the best avenue to pursue first."

I joined him in thought. It certainly was a tough decision, all right.

"I think we should find out more about these Hunters." Angela had joined us, padding silently into the room. "You said they could be linked to my dad... to my dad's death. What exactly are they, anyway?"

I let Demid explain. He'd had much more experience with them than I.

He began by telling us their history. The Hunters were founded around the time of the Crusades. Some of the more zealous knights had managed to run a Fallen Demon to ground along with his Fallen Angel wife and a group of innocent Saracens – women and children, mostly. The knights performed their duty with incredible dedication; when they were finished, not a single person was left alive. They rode off, satisfied that Christianity was safe from the evils of females and children. While they were riding, Zaim and Abrar were regenerating. They saw what had been done to their people, and swore vengeance.

Two days later, they had it. They managed to infiltrate the knights' camp, locate the men responsible, and disembowel them. The camp woke to find a message scrawled in the blood of the dead men warning them to leave. They ignored it. For the next six months, Zaim and Abrar waged a war against the Crusaders. Eventually, though, Abrar was caught, tried and hanged. Zaim was captured as he tried to take his wife's body away, and the truth came out once the Captain witnessed Abrar return to life. Supposedly it took fourteen tries before the knights found a reliable method of killing Fallen and making sure we stayed dead. The reports on the incident made it back to the Holy Roman Empire, and the Church decided that action should be taken. They believed that, since they were the favored of God, their enemies were God's enemies. Therefore, all Fallen were the enemies of God, and it was the Church's Holy Duty to remove us from the Earth.

To that end, they established recruitment practices and battle codes and tactics that borrowed heavily from every great military mind. They had been slaughtering us ever since, every chance they got.

"It's why I set up the warning signal," he said. "Too many times our people have been trapped and Hunted like animals, just for being different."

When Demid finished, Angela nodded. "Then I definitely think we should find out more about them. It sounds like they're a danger to everyone." She sniffed. "It's what dad would have wanted – he was always reminding me about the 'greater good'."

That sounded like Michael. Kicked out of Heaven, he still held true to the beliefs that had been drummed into us from the beginning. Being aware of the bigger picture helped Guardians put their roles into perspective; the life of one was not worth the lives of many. Obviously, this was not a belief to which I subscribed.

With the decision made, we got ourselves sorted for the day. Demid cooked while Angela and I took turns in the bathroom, and with ourselves clean and well-fed, we set out to find out what we could about the Hunters' Nest.

Angela suggested that perhaps Michael had information hidden at her house. I couldn't really think why he would've, but one never knew, so we decided to begin our search there.

This morning was almost identical to yesterday. Few clouds marred the clear blue sky, and it was pleasantly warm. As we walked side by side, I felt Angela's hand slip into mine, and give a friendly squeeze.

"Thanks for last night," she said. "I needed to... I don't know."

"You're welcome," I said. Was that a frog in my throat? "Any time."

"I think I see what my father saw in you," she told me. She rested her head briefly on my shoulder, and we continued on our way.

Elm Street was a little busier this morning, being Saturday. Parents were frantically arranging children, animals, sports equipment and the like into vehicles, getting ready for 'family time'. Again, most of them stopped and exchanged pleasant words with Angela. A few even enquired about Michael. Angela always answered diplomatically, something I could never do. When asked about me, she just smiled, said I was an old family friend, and squeezed my hand. She didn't actually let it go for the whole journey, and it didn't make me in the least uncomfortable. Which made me a little uncomfortable, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, we arrived at the door eventually, and went inside. Everything was just as we'd left it. Angela immediately started searching through the books on Michael's hand-made bookshelf. It stood a little over six feet in height, and she told me that he'd made it himself, along with the majority of the rest of the furniture. I walked around aimlessly, feeling uncomfortable about going through other people's personal belongings.

The living room opened up into a small but functional kitchen, and through the back doors I could see a covered porch, upon which sat two wooden rocking chairs. For a moment, I could almost see Michael and Marta sitting there, holding hands while gently rocking and sharing each others' company. I was vaguely surprised to notice a distinct lack of jealousy.

"Didn't find anything." Angela's voice brought me out of my reverie. "What are you looking at?"

"Just admiring the porch, and those two chairs," I answered. "And I was imagining your parents out there."

My phone rang. I slipped it out and of my pocket and answered. It was Demid.

"Shoku has concluded his analysis, and has found something rather disturbing."

"Tell me more," I said. I walked through the kitchen, opened the back doors and sat in the left-hand rocking chair. I couldn't tell you why I did it, but I had the sense that I was going to need to sit down when I heard whatever it was Demid had to say.

"It appears that this killer has also been hunting us."

"Us?"

"Fallen. Demon and Angel"

"Oh."

"Indeed. Between one and two weeks prior to a pedophile dying, one of us has been killed somewhere nearby."

That was definitely bad news. Michael vanished eleven days ago now, which meant that if his killer hadn't already done what he came here to do, sometime in the next three days some baby-raping piece of scum would be killed (no great loss there). After that, the killer would vanish, if he hadn't already.

"Has there been another pedo killed yet?"

"Negative."

Well, that was something.

"Has Shoku turned up anything that could point us to where this killer might be?"

Demid grunted. "He has, actually. Said it was incredibly difficult, as always, but yes, our killer has left something of a trail."

That at least was positive. I knew from experience how difficult it was to stay completely under the radar, so it wasn't surprising that this guy hadn't quite managed it. The surprise was that he'd come so close to being invisible. Most people just can't do it – they're too tied to a physical location, money or people to disappear completely. The fact that this guy could suggested things I wasn't quite ready to let myself think about.

I was torn. I wanted to stay and help Angela, although I didn't know how much actual help I could be, but I was also very aware how little time we had. Angela made the decision for me. She'd followed me outside and stood in the doorway, listening to my end of the conversation.

"Go," she said. "I'll be fine here. If I find anything I'll let Demid know."

I nodded.

"Angela's going to stay here. Give me what you've got, and I'll see what I can turn up." I told Demid.

Ten minutes later, I was once again on the subway, this time heading for a less-than savory part of town. I laughed quietly to myself, eliciting a few weird looks from my fellow passengers, as I realized that I'd ridden the subway more in the last day than in the previous month.

I disembarked at the imaginatively named Riverside Station. Guess what the station's next to. If you said a river, you're absolutely right. Well, it used to be a river. Now, it was a thin brown stream of sludge that slowly and patiently worked its way over rocks, bikes, general refuse, human waste and the occasional corpse before oozing to the ocean.

It wasn't always like this though. Twenty years ago, Riverside had been a thriving community. The river ran clean and swift, and on a day like today you could see families swimming, fishing and picnicking on its banks. The decline of the auto industry resulted in massive job losses. Those who could, left. Those who couldn't go stayed behind, praying their children could get out. Now, most of those children had grown up and spent their days on street corners.

It seemed that every street I walked past looked the same: run-down dirty brown tenement housing, trash littering the street, underage hookers, middle-aged hookers, even a couple of old-aged hookers, and gang-banging punks trying to sell whatever the substance of choice was these days.

All-in-all, this made an excellent place for someone to lie low. No-one wanted the law to pay a visit, so everyone minded their own business. This also meant that our serial killer was dark-skinned; white folk like me only came down here if they were suicidally stupid, or if they wanted to buy something. I wasn't interested in sex or drugs, so guess which camp that put me in. There was no way the killer could have spent any length of time here if he didn't blend in. I certainly didn't, as I learned within the first two minutes. Once I'd declined the offer of a personal massage from someone's daughter and/or something to poison my veins with, the consensus was reached that I must be a member of the law enforcement community. I tried telling them I wasn't but unsurprisingly it didn't work. I knew that I couldn't rely on my winning charm and superior people skills, so I ran.

It took a long time for me to find the address Demid had given me. By the time I did, I had already been propositioned so many times I'd lost count. 336 East Riverside Drive was five stories tall, dirty brown, dusty, and judging by the lack of trash outside, unoccupied. The street side sported numerous broken windows and assorted other scars. On the left, a narrow alley ran between the buildings to the 'residents only' area. A rusted, broken gate swung sadly on its one remaining hinge. Across the street, I found a quiet place I could observe from, and settled in to wait for dark.

I passed the hours in an almost meditative state, aware of what was happening around me but not focusing on anything in particular. By the time the sun had set and the first flickering radiance from the few working street lights cast a sickly yellow glow over the street, I still had not seen anyone enter or leave the building. Interestingly enough, the pushers and pros tended to avoid the place as well. Casting a glance to the heavens, I walked briskly across the street and approached the front door. It wasn't locked, so I opened it slowly, praying it wouldn't squeak and give me away. It didn't.

Inside, the main hallway led straight to the stairs at the back. Evenly spaced along both sides were six solidly constructed steel doors leading to the ground floor apartments. Outside each apartment was the floor number followed by a letter from A to F. A, C and E were on the left; B, D and F on the right. Every door was open, allowing me to see the refuse and waste that had gathered inside. If the killer was as smart as he appeared, he would want to be on either the ground floor or top floor for ease of escape. Probably the top floor to allow for a less obstructed view of the area. People like him didn't get away with things for years by being sloppy, unless they were incredibly lucky.

Over the years I've picked up a little about urban combat, mainly through reading. My experiences in the military have been in rural, mountain areas or in places with an endless expanse of sand. Everything I'd read suggested that the best way to launch an assault would be from above. There was no way that I'd be able to get on the roof unless my wings spontaneously grew back. I gave my shoulders an experimental wiggle, just to see. Nope. It looked like I was stuck doing this the hard way. This made my job a little more difficult; if the killer was home, it would be almost impossible for me to find his lair without him knowing I was coming.

I crept forward as lightly as possible, wincing every time the rubber soles of my shoes squeaked on the floor, pausing outside every door and listening for movement. I heard nothing but rats, and eventually reached the staircase. Concrete steps led up in a simple reverse-u shape. A concrete barrier covered in peeling paint that once had been cream-colored (I think) prevented falls, but also obstructed the view up and down. Cautiously, I carried on.

I checked every apartment on every floor. Apart from garbage, used needles and a few used condoms I found nothing. It took an hour, but I reached the fifth floor. This was where the game would really begin.

Apartment 5A was empty, as was 5 B. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Only four more to go. The doors of the remaining four apartments were all still attached, and closed. This made my task a little more difficult, but I crossed my fingers and continued.

5C was unlocked, the door opening quietly and easily as I turned the handle. I ducked down, adrenaline starting to pump through my body, and crept inside. I was already familiar with the layout from all the other apartments, so I knew what I'd find. The door opened onto a living room with a small attached kitchen. On the right was a large window which, unlike on the lower floors, was not covered with burglar bars. I supposed they were somewhat irrelevant – not many thieves would be willing to chance a five-floor drop when there were easier methods of access. At the far end of the living room, another closed door led off into what would be two small bedrooms and a bathroom. I closed the door behind me, and carried on searching. It was empty, and had no signs of being recently occupied, so I left.

The next two apartments were the same. Though the doors were closed, a search revealed that they had been unused for some time. My adrenaline levels had decreased now, as my body was unwilling to keep pumping it around when it was so obviously not needed. I tried the last door. Locked. That was a good sign, in a way. It meant that someone had been using this place. Of course, it also meant that they may be inside now, and it prevented me from being able to open the door. Unless...

It was a chance. Not a very good one, but I gave it the old college try anyway. I pulled my keys out of my pocket, and began examining them one at a time to see if there was one which might, with a bit of assistance, fit the lock. I came up with three. The first didn't go in all the way, but the second did.

I was acutely conscious of the danger I was in if the killer was home, but I didn't want to leave without knowing. I jiggled the key a bit, turning the handle at the same time. Surprisingly, I felt the lock give. I tried harder, and was rewarded. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. I was not greeted by an armed madman, which was very very good.

5F had obviously been used recently. A pile of blankets had been stowed against the radiator, near a small gas cooker. Disposable plates and cutlery had been stacked by the window. The kitchen was empty, and the door to the bedrooms was closed. As quietly as possible, I closed and locked the door behind me. As much as I might need a fast exit if he was here, I felt it was more dangerous to have the door open if he wasn't here and came home. That one action probably saved my life.

I had just done a quick sweep of the living room and kitchen, when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They stopped right in front of the door, and then I heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock. As quickly as possible, I flung the other door open, slipped inside and closed it behind me. Crouching there in the dark, I could hear someone entering. He closed and re-locked the front door, and padded to the kitchen, muttering. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he didn't sound happy. I stayed where I was, mind racing.

Ten rather tense minutes later, the worst happened. The sounds of Nirvana cut through the silence, issuing from my pants pocket. Dang! Forgot to set it to silent. I knew I was in trouble. Reasoning that in this case offense would be better for me than defense, I threw the door open and charged. Across the room was my target. He'd been sitting on the bedding, arranging a large collection of various edged and projectile weapons. He was wearing dark colored combat-style clothing, and had a shoulder rig on, complete with holstered pistol. Hunter's garb. His black hair flopped lazily over his eyes, which were dark and curiously empty of emotion. He looked to be in his early thirties, Hispanic, lean and fit without being over-muscled.

He'd already begun moving before I entered the room. He rose, left hand going for the pistol as he simultaneously flicked up a katana from the floor and caught it in his right. He was fast. Much faster than he should've been. I didn't have time to really think about this though, as I'd already closed half the distance between us, and was heading rapidly into disaster. He dropped into a combat stance, weapons raised. Over his silence, my phone continued ringing.

I never heard the first shot, but I felt it as it hit my shoulder, spinning me around. I heard the second one as it whizzed past my ear maybe half a second after the first. I was across the room and on him before the next shots. My momentum carried us both into the window, through it, and out. I somehow managed to grab the windowsill one-handed as we fell, and swung heavily into the wall. The other guy wasn't so lucky. He fell the full distance, landing with a crumpling splat on the sidewalk. I pulled myself up carefully, then lay across the windowsill, panting. When my heart had resumed its normal rhythm, I looked down at the body. It was gone. I could just make out a blood trail leading away. There was no way that this guy was normal.

Now that I had some time to think, a few other things occurred to me. I'd never heard of a serial-killing Hunter before, let alone one who could take a five-story drop and walk away from it. I could've taken the damage, but then again, I'm not like most people. I kept finding more pieces to the puzzle, but so far didn't have even one corner to work from.

I squatted down and gathered up the Hunter's weapons, placing them securely in a large green duffel bag obviously kept for the purpose. It already held an assortment of firearms and ammo, two vials full of a thick red liquid and a syringe. The contents of the vials looked suspiciously like blood. I hoped it wasn't. The duffel bag had just enough room for the weapons which had been on the floor. As I was trying to fit everything in, I noticed something I'd missed before. Just poking out of the edge of the bedding was the corner of what looked like a photograph. I slid it out.

The picture was an outdoor camping shot. A man, the same one I'd just tangled with, and a girl of about nine, holding up a fish. Both had huge smiles on their faces. I turned the picture over. On the back, scrawled in black magic marker, were the words "Maine '04". Six years ago.

My phone rang again, startling me. I whipped it out and answered.

"Yes?"

"Cassiel?" It was Demid, a note of concern in his voice.

"Obviously."

"Are you all right?" He asked. "I called before but you didn't answer. Angela returned an hour ago, and we were curious if you'd had any success."

I looked again at the photo. "Yeah, sorry about that. I had a little life-and-death thing going on. As for success, maybe I have. I'll tell you about it when I get there."

I stood, slid the photo in my pocket, and picked up the bag.

"You can tell us in ten. When you didn't answer earlier, Angela and I got concerned. We're on our way."

It's nice to have friends. I hadn't really wanted to carry all this stuff through the neighborhood and back onto the subway anyway. And there was absolutely no chance of getting a cab out here. I gave the apartment another once-over, grabbed the bag and limped back downstairs to wait.

Ten minutes later, as promised, Demid and Angela pulled up in Demid's car, a 2009 Ford Escape. It was big, black, and awfully out of place around here. I wasn't surprised that Demid had made it here safely though. I heard the rumble of the engine before I saw it, so I was ready with the duffel as soon as they pulled over. I climbed inside and sat with the bag on my lap.

"Any problems?" I asked, already having a good idea of the answer.

"No. A couple of punks thought I might like to give them my car, but once I, ah, explained myself, they thought it would be more prudent for me to keep it."

I knew what Demid's explanations usually entailed. I did wonder if he'd toned it down out of deference to Angela's gender, but now was not the time to ask.

"Let's go," I said.

As we headed back to Demid's, I filled them in on what had happened. Like me, Demid was concerned that the killer appeared to be Hunter-trained, and had speed and health-recovery abilities that were more like one of us than a normal human.

"It wouldn't make sense for him to be one of us," Demid mused as he drove. "The Hunters are almost fanatical in their hatred of us. I have only ever heard of two Fallen Hunters in all my years, and both of them suffered fatal accidents once their usefulness was at an end. There must be some other explanation." There was, as we discovered later.

Chapter 10

The moment we got to the studio, we knew something was wrong. This time of night, the front doors should have been closed and shuttered. They weren't. Instead, they hung open at an awkward angle. The car screeched to a halt and Demid exited faster than I'd ever seen him move before. I got out too, telling Angela over my shoulder to wait in the driver's seat, and just take off if anything happened. I didn't wait around for her response.

Demid had already entered the studio. I followed, crunching shards of broken glass under my feet as I walked. The lights were off, but we still had some illumination from the car headlights. By that faint light, I could make out what looked like complete destruction. Broken glass lay everywhere, furniture had been upended, and I could see small holes in the wall and the door that led to Demid's apartment.

Demid charged through the devastation, running full speed for the door. He wrenched it open and began to ascend the stairs, taking them three at a time. As I struggled to keep up, I saw that all of his treasures, every last fricking one of them, had been broken. My stomach sank further with every step I went up.

Maybe thirty seconds had passed from the time the car stopped until we reached Demid's apartment. The door lay splintered on the floor, the lights were on, and what we could initially see looked exactly the same as the scene below. Demid ran through the door first, broke left and let out an ear-shattering howl. I came up behind, and sank to my knees when I saw what he had beheld.

Candy's body sat tied to one of the chairs. From the looks of things she'd taken a severe beating before her death. Her left leg hung funny, and all the fingers on her right hand were broken. She had blood around her mouth, and a single round hole right between her eyes.

Demid's bellow of rage scared the heck out of me. I had never seen him that angry before. He knelt beside Candy, took her head in his hands, muttering wordlessly. I looked around, anywhere but at him.

The CSI-style cubicles were now piles of bloody glass shards. Spent shell casings lay scattered around the room. The walls were pockmarked with holes. The door to the bedrooms was open. I took another look at Demid, who hadn't moved, and walked toward the open door.

The bedrooms had been tossed: mattresses ripped open, drawers emptied, closets rifled through. In the bathroom I received another nasty surprise: Shoku. Or more accurately, various pieces of a Shoku 3-D puzzle. He'd been shot, dismembered and left in bits in the bathtub. He still had those thick glasses perched over his eyes, which now stared sightlessly into the beyond.

"Rest in peace, brother," I said as I closed them. Barely realizing what I was doing, I offered a prayer for his soul.

"Merciful god, grant this soul rest and peace for eternity. Amen." I hadn't really prayed in over five hundred years.

I trudged back out to the living room. Demid still sat beside Candy, stroking her hair and whispering to her. In defiance of my instructions, Angela stood in the doorway. She strode over to Demid and placed a hand on his shoulder.

He whipped around and punched her. She was lucky, though. Because he was seated, he had to aim up slightly, which lessened the force. She still took it on the chin, and fell over backwards. She sat up gingerly, rubbing her jaw. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Then she reached out and touched him again.

She was ready when he struck out this time, stepping just a little to the right, so that he missed her. As he drew back his fist to try for a third time, she spoke.

"She is at peace."

Just like that, Demid's fist dropped to his side, and he took a deep shuddering breath.

"She was... she was..." He stammered.

"I know." Angela knelt beside him, and slowly, as if tending a wounded animal, she reached out to him. He didn't lash out this time, and allowed her to rest her hand on his bicep. His breath began shuddering again, and then Demid did something I had never seen him do in all the years I'd known him: he cried. Big, racking sobs issued from him and his shoulders shook like he was having another seizure. This lasted ten minutes. The whole time, Angela just sat there, offering the comfort of her touch. She didn't say another word. I spent that time standing still, afraid to move lest I break the spell.

Finally, Demid stopped. He sniffled one final time, stood, planted a kiss on Candy's forehead, and strode over to me.

"We find these fuckers." He said. "We find them and we kill them. Slowly."

I nodded. Morally, I was opposed to violence as a solution, but as the Good Book says, "An eye for an eye". The people who'd done this deserved to lose more than their eyes. And when Demid found them, he would make sure they did.

"Shoku?" Demid asked, eyeing the bloodied glass.

"Bathroom." I didn't feel I needed to explain further; he was an intelligent man, and after seeing Candy, he could probably guess what had happened to our Asian professor.

Demid took off his gloves, and reverently removed a chain from around Candy's neck. It was a simple gold necklace with a silver star. Demid had given it to Candy for her thirteenth birthday. She'd worn it every day since then. He was concentrating so hard on his Gift that I could see the veins stand out on his head and neck. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. After a minute, he removed his hand and stepped away again.

"It was Hunters." He told us, confirming my guess. "They burst in just as Candy was finishing up. She ran here, and they followed."

He slammed his fist against the wall, leaving a sizeable hole. "Ten more minutes, and she would've been gone for the day. Ten fucking minutes. Fuck."

He looked at the necklace for a moment, and then put it on. I couldn't imagine what having the metal in contact with his bare skin was doing to him, and there was no way I was going to ask. I waited a few seconds, then said, "Now what?"

His response was cold."Now we find them and pay them back."

Still gloveless, he crawled around the room, heedless of the glass that stabbed through his pants, legs and palms. He gathered twelve shell casings, stood cradling them in his palm, and closed his eyes again. After a few seconds, his eyes flew open.

"I know where they are."

*

The drive to Demid's storage unit was silent. Angela had insisted on coming with us, and we hadn't bothered to argue. The streetlights flew past in a blur, Demid completely disregarding the speed limit, until we arrived at BT Storage. Floodlights and a chain-link fence were the main motif, in order to discourage thieves. Because the units were accessible twenty-four seven, no dogs patrolled. However, there were always four rent-a-cops on site. Demid rolled up to the security box, waved his keycard in front of it, and waited for the gate to roll back. As if this were any other night, it did, and we drove on in.

Demid rented out ninety percent of the units to regular people, who used the facility to store household goods, art and work supplies. A further nine percent was reserved for Fallen to use. The rest was his. I'd been here before, and had been astounded to see what he kept here; entire spaces filled with cash, jewels and antiques, rare books and paintings, spare vehicles, the works. I didn't ask where he'd gotten everything from, and he didn't tell me.

Tonight we drove to a section with which I was not familiar. It was slightly darker than the rest of the area, and had a second security gate in front. Again Demid waved his card, and a roller door slid up, allowing us access. Internal lighting flicked on as soon as the car was inside, and we got out.

The roller door clanked down again. Demid walked over to one of seven doors evenly spaced around the area, inserted a cardkey, pressed his thumb on a reader, and turned the handle. When the door opened, I could see enough weapons and ammunition to supply a small army.

Angela looked over at me. I shrugged.

As if we weren't there, Demid strode into the room, grabbing a selection of pistols, rifles and bladed weapons. He put on some combat webbing, and began strapping on his equipment.

"I thought you didn't like guns," I ventured.

"True." He replied. "But I always find it's best to be prepared."

I couldn't argue with that logic; my lack of preparation earlier had almost gotten me killed. I swallowed my distaste for violence, and began arming myself. I may tend toward pacifism, but I've certainly taken part in my share of armed combat. Demid didn't have to worry that I wouldn't know which end of a gun was which, which was something of a concern with Angela. After a brief discussion, she agreed to wait in the car while Demid and I did what needed to be done. We gave her a 9mm Glock for protection, along with instructions of the "point, pull and things fall down" variety.

Once we were loaded, we got back in the car and headed off. With luck, the Hunters would have no idea we were coming.

Demid drove us to a neighborhood which reminded me of Riverside, the foremost difference being that here the majority of the population was white. Abbottsfield was another down-on-its-luck part of the city. Here, though, unlike Riverside, public funds were being spent on so-called urban renewal. Colorful playgrounds and public parks dotted the streets, and some of the buildings had been receiving much-needed renovation. One such building was the former St. John's church.

Smack on the corner of Johnson Way and Jonson Avenue (no relation), the church had once been a thriving hub of the community. Public disapproval of the proclivities of certain clergy members had led to services being discontinued. It was only this year that talk of rebuilding the spiritual foundation of the church had started.

Demid parked a couple of blocks up from the church. We gave Angela a final reminder about staying in the car, and got out. Around us, I could hear the sounds of crickets busily rubbing their legs together. I had a sudden mental image of Lucifer rubbing his hands together, hungry for destruction. Well, if he was hungry, we were cooking.

Demid and I walked down a side street and through an alley which led to the basketball court behind the church. No lights illuminated our way, so we traveled as cautiously as we could. As we walked, Demid slid a pair of IR goggles over his eyes. We stopped at the mouth of the alley while Demid switched the goggles on and scanned the area. He held up three fingers, and pointed to the corners and center of the building.

"Outside," he whispered. I had to strain to hear him over the crickets. I nodded. We dropped to a crouch, and crept forward.

The chain-link fence surrounding the courts had been one of the first things to be repaired, and was still whole. We were still shrouded by the darkness; the church's interior and exterior lights were all off, probably to assist the Hunters' concealment. It's hard to stay unnoticed when you light up an 'unoccupied' building. In this case, the lack of lighting also worked for us. Carefully, Demid unslung one of his sound-suppressed rifles and sighted. Timing his breathing, he squeezed the trigger. Unlike what you may have seen on TV or movies, suppressed weapons do not go "pfft". A sound more similar to a car door slamming than a shot escaped, echoing off the alley walls and the rear wall of the church. Demid swung the rifle left, sighted, squeezed again, and another muffled shot rang out. I heard the third guard's footsteps slapping on the asphalt as he ran. One final "bang" from the rifle was followed by wet thud as the guard's body hit the ground.

"Come on," Demid said. He grabbed a pair of wire cutters and began clipping through the chain links in the fence. Working efficiently, he had soon clipped a hole large enough for us to squeeze through. We moved carefully to inspect the bodies. Each of the men was wearing a vest under their fatigues, but vests are no protection against head shots. The guards were quite obviously dead.

Around three minutes had passed since the first shot, but there had been no sign of any more Hunters. It didn't feel right. These guys were all supposed to be combat-trained, professional warriors. There should have been backup or, well, something. Then again, maybe we'd just struck it lucky and the rest of the crew were all busy playing poker. Somehow I doubted it.

We crept forward, weapons ready, but made it to the back door without a problem. This was the point where some intel would have been handy. It's always more conducive to success to have some idea of enemy numbers, equipment, and the layout of whatever place you're attacking. We had nothing.

The door was locked. Finally, something that made sense. I doubled back to check the bodies for a key, and struck it lucky with the first guy. Back at the door, I slid the key in, slowly cracked the lock, and opened the door. The door opened outward, which was less than ideal.

As soon as the door was about halfway open, something came whistling through: an arrow. It blasted almost silently through the widening gap, right at chest height. Fortunately, Demid had had plenty of experience with these types of situations. He'd been standing with his back to the wall on the side opposite the hinges. The arrow whistled harmlessly past, and Demid stepped square into the doorway and opened fire, screaming obscenities.

By the time I'd let go of the door, grabbed my gun and stepped in, Demid was already inside. I tracked his progress by the gunfire, screams and occasional wet squishy sounds. It sounded like he was doing okay.

The door led into some kind of dressing room cum office. I couldn't see much, but it was enough. The remains of a computer sat sparking on a desk next to shards of a coffee mug. Two more bodies lay in a heap on the floor, a broken bow beside one. The other still had his weapon holstered. He'd never even had the chance to draw it. Behind them, I could see flickering light through another open doorway. I hurried through.

The main hall (or whatever it's called – my knowledge of the terminology is a little rusty) was empty except for bedding, camp stoves like the one I'd found in Riverside, and three more corpses. The pews had all been stacked along the side walls. Evenly spaced around the room, ten candles sputtered. Demid had blasted through the room like a one-man SWAT team. The sound of gunfire had stopped. I heard voices coming from outside the main doors so I ran that way, offering a subdued "sorry" to the large statue of Jesus I passed on the way.

Opening the main doors, I managed to avoid stepping in a puddle from the Font. Demid had one last Hunter trapped by the exterior doors. They were huge, made of glass and steel and decorated with messages of hope and Christian symbols. They were also secured on the outside with a very large chain and even larger padlock. Somebody took their security seriously.

The last Hunter was on his knees, unarmed and currently uninjured. He looked to be only about nineteen, the same age as Candy. He was crying.

"I'm sorry," he blubbered. 'We didn't know. We thought – "

"Shut it." Demid ordered. "Face your death like a man. Look. I'll give you more of a chance than you gave her, you lousy fucker. "

He lowered his gun and removed the webbing, dropping it beside the rifle at his feet. Without taking his eyes off the kid, he slid them towards me.

"Whatever happens, do not interfere," he said. "If he beats me, he is to be allowed to live. Clear?"

"Clear," I answered. There was no chance Demid was going to lose anyway, and I already knew to stay out of his way in a fight.

I'd love to describe a ballet of hand-to-hand combat between two highly skilled warriors here, but that was not what happened. The kid struck first, a feinted punch to the face paired with a kick to Demid's right knee. The kick never landed. Demid bounced back, then sprang forward and had the kid by the throat before he (the kid) even knew what happened.

"This is for my daughter," Demid said softly. Then he hoisted the kid up, spun around and hurled him towards the plate-glass doors. The kid hit with a meaty thud, but the glass remained unbroken, and the kid remained alive. Demid picked him up again, drew back and charged at the doors, using the kid as a shield. This time, the glass broke. The kid was lucky; he'd gone into the door face-first, and some of the glass managed to sever his jugular. His death was a lot faster than Demid would have made it otherwise.

After spitting on the corpse, Demid spun on his heel and stalked back the way we'd come. It ended up being a good thing, too. As we re-entered the office, I heard something from outside. It sounded like fast-fleeing footsteps. Motioning Demid to stay silent, I crept to the door and peered out. The sound had come from my right, which meant I had to move past the door to see what was happening. I did so, and carefully looked around.

Leaning over one of the Hunters corpses was another Hunter. As I watched, he hunched and began searching the body's pockets. Demid had snuck up behind me. For a big man, he can be incredibly silent when he wants to. I pointed at the Hunter. Demid grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark, and made a throat-slitting gesture. I shook my head. Something still felt wrong about the whole situation, and if we caught him alive, this Hunter might be able to provide some answers.

He still hadn't noticed us, so Demid and I crept in a sort of half-crouch, ready to break into a full sprint if we had to. We managed to get right behind the Hunter without him noticing. I stood and put him in a choke hold. He struggled for a few seconds and then went limp. With minimal effort we were able to drag him back to the fence, and I held him while Demid enlarged the hole he'd cut previously.

The SUV was still where we'd left it, Angela waiting patiently in the driver's seat. She gave me a questioning look as I dumped our prisoner in the back and restrained him with cable ties which Demid handed me. I explained my reasoning to her and Demid as we drove back to the storage facility.

Demid set up chair in the middle of an empty unit and turned the lights on. The Hunter was still out of it, so Demid brought him round with a hard slap. The Hunter's eyes flicked open and darted around the room. He was at least forty by the look of him, with military-length salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee under confused brown eyes. His right arm was bleeding steadily from a cut that had not been inflicted by us. He had another, smaller cut under his left eye, crusted with dried blood. Also not from us.

"What?" he began.

Demid slapped him again.

"We're not here to answer your questions, you piece of shit. You're here to answer ours."

As it was my idea, I got the honor of interrogating him. I tag-teamed with Demid: I asked the questions, and Demid provided the incentive to answer. In this situation, my Gift came in very handy. He tried to lie, as you'd expect, but a few broken fingers and judiciously used screwdrivers managed to convince him that truth was his best option. We'd asked Angela to wait outside; this was something else she didn't need to see.

Our captive's name was Nathan Caine, former Marine and now field commander of a Hunter cadre. The unit Demid and I had assaulted had arrived here not to hunt Fallen, but through tracking one of their own, a renegade named Santino. From the sound of things, it was Santino I'd tangled with in Riverside. He'd returned from a Hunt six years ago to discover that while he'd been gone, his daughter had been raped and murdered. The higher-ups had removed him from active duty while he underwent counseling, and it was during this time that he went rogue.

He'd managed to elude capture teams while taking out pedophiles and Fallen along the way for almost six full years. They had received credible intelligence that he'd recently moved here, so they sent a team to capture him.

This was where things got a little screwy. Their 'source' told them that Santino was at Black Thorn Tattoos. They went in hot, and we'd already seen the results. Candy hadn't been able to tell them anything, and they couldn't leave any witnesses, so they eliminated both her and Shoku. Once they realized he was Fallen, he became a bonus.

They'd gone back to the church to plan their next move, and that was when things got really strange. All of them had been complaining of headaches, and painkillers did nothing to help. Out of nowhere, one of the Hunters swore that he'd seen one of his teammates in a seedy motel with another's wife. Of course, the husband did not take kindly to his wife cheating on him with a teammate, and words were said. The teammate denied everything, and events escalated from there. When Demid charged into the church, the argument was in full swing. That went some way towards explaining why the fight had been less challenging than it could have been. Caine had attempted to calm things down, but had ended up getting attacked from behind. That was how he'd gained the cuts. When the excrement really hit the fan, he'd been lucky enough to be out of Demid's path of destruction. He'd run outside the first chance he could, which was when we'd caught him.

Finally, things were starting to become a little clearer.

"This source of yours," I said. "Tell me everything you can about him. Where did you meet?"

"We only met twice, both times in different places," Caine told me. "The first time was some park, and tonight was a movie theater."

"Okay, then, what does he look like?"

His eyes tracked up as he thought. "Young white guy, maybe mid-twenties? A shade under six feet tall, slight build, glasses, and a monobrow."

It was the last word that did it. Monobrow. Like the guy who'd 'found' Michael's phone. I stepped away from Caine, and gave Demid a nod. We'd gotten enough useful information out of him. Caine's eyes widened as he comprehended what was about to happen. Demid stepped forward and spoke.

"Get out."

I shepherded Angela out the exterior door, closed it behind me and went to sit in the car. It was almost far enough away that we didn't have to listen to the screams and thuds that came from inside the unit. Demid emerged a few minutes later, dripping and panting. He didn't say a word, just went to the trunk, removed a bag and went back inside. The next time he came out, he had cleaned himself up and changed clothes. I had a fairly good idea of what had gone on in there, and didn't feel the need to ask about it.

Demid locked the unit, climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Let's go."

Now we had something to work with. Unfortunately, our pattern-recognition expert was dead, so we had to work things out for ourselves. It was going to take some time.

Chapter 11

Morning saw us no closer to any answers. After leaving the storage facility and forcing ourselves to eat, we'd holed up at my place. It was a bit small for three, but it felt like the safest place to be while we worked things out. We'd attempted to sleep, without success, so we spent the early morning hours drinking bad coffee and trying to talk things through.

We needed to find the Hunters' source, and take him out. We also had that new Demon in town to contend with, and we had no more than two days to find and stop Santino. None of us was too concerned about his victim, but we knew that after the kill, Santino would vanish.

We did have some success on the Santino front. The duffel bag I'd taken from him had contained more than weapons and those vials. Buried at the bottom, under some black plastic, was a dossier, on one Richard Henderson. The information contained within had been sourced from the internet mainly, but also from the courts and newspaper archives. Various pictures showed a middle-aged, balding, overweight man with watery eyes and no chin. According to the file, he was divorced, lived with his mother, and was employed in maintenance at the city dump. The legal files revealed that he was a registered sex offender, convicted of raping a minor ten years ago. He'd served his time, been paroled and apparently had kept his nose clean since then.

"So, what do we do?" Angela looked expectantly between Demid and myself. I shrugged. It's not like Demid and I were professional bounty hunters or anything. All I knew was what I'd picked up from TV and mystery novels.

Demid was slightly more eloquent. "We split up, find these people, and remove them from the gene pool."

"Fine." I was shocked; after all Angela had been through, I had expected her to want to find a nice warm place to hide, and here she was calmly discussing murder with us. This was all the more astonishing because she'd only known us for a couple of days.

We decided that I would try and locate Santino, as I knew what he looked like. The one caveat Demid insisted on was that I keep myself out of harm's way, and under no circumstances was I to try and take Santino on alone. Demid offered to see what he could dig up about the Demon, which left Angela with the Hunters' source. Something had been niggling at me since we left the storage unit, and as I sat, absently massaging my temples, it hit me. The Hunters had been complaining of headaches. I'd had one after meeting Monobrow at the café. It might have been a stretch, but I thought that the two could be connected.

"I don't think we should split up." I announced. I felt four questioning eyes boring holes into my skull, so I explained.

It probably seems a little paranoid, but when you've lived as long as I have, you know that there's not much outside the realm of possibility. Also, it's better to be overcautious and alive than under-cautious and in lots of little pieces. I'd known a few Fallen over the years who'd become complacent, less aware of what was going on around them. They all ended up dead. Hunters, while definitely our foremost predator, were not the only ones.

Despite our similar positions in the world, Fallen Demons and Angels have never really been friends, except for the odd, ah, exception. It's just the nature of things, really. Even after Falling, some people hold on to the old enmity and can't seem to find any common ground. This has led to turf wars, gang wars, even plain old neighbor-on-neighbor violence. In all these instances, people end up dead. And then there are those who lose their minds. Like our children, full-blooded Fallen occasionally dive head first from the cliffs of insanity and start slaughtering whoever they feel like. Again, it's not something that occurs often, but it does happen. When it does, the consequences are inevitably messy. This is where some of humanity's oldest 'ghost stories' have originated. Think about it: a powerful being with strange abilities who rises from the dead. Sound like any legends you know? That's right, it sounds very much like almost every monster tale you've ever heard, right down to the pitchfork-wielding mobs.

These things weigh on my mind almost constantly, which is why I occasionally fall off the wagon. Paranoid I may be, but at least I'm still alive. I think that's a good thing, but some days I'm not so sure.

Anyway. I gave Demid and Angela the condensed version of what I've just told you, and they appreciated my concerns. I knew Demid could take care of himself, but he might be less than cautious after Candy, and Angela needed someone looking out for her. I was still the best person to chase Santino, but I suggested it would be better if Demid and Angela worked together. They agreed, probably just to shut me up (I can get a little, ah, verbose at times). Whatever the reason, I felt glad that they would be able to support each other.

The day dawned dark and muggy. The sky looked like a sock filled with sand, and the light was washed out and yellow. Not the most auspicious start to what was most likely going to be another difficult day. I left the other two to hash out their plans, and set off. I knew where Henderson lived and worked, so it made sense to watch him, and hopefully catch Santino when he snatched Henderson. When I spotted Santino, I was to call Demid straight away for backup.

I walked out of the front door and turned left. Henderson's house and place of employment were not in that direction. I didn't consciously choose to go the wrong way, and I didn't immediately go anywhere in particular; instead, I just walked, my feet finding a rhythm and my mind turning everything over and over.

There was still more to this whole Santino thing than I was aware of. For one thing, no matter how well trained you are, a five-floor drop to asphalt will take the fight (and the ability to breathe) out of any normal person. For another, I still didn't know how Michael and Santino's other Fallen victims fit in. He seemed driven by a singular purpose, so opportunity killings seemed unlikely. Then there was the time difference between the murders. The odds against randomly encountering and killing a Fallen precisely between one and two weeks before taking out a sex offender were astronomical.

My feet had taken me through most of my neighborhood, and I ended up outside Remington's Books. This was an old-style bookstore, crammed full of an endless variety of second-hand books. I'd spent a lot of time here over the years, browsing and buying various novels, treatises, even a couple of rare books which I'd gifted to Demid. Old man Remington was just opening for the day. He was wearing his standard outfit, brown cotton pants, a neatly pressed white shirt and paisley tie. He noticed me, and smiled, green eyes twinkling.

"Morning, Mr. Malcolm. Thought I might see you today. You haven't been in for a while."

This was not an accusation. John Remington was a genuinely nice person who took an interest in his customers, noted their tastes and noticed when they hadn't been in. It was thanks to him that more than one regular customer was still alive; he had called them at home when they missed their regular visit, and had alerted the emergency services when no-one answered. I sometimes wondered whether he had some Fallen blood in him, and had inherited a mild form of precognition.

"Morning, Mr. Remington."

I stood, shuffling for a moment. John held the door open. The little bells above it gave a reassuring tinkle.

"Enter, and leave some of the goodness that you bring," he intoned, mock-serious.

For whatever reason, I did as he suggested. It turned out to be the best decision I could have made.

The inside of the store was crammed floor to ceiling with books. Just the smell as I walked in was enough to bring a smile to my face. The lighting was soft, which added to the mood of the place. Modern store designers could learn a lot from people like Mr. Remington. There was no filing system to speak of, and yet you could tell John what you were looking for and he would find it for you in a matter of seconds. As I didn't have anything in mind, I wandered the 'aisles', scanning the shelves and piles of books until something caught my eye. I knew that I had things to do, but I felt that I should be here.

Right at the back, buried under a stack of cheesy romance, traditional horror and books on phlebotomy, was a dusty, ancient tome with cracked leather binding. The spine was unreadable, but for some reason I stopped. Carefully, I lifted the other books off it, picked it up and read the cover: "Cado Everto: an occult history".

I'd forgotten almost all the Latin I'd ever known (except for useful phrases like 'Abyssus abyssum invocat', and 'Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est'), but the phrase 'occult history' interested me. I opened the book.

Inside was a detailed treatise on Fallen Demons: weaknesses, powers, and general proclivities. Fortunately, the only Latin was in the title and list of contents; the rest had been translated into English (more or less). The information had apparently been compiled over a hundred years by a group of Hunters. The book gave tips on Hunting, recruiting and training new members, and on the best methods of dismembering a Demon (while it was unconscious or otherwise indisposed) and disposing of the remains (burning).

I hurried back to the counter, and paid. I knew that this book would help me see what I'd been missing. I vaguely wondered about the serendipity of the situation, but dismissed it as I had so many other things on my mind. Outside, I headed for the local park, to find a quiet place to read.

Westside Park stood as a monument to human ingenuity. A hundred years ago, this place had been a festering cesspool, caused by industrial runoff from the hoards of factories that had littered the area. There was no plant or animal life, and people avoided coming anywhere near unless they absolutely had to. Now, green trees and fragrant flowers blossomed and squirrels and birds frolicked around picnicking families. At least, that's what normally happened on weekends. Being that today's weather was not looking pleasant, the park was empty save for me and a group of homeless men busily packing up their 'beds' in preparation for another day. Before I sat, I made a point of giving each of the men a smile, a warm greeting and a couple of dollars. I wasn't a full believer in Karma, but hey, I needed all the good luck I could get. And lucky I was; I only got spat on once.

I sat under an oak tree, pale yellow sunlight dappling my legs and the book, and began to read. Two hours later, I found it. Details were sketchy, but someone had managed to distil an elixir from "the foul liquid that flows through the veins of these evil creatures". This elixir apparently bestowed superhuman strength, agility and healing powers on any who drank it. The book mentioned two major drawbacks: the effects were temporary, lasting only a period of days, and repeated consumption supposedly (I'm paraphrasing here) drove the people who drank it bat-guano crazy.

This explained everything about Santino. I closed the book with a clap, grabbed my phone and called Demid. He and Angela were on their way to Cuppa Joe's. I said I'd meet them there.

Chapter 12

The café smelled exactly the same as the last time I'd visited, which, while not entirely unexpected, still wasn't very pleasant. Unlike the last time, it was almost empty. Three staff stood around idly wiping already clean surfaces and staring with glazed eyes into nowhere. I checked my watch. The lunch rush would probably arrive in a half hour or so. Angela and Demid were seated at a table in the rear, hunched over steaming cups. I shook a few drops of rain off myself as I walked over to them and raised a hand in greeting.

"Any luck?" I queried.

"No." Demid replied. "None of the staff remembers him."

This was also unsurprising; I guessed they served hundreds of customers per day, and as I'd noticed last time, most of the customers were indistinguishable from each other. I sat in silence with them racking my brains for a spark of inspiration. A drop of rain rolled down my nose and hit my hand, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom to clean up. And got the shock of my life.

Gone were the dirty walls, broken stall and rank odor. Without a doubt, this was the nicest public restroom I'd ever been in. A well-cleaned mirror was mounted on the wall above the sinks. Each sink had its own automatic dispensers for soap, water and unscented hand sanitizer. The stall doors all appeared to be attached, and even the urinals were sparkling. Also, it smelled like a floral garden. I started to understand why people would pay seven bucks for a lousy cup of coffee. I took a handful of paper towels, dried myself off as best I could, and returned to the table.

"I found something," I announced as I sat down.

"You told me that already," Demid huffed. He was still pretty cut up about Candy, and was annoyed that I'd had some success when he'd struck out.

Undaunted, I told them what I'd seen in the bathroom, and how it compared with what I'd seen the last time I was here. Demid got it straight away. He sat up and snapped his fingers.

"That's it. I have an idea of what we're dealing with. Come on."

He stood, and marched towards the door. Angela and I shared a look, and trotted along after him. The light drizzle from when I arrived had become more of a downpour. Demid strode through it like he didn't even notice. Perhaps he didn't. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and placed a call as we walked to the SUV.

"It's me. I don't care how busy you are, we need to meet. Yes. Say, two hours? Good. See you then." He hung up as we arrived at the car. The doors unlocked, and we clambered inside.

The rain pelted the windshield as we drove, almost putting me to sleep with its repetitive drumming. Much like the previous night, Demid showed complete disregard for the rules of the road. I was grateful for the grip and suspension provided by modern vehicles; more than once we almost drifted into the wrong lane or worse, off the road. While we drove, Demid gave us a few ground rules for dealing with the woman we were about to meet: don't speak, don't look at her directly, and do exactly as we were instructed at all times. There was a rare seriousness in his voice, so I didn't query him.

We drove for a good hour, well out of town, before turning down a well-used dirt road. The rain had eased off now, leaving behind a clean, fresh smell. My curiosity was getting the better of me, so as we gave the SUV's shocks a good workout, I asked a few questions.

"Who are we going to see?"

"None of your business."

"How do you think she can help?"

"None of your business."

"Have you dealt with her before? Can she be trusted?"

"Yes."

I stopped then, content with getting one straight answer, and well aware that given Demid's current emotional state I would be pushing my luck a little too far if I continued. I lapsed into silence then, and we completed the journey listening to one of Demid's favorite operas.

The car passed through a series of guarded gates before pulling up in front of a large stately home. It was like we'd been transported to another world. Around us lay fields and rolling hills with various species of animals doing their thing. The usual sounds of the city were completely absent, and so were the smells. It was weird.

The house itself was huge, old and white. It was wooden, comprising two stories, with light blue window frames. A well-used porch had been built on to the front of the house. A love-seat and single rocking chair sat at the far end, overlooking a field. Potted plants decorated the edges of the porch, each in a hand-painted container.

We got out of the SUV, gravel crunching under our feet. We walked single file; Demid first, Angela second and lucky old me bringing up the rear. We mounted the porch, and the doors opened as we arrived. On the other side was a fortyish man wearing blue jeans and a red checked shirt. He had cowboy boots on his feet, and was carrying a ten-gallon hat.

"She's expecting you," he drawled, and waved us inside.

The interior of the house was just as stately as the outside. The overriding theme here was wood. Polished wooden floors gleamed under the light of a chandelier hung above our heads, and the walls and doors were likewise bare and buffed to a sparkling shine. A wide carpeted staircase led up to the second floor, and it was there that we were directed.

The three of us climbed the stairs unsupervised. I noticed Angela's steps start slowing the further up the stairs we got, and I reached out and took her by the elbow.

"Are you okay?" I asked in a low voice. Somehow it seemed disrespectful to speak at a normal volume.

"I think so," was her reply. It was hard to tell, but she looked a little pale. I made a note to keep an eye on her. Then again, it could just have been the aftereffects of Demid's driving. I swear, he would've made one heck of an F1 driver. Almost did, too.

The top of the stairs resembled a 'T' intersection. The floor curved around the entire circumference of the space, with doors leading off at regular intervals.

"Where to, kemo sabe?" I asked Demid.

Either he didn't get the joke, or he just didn't find it funny. He gestured. "This way."

He led us to the third door on the left. He knocked respectfully, and stepped back to await permission to enter. A few seconds later, a voice called out.

"Come in."

If I'd had to guess, I would have picked the owner of the voice to be a woman in her late forties, matronly and motherly at the same time. Probably a little on the plump side. I'd have been completely wrong.

As the door opened, seated in front of a bay window, I beheld the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. Her skin was pale and flawless, her blue eyes sparkled like stars, and she had long flowing black hair. Her figure would have gotten envious glances from any surgically-sculpted Hollywood 'beauty', even in the jeans and simple white shirt she was wearing. I had an almost overpowering urge to take her in my arms and make love to her forever.

Before I could declare my undying love, I was shocked back to reality courtesy of Demid's elbow in my ribs.

"Remember the rules," he whispered.

Slowly, I lowered my eyes. When I was no longer looking at her, I found I could think clearly again. I heard Angela's breaths coming in ragged gasps from my right, and stole a glance to see if she was all right. Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes.

"Mother," she whispered incredulously. She started to step forward.

Marta?

Before Demid could remind her of the rules, I reached out and pinched Angela's left butt cheek. She inhaled sharply and reflexively looked to see what had pinched her. That broke the line of sight, so she was able to be herself again.

Peering out of the very edge of my peripheral vision, I saw Demid approach the Lady, drop to one knee, take her hand in his and kiss it. She smiled. The way her mouth curved was the most sensuous thing I'd ever seen. I think my tongue dropped out of my mouth watching it. Demid turned back to us. His eyes seemed to be shimmering with unshed tears as well.

"Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside."

I wanted to argue. Who did he think he was? It was a free country, and if I wanted to stay with the woman I loved, he had no right to stop me. I had half a mind to take him outside and show him what for. Then he stepped between myself and the Lady, and I was able to see how ridiculous those thoughts were. Demid was like a brother to me. There was nothing that could ever make me want to hurt him. Not to mention, how could I be in love with a woman I'd just met? I nodded, and turned, leading Angela back into the hallway. The door closed behind us, and I could hear the two of them talking.

The cowboy who'd opened the door came up, saw us and smiled, showing a few missing teeth.

"Thought you all might be out here. Care for some refreshments? We got fresh-squeezed lemonade?" Angela and I looked at each other, shrugged and assented. He led us back downstairs, to the parlor.

Bookshelves lined the room, each one filled with identical volumes labeled in a language I didn't know. A large rectangular coffee table sat in front of a window, with an armchair at each end. Angela and I sat as instructed, while Ray (that was the cowboy's name) went to fetch the lemonade.

"So," Angela began. 'I'm not really sure what just happened. Did you see...?" she couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

I shook my head, both as an answer and in an attempt to shake some of the cobwebs loose.

"What I saw," I said, "was the most beautiful woman I've seen in my life."

We sat in silence then, musing on our respective experiences and what it might mean. Then Ray arrived back. He carried a pitcher of lemonade balanced on a tray with four glasses and, of all things, cucumber sandwiches in his left hand, and a kitchen chair in his right.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

He'd brought a chair with him, so he must've had a fair idea what our answer was going to be. He set up the refreshments, and sat down with a contented sigh.

"It's not often I get to take a load off. She likes to keep us busy."

I had to ask.

"Who is she?"

Ray took a long drink of his lemonade before answering, his Adam's apple bouncing with each swallow. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Dina." Sparks of recognition failed to appear in our eyes, so he carried on. "One of you. Also one of the first to Fall. You know, after that whole 'setting up Hell' thing."

I still didn't know what he was talking about, and judging from Angela's expression neither did she. Ray continued.

"She's been here since the beginning. Keeping an eye on everyone who's ever Fallen."

I started to see.

"So, she knows everything about all of us?" Ray nodded. "Any particular side?"

I had to be careful; I didn't know whether Dina was Angel or Demon, and I like to avoid offending people for no reason.

"Everyone." Ray said this extra slowly, making sure I got the point. I did.

"So that means," Angela butted in, "She'd know about my parents."

"Yup. Course, you'd have to ask if she'd tell you, and she'd have to say yes."

The conversation entered suspended animation while Angela and I processed what Ray had told us. If Dina knew everything about everyone, some people could want to prevent her knowledge from becoming public, or worse, take it themselves. That explained the solitude of her abode. I was surprised, though, that she didn't have more in the way of protection. Not to mention, that didn't explain why Angela and I had seen two completely different women, nor why I'd been stricken with love at first sight. I voiced my concerns to Ray.

"Part of her Gift," he said. "It's like an inbuilt defense mechanism: everyone who sees her sees someone they could never hurt in any way."

"What about you?" I inquired. "How can you get anything done for her when whenever you see her you're overcome with emotion?"

Ray just smiled at that one, lines creasing his eyes. He tapped his nose and whispered "If I told you that, I'd have to kill you." He was telling the truth.

Demid came down soon after. Ray stood, poured another glass of lemonade and offered Demid his chair.

"I gotta get back to work anyway," he grinned. "No rest for the wicked." He walked out, whistling.

Demid joined us at the table and downed his lemonade in one go. Then he took the plate of cucumber sandwiches and gobbled the lot. This didn't bother me too much; I've always thought that the cucumber was a completely pointless fruit. Yes, fruit. Not vegetable. Check it out if you don't believe me. I mean, it tastes like nothing, mainly because it is nothing. They're about ninety percent water. What's the point?

Anyway, after he'd gotten a few calories in, Demid told us that Dina had agreed to see us if we wished. We certainly did. Angela went first, she having won the game of rock paper scissors we'd used to decide. Demid and I sat and talked about our situation. He told me that Dina had given him some useful information about Monobrow. I was glad about that. The lemonade was pretty good, but certainly not worth the drive here on its own. Once we got back to town, things were going to get interesting.

Angela returned, sniffling slightly. I could see dried tear-tracks on her face.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded in reply, still sniffling. In addition to the tears and runny nose, she also had the most beatific smile on her face. Whatever Dina had told her had lightened her heart immensely, and for that I was glad.

It was my turn to ascend. I took it fairly slowly, using the trip to think about what I'd like to know, and about whom. By the time my trembling hand knocked on the door, I'd worked it out.

"Come in." Shivers ran down my spine at the sound of her voice. I took a deep breath, cleared my mind, and entered.

Dina still sat in front of the window, but she was now wearing a dark veil. It didn't do much to blunt the impact of her presence, but it did help a little. She pointed to a chair, and told me to make myself comfortable.

I flopped more than sat, sending up a small cloud of dust.

"So how does this work?" I asked.

I could see her smile through the veil. It grabbed my heart and wrapped it around her little finger.

"You ask me your question, and I answer. I must warn you, though, that I will tell you everything, not just what you wish to hear."

I breathed slowly, unclenching my teeth. "I understand," I said. "Please. I want to know about Michael and Marta. How they Fell. How they - everything."

"As you wish." Dina adjusted her position slightly, and then began to spin a tale.

Chapter 13

After I Fell, Michael decided to take over my former role as Marta's Guardian. Even though she was now immortal and no longer required shepherding, he felt that it was what I would have wanted. After a couple of centuries, Anushka joined the Warriors and Marta became a Guardian herself. Even in her new Heavenly form, Marta's innate curiosity stayed with her. She spent countless hours talking with Michael about everything she could think of. With his endless patience, he never grew tired of answering. During this time, she and Michael had had many discussions about her past and the role I played in what happened to her and Anushka. Without either of them realizing it, they had become closer than was strictly appropriate.

After Marta gained her wings, she was assigned as a Guardian to someone similar in many ways to herself; a young boy named Amad. He was a happy-go-lucky, curious boy, and with minimal intervention from Marta, grew into a good man. Like her, he married young. Also like her, his marriage was somewhat less than happy. His spoiled wife had grown up with a sense of entitlement, and took every opportunity to remind her husband that she had married beneath her station, and that nothing he would ever do would ever be good enough. He took all of this with good grace, and only rarely did he exchange angry words with her.

Ten more years passed this way. The marriage had borne no children, and Amad's shrew of a wife was beginning to lose her looks. Then she met a man called Sharif, a wealthy gem trader. For some reason, he became smitten with her, and she with his money. They hatched a plan to murder Amad and build a life together.

When Marta discovered this, she immediately checked with her supervisor (Michael) about what she could do to stop this injustice. The answer? Nothing. Marta was forced to sit and watch as her charge was poisoned and died a slow, agonizing death. Then she had to shepherd his soul to the Gates and wait for a new assignment. She did all this, but the experience had given her a clear understanding of why I'd done what I did.

During her down-time, Marta spent more and more time with Michael. She received a new assignment in time, and did her duty. It was while she was watching her second charge that she began to become disillusioned with her role. The young woman her charge grew into was very similar in personality to Amad's wife. Marta strained the rules as much as she could to provide guidance and persuade her to change the path of her life, but met with a resounding lack of success. It was obvious to Marta that Francesca was destined for eternity in Hell, but the same rules that forbade her from interfering with Francesca's free will also prevented her from abandoning the girl to her fate.

Quitting is not something Angels do often; it's not in our nature to give up, and it also leads to unpleasant consequences. As with everything else, Marta discussed her spiritual difficulties with Michael, and he made sure she knew exactly what would happen. Marta was fully aware that by giving up her post as a Guardian she would Fall. She did it anyway.

Michael was not assigned to preside over Marta's trial, but he and Anushka were both present as witnesses. Marta was expelled from Heaven in the same way I had been.

Michael continued in his duties for a while, but found himself missing his interactions with Marta. He often longed for the conversations they'd had, and more than once found himself happening to walk by her former residence. Introspective as ever, Michael analyzed his behavior and came to understand that he missed having Marta around. It dawned on him that he'd fallen in love with her.

Love between Angels is by no means a rare event, but things are a little funny with regard to Fallen Angels. When we Fall, Heaven goes on almost as if we were never there. If one partner Falls, a sense of duty overrides the love they shared, and the remaining partner continues on as before. This was not the case with Michael. Once he knew what the problem was, he devoted his free time to devising solutions. He could only come up with one. Michael Fell.

He didn't do anything to contravene the rules. I'm not sure if that was even in him. Instead, he exercised every sentient being's God-given right to free will. For the love of a woman, he walked away from Heaven.

He met up with Marta a few years later. Time doesn't pass the same on Earth as it does in Heaven (or Hell for that matter), and the "while" he'd taken between the time Marta Fell and the time he left was close to a hundred years on Earth. One day or a hundred years, though, Marta was as glad to see him as he was to find her. They married in a simple church ceremony, and resolved to spend the rest of their lives together.

In due time, Angela was born. They enjoyed nineteen years with her before tragedy struck. Michael had been working on a playground for a community charity, Angela was in her final week of university for the year, and Marta was at home, as she normally was, preparing a special meal for Angela's birthday. The weather was warm, and Marta decided to walk to the supermarket to pick up Angela's favorite dessert, coffee cake.

You don't expect drunk drivers on a summer afternoon, but that was what Marta got. A man named Jesus Santino had been drowning his sorrows over the recent death of his daughter. Once he'd been cut off by the barman, he got in his truck and drove off, weaving all over the road. He ran a red light and hit Marta head-on. She went flying through the air and collided with a building. He was fine. Santino did the decent thing, got out to see who he'd hit, and notified the Emergency Services. By the time they arrived, Marta was sitting up and talking, raving about her 'miraculous' survival. The EMTs checked her out, pronounced her fine, and let her go on her way. Even through his drunken haze, Santino knew that there was no way she could've walked away from the accident if she were normal.

Once he'd been given a warning by the police (the Hunters have some sway with the legal system, courtesy of the Church), he threw himself into finding out everything he could about Marta. It took six months, but he managed to discover where she lived and a fair bit about her daily routines. He'd had to be extra careful as he was also undergoing supervision and counseling after what had happened to his daughter. Somehow in this time, he'd also come across a copy of "Cado Everto: an occult history". Through the fog of his hatred, he saw a way to deal with both the type of scum who'd taken his daughter, and Abominations his employers wished to be exterminated.

He waited for another afternoon like the one when the accident occurred, set himself up in a likely spot, and shot Marta with a tranquilizer pistol. Then he took her to a secluded spot and butchered her, draining her blood.

Michael finished work early that afternoon. He stopped in at a florist to pick up a bunch of Marta's favorite white carnations as a surprise. When she didn't greet him as he arrived home, Michael immediately knew something was wrong. His Gift was in finding things. Useful for locating car keys, spare change and remote controls, but not so much for finding people. Instead of trying to find Marta, he concentrated on the family photograph she always kept in her purse. He followed the psychic trail, and found Marta's remains. Stronger in that situation than I could ever have been, he whispered a prayer and buried her somewhere safe. He took the photo, placed it in a frame in his office, and when Angela arrived home, told her that Marta had been killed in a car crash.

Outwardly, he maintained his routines and managed to keep the family going for five more years. Privately, he devoted himself to finding out who had been responsible for Marta's death. It was in the course of this investigation that he first came into contact with Demid.

This brought us full circle. Dina stopped talking, and allowed everything to sink in. I felt... a curious kind of peace. I was glad that Marta had gotten to experience a real life, and stunned to hear that Michael had walked away from Heaven for her. It made my sacrifice feel more like a token gesture than real love. I didn't dwell on that, though, just wiped my leaky eyes, thanked Dina and left.

The moment I hit the ground floor, Demid was out of his chair.

"Time to go," he announced. He turned to Angela. "Take care. We'll be back in a day or two."

"You're not coming?" I asked her.

She replied in the negative. "Dina convinced me that it would be safer for you if I were here."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be much more to say.

We stood there for a moment, and then moved into an awkward hug. Her hair smelled like cinnamon. I found myself unwilling to let her go, but managed it somehow. Then I joined Demid in the car.

Chapter 14

Ray escorted us back out the door, appearing from out of nowhere, and he and Angela waved as we jolted back down the road.

The journey back was curiously silent. Each of us was lost in thought, presumably courtesy of what Dina had told us. Just as we hit the outskirts of town, Demid spoke again.

"I know where he is."

"Who?" I asked. "Monobrow or Santino?"

Demid snorted. "Is that what you call him? I take it you mean the Demon. Him. Monobrow. Huh."

He continued muttering to himself for a while, and then picked up the conversation as if it had never stopped.

"He's set himself up in one of the new office buildings downtown. Dina told me that he's intending to turn our fair city into his new power base. He's already taken over a couple of clubs and an auto dealer. We're going to stop him."

I thought. Hard. Monobrow setting himself up as some kind of Godfather (if the word was appropriate) would be very bad. It's hard to fly beneath the radar when one of your own kind is in a position of power. I still couldn't see how this tied into what had happened to Michael, though, but I supposed it didn't matter; whatever the reason, this guy needed to be stopped. It looked like it was up to us. I wished I'd brought my Batsuit.

To be able to take this guy down, we needed something we hadn't had so far: a plan. We'd been lucky up to this point, but as every gambler knows, there comes a point when luck runs out, and skill has to take over.

While we drove to my place, Demid filled me in on what else he'd learned. Monobrow's name was actually Vincent Adams. He'd been exiled from Hell for becoming powerful enough to challenge Satan himself. His Gift was deception; he could plant false visions in peoples' heads. This made sense based on my own experiences with the 'magic bathroom' and jibed with what former Hunter Nathan Caine had told us. It also made our challenge that much more difficult.

"Wonderful," I said. "To think, when I woke up the other day, I never dreamed I'd have to solve the probable death of an old friend, track down and defeat a bunch of Hunters and take down a Demon strong enough to rival Satan. The fun never stops with you around, Demid."

Demid turned and fixed me with a steely glare. "And I never dreamed my daughter would be murdered by those Hunters. Can the wit, Cassiel. It'll only get you in trouble."

This speech would have been enough to put me in my place on its own, but it was also delivered while cruising the streets with Demid's customary lack of care, by a driver who was paying no attention to the road. I swallowed and mumbled an apology.

"What about Santino?" I asked once we'd gotten out of the car and my legs no longer felt like jelly. "We've only got a day at most before he kills Henderson and disappears."

"One thing at a time." Demid looked me in the eye. "Adams is a more immediate threat to us. We have to take him down first. Once that's over, if we survive, I give you my word that I will put everything I have, all the resources I can get hold of, into finding Santino. Good enough?"

It was. I had to agree with his logic, even if my emotional side was telling me that Michael was more important. Then I remembered what Angela had said; that according to her father, the life of one was never worth the lives of many. He would've agreed whole-heartedly with Demid. I sighed and shook his hand.

"More than good enough. Let's put this S.O.B down."

We walked inside. Demid grabbed a couple of beers from my fridge, and we sat down to discuss strategy. The central problems we had were twofold: first, how to get Adams out of his lair, and second, how to fight someone who can make you believe you're seeing anything he wants you to see. This second aspect was the most worrying. Imagine a situation where you shoot the bad guy, only to find out that he isn't actually standing there at all. Or worse, you shoot your friend believing him to be the bad guy, because that's what you see. We came up with several different ideas before hitting upon one that possibly had a chance to succeed. Even then, as plans went, it was definitely not one of the better ones. It basically came straight out of an eighties movie.

We wanted to lure Adams to somewhere where we had the upper hand; a place that we were intimately familiar with. Preferably somewhere that was also isolated, to minimize the potential harm to others. We settled on the storage yard. It was large, which was a disadvantage, but well-removed from residential areas, and Demid knew every inch of the place. Once we had the location, we needed a way to draw him out. He wouldn't have been much of a Godfather without a fair few henchmen, but it wasn't them we were interested in. Asking him nicely probably wouldn't work; we needed to make him curious or angry enough to come see us personally.

"He owns an auto yard, you said."

"Yes," Demid replied. "And a couple of clubs."

"And how do you think he'd feel if his businesses were... interfered with?"

"Pretty pissed off. Why?" Demid was curious now, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"I was thinking. What if some concerned citizen called the cops about possible drug dealing in his clubs, and that same citizen just happened to do an awful lot of damage to all those shiny, new, expensive cars in his auto yard? I think that might be enough to get the spider out of his web, don't you?"

He did, and we set about putting the plan into action. I was unable to make the call to the police, so Demid did the honors. It probably worked better that way anyway, except for the bit where the answering officer referred to Demid as 'Ma'am'. Demid showed remarkable restraint in his response, only swearing twice. He made the call from a disposable cell as we drove to the storage unit to collect supplies. Night had fallen while we were hatching our plans; a clear, starless night with barely a breath of wind.

Once we'd loaded the SUV, we drove over to the imaginatively named "Adams Autos". I couldn't get over the nerve of this guy, having his name right there above the business. It could have been jealousy, I suppose. Adams was secure enough in himself and his position to feel free to be in public view, while here I was, still skulking around doing my best to be invisible. I shook off the doubts, and set about my work.

Demid and I broke in to the lot through the front gate, making a fair amount of noise. This may seem counterintuitive, but it's actually safer than trying to be sneaky. People are more likely to notice furtive movement and whispers than larger actions combined with people talking at normal volume. This is why the cops get called for burglars, but not door-to-door sales people.

We got the gate open, and walked inside, to be greeted by two large Dobermans. Their upper lips were drawn back, and the floodlights reflected well off their sharp white teeth. The four of us stood in a standoff for a couple of seconds as the dogs worked out which parts of our bodies would be the tastiest. My hands drifted involuntarily, protectively, towards my groin.

The larger of the dogs lowered itself slightly, preparing to spring. Demid moved first. He bolted towards the dogs, teeth bared and growling. The dogs were startled momentarily, which allowed Demid to get close enough to drop to his knees and roll onto his back. I stood, frozen. I didn't have the faintest idea what was going on. The larger dog lowered its head, sniffing. Demid's arm snaked out, wrapped itself around the dog's neck, and wrenched it to the ground. Then he lowered his face to the dog's throat.

I heard a whimper, and saw Demid raise his head and release the dog's neck. The second beast looked at him, then squatted down and urinated. It had just decided who the boss was. Demid stood up, dusted himself off and called me over.

"It's all right now," he said. "They have a new Alpha."

They?

Even as he spoke, the first dog stood, shook itself and padded over to Demid. The light must have been good enough for him to read the look on my face.

"What?" he said. "You thought I'd kill an innocent animal that was just doing its job? Shame on you. Come on." This last was directed at the dogs (I think), and they did as instructed.

We made our way round the yard, slicing tires, keying paintwork and generally causing more mischief than out-and-out vandalism. The dogs followed us, padding silently around. The yard was a spooky place at night, and I was glad when Demid pronounced us finished. We closed the gate behind us and unlocked the SUV. The Dobermans sat on the other side of the chain-link prison fence, and regarded us with sad, soulful eyes. The larger one began to whine softly. Demid looked at them for a few seconds, then got back out and opened the gate.

"Come on then," he told them. Tails wagging, they followed him. He opened the back door, and his two new pets jumped in. They sniffed around the seats, taking particular interest in the one Angela had been sitting in. Then they flopped down and looked up expectantly. Demid turned the key, the engine rumbled into life, and we were off. Phase one of the plan was complete.

*

The following morning I woke to horrid breath and a face damp with doggy drool. The smaller dog, who was female, had decided that it was time to get up. When she noticed I was awake she trotted over to the door and stood expectantly. The male was hovering protectively by Demid, who had crashed on the chair, folding his massive frame up to be able to fit. His deep, rhythmic snores filled the room.

I threw some pants on and opened the door. The female trotted out, then looked back at me and gave a low bark.

"Okay, okay." I muttered. I turned to the male "You coming?"

He looked at Demid, at me, then back at Demid. He must've decided that Demid would be safe enough while he did his toilet, because he stalked over to the door and went out. I followed.

Outside, the morning was crisp but clear. The dogs sniffed around the sidewalk before finding an appropriate place to do their business. Fragrant steam rose from the piles. I didn't have a poop-scoop, but there was no way I'd just leave it there for some unsuspecting pedestrian to step in. Sighing a sarcastic "thanks" directed at the heavens, I bolted back inside to grab a bag. I returned, cleaned up the poop, and called the dogs back. The female trotted up to me, but the male was nowhere in sight. The next ten minutes were spent trekking around the neighborhood calling "here boy". I decided that if Demid was going to keep them, he really needed to give the dogs names.

I found the male (I'd started thinking of him as Chaos – it seemed to fit) rooting through the garbage behind an apartment building. He looked up as I approached, gave a small chuff and trotted over. I led them home and hunted through my meager supplies for something suitable, finally locating a frozen packet of sausages. A couple of minutes in the microwave, and breakfast was served.

Demid finally stirred just as the dogs finished the last of their meal. He rolled off the couch and stretched, sending out strange creaking and popping noises. Chaos walked over to him and sat while Demid scratched behind his (the dog's) ears.

Once Demid and I had showered and eaten, it was time to put phase two into action. Discussion over breakfast had resulted in the dogs being named Chaos and Mayhem. We felt those names were appropriate as they reflected the circumstances in which we'd met them. We loaded the dogs and drove over to the registered offices of V. Adams Inc.

The building was forty floors tall, yet another glass-and-steel monstrosity, and was only a couple of blocks from Cuppa Joe's. We parked in the underground lot and walked up the stairs to the lobby. Fake potted plants were sparsely placed around the room, in a completely unsuccessful attempt to improve the feel of the place. The windows were lightly tinted, allowing us to see outside, but discouraging prying eyes from peering in. A fat, balding security guard sat behind a desk, idly fiddling with something we couldn't see. According to the tag, his name was Ralph. He watched as we walked over to the floor directory. I counted sixteen security cameras dotting the ceiling, and noticed a couple more in the potted plants. Interesting.

Adams Incorporated was listed as being on the thirteenth floor, sandwiched between BC Tax Consultants on the twelfth, and Toleda Imports on the fourteenth. Just another generic, faceless company. Only it wasn't. I strongly suspected that neither the Tax consultancy nor the import company was owned by a Fallen Demon.

We pushed the call button for the elevator, walked in and hit thirteen. The doors slid shut silently, and the whirring as the elevator ascended was barely audible over a muzak version of Kenny G, which is a little redundant if you ask me. We stopped at floor thirteen, and Demid exited. I stayed in the elevator and held the door in case a hasty retreat was needed. As expected the office was bland, lacking personality, and containing absolutely nothing to indicate exactly what types of business Adams Inc. dealt in. Presumably, anyone who needed to come here would know the reason, and anyone who didn't know what the company did probably didn't belong anyway. I counted a further four security cameras, two in plain sight and two more concealed in more fake plants. A single opaque glass door led from the reception area into the office proper.

Demid strode over to the reception desk and handed an envelope to the receptionist. She appeared to be overly-stacked in the chest area, and under-endowed in the brains department. I know not to judge by appearances, but the dyed-blond hair, pancake-thick makeup, vacant smile and cracking gum really didn't contribute to an air of intelligence. As I watched, both she and Demid unconsciously reached up and rubbed their temples. We were definitely in the right place, and it looked like the Demon was in.

Inside the envelope was a note detailing what Demid and I had done last night, along with a small piece of Mayhem's fur for added veracity. The rest of the note suggested that more tragedy would befall Adams' empire unless he met us at the storage yard tonight at midnight. We didn't actually expect him to turn up, of course, but once we had removed a few henchmen from the equation and done some more damage to his businesses, he might be more inclined to deal with us personally.

Mission complete, Demid spun on his heels and walked briskly back to the elevator, which then took us back to the lobby. There was no elevator access to the underground parking, which I found unusual.

The dogs greeted us eagerly as we approached. Doggy breath fogged the rear windows, which, as conscientious owners, we'd cracked before we went inside. Demid slid into the driver's seat, I elbowed Chaos out of the passenger's, and we headed to the storage yard.

Chapter 15

We passed the rest of the day arranging supplies for our new four-legged friends, trying to clean up Demid's tattoo studio and apartment, and surprising the storage unit guards with a night off. We wanted to avoid the potential for innocent casualties as much as possible.

Black Thorn Tattoos needed a full refit, something we did not have time to arrange at the moment, so we attached 'Undergoing Remodeling' signs to the doors and covered the broken glass panes with fiberboard. Demid had been very lucky that no-one had broken in and looted the place. Or maybe it was his reputation that kept the lower elements away. Whatever the reason, the place hadn't been touched since we left after Candy's murder.

Disposing of a body in broad daylight is never easy. We had two to deal with, and the ordeal was made even more difficult by Demid's relationship with Candy. We couldn't just call the cops, for obvious reasons, and Demid decided that we had to relocate the bodies and conduct a burial service before we could begin to repair the place. He had a steely glint in his eyes when he announced this, one I knew better than to argue with. We knew it was only a matter of time until one of her friends reported Candy missing, but we decided to worry about it later.

We managed to move Candy to the SUV rolled in one of Demid's Egyptian rugs; Shoku we loaded into three plastic-lined cardboard boxes. We drove out of town to a woodland area just outside the city limits. The way Demid drove suggested that he was familiar with the route. I didn't really want to know why.

Birds and insects mocked us as we unloaded the vehicle, grabbed a couple of shovels, and trudged with our cargo to a spot Demid decreed was suitable. It was quite pretty – tall trees ringed a small clearing covered in a thin layer of leaves that crackled as we walked over them. The only sounds we could hear were those of small insects, and a light breeze whispering through the leaves. High overhead, the sun shone brightly, causing us both to work up a sweat as we dug the graves. We worked in silence until the graves were ready, then we interred the bodies.

Demid knelt at Candy's gravesite for a good five minutes, just looking down at her. He pulled her necklace from his pocket and lowered it reverently onto her body. Then he began to fill the grave. I attempted to help him, but he waved me off. I waited in silence until he was done. Even the dogs were quiet.

Shoku's burial was a less reserved affair. We stacked the boxes containing his earthly remains along the bottom of the grave, then poured a bottle of Scotch which Demid had brought for the purpose over them. Apparently, there was nothing Shoku had liked more than a bottle of 30 year-old Lagavulin. The heady scent of the spirit permeated the air, and gave me the urge to reach for a bottle. I fought it. As the last of the golden liquid splashed down, Demid finally spoke.

"Enjoy your rest, my friend. You have earned it."

He lowered the bottle and began shoveling. This time, he allowed me to assist.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we drove back. We still had time before the meeting, so we drove through a burger joint for dinner. Demid's growling stomach overrode the claims he made about the food damaging his delicate palate. We ate in a dog-friendly park, feeding Chaos and Mayhem from the supplies we'd purchased earlier. Once again, I got poop duty.

The night was darker than normal for this time of year, thick, oppressive and ink-black. Even the streetlights did little to cut through the darkness. We arrived at the storage yard a little after eight, to make certain the guard was off-duty, and to secure the place and get ready. It was a good thing we did. At ten, two full hours early, a black SUV pulled up. I'd taken watch duty. I was positioned in the lee of one of the sloped unit roofs. In my hands I held a scope-fitted M24 fully loaded with Winchester .300 ammunition. I had ten shots to play with, and two spare mags within arm's reach. I hoped I didn't need them. Beside me, nestled snugly on a blanket, were three tin cans half-filled with stones and re-sealed. We'd chosen the location carefully, naming an unused unit which stood on its own, far enough away from other buildings and the road, to offer a good amount of privacy.

This stage of the plan was simple: I was strictly to act as backup for Demid, interfering only if there were too many of them or they were too heavily armed. The SUV clunked through the gates and stopped, disgorging six large occupants. They all had short haircuts and bulging forearms. None of them would have looked out of place in a professional wrestling arena. One even bore a striking resemblance to an MMA fighter I'd once seen. Each of the men was wearing a badly-tailored suit jacket that did nothing to hide the bulge of their weapons. Perhaps that was the idea; a little psychological warfare. Well, we had our own.

I eased the rifle left, until it was pointing directly at the SUV.

"They're here." I spoke into the field coms unit I was also wearing. I had no idea where Demid got his military supplies, but now was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I heard the grinding rattle of a roller-door rising. Demid stood still, clearly silhouetted in the doorway. As one, the six henchmen dropped, drew their weapons, and fired. They were definitely not here for a civilized discussion.

I didn't notice how many of the shots hit; I was already firing at the vehicle. Covered by the noise, I got two shots off, blowing out one of the front tires and cracking the windshield before the shooting paused. I glanced over at 'Demid'. The body had been flung back by the repeated impact and lay on its back just inside the door.

Two of the men detached themselves to check it out, while the other four covered them. As they got close to the door, I heard two near-silent 'pfft' sounds through the coms. The men dropped like rocks into what was hopefully a blissful slumber. We'd had to guess at the tranquilizer dosage. The remaining four scattered, looking for cover. They knew that something strange was going on now, and their body language said they were unsure of how to proceed. Of course, Demid and I had made sure that no cover would be available except their vehicle, which they now noticed sported a couple of shiny new bullet wounds. Confusion reigned. I couldn't hear them, but I did see a lot of angry gesticulating. They hadn't been scared off, though, by any means.

The MMA guy ducked to the rear of the vehicle, opened the trunk and pulled out a small cylindrical object.

"Grenade," I warned.

MMA guy pulled the pin and threw it toward the open door. It was a beautiful throw. The grenade landed just inside the doorway and rolled. A few seconds later there was a loud explosion. These guys were not taking any chances. They waited for another thirty seconds before deciding it was probably safe to enter the building. They must've been under orders to bring back a body.

I watched the four of them creep towards the door, alert for the slightest noise. This was my cue. With my right hand, I felt around, grabbed one of the tin cans, and threw. It sailed silently over everyone's heads, landing with a clatter by the chain-link fence. The guys spun so smoothly they looked like synchronized swimmers. Definitely expensive muscle. Again, I used the noise to cover a shot, putting a nice hole in the hood of the SUV, and, if I was lucky, puncturing the radiator. Demid also heard the can, and came silently running out from beside the building. Two more 'pfft' sounds in my ear, and two more of the bad guys went down. This time, I could see the little red dots on their backs before they fell.

Two were left now, and Demid was in the open. Two hands raised weapons and fired at the same time. Two bullets sped towards Demid and caught him full in the chest. He fell, bleeding heavily. This was my cue. As they scuttled toward Demid, weapons still ready, I tracked them with my scope. They stood over him, pistols pointed directly at his head.

"Goodbye," MMA guy said, and pulled the trigger. Demid's brains spilled from his head like juice from a crushed melon. As the killing shot rang out, I took out his companion with a shot of my own, in the center of his back. Barely a second later, I shot MMA guy in the chest. I got a great look at the shocked expression on his face just after I pulled the trigger. Once he was down, I descended from the roof as quickly as possible and ran over to the scene. Neither of the bad guys was dead, but both were mortally wounded and going into shock. Demid was dead, but I knew that it would only be temporary.

While I waited for him to wake up, I busied myself dragging the henchmen into the unit and securing them. The grenade had done minimal damage; it must have been a concussion grenade. Pieces of former Hunter Nathan Caine littered the area. The wire which had held him still had snapped with the impact of the bullets that had hit his body. I counted six impact penetrations, all clustered around the chest. Those guys were good. Not good enough, though. Except for Nathan, the unit was empty. I secured the rear door, and restrained our unconscious captives. All seemed to have steady pulses, so our calculations must have been fairly close. They'd definitely feel like they were suffering the world's worst hangovers when they woke, but other than that, they'd be in perfect health. Well, depending on Demid's mood, of course. I took the opportunity to give each man a quick frisk, but came up empty: no wallets, no ID, nothing that would blow back on Mr. Adams if anything went wrong.

Just as I'd lugged the last man inside, Demid stirred. His brain and skull had reassembled themselves, so apart from a headache, he was feeling much better. Phase three was about to begin.

We shut the door, made certain Adams' unconscious henchmen were all arranged in a circle around the edges of the room, and settled in to wait. Demid used the time to complete his healing process. By the time the first of the men woke up, he was as good as new.

"Good evening." Demid greeted the henchman with a big smile. "I'm Demid. I'll be your interrogator this evening. This is my friend Cassiel. He will be assisting. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask."

The guy's eyes focused on Demid, then flickered for a moment as his memories came back.

"You – you're dead. We shot you."

"Obviously I'm not," Demid replied, turning slowly in a circle. "If I were, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

The rest of the tranquilized goons started regaining consciousness. After another five minutes, they were all awake enough for the fun to begin. Demid strode to the center of the room, gesticulating like a circus ringmaster.

"I'd like to thank you gentlemen for participating in our game tonight. The name of the game is 'who can give us the most information'. Cassiel, can you tell these gentlemen what the winner receives?"

"Certainly," I said. "The winner of tonight's game gets to walk out of here alive."

We gave them a moment for this to sink in. These guys wouldn't crack easily. We figured that the best way to encourage them was to mess with their minds.

"But don't worry, no-one goes away empty-handed," Demid went on. "All our other contestants will receive an all-expenses-paid one-way ticket to Hell. I'm told it's very warm this time of year." He smiled again, a predatory grin that chilled the blood.

No-one moved or spoke. We'd anticipated this. Demid picked one of the men at random, walked over to him and squatted down.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Fuck you."

"Well, Mr. You – may I say that you don't look particularly Asian – do you have any information for me?"

"Fuck you."

Demid stood and made a big show of being disappointed. Then his left foot lashed out, catching 'Mr. You' full in the mouth. Teeth broke, and were promptly spat out along with a decent amount of blood. Demid followed this strike up with a quick punch to the nose, then grabbed his victim by the hair and ripped his right ear off.

"Would you like to change your answer?"

'Mr. You' shook his head, spraying blood and saliva. He said something, two syllables I think, but I couldn't make out what it was.

"So be it." Demid threw the ear across the room. It hit the wall with a splat and oozed its way to the floor. Both hands free now, he hoisted 'Mr. You' into the air and slammed him head-first into the concrete floor. The sounds of the impact reverberated around the room. Three more slams, and he was tossed aside like a broken doll. I concentrated on breathing calmly (I've never really liked torture), and watching the others for signs of fear. So far, there were none.

Demid moved onto the next man and began the process again. He used his knowledge of the human body to inflict the worst pain and most physically repulsive injuries he could, never repeating a move. It took three more deaths before one of the two remaining men answered the first question.

"Gavin, Scott."

I nodded.

Demid grinned broadly and gave Scott a comradely slap on the back, which 'accidentally' knocked the wind out of him. "Well done, Mr. Gavin. Well done. Do you have any information for me?"

"Keep your mouth shut," ordered the other man.

Scott looked at him and began to reconsider his position. I stepped over to the other man and cuffed him over the head. I'd known this was a possibility, so I took a deep breath, bent down and calmly broke one of the man's fingers. In the silence of the room, the 'crack' sounded like a gunshot.

"Yes," Scott mumbled. "I'll tell you."

"Keep your fucking mouth shut." I cold-cocked the party-pooper, smashing my fist into his temple, then blowing on my bruised knuckles.

We had prepared for the eventuality that the men would be more loyal to Adams (or scared of him) than to life. If that happened, one more visit to his office building would be in order, depositing the mortal remains of his men. We figured that might be enough to get his personal attention; muscle like this wasn't cheap. I hoped that wouldn't be necessary, that Scott would give us what we needed, because I really didn't like our chances with the last guy. He did.

With no more encouragement, Scott told us everything he could about his employer. The six men had worked personally for Adams, as we'd hoped. Perhaps what had happened to them would motivate him to deal with us personally. Unfortunately, none of what Scott told us was very useful. This wasn't his fault, though, so we didn't hold it against him. In the glove compartment of the SUV was a disposable cell phone with one number pre-programmed. The team was supposed to call Adams when the job was done. We took the phone, untied Scott and escorted him to the vehicle. Demid offered sincere advice about Scott needing a change of career, which he appeared to take seriously, and we watched him drive off. Then we made the call.

Adams answered on the second ring. Demid held the phone between us so I wouldn't need to repeat the conversation.

"It's done?"

"No."

"So who is this?"

"The man who's been messing with your business interests."

Silence. Then "Ah. Of course. Mr...?"

I told him my name, and added that he'd returned Michael's phone to a friend of mine.

"Well," was his response. "That changes things somewhat. If I'd known it was you, I would never have wasted resources sending those men. How can I help you?"

His voice had changed; now I could almost feel the oil in it.

"We need to meet."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up.

Surprisingly enough, our plan had actually gotten results. Fifteen minutes didn't give us long to make sure everything was in place though.

While we'd chosen the storage yard for its isolation, there was another reason: the immediate area was basically empty. It was important to reduce the impact Adams' Gift could have. Fewer objects meant fewer ways in which he could mess with my mind. We went over the fight plan again, and Demid took his assigned position. He used the time to finish off the last goon. As much as I tried to block them out, I still heard the sounds through the coms unit, and they were not pleasant.

Adams arrived exactly on time, driving a dark sedan. He slid out of the car and peered toward the open unit. Cautiously, patting the small of his back, he walked over. I intercepted him before he'd gone ten paces. I saw Adams smile, and I scrunched my eyes, feeling a slight pressure in my skull. Adams was using his Gift.

"Well, we meet again." He said. "You've caused me quite a bit of trouble, let me tell you."

"Yeah, well."

"No, seriously," Adams continued. "I'm trying to build an empire here, and you're trying to take it down. Is there any particular reason?"

"Yes," I told him. "I don't want your kind in my city."

"My kind. And what kind is that, Angel? Isn't that a little hypocritical for someone whose best friend is a Demon?"

The shock must have been evident on my face, as he carried on.

"Oh, yes, I know you, Cassiel Malcolm. I know what happened to poor Angela's father, and how those Hunters took out Demid's adopted daughter. Who do you think sent them after her?"

"You?"

"Me. It was so easy to make them believe that she was a Demon. So, so easy. They never questioned me at all. And then, when it was done, I turned them on each other."

He took a small step toward me, and my head started buzzing. I was glad Demid could only hear my end of the conversation.

"What about Santino?"

"Him? He was just an amusement, a diversion of sorts. Something fun for me to play with while I worked. I encountered him quite by accident. It was easy enough to point him in the direction of your friend."

Something snapped inside me.

"You evil bastard."

Adams stopped and placed a hand over his heart.

"Oh, you wound me." He said. "Evil? No. You simply don't understand. You think I'm evil. But in truth, I am not at all evil. I am willing to do whatever it takes to achieve my goals. No matter what it is, no matter how long it takes, no matter who it may hurt. No matter who it may kill. I am not evil. I am simply relentless."

He smiled then, and I felt cold fear coil in my belly. This was the part of the plan that had worried me. The best way to fight someone who can plant visions in your mind is to not be there. The second best is to fight him blind. If you can't see, he can't fool you. A blindfold wouldn't work though. I couldn't be certain it would do the job. No, the best way to fight blind is to be blind.

I paused, trying to wait for just the right moment. My vision flickered briefly; I saw movement off to my right. I turned instinctively, and caught sight of Angela running out of the darkness toward me.

"Cassiel," she called. Her voice was like honey. "I'm glad I got to you in time. There's been a terrible accident..."

I tuned her out, realizing, courtesy of my Gift, that it was an illusion. I spun back around, to see Adams advancing. He'd pulled a pistol from somewhere, and it was currently pointed right at me. He knew I'd seen through his trick, and I prepared myself to get shot.

As we'd been talking, I had taken a laser pointer out of my pocket and was rolling it around in my hand. You know, the ones that say "May cause blindness if pointed at eyes". I'd gotten the idea from the sights on Demid's guns. I hoped the warning was accurate.

I spoke into the coms. "Now."

This was where our plan would either work or not. Demid killed the lights. I pulled the pointer up, switched it on, and shone the beam directly into my right eye. It burned. Then I did the same to my left. My vision was gone, except for two bright red spots. On a positive note, my headache was gone too. Now all I had to do was find Adams and incapacitate him.

There is an art to blind fighting. You have to let your senses extend, becoming aware of the feel of air movement, the sound of rustling clothes, things like that. This is not a skill that's learned overnight, but this wasn't my first time. That time I was lucky to escape with my life. If it hadn't been for Demid, I wouldn't have. This time I was hoping I'd be skilled enough to come out the victor.

I heard the clomp of Adams' footsteps approaching. With the lights down, even once his eyes adjusted, he'd have trouble using a gun from a distance. Therefore, he had decided to get closer. I didn't need to find him after all. I waited until the moment felt right, then dropped to the ground, sweeping my legs up and around. I felt them connect with his knees. He dropped the gun as he fell. I heard it clatter as it hit the ground. There was no skill involved in the combat now, just luck. I stood quickly, senses extended.

There. Movement just off to my left. I kicked out, and heard a grunt as my foot connected with his ribs. Fingers scrabbled on my shoe as I drew the foot back for another strike. I missed. I heard nothing except the pounding of my own blood in my ears. Paranoia took hold; was he behind me, ready to strike? I stepped and swung a full-force roundhouse punch. I connected with nothing.

Off-balance now, I stumbled slightly. That was when he struck, barreling into me from behind. I hit the ground with my hands extended, and heard and felt something snap. I didn't have time to dwell on my injury, though, as Adams was on my back, striking blindly at my ribs and kidneys. Using my legs, I managed to lever myself up and over backwards. I heard the air leave Adams' lungs as we landed. As quickly as I could, I rolled away, trying to regain the advantage.

My hands scrabbled around, trying to find something to grab. I felt a shoe, then felt its friend as he kicked me in the face. Pain exploded in my eyes again, and I cried out. Then his hands found their way to my head and he slammed it against the concrete.

"Demid," I said. Then my head hit the ground again. Adams had managed to scramble on top of me. I felt his hands go around my neck, and he started squeezing. Stars joined the red dots in my vision.

I struggled, reaching up to where I guessed his eyes were, but to no avail. Then I heard the sound of claws skittering on concrete, and felt something hit Adams' upper body. Demid had released the dogs. The grip on my throat loosened. I took a deep rasping breath, grateful to be able to get air into my starving lungs. Adams' attention was now focused on my two canine rescuers. We had kept Chaos and Mayhem in reserve, unsure whether Adams' Gift also worked on animals. It appeared that it didn't.

Rustling, grunting, and wet tearing sounds reached my ears. Then I heard Demid come running up, and I felt a tongue caress my cheek.

"That better be the dog," I mumbled.

Demid laughed. "It is."

I sat, waiting for my vision to return as Demid finished Adams off. My brain filled in the images as I heard him slicing, chopping and grunting with exertion. His work was peppered with comments to the dogs along the lines of "Don't eat that. You don't know where it's been."

The plan had worked. Now we only had Santino to worry about.

Chapter 16

I woke the next morning in my own bed, in perfect health. Demid had crashed on the chair again, exhausted from cleaning up after last night's mess. He'd insisted on doing it himself, even once I'd been able to see again. I let him. The dogs were both sprawled out on the floor, still sleeping. I eased myself off the bed. As soon as I did, two sets of canine eyes were on me.

"Okay," I told them. "I'm on it."

I shuffled into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. Because we'd actually purchased food yesterday, I was able to open a can of dog food. According to the label, it contained 100 percent real meat. It smelled pretty tasty, actually. I deposited the contents of the can in two bowls and plopped them on the floor.

"Come and get it." I said, then had to jump out of the way as I was caught in a two-canine stampede. Chaos sniffed a little and then ate. Mayhem took a sniff and a cautious bite, but then turned to regard me with a look that said "This is it? After what we did for you last night you feed us this swill?"

"Yep," I said to him. "It's that or nothing." He lowered his head and reluctantly ate.

Once Demid had woken and we'd both showered and eaten, I started nagging him about Santino. I know, I'd had a terrible few days and after my near-death experience the previous night you'd think I would be more inclined to take a break. I've never been like that – in spite of my preference for a slow-paced life, once I get involved in something I have to see it through. Also, I needed to finish it for Angela. Just before I fell asleep, and again as I woke up, I saw her face.

Demid had other things to deal with, arranging people to repair the tattoo studio, and trying to avoid the police becoming interested in Candy's disappearance. I said I would look up Henderson. Hopefully Santino hadn't gotten to him yet. I left the dogs in Demid's care and headed off on foot.

The address I had for Henderson was only an hour's walk from my place. The weather was fine, and for some reason I was in a fantastic mood. Probably left-over endorphins from the previous night. I decided to make the trip on foot, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of my city. It's funny, really. A couple of days earlier, all I'd really cared about was my small piece of the world. Now my horizons had expanded, and it felt good. I know that I should have been in more of a hurry, but I didn't think that an hour would make much difference. I was wrong.

The Hendersons' house was a one-story cookie-cutter style box in what had once been a nice area. Property values had declined over the years but the majority of the homes were occupied by families, and there was a nice feel about the neighborhood. It was the kind of place where people actually cleaned up after their dogs, and you could easily imagine kids trick-or-treating unsupervised. The house itself had definitely seen better days. The white paint on the wood was peeling, the lawn looked like it hadn't been trimmed in a month, and I could see a few loose shingles on the roof, but otherwise it was in good repair. As I walked to the front door, I could smell freshly cut grass from the house next door. In front of the door lay a straw welcome mat, with the phrase "The cat and its staff welcome you". Cat people. I've never really liked cats – I just don't get why someone would waste their time on an animal that would soil your pillow as soon as your back was turned. I much prefer animals that actually seem to enjoy human company, rather than merely tolerate it. I rang the bell anyway, and stepped back to wait.

Once again, I'd gone into a situation without devising a plan. I had no idea if anyone was home, who would answer the door, what I'd say if someone did answer, or what I'd do if no-one did. I like to play things by ear. Demid once told me I could've had a great career in improvisational theater.

I saw an indistinct shape on the other side of the door, just above floor height. The cat.

"Hey, kitty," I said. "Is anyone home?"

The shape moved again, coming closer. It looked like the cat wasn't going to answer, so I turned around, thinking about visiting the neighbors to see what they could tell me. I took a step, and then stopped as I heard a rap on the door behind me. Either that was one big cat, or... I ran back to the door, twisted the handle, and charged it with my shoulder. It hurt, but didn't open. I stepped back, took a breath, and did what I should've done the first time. I kicked the lock. When hitting a solid object, it's always a good idea to use another (preferably more solid) object. If you must use your body, the foot is probably your best bet. A good kick can crack planks or knock concrete blocks out of garden walls. This wasn't one of those kicks.

The door rattled slightly in the frame, but stayed closed. I kicked it again. This time, I heard something scraping. It didn't feel like it was the bones in my foot, so I decided to give it one more try. I drew back my leg and shot my foot out with everything I had. The lock burst through the other side of the frame, and the door swung open. It hit the head of the elderly lady who was on the floor.

I knelt beside her, looking for obvious injuries and checking her pulse. She was bleeding pretty heavily from a wound on her scalp, but I could still feel her heartbeat. I heard footsteps pounding up the pavement behind me.

"Get off her, you sicko." I turned and saw a fifty-year-old man in pretty good shape brandishing a shotgun. He had bristle-short white hair, and was wearing Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved white shirt, which revealed tanned arms and naval tattoos. He waved the gun at me, directing me away from what I presumed was Mrs. Henderson. This was not going well.

"Call an ambulance, Sheila. And the cops. I've got the sonofabitch dead to rights." This was shouted over his shoulder to the woman trotting up the pavement behind him. All I could see of her was a bright pink sundress and dyed-brown hair.

"It's not what you think," I tried. "I was coming to see if Richard was here, heard her and burst in to help."

"Tell it to the cops," was the response. At least he hadn't tried to blow my head off yet. I tried again.

"No, really." I stopped. I could see that there would be no reasoning with him.

Sheila came back, carrying a first-aid kit. She knelt down beside Mrs. Henderson and began exploring the scalp wound. Her husband stood stock-still, the shotgun pointed at my head. There was nothing I could do but wait.

Sirens preceded both the ambulance and the two police cars, which arrived seven and eleven minutes later respectively. The EMTs stood at the edge of the property, waiting to be given clearance to enter. I hoped Mrs. Henderson didn't expire before they could help her. Officers Stansky, Carter, Grey and West, all men, all over forty but in good shape, entered the house, weapons ready. They secured me (a little more roughly than was strictly necessary if you ask me), and cleared the EMTs to come in. Mrs. Henderson was placed on a stretcher and carted off to whichever hospital her insurance (if she had any) would cover. I was read my rights and bundled unceremoniously into the rear of a police car. Grey and West stayed behind to get statements from the neighbors and do whatever it is they do with crime scenes.

It took longer than eleven minutes to make the trip to the police station. Seventeen minutes longer, to be exact. I had nothing to do but watch the clock and mentally kick myself once again for not thinking things through.

Once we arrived at the station, I was removed from the car and escorted inside. The squad room was nothing like what you see on TV. Officers personned (have to be PC) the desks and phones, dealing calmly and professionally with enquiries, and I didn't see even one detective get dragged into the supervisor's office over breaking protocol or ignoring a suspect's rights. I was a little disappointed, to tell the truth. My pockets were emptied; shoelaces and anything else I had that could potentially be used to injure someone removed, and I had my fingerprints and mug shots taken. Then I was escorted to the holding cell. My companions were two drunks, three large, muscular men of limited intellectual capacity, and Steve, a former bodybuilder who had been picked up for soliciting. He was wearing a feather boa, thigh-high boots and a sequined mini-dress. Fortunately, I didn't attract any negative attention from anyone, so I found a spot and settled in to wait.

The three musclemen picked up a conversation that had apparently been taking place before I joined them.

"Yours is nothin'," the largest one said. He was about 6 foot three, with a blond crew-cut and a snake tattoo around his right eye. "I heard about one they fished out of the river just yesterday. Hacked to pieces, he was. Like a goddamned human jigsaw."

That kind of death sounded suspiciously familiar.

"That the guy with the tattoo?" the second one chimed in. Except for his facial tat, which was some kind of lizard instead of a snake, he could have been Snake's clone. Probably a brother.

"Tattoo?" Snake sounded unsure.

"Polly told me about it. Her sister works with someone whose cousin's down at the coroner's office. Guy had a honking great tattoo of a pair of fuckin' wings on his back."

The third guy snorted. He was slightly smaller than the other two, and had no distinguishing features other than a nose that looked as if it had been broken a few too many times.

"Bet he wished he could've flown away from the dude what cut him."

Now it was Snake's turn to snort.

"If only." He said.

The conversation continued. I tuned it out as best I could. I was pretty sure that the body they'd been talking about was Michael's.

After only four more hours I was taken to the interrogation room, via the phone, where I used my one call to contact Demid. It took a couple of minutes to get him to stop swearing at me, but I managed to let him know where I was and ask him to get me out. He got in a few choice comments about my unfortunate tendency to get myself in trouble, and said he'd think about it.

Then it was on to the interrogation chamber. The walls were a dark blue dotted with stains of some description, there was a large mirror along one wall, and in the center of the room were an old table and two chairs. I was directed to sit. I sat. My cuffs were removed for a moment, then threaded through a steel ring in the corner of the table and reattached. The two men who'd escorted me here turned and left the room, allowing me time to reflect on my sins, I suppose.

Five minutes later, Carter and Stansky swaggered into the room. Carter was carrying a thick manila folder which he dumped on the table. He sat down, leaving Stansky scowling, thick arms folded across his chest, in the corner by the door. Overhead, a red light blinked regularly on the security camera.

"We've got you dead-to-rights," Carter announced, leaning forward. I could smell cigarettes on his breath. "Breaking and entering, burglary and attempted murder."

I said nothing.

"You sure you don't want a lawyer?"

This, I did respond to. "Haven't done anything wrong. Don't need one." I had to be extremely careful how I phrased my answers. Police don't tend to look too positively upon people who go around committing homicide, no matter the reason. I had the bodies of ten Hunters and five hired goons to be concerned about. My answer, though, was completely truthful; none of those deaths was morally wrong, even if legally-speaking they were.

"Haven't done anything," he repeated. "Stan, did you hear this guy? He hasn't done anything."

Carter leaned further forward, attempting to intimidate me. "Listen, smart guy. We've got techs at the scene right now collecting enough evidence to put you away for life. Not to mention the statement we've got from that old woman you almost killed. Do you get off on hitting old women? Huh? Does it get you all tingly?"

Stansky stepped away from the wall and put a warning hand on his partner's shoulder.

"Settle down, Al."

Carter forced himself to sit back and take a breath. I had to hand it to them, they did put on a very convincing act. Of course, an act is all it was. I knew that the only evidence they'd find would corroborate exactly what I'd told them when they arrested me: that I'd broken the door and only gone about two steps into the house. If Mrs. Henderson was able to recollect the attack, she'd give them a description of somebody else, most likely Santino. All I had to do was wait.

They tried to interrogate me for a further fifteen minutes before returning me to the holding cell while they 'organized the evidence.' My former companions were still there; they all gave me a nod as I entered. I returned to my previous spot and waited.

Demid finally showed up an hour later, right around the time Mrs. Henderson's statement came in. For an old lady who'd taken a knock on the noggin she had a surprisingly clear memory of the assault. She'd not only described Santino as the assailant, but been able to tell the officers what Santino had been looking for (Richard), and give them a scolding for locking up "the nice young man" who'd come to help. I was vindicated. I walked out of the cell with my head high.

Stansky stopped me as I left, and mumbled, "Sorry about that."

I wondered if he thought I was going to sue. I accepted the apology with a smile and walked outside.

Chapter 17

The sun was mid-way through its descent when I left the police station. Demid had illegally parked his SUV in front, and was bounding up the steps as I was walking down.

"You're out?"

"Obviously." Glad to see that my sparkling wit hadn't deserted me after my incarceration.

We got into the car. The dogs were both in the backseat, waiting patiently for once.

"Where to?" Demid asked.

"Whichever hospital they took Mrs. Henderson to," I said as I turned my phone on and went online. "He's probably there."

A quick search brought up a list of hospitals within the city. I managed to find three that were roughly the same distance from the Hendersons' house: St. Jude's, Eastside General, and Oakley University Hospital. I couldn't narrow the search down any further, so we opted to begin with the hospital nearest to our current location, Eastside General. The GPS map my phone provided was very helpful. While we drove, I filled Demid in on what I'd found out about Michael.

"At least now we know," he said, echoing my own sentiment. I still wasn't sure how to break it to Angela though.

Eastside General was one of those old-style hospitals you can easily imagine being the setting of a horror movie. The grounds were dark, the buildings had limited windows, and its parking lot must have been built when there were only fifty cars in the country. Wind whistled through the desiccated Elm trees which grew sparsely around the perimeter.

Through some miracle, we found a parking spot reasonably close to the entrance. Demid parked squarely within the lines, cracked the windows for the dogs, and got out. I followed. A foreboding feeling traveled with me as we approached the doors, and I shuddered. Demid and I walked through the first of two sets of automated doors. A sign on the inner pair informed us that for our safety, the inner doors would open only when the outer doors were closed. We heard a click as the doors behind us sealed, and then the doors in front of us slid silently open. We stepped through.

No amount of renovation could change the creepy atmosphere of the place, but someone had done their best. Cheery posters decorated the walls, there was a large assortment of vending machines, and they even had a game room for children. The reception desk was staffed by a matronly-looking woman with steel-grey hair and bifocals perched on the tip of her nose. She was not wearing a name tag. Her fingers were busy thumping away on a computer keyboard as we approached.

"Good afternoon," Demid said warmly.

"How may I help you gentlemen?" She sounded like a Ruth to me. Her voice was professional, but warm at the same time.

I leaned slightly on the counter, smiling, Demid standing silently by my side.

"We're looking for a woman who may have been brought here earlier today." I said. "Older woman, last name Henderson?"

Ruth gave me a mildly disapproving look. "I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid I can't give that kind of information out. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Demid shook his head, smiled once more, and answered for me. "No. Thank you for your time."

We walked back outside, waiting for the doors again.

"What was the point of that?" I asked as soon as we were outside. "You could've made something up. We just wasted five minutes, and they'll get suspicious if we go in again."

"Ah, my friend." Demid clapped me on the shoulder. "It wasn't what the nurse told you; it was what her computer told me."

I started. Demid was just finishing up putting his gloves back on. I hadn't noticed him taking them off, but he must have read the computer while I was talking to Ruth.

"And?" I didn't bother to comment on his shrewdness.

"She's not here. Where to next?"

The next closest was Oakley University Hospital, OHU for short. We got back in the car and drove. As we left Eastside, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I hoped we'd have better luck at OHU. In a manner of speaking, we did.

*

OHU was about as far removed from Eastside General as it was possible to get. Purpose-built only five years previously, it was a large, open and architecturally-designed monument to the money spent annually on health-care. The hospital had more wings than a flock of seagulls, each in a separate building. The buildings themselves, though pretty enough, were practically identical in appearance, differentiated only by their names. Some poetic soul had decided to name them after different types of trees. The walkways between buildings were bordered by shrubs and flowers, giving a visitor the sense of being in botanical gardens rather than a place where sick people came to convalesce. Outside the entrance to each building was a helpful color-coded map, along with approximate walking times.

We parked a mere ten-minute walk from the main building, and began our search anew. I suspected that we were in the right place when I noticed a police car parked in the ambulance bay. The map listed the intensive care unit as being in the Maple building, two minutes from where we were. Finally, things were going our way.

We entered the Maple building, and immediately noticed the hustle-and-bustle. Various doctors, nurses and other staff moved purposefully around, talking to patients or each other, or wheeling carts laden with various medically-related things. There was no sense of panic, though; I got the impression that this busy efficiency was a normal state of affairs. The reception desk sat in the center of the room, staffed by three women who looked barely out of their teens. We waited until the other two were busy, and approached the youngest-looking one.

"Excuse me," Demid said. "I was wondering if you could direct me to Eunice Henderson's room, please. Richard told me the number, but I seem to have misplaced it."

The nurse (she wore a name tag reading "Tricia") looked us up and down, then tapped a few keys.

"604," she said. "Elevators are down the hall, to your left."

We thanked her, but she'd already forgotten us and moved on to the next task.

We walked to the elevator casually, as if we had every right to be there. One of the most important things I've learned in my time is that if you don't belong somewhere, no-one will notice you if you pretend that you do. There are exceptions, of course. I would definitely not recommend casually wandering through a military base for example, but busy public areas are surprisingly easy to access.

A bank of six shiny elevators stood before us, three on each side. We entered the first one available and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

"How did you know her name?" I asked as we entered.

"Simple. I read Santino's file. I'm surprised you didn't."

I mentally kicked myself again. I had read the file, but hadn't paid attention to many of the more trivial details.

So," Demid asked. "Now that that's sorted, what's your plan?"

I didn't have one. For all my self-admonishment earlier, I'd gone and done it again, too busy trying to find Henderson to think about what to do if we actually located him. I sighed, and admitted as much to Demid. He smiled.

"I thought that might be the case." He showed me a small radio-transmitter he'd taken from his pocket. If Henderson was here, all we had to do was plant this on him, wait until Santino grabbed him, and follow the tracker.

"I have to say I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of using him as bait," I objected. "What if Santino gets him and we get there too late?"

Demid considered this for maybe half a second.

"Then the world is down one pedophile. No great loss, really."

The coldness in his eyes surprised me a little. In the few seconds before the doors opened, I analyzed his plan, and found that I agreed with him. What with the whole Adams situation, trying to find Santino and solve Michael's disappearance, I had kind of forgotten that the normals Santino hunted were pedos.

Don't get me wrong, I do believe in rehabilitation, but in my experience sexual offenders were the most likely to re-offend, and there was just something about pedophiles in particular that stuck in my craw. I suppose it could have been because of what happened to Jamie.

Chapter 18

It was another time, another city. Jamie was ten, blond-haired and green-eyed. I suppose in some ways she reminded me of Samuel. She was my neighbor's daughter. Her mother, Jennifer (never Jen or Jenny), was a single mom who often worked late into the night and had a run of bad luck with babysitters. We'd met not long after they moved into the building I lived in at the time, and had hit it off. Over the next six months, the three of us had developed a routine of sharing pizzas and cheesy movies on a Saturday night, crowded around Jennifer's old TV. There was never anything sexual between us, just a no-strings companionship which two lonely adults desperately needed.

I never asked Jennifer about her past, but I had my suspicions. Loud noises would often startle her, and she would get a haunted look in her eyes. In the year that we knew each other, she'd never once mentioned a boyfriend or even had a date that I knew of.

None of this seemed to affect Jamie though. She was a bundle of positivity wrapped in enthusiasm, always happily skipping about the place or engaged in whatever her latest project was. She was an artistic soul; she'd shown me some of her paintings, and I'd been flabbergasted by the depth of feeling that struck me when I viewed them. Her subjects were everyday people in everyday situations, but she painted them with such talent and raw emotion that you couldn't see one and not be touched by it. My favorite was titled "fishing". It was a water-color image of a man sitting alone in a small rowboat in the middle of a lake. A cap was perched on his head, he had a fishing line leading over the prow of the boat, and was leaning back reading. You could see the contrast between the clear blue water on the surface of the lake and the garbage (and distinct lack of fish) below the surface. Upon closer inspection, it became evident that the book was the Bible, and the man was not reading but crying.

This particular Friday began as any other; I woke up late and schlepped around, filling in time until Jamie was due home from school. Jennifer worked late on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and I had become Jamie's babysitter on those nights. I'd help her with homework, we'd cook dinner and just hang out until bedtime (9PM and not a minute later), and then I'd watch TV until Jennifer arrived.

I didn't start getting worried until 4:30. It wasn't uncommon for Jamie to stay late after school playing basketball or finishing up one of her art projects, but she almost always called to let me know, and she was always back by 4:30. It started with a gnawing sensation in my gut, an unspecified feeling that something wasn't right.

I upended my drawer-o-crud, searching for the list of numbers Jennifer had given me when I started taking care of Jamie. It was buried on the bottom, beneath batteries, pizza coupons and for some reason an old sock. Uncrumpling the paper I was relieved to find the list perfectly legible, written in Jennifer's small but amazingly neat handwriting.

The first number on the list was the school, followed by Jennifer's workplaces. I tried the school first.

"Welcome to Walker Hill Elementary school. Please press one followed by the room number to speak to your child's teacher, two for the Principal – "

I didn't wait to hear more, just jabbed the number 2 as hard as I could. Then I waited for what seemed like an incredibly long time before the phone rang, and an even longer time before the principal, Brenda Green, answered. After I identified myself, I asked about Jamie.

"Just a moment," was the response, then I found myself listening to Clannad.

Around a minute later, there was a click, then, "Are you there?"

Where else would I be?

"Y-yes," I answered.

"Jamie left school just after three thirty. Is there a problem?"

"She's not back yet," I said. "I'm a little worried, to be honest. She's always back by now. Or she calls." I was babbling, and Ms. Green knew it.

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Malcolm," she instructed. "I'm sure nothing has gone wrong. Have you called Jamie's mother – maybe she knows something?"

"Not yet. That was going to be my next call," I said. Taking a breath had actually helped a little.

"Okay. Well, you call Jennifer and I will have a chat with Jamie's teacher and call you back. May I have your number?"

I gave it to her, hung up and called Jennifer at work. The moment she heard my voice she knew something was wrong.

"What is it? Is it Jamie? Has something happened to her?"

I gave Jennifer the same instruction Ms. Green had given me about breathing while I relayed what I knew.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she told me.

I hung up and paced the apartment for the next ten minutes, pulling my phone out every 30 seconds to check if I'd missed a call. Finally, the phone began ringing. I almost dropped it in my haste to answer.

"Ms. Green?"

"Yes, Mr. Malcolm. Has Jamie arrived yet?"

"No."

She continued. "I've spoken to her teacher, and he assures me that Jamie has been her normal self, no changes in behavior or anything that would indicate something wrong. Have there been any changes in her home life recently?"

"No."

"Hmm. Well, as I said before, I am sure she is fine. She is very mature for her age. I could give you the number of the Police Educational Safety Officer if you'd like."

I said I would like, very much, and she did. The call concluded, and I tried the PESO, whose name was Vicky. She was actually quite helpful, listening to my concerns and reassuring me that I was not overreacting. She listened carefully, getting as much information out of me as possible, and told me that she would ask all local patrols to watch out for Jamie. I felt a little better after I ended the call. That feeling didn't last.

Jennifer arrived back in a seriously emotional state. Once she'd determined Jamie still wasn't back, she had a minor meltdown, collapsing against me, crying. That only lasted a minute, then she tore into her apartment and came back with a scrap of yellowed paper.

"Can I borrow your phone?" She asked.

I just held it out to her, not knowing what else to do. Jennifer took a deep breath and then began to dial. Her fingers were shaking too much to punch the keys properly, so she asked if I could dial for her. I did, and then stood mute.

"What have you done with her, you son of a bitch?" Jennifer practically yelled down the phone. "I know you have her, and if you've hurt her in any way I'll rip off your nuts and make you eat them!"

I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation clearly, but I did hear surprised noises.

"Don't you fucking lie to me," Jennifer screamed. "I'm not that beaten, worthless cow you used to enjoy smacking around anymore. I swear to you; if you've taken her, I will hunt you down and kill you."

She was silent for a couple of minutes then, listening. Then, "I will. And if you're lying..." She hung up and wiped unshed tears from her eyes.

"My ex," she said by way of explanation.

Now was not the time to press for details, not that I would anyway.

"Did he know anything?" I asked hesitantly.

"No. Swears he was locked up overnight for domestic abuse again, and only got home a half hour ago."

Jennifer called the PESO while I made us coffee; anything to take my mind off things. The ex's story checked out. Apparently he'd come home drunk the previous night, had a fight with his girlfriend and things had gotten physical. She called the cops, they hauled him away, the girlfriend wasn't pressing charges, and he was released. From what Vicky said, it sounded like this was something of a regular occurrence. I shook my head. I've never understood why people will stay in abusive relationships.

We spent the next five hours calling Jamie's friends and searching the neighborhood. We called in at every house and business we found, asking if anyone had seen her. No-one had. Finally, it got too dark to continue, so we returned to our building. Neither of us wanted to be alone. I ended up crashing on Jennifer's couch, mental exhaustion finally driving us both into sleep.

In the early hours of the morning, there was a knock at the door. I was at the peephole before I even knew I was awake. The first thing I saw was a blue police uniform. Jennifer came stumbling out of the bedroom, hair everywhere and rubbing her eyes. I unlatched the chain, flicked the bolt, and flung the door open, expecting the worst. Once the door was open, I saw three people: two uniformed officers and Jamie.

Jamie's clothes were torn and bloodied, she had bruises on her face and neck, but she was alive. Without even thinking about it, I swept her into my arms, holding her as if she were my own child. Jamie tensed and tried to push me away, crying out wordlessly. I put her down as quickly as possible. She saw her mother, and ran over to her.

The officers asked if they could come in. I looked over at Jennifer for permission, then said yes.

A curious silence followed them. We sat in the living room, the officers next to me on the couch, Jamie on her mother's knee on the armchair. Jennifer was stroking her daughter's hair and muttering reassuringly.

To cut a long story short, Jamie had been abducted on her way home from school. She'd been taken somewhere, raped, beaten and abandoned. She managed to stumble to a 24-hour convenience store, where the owner had taken one look at her and called the police. The store was only five blocks from our building.

The responding officers had received Jamie's details from the PESO, and decided to bend protocol and bring her home rather than calling to let us know she'd been found. With Jennifer's permission, Jamie went to the hospital to undergo a Sexual Assault Exam. The rapist had been sloppy; he hadn't worn a condom, and the staff collected Jamie's clothes, semen and hairs. Jamie was also able to lead them back to the place she'd been assaulted.

The police were able to get a DNA match to a registered Sex Offender named Bernard Gaske. They ended up with more than enough evidence against Gaske, and managed to locate him one fine morning and arrest him. This whole process had taken four months, however, and in that time Gaske had raped two other girls. The seven year old was practically catatonic, and the other girl, who was twelve, would need ongoing medical care to have anything resembling a normal life.

Jamie stayed out of school this whole time. Other than with her mother, she never even left the apartment. Jennifer had to quit her jobs to take care of Jamie, but the stress of having no income had taken its toll on her, and they were evicted and moved to a shelter. I had offered to help, but been rebuffed repeatedly. Jamie couldn't stand being around men anymore, not even me. I couldn't blame her.

After the trial, Gaske was sent to prison for a long time. Evidence of the assaults was presented, along with testimony from Jamie and the twelve-year-old. Once convicted, he wasn't likely to see the outside of a prison for the rest of his life. I kept track of the case, and tried to maintain contact with Jennifer. From what I was able to discover, the rape had completely broken Jamie. She gave up painting, withdrew from everything, and one night, about a month after Gaske's conviction, she took a knife from the kitchen and killed herself. She went into the bathroom, locked the door and slashed her inner arms from elbow to wrist. I knew it hadn't been my fault, but I still blamed myself. If I'd only picked her up from school, none of it would've happened.

I fell into the bottle after that, and it took two years for me to crawl back out. I still make a pilgrimage to Jamie's grave every year on the anniversary of her death, the most recent being two weeks ago. And I have real problems considering the words 'pedophile' and 'rehabilitation' in the same sentence, unless it also includes the word 'impossible'.

Chapter 19

The elevator doors opened. I stepped out, shadowed by Demid. In front of us was the reception area for the floor. An erasable board showed patients' names, doctors and room numbers. Behind a clutter of paperwork sat a sole nurse, busily tapping away on the computer. I was struck mostly by the lack of noise in here. I heard whispered voices, and saw a couple of elderly people shuffle past with their walkers. Room 604 was down the corridor to the right, just past a bank of vending machines. You'd think it would be immoral to peddle all that sugar and additive-laden junk in a hospital, but that didn't stop anyone. I supposed that hospitals were actually a great sales location: captive market.

Stationed outside Mrs. Henderson's room were two police officers I recognized: Grey and West. Demid and I squeezed past a guy feeding money into a snack machine, and breezed up to the door. Grey and West stepped from their posts on either side of the door and blocked my way.

"Family only." West told me, arms folding across his chest.

The looks on both their faces told me that I'd be wasting my time trying to go in. They were also giving off strong 'go ahead, we'd love to arrest you again' vibes. I decided not to push my luck.

"Come on," I said to Demid. I turned around and began walking back to the elevators. The guy from before was still at the vending machines. He was fishing in his pocket for more coins, even after the machine had swallowed his first deposit.

"Sorry," Demid said behind me.

"No problem." In the narrow corridor, Demid must've bumped into him. I found it slightly unusual that Demid would apologize though; one look at him and most people say sorry even if they've done nothing wrong. We made it back to the elevators, waited for one to arrive, and got in. A family of three was already inside, sniffing and wiping their eyes. Whoever they'd been to see hadn't been as lucky as Eunice. It didn't feel right to talk around them, so I waited until we were outside before talking to Demid about our next move.

"We need to find out where Henderson might go, or where Santino could've taken him," I said. "Any ideas?"

"Yes. We sit in the car and wait."

"What for? We don't know Henderson's coming to see his mom. All we really know is Santino's after him. For all we know, Santino might already have him."

"Wrong." Demid pulled something out of his pocket that resembled a cell phone. He flipped it open, gave it a couple of seconds to warm up, and showed it to me.

"GPS monitor," he told me. "Now we'll know where Henderson is at all times."

"But how..." My voice trailed off as I remembered the incident by the vending machine. "That guy in the corridor. The one you bumped into. It was him, wasn't it?"

Demid smiled and nodded.

"I recognized him from Santino's file, and took the opportunity to plant a locator on him."

I whistled. "You are one sneaky S.O.B. you know that?"

"I do. And you wouldn't have it any other way." He was right.

We settled in to the SUV and began to wait. After thirty minutes, I wished I'd brought a good book. After an hour, I would've settled for a bad one. After three hours, I would've been happy with Doctor Seuss. Instead, I got three hours and twenty-three minutes of Demid singing along to a collection of opera, seventies music and the latest teen favorites. I began to suspect he was practicing new torture techniques in case he ever needed them. Even the dogs buried their heads in their paws.

The little green dot on the screen hadn't moved in all this time, so when it finally did, I was ecstatic. I sat, absorbed, as it meandered across the screen. Demid roused me from my stupor with a reminder to buckle up. I didn't actually need it, as plenty of experience with his driving had made it automatic.

Henderson left the hospital and wandered over to his car, a ten-year-old Honda. He climbed in through the unlocked door and drove off. Casually, Demid started his own engine and we followed.

Henderson drove so over-cautiously it stopped being amusing after the first three minutes. He slowed for green lights, put his turn signals on a good twenty seconds before an intersection, and traveled at about half the legal limit. Demid began to entertain thoughts about killing Henderson himself, to put all the other drivers out of their misery. He told me this calmly, as we waited in a restaurant car park for Henderson to get a reasonable distance from us. No matter how unobservant he was, I was sure he'd notice the same black SUV passing him six times.

"But if you do," I told him, "We'd still have Santino to find, and we wouldn't know where to start."

"I suppose." He grumbled.

We waited a few minutes longer, then Demid threw the car in drive and off we went. Henderson had stopped off at an all-night deli, presumably to grab a late dinner. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that it had been hours since my last meal as well. I don't really need to eat, of course, but it's a habit I've gotten used to.

Going into the same deli as our target would have ranked very highly on the 'stupid moves' list, so we cruised the block instead, finally spotting an Italian restaurant that offered takeout. Demid positively beamed as he got out of the car to place our order. He handed me the GPS monitor, told me not to touch anything, and went inside.

After he left, I reveled in the silence, which was broken only by an occasional beep from the monitor. Too soon Demid returned, bringing with him a large bag containing various pasta and chicken dishes. The smell of garlic soon filled the car, and my mouth started watering. We opted to eat on the go, as Henderson's dot showed him moving again. Chaos and Mayhem ate the scraps, licking the containers clean and smacking their chops.

We tracked Henderson to his mother's house, which very nearly made me snort marinara sauce out of my nose. All that time, and if we'd just waited here... We parked up the block, just out of range of a streetlight, and settled in. The seats folded far enough back for me to get vaguely comfortable, the night was quiet, and Demid had finally turned off that noise he called music. I was just drifting off to sleep when a thought hit me: the dogs. I sat up and shook my head to clear it.

Snores rose from the seat next to me. Typical – he was supposed to have the first watch. I poked Demid a few times until he woke up.

"What?"

"Sorry to disturb you, sleeping beauty, but I'm worried about Chaos and Mayhem. They've been shut in here for however long it's been since you left to pick me up. They need exercise." I wrinkled my nose. "And a toilet break."

There weren't many people around, so we decided that it would be safe enough for Demid to walk the dogs while I kept an eye on the house. I was left under strict instructions to call if anything happened, and I promised that I would. Huffing just a little, Demid clambered out of the seat and let the dogs out. They scampered around him, pleased to be given their freedom. Demid hadn't brought leashes, but they were so well-behaved we didn't think it would be an issue. I watched in the rearview mirror as the three of them trekked off up the road, losing sight of them once they rounded a corner.

Staring at Henderson's darkened house was boring. After ten minutes I got out, shut the door quietly, and did a few stretches to relieve my aching muscles. I took a look around, didn't see anyone, and decided to sneak over to Henderson's house for a quick peek. Skirting very carefully around the home of the neighbors I 'met' earlier, I walked to the back of the house. The GPS monitor provided a dim glow which stopped me from doing myself serious injury, but did not stop me from stepping in cat poop. I scraped my shoes as quietly as possible, trying not to gag from the smell.

I could see a flickering light from inside. Probably the TV I decided. I thought I'd probably pushed my luck far enough, and turned to make my way back. Movement caught my eye. I stopped and peered around. I spotted it again, something poking out from beneath the wooden siding. I bent down for a closer look.

It was a cat's tail (still attached to the cat), flicking from side to side. I let out the breath I'd been holding and carried on with my return trip. I'd only taken two more steps when I heard a thump from inside the house. Then I heard it again. This was not the kind of noise you usually hear in someone's place of abode, not plates breaking, glasses smashing, footsteps thudding or doors slamming. No, this was the sort of thump you heard at an illegal boxing match when someone had just taken a powerful blow to the head and fell into something wooden. A suspicious sound, in other words, when it came from a house occupied by only one person.

Trying to maintain stealth, I crept around to the front door. Luckily, it hadn't been properly repaired from my earlier visit. I supposed Henderson hadn't really had the time or inclination to do it. A little quiet jiggling managed to free the knobbly bit (I think it's called the tang) from the strike plate. The door opened quietly, and I crept inside.

It looked like Henderson had spent some time cleaning up when he got home. Apart from scratches on the door, there was no sign that his mother had been assaulted here. The flickering glow from the TV partially lit the house, and I moved cautiously forward. An antique wooden cabinet rested against the wall, family photos displayed perfectly spaced and dust-free on top. To my right, past two doors which I presumed led to either bedrooms or bathrooms was the kitchen. It was small but cozy, containing a fridge, oven and assorted cupboards. Above the sink was a window which gave an unobstructed view of the neighbor's kitchen. Hanging over the counter top was a crocheted wall-hanging, framed and matted. It read: God = Love. Underneath was a knife block filled with seven black-handled knives. I slid one out silently and tested the blade on my thumb. Then I put my thumb in my mouth and sucked until the cut healed. Mrs. Henderson certainly kept her knives sharp. Grasping the handle firmly, I tiptoed on.

From the left I heard two muffled voices. I couldn't make out any words, but one of them sounded extremely agitated. As I got closer to the living room, the voices became clearer. My heart and mind started racing as I stood just outside the room. This wasn't the plan. Demid and I were supposed to take Santino out together. Alone and unarmed, I'd been lucky to escape with my life last time; what the heck was I doing repeating the mistake. I spun silently around and moved back towards the door. I would call Demid, and we'd finish this together, like we'd discussed.

I hadn't taken more than two steps when Henderson cried out. The sound was brief, but incredibly loud in what was otherwise an almost silent house. Indecision gripped me. Should I get Demid and hope Santino was still here when we got back, or should I take this opportunity and go with it? Reflexively, I glanced Heavenward, but got no response.

Movement from the living room made my decision for me. I slid my phone silently out of my pocket, turned it off, and dropped into a crouch and inched forward until I could see what was going on.

It was Santino. He had Henderson stripped down to his boxers (purple, with pictures of dollar signs), gagged, and tied spread-eagled on the floor. Furniture had been rearranged to allow him a 'workspace', and to provide anchor points for the ropes. A single shallow cut across Henderson's chest wept a trickle of blood. Fear glazed his eyes, and I could see him thrashing, trying vainly to escape. Pity welled up inside me.

Santino had his back to me. I straightened, preparing to rush him.

"See this?" Santino said. He held a picture in his right hand, waved it in front of Henderson.

"My beautiful girl. She was ten."

Ten. The same age as Jamie.

Santino spat onto Henderson's chest and used his thumb to rub it into the wound. "Ten. And some sicko like you took her, raped her again and again until he'd had his fill, and then tortured her until she died."

His voice was thick with emotion. Henderson's eyes widened, and muffled words tried to make it past the gag. Santino ignored him.

"We couldn't even have an open coffin. I saw the body, though, before the funeral. I saw every sick thing that fucking psycho had done to her."

He cut Henderson again, then, a parallel cut to the first, but slightly deeper. I watched the blade slice cleanly through the skin, and saw more blood leak out. Henderson squealed, a high-pitched grating sound, and resumed his thrashing. Santino gave him a love tap smack in the center of his forehead with the butt of the knife.

"The cops got the guy. Found him sitting in front of his computer, whacking off to a video of my little Angelita. Fucker had recorded every twisted thing he'd done to her, so he could re-live it whenever he wanted. They also found a collection of other videos, some even worse."

I could feel my guts twisting with every word Santino said. I kept flashing back to Jamie.

"And you know what? Even with all that evidence, he got off. Someone had made a mistake on fucking paperwork, and because of that, the freak who'd killed my girl got to walk away a free man." He got to carry on with his life, and I got a life sentence.

He practically spat the last sentence out. Henderson had stopped struggling now, comprehension dawning in his eyes. Santino cut him again, doodling something on his stomach. His voice deepened, became more sinister.

"He wasn't free for long though. I found that motherfucker and killed him slowly. Made him pay in blood for every single thing he'd done to her. Him and every other stinking kiddy-fucker I could find. Now it's your turn. Consider this payback for the little kid you raped."

Santino raised the knife again, examining the steel, light from the TV glinting off the blade. He must have seen my reflection in the blade. So fast it took me completely by surprise, he whirled and threw it straight at me. Knife throwing is an art. One cannot just pick up a blade, hurl it at a target and expect it to hit. There are balance issues, weight issues and a whole host of other things to consider. In other words, you have to be an expert. Santino was.

The knife hurtled through the air toward me. I fancied that I could almost hear the tip cutting through the air as it approached. I ducked back behind the doorframe and watched as the knife flew past. There went the element of surprise.

Santino was already up and moving. He'd drawn another knife from somewhere and rounded the doorframe almost in the same instant I moved back.

"You again." He spat.

"Yeah."

"Good. I need more blood to continue my work, and here you are, manna from Heaven." He grinned insanely, flashing white teeth. "Can't let those sick bastards ruin my looks, can I?"

Our conversation was over. He darted at me, blade slashing. I flinched back, bringing my own knife up. We both moved warily, trying to gauge each other's skills and weaknesses. It soon became obvious that the only experience I had using a knife was in the kitchen. Santino got more confident, darting in with a hard strike which got me clean in the side. I felt the blade scrape across my ribs. He drew back and struck again, slashing across my stomach. I could feel the skin part like a banana under a tire, and I knew that once again I was in serious trouble. One more stab and I slid to the floor. The last thing I saw was Santino's face leering down at me.

I woke up, surprised to still be breathing. Or, more accurately, to be breathing again. I found myself in the living room, tied to a wooden rocking chair. My legs had been bound to the base of the chair; my arms hung straight down, secured to something underneath the seat. The door had been closed, and the TV volume bumped up to hearing-damage levels. That was the least of my concerns though. I flexed my arms a little, testing the bonds. They were secure. Henderson still lay on the floor, wounds weeping lightly. Santino sat beside him. I couldn't have been out for long –the same TV show was screening, and my wounds were still sending hate-mail to my brain.

"Ah, you're awake. Good." Santino said. "Wouldn't want you to miss this. Consider it a preview of what I'll do to you."

He turned away and started cutting seriously, taking chunks from Henderson's abdomen. Nothing fatal, but the pain must have been excruciating. While he was concentrating and Henderson was grunting, I tried the ropes again. I had just a tiny bit of play around my right hand. I found that if I twisted my wrist, I could wedge my thumb under the rim of the chair. Not enough to allow me to untie myself or anything, but...

I waited for round two. Santino's eyes had glazed over as he concentrated on his work. I didn't want to look, but the horror of what I was witnessing drew me in. Henderson struggled mightily, and managed to loosen his gag somewhat. He said something, I saw his lips move, but I was too busy biting my tongue to pay attention. I wedged my thumb under the seat and wrenched. With a soft tearing sound, my thumb popped out of its socket. The pain was incredible. I wriggled my hand free. Now what?

I heard the doorbell. Santino stopped what he was doing, wiped the blade on his pants and stalked out of the room. Henderson was blubbering something, could've been a prayer, it was hard to tell. I heard the door open, and a voice I recognized say "Who the-". Then there was a soft thump. Shortly after, Santino returned, dragging the neighbor's body with him. I could see a single stab wound in his stomach, and his throat had been slit.

I had used the time to reach across myself and dislocate my other thumb. The first one had healed, and I could already feel the muscles and tendons in my left returning to their usual places. Both my hands were free, but what could I do? I had gotten away with small movements so far, but anything large, like for example trying to untie my legs, would surely let Santino know what I was up to. I sent up a silent prayer for assistance. For once, I received a response. I think.

I wriggled my butt a little, trying to regain some feeling, and was rewarded by a small stab in the left cheek. Checking that Santino was still busy, I slowly moved my hand down to find the source of my pain. I felt something metal. So slowly I could have lost a race to a snail, I slid the object out. It was one of Eunice Henderson's crochet hooks, about eight inches in length. It had gotten itself stuck under the cushion. The handle was made of something smooth, ivory or plastic, I wasn't sure. The most important thing was that it was pointy, which it was, as my left buttock could verify. Now all I had to do was wait for an opening.

Santino was still busy. He'd gone back to cutting Henderson, carving a series of squiggles, lines and random patterns into the man's limbs. The thing that surprised me most was not the depth of Santino's cruelty, but the fact that Henderson was still conscious. I was very aware of time passing. Demid would no doubt be back with the dogs soon, if he wasn't already, and if Sheila was awake, she'd be wondering about her husband.

I set about trying to free myself. Trying to poke your way through ropes without alerting the psychotic killer in front of you is not a fun experience. Fortunately, the TV was so loud and Santino was so involved in what he was doing that he probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd burst into song. Three minutes of frantic poking and stretching the ropes later, I'd managed to get enough movement to be able to get free. I hoped.

Whatever Santino was doing was almost finished. Rivers of blood streamed from Henderson's body. He was still conscious and breathing, and was repeating the same syllables over and over. I wasn't paying attention to him though; his murmurings were just background noise.

I tensed, sensing that my opening was coming. When the moment arrived, I heaved myself forward, lifting my legs and raising the crochet hook simultaneously. The ropes had frayed enough to snap, and I was free. Santino was still on his knees in front of me. I was ready to drive the crochet hook into his neck, but something stopped me. I kept flashing back to Jamie's face the night of her abduction. Santino glanced at me, raised the knife and positioned it over Henderson's heart. I remembered Michael's saying: the life of one is not worth the lives of many. If I stopped Santino now, who knew how many more lives this pedophile would ruin?

"Do it," I said.

The knife plunged down and sliced into Henderson's chest cavity, puncturing his heart. One stab was all it took. Henderson's breath trailed off, taking his ranting with it.

"I didn't..."

Santino left the weapon buried to the hilt in Henderson and turned to face me. I saw tears in his eyes. He gave the briefest nod, and I struck. The crochet hook pierced his throat, went through the skin and severed something vital. Santino slumped down, gurgling. I watched as the wound began to close, slowly. I'd forgotten about that.

I reached down and pulled Santino's knife from Henderson's heart. There was no way he'd be coming back. Taking a steadying breath, I placed the blade against Santino's throat. Santino's hand shot up and grabbed mine. I tensed, readying myself for another fight that I'd probably lose. Instead, Santino moved the knife to the side of his neck, across the carotid artery.

"Here." He told me weakly. I could see his pulse beating in his throat, becoming steadier by the second. I still couldn't do it though. I kept hearing him telling Henderson about his daughter. Even with what he'd done to Michael, Marta and however many others, I couldn't bring myself to kill him. Sensing my hesitation, he took hold of my hand again, and dragged the blade across his throat. Skin ruptured, the artery was severed, and bright blood spurted out.

"Thank... you..." Santino burbled, then he was unconscious. I had to work quickly. Now that he was gone, it was easier to saw through the neck, which would delay his regeneration. Blood was everywhere by now, but I didn't care. I pulled my phone out and called Demid, panting.

"I'm at Henderson's. Santino's down, but not out."

Before Demid had a chance to reply I ended the call. The TV was still blaring. I found the remote, turned it down, and sat in the resulting silence for a moment. Henderson and Santino lay side-by-side on the floor, blood pooling around them. My subconscious had been sending me an urgent message for the last couple of minutes, which finally got through. Something about Henderson's ramblings wasn't right.

My mind flashed back to Santino cutting. Henderson mumbling...

"I didn't... I didn't... I didn't do it."

He'd said he didn't do it. He didn't rape that child. Because of my Gift, I could tell that he was telling the truth. I had just let Santino kill an innocent man. No, worse than that. I had just told Santino to kill an innocent man.

The rest of that night is a blur. Demid arrived, having locked the dogs in the car. He paid a quiet visit to Sheila, who had fortunately slept through everything, swept the house to remove all traces of Santino and ourselves, and phoned the police from a disposable cell. As we drove back to my place, he called Angela at Dina's and let her know that it was over.

I have no idea how long the trip took. At one point I thought I heard sirens behind us, but I'm not sure. All I could do was sit, replaying everything over and over in my mind. Henderson was innocent. And he was dead by my hand, as sure as if I'd held the knife myself.

End of Book One

And now, a special preview of the second chronicle of the Cassiel's adventures: Fallen Angel: Penance.

Chapter 1

I woke in prison. Well, technically it was called a 'rehabilitation community', but a prison is what it was. I rolled over, taking in my surroundings. Concrete walls completely lacking in any decoration or personal touches returned my stare. Today was the hundred and eighty-first day of my sentence. Six months I'd spent here, after what had happened with Santino and Richard Henderson. Six months of looking at the same walls, same faces, same everything day after day.

I wasn't actually a 'guest' of the facility; I'd just taken a live-in position as a rehabilitation counselor. I worked seven days a week with child sex-offenders, a kind of self-imposed penance for my actions. The job had been secured through Angela, the daughter of my now-deceased friend Michael. She'd spent some time trying to work through my issues with me, not very successfully, and had used her contacts through the homeless shelter in which she worked to get me employed here as something of a last resort. I was somewhat surprised by her patience; I'd been pretty insufferable for the first couple of months after, and, truth be told, I still wasn't that pleasant to be around.

Thinking of Angela reminded me that today was visiting day. Our inmates still had family and friends that stood by them despite their proclivities, and today was the day when these love-blinded fools could spend time with their 'wrongly convicted' kin. If you detect a trace of sarcasm there, you're on the money. Despite working with these people daily, I still couldn't see them as any more than animals. Don't get me wrong: individually, some of the men here were almost normal, and I was able to interact, converse and even share an occasional joke with them. I could never forget, though, the reason they were here, and deep down my sense of loathing never went away.

I glanced at my watch and saw I had an hour before the first of the visitors would arrive. That gave me twenty minutes to get ready. For once, I'd overslept, untroubled by the memories which had haunted me. If I wasn't careful, I could still hear Henderson's mumbled protestations of innocence, and my voice telling Santino to end Henderson's miserable existence. I'd learned to avoid the kitchen after the sounds of someone cutting up meat had triggered an attack.

I showered, dressed in my standard plain black tee-shirt and jeans, ran fingers through my hair to style it, and headed to the commissary for breakfast. My hair was still damp, and left wet marks on the shoulders of my tee-shirt. I hadn't cut it since... well, in a long time.

Breakfast this morning consisted of scrambled eggs, washed down with strong, bitter coffee. I nodded a greeting to my fellow counselors and the Prison Officers present and chowed down. I knew the other guys by name, but not much else about them; I liked to keep to myself. The commissary was separate from the prisoners' wings, but shared the same décor as the rest of the facility. The only difference was that we weren't locked in.

When breakfast was concluded, I trudged off to the visiting area. Every door I approached I had to swipe my security card. I also smiled cheesily at the cameras, but that was not strictly required.

The visiting area was almost identical to everywhere else, except that it was painted a slightly more vomit-colored shade of green. Apparently the color served to facilitate emotional well-being, or some crap like that. Personally, I just thought that they'd gotten a cheap deal on the paint.

I nodded to Jack, one of the guards, and took my position by the door, waiting for the first visitors to come in. My role today was to escort them into the visiting room and supervise (read: listen in on) the visits. Every Sunday was the same; there would be hugs, tears and boring conversations about what Uncle Albert was doing and how Aunt Fanny had lost her false teeth. Thanks to my Gift, I knew that half of it was lies. I'd pretty much switched off after the first month.

Today was no different. Escort groups of visitors through, remind them of the rules (even if they'd been coming here longer than I had), and stand around waiting for their time to come to an end. Then, repeat ad nauseam. By three o'clock I was counting down the minutes. Visiting hours finished at exactly four, and I couldn't wait to herd these people out and go back to my nice comfortable cell. Somewhere deep inside, my subconscious was reminding me that I'd come here out of choice, to make penance for what I'd done. I ignored it.

At three-thirty, I ushered the last lot of visitors in, gave them the spiel and wandered around mentally counting the ticks of the clock. Right at the far end of the room was a guy I hadn't met yet. He looked to be about forty-five, which probably meant he was closer to thirty (prison has a tendency to age people), and his visitor was an attractive brunette in her early thirties. She had a plain gold wedding ring on, and great legs. Must have been his wife. I felt sorry for her. They're always the last to know that hubby's not interested in anyone post-puberty.

"Who's the new guy?" I asked Jack.

"Don't know." He replied. "Transferred in last night. Apparently they were a little too rough on him over in gen pop."

Now that I looked closer, I could see that the new guy had taken a bit of a beating. Both of his eyes were swollen, and his mouth moved in a funny way when he talked. I shrugged. I found it very hard to feel pity for these animals, after what they did to children. It did seem a little odd that he'd been put in general population, though. Pedos were normally sent straight here, as they had an unfortunate tendency to become 'accident prone' (sometimes fatally) if kept around other prisoners. Must've been a clerical error or something.

I sidled closer, trying to catch their conversation.

"I don't know," he said. His voice had that thin panic-laden tremor you often hear in first-time inmates. The brunette leaned forward and whispered something I couldn't catch. He sat back, a hurt expression on his face.

"No. I really don't know. This whole thing's a mistake. I shouldn't even be here, you know that."

Ah, there it was. The whole 'I'm innocent' thing. Everyone tried it, often repeating it to anyone who'd listen until they almost believed it themselves. New guys were the worst. If it was their first conviction (note I didn't say offense - there's no way most of these sickos got caught the first time they tried something), they'd shout down the walls with their false protestations of innocence. He continued talking.

"I never even met him before, let alone did...that... to him. You have to believe me."

From the way she slid her chair back and shook her head, it looked like she didn't. Tears burning tracks down her cheeks, she stumbled to the exit. Jack offered her a gentlemanly hand, dirty old man that he is, and escorted her out.

No, there was no way that she believed her husband was innocent. I did. Actually, the moment he'd told her he didn't touch his alleged victim, I'd known he was telling the truth. Now, what was I to do with that knowledge? That was the question.

I didn't have much chance to think about it until well after four. One of the mothers had decided she'd had enough of something, and launched a full-scale assault on her son. Walter 'Wally' Greene was in his forties, overweight and looked like he'd never done anything more strenuous than opening a can of soup in his life. His mom was a good twenty years older, thirty pounds heavier, and smacked him around like she'd been a professional boxer.

Jack, myself and the others ran over as fast as we could and separated them. The rest of the prisoners and visitors just sat, enjoying the show I suppose. Mom got one final smack in, breaking Wally's nose, and was then bodily removed and escorted from the room. I got the job of making sure Wally wasn't too badly injured, and taking him to the infirmary to get patched up.

"Come on, Wally, get up." I told him in my most sympathetic voice. "We need to get you seen to."

Wally sat on the floor when he'd fallen, rubbing under his nose and looking at the blood on his fingers like he had no idea where it came from. He was serving a ten-year stretch for grooming young boys he'd met on the internet. According to his conviction report, he hadn't actually had the chance to do the nasty with any of them before one of the boys mentioned something to his foster mother. Thank Heaven for small mercies, I suppose.

I helped Wally to his feet, and led him by the elbow. I was allowed to escort the 'low risk' prisoners solo, which worked out to probably eighty percent of the people in here. Big tough guys that they were, most of them wouldn't try anything on anyone over thirteen. Through the doors I walked, swiping my ID card and gently tugging Wally along as if he were a small child.

The layout here was pretty confusing at first. The cells were housed in semi-separate wings, laid out in a circle and only connected to the central area, which held the commissary, prison kitchen, infirmary, library, and exercise yard. As I said earlier, pretty much every place looked the same as any other, so you had to learn to read the signs. As I'd been here six months I didn't have to worry about getting lost any more. Most of the time.

"She hit me," Wally said wonderingly.

"Yep."

"She really hit me."

"Yeah. What'd you do?"

Curiosity has always been something I've struggled with. It's a good thing I'm not a cat, or I would've well and truly used up my allocation of lives by now.

We arrived at the infirmary before Wally could answer. Once again I swiped my card, the door opened and we entered. This room was pretty much exactly like a hospital room, except the single bed had restraints, and the medicines were all in the room, albeit in locked steel cabinets. The keys were only held by the medical staff, and the pharmaceuticals here were the only ones allowed in the facility. All the hassle involved in getting something as simple as an aspirin made dealing with a headache, headache inducing.

Doc Smith was on today, as he usually was on Sundays. He was an older man, early sixties, completely bald, with a well-kept Errol Flynn moustache. He had been working here since the facility opened, and was one of the few here (myself included) who treated all the inmates with respect and courtesy.

"Mr. Greene." He said. "What can I do for you today?"

"My nose," Wally told him. The blood had stopped gushing by now, but it was still obvious what the source of his problem was.

Doc Smith treated the wound, checked the break and pronounced it clean, then allowed me to take Wally back to his cell. Once that was done, I checked my watch: ten after four. I was officially off-duty. My brain reminded me about the new guy, and his honest claim of innocence. He'd arrived here injured, so I wondered if Doctor Smith would be able to give me any information on him. I trekked back to the infirmary to find out.

Since his wife passed away, Martin Smith had found a lot of excuses to spend time here; he said it helped take his mind off things. He and his wife had never had children, but he and I had developed a relationship which was similar to that of parent and child in many ways. He reminded me a lot of Michael, and I gave him someone to talk to. We'd whiled away many afternoons and evenings, playing chess, discussing books or just talking.

"Doc," I greeted him.

"Cassiel. I didn't expect to see you again so soon." This was said with a grin.

I cut to the chase. "The new guy, the one who came in yesterday. What do you know about him?"

Martin looked at me closely. It wasn't like me to take an interest in our inmates, and he had to be careful about any information that he revealed.

"Why do you want to know?"

I told him the truth (as if I had a choice): that I had reason to believe the guy was innocent, and I was curious about his case.

Martin looked at me carefully for a good thirty seconds, weighing his words.

"His name is David Staines. I don't know the details of his case, but you can guess."

I nodded.

The doctor continued. "All I can tell you is that he was transferred here last night, after 'mistakenly' being sent over to General, where he met with an 'accident'. He's being held in custody until his trial."

I could hear the air quotes in his words. He also knew something was up.

We chatted for another half hour. Fortunately, our infirmary was rarely needed, the prisoners being disinclined toward physical violence, and we were able to talk without interruption. I left just before five, and went over to the commissary for dinner, my mind turning everything over.

That night, as I tried vainly to get to sleep, I kept hearing Staines' voice, overlaid with Henderson's "I didn't do it." Maybe now I was finally going to get the chance to atone for my sin.

Fallen Angel: Penance will be released on October 1, 2015. Preorder now.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sean P Martin lives with his wife, Sarah, their four children, and an assortment of animals. He began writing at an early age, and spends his writing time frantically trying to clear his head of ideas before the next inspiration hits.

Find Sean on Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Sean-P-Martin/569727456372190

And on the web www.seanpmartin.com

