Life and Limb

by Jennifer Roberson

  Something. Something.

  After a moment I let the bike settle, checked out the surroundings. Still felt twitchy. Finally I swung my leg back over, put down the helmet, and walked around to the rear of the building.

  If the cops had come to check out reports of gunfire, they hadn’t been concerned enough to mark the place off with crime scene tape. Maybe they’d chalked up everything to vandals. After all, the only things killed were dead animals, and ghosts.

  Well. If dead things could be rekilled. Still wasn’t clear on that.

  I paused outside the back door, glanced around, saw no one. A hand on the knob found the door locked again, but that was no impediment. I wielded the lockpicks again, then stepped inside the bar and shut the door behind me.

  I lacked the shotgun, but had collected the short-nosed Taurus revolver on my way out—silver bullets—the Bowie, and my KA-BAR.

  The stuffed trophy animals were still dead, and they still lay where they’d fallen after being filled with consecrated silver and powdered iron. It was, my watch told me, around 6 a.m. Maybe the cops didn’t care about bodies other than human; and obviously the owners either hadn’t come at all, or had come and gone.

  I walked quietly through the alcove hosting two pool tables. The balls I’d hurled at the bear remained scattered on the plank-wood floor. I moved past them, beyond the dead animals, onto the dance floor in the center of the roadhouse.

  Up on the mountain, I’d sensed the deep peace of the environs, had recognized that the area was sacred to both the Navajo and the Hopi. But this place? A roadhouse? It was where people went for a vast variety of reasons, including simple enjoyment, but also to fill the otherwise empty hours.

  How often had I done the same? Days on the bike eating up miles of interstate from sunrise to sunset, hours wasted in bars, a cuisine of crappy food. A come-down, my father told me, after all my promise. My mother had said no such thing, of course, but I saw the look in her eyes, the worry, the trace of disappointment. I’d missed none of what they felt, in their eyes and postures. They’d expected better of me. Matty was the one who’d worried them. And then . . . well, then their eldest had seemingly “gone bad,” too, only worse.

  I’d never told them the whole truth. And my brother? No, Matty never would. Matty just enjoyed the hell out of the fact that his older brother had rushed to his rescue yet again, had taken the fall; and then Matty Harlan just kept on keeping on the way he always had, knowing his big brother would always pull his fat out of the fire no matter what.

  And now? Now that brother had been told he wasn’t even human. Wasn’t actually related to Matthew Harlan. Was related, instead, to Remi McCue. Who maybe, it occurred to me, was worth more than Matty.

  Guilt flooded me. Where the hell had that come from? Matty was blood. Matty was my baby brother.

  Wasn’t he still, despite the whole heavenly matter bullshit?

  Huh. Maybe not.

  I stood in the center of the dance floor and let myself go quiet, the way I always did when Grandaddy asked me to. Remi had referred to me as a sensitive. Yeah, if you wanted to hang a name on it, even if it did sound a little wussy. I’d always gotten vibes from certain places, and then Grandaddy asking me what I felt, what I sensed . . . I’m more open to surroundings than most, yeah.

  And here, now, early on a Sunday morning in a place where the night before McCue and I had killed two ghosts who’d become demons, and shot the hell out of reanimated dead animals—well, what did I sense here?

  I closed my eyes. Let myself go very quiet, go inside myself. Invited the roadhouse to speak its own language.

  Peace, upon the mountain. Safety. Here, there was joy, and noise: the sound of live country music; the crack of cue ball against solids and stripes; the shuffle, thump, and slide of boots against parquet; the clink and chime of glasses and bottles; laughter, the rare but not unheard-of bar fight. I smelled beer and hard liquor—this was most definitely not a wine bar—a trace of ancient tobacco predating no-smoking laws, raw wood, wood stain, lacquer and leather. Perfume and aftershave. Felt warmth upon my skin from the crush of bodies, the breath of cold and snow blowing in an opening door in the midst of winter; felt the stomp of snow-caked boots against matting and wood to free them of cold-caulked encumbrances. And heat when summer was upon the place.

  And I sensed evil.

  Not the place. Not the roadhouse. But something that had inhabited it. Not for long. But evil had entered. Benign ghosts, Lily had described the former owners. Doing no harm. Things moved around, a woman on the stairs or in a booth, a man in the rocking chair before the fire. No reports of trouble, merely some kind of presence. But what I felt now was something malignant.

  The bulk of it was gone. It was just a smear, a stain, the taste of, well, of afterness, for all that wasn’t a word. Maybe it should be.

  The afterness of evil.

  A woman’s voice said, “I need to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I spun, snaked my hand up beneath my jacket to pull the revolver, cradle it high in both hands. Beyond the raised gun I caught the quick impression of shape, of a woman: black hair, dark Asian eyes, hands lifted palm-up before me, as if to ward off bullets. But other than raised hands, nothing in her posture spoke of fear, aggression, or hesitance. It struck me that she merely wanted me to stay put.

  “You can shoot if you like,” she said, “but it won’t harm me. Bullets can’t. Nor can the knives you carry.”

  I sniffed surreptitiously. No discernable scent. “Well,” I began warily, figuring the answer might be vital to my survival, “what can kill you?”

  She blinked at me, then smiled. And laughed, showing good teeth. “Like I’ll tell you that?”

  I shrugged. “Had to ask.”

  “You can put the gun away.”

  Yeah, right. “I kinda like it right where it is.”

  “You can’t hurt me with it.”

  “Call it my security blanket.”

  She smiled faintly. “Yeah, well, a blanket can’t do anything to me, either.”

  Her black hair was chin-length and she wore bangs cut straight across her brow. Striking, if not pretty. And though she was clearly Asian, the epicanthic fold was not pronounced. Her tip-tilted eyes were so dark as to appear pupil-less, but the impression of pupils was there, even in poor light.

  I stared at her, wondering if the gun maybe would hurt her—or if she might be telling the truth. Because I felt pretty damn vulnerable at the moment even with a gun and two knives on me.

  The thing about shooting stances is, at some point you get tired of holding a revolver at the end of outstretched arms. I’d trained enough to be good at holding the stance a fair amount of time, but I was out of practice after eighteen months away from weapons.

  But I wasn’t about to lower my arms. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Grigori.”

  I raised my brows. “Not a woman’s name I’ve heard before.”

  “That’s not my name,” she said impatiently, “it’s what I am. Grigori. A watcher. And I shouldn’t even be here, because we’re supposed to watch. But—much of that ended eons ago, when some of us fell.” A gesture seemed to indicate she wanted to brush away anything nonessential. “You need to know, you and your soul-brother—you’re not being given the whole story. It’s not just good versus evil, heaven versus hell. There’s far more to it than that. You need to know this. Because they’ll try to use you, the fallen Grigori. The other Grigori. Some of them escaped from hell, too, when the demons climbed out amidst the earthquakes. Some are here on earth.”

  I stared at her, then finally lowered the gun. If she wanted to harm me, she’d have done it already. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about hell!” she snapped. “And heaven. It’s not straightforward, any of it. The man you call Grandaddy’s only given
you half the story.”

  That lit a coal in my belly. “You’re suggesting he’s hiding information?”

  “Every angel in heaven has an agenda,” she said. “Every angel who is here on earth, and in hell. Lucifer is an archangel. He was God’s favorite, which is part of the reason God was so upset by the betrayal. Do you believe it can’t happen again? He fell, was cast out—so were others. Many of the Grigori—”

  I interrupted. “Which you claim you are; so how do I know you’re not playing me?”

  “At this moment you and Remiel are innocents being set up for manipulation,” she went on tensely, as if running out of time. “I’m not telling you which side to take. I’m just warning you not to accept everything at face value. Yes, the war has begun—but it’s not just black and white. Everything is—”

  I cut her off sharply. “—shades of gray? Okay, I get that. It’s what life is. But given a choice between heaven and hell, how many people—other than the evil whackjobs—are going to opt for bad over good? Dark over light?”

  She shook her head. “When most can make a choice, yes, they choose good—or at least the lesser evil. Happens all the time in politics. But I’m just saying there’s a much larger picture than what’s been painted for you.”

  I blinked at her, brows raised. Dryly, I said, “Larger than good versus evil? Larger than the End of Days and man’s continuation upon the planet as we know it?”

  “Quality of life,” she said sharply. “It’s not a question of euthanasia because life’s gotten really crappy for a pet, or even a person. It’s not a choice of whether survival is a desirable goal, but whether that survival, in the worst-case scenario, maintains even the smallest trace of hope. Because without hope, it’s all despair. And that’s deadly. That’s what kills, in the long run. So think, Gabriel. What are you truly fighting for?”

  So, she knew who I was. And as absurd as the words sounded, it’s what Grandaddy had impressed upon me. “To save the world.”

  “And just which world is that?” she asked. “The one you know now, the one Lucifer desires, or the world that is merely collateral damage after the immoveable object hits the irresistible force? Rock and a hard place, Gabriel. Who cares whether the rock hits the hard place if nothing lies between to be harmed? Then it doesn’t matter. So, the rock loses a chip or two, the hard place cracks a little . . . it doesn’t matter. It only matters when there’s flesh between the two, flesh that can bleed, can cry out, can die. Humans, Gabriel. Never lose sight of humanity. This world was made for them.”

  “You’re saying heaven doesn’t care about humanity?”

  “I’m saying that it may become a case of the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. And humans are vastly fewer in number than are the inhabitants of heaven or hell. So, yeah, humans may wind up getting hammered.”

  In sheer incredulity I’d gotten stuck on her first sentence and missed everything else. “You’re quoting Mr. Spock?”

  “Or Jeremy Bentham,” she said impatiently. “Philosopher, jurist, social reformer. ‘It is the greatest good to the greatest number of people which is the measure of right and wrong.’”

  God, we were having Philosopher Wars. McCue would love it. “‘The greatest number of people,’ is what you said. That suggests it is about humanity.”

  “It was a human who said ‘people.’ Heaven may view it differently.”

  I stared at her. “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m Grigori,” she emphasized. “Are you totally ignorant? I’m an angel! Of course I’m on the side of heaven.”

  I grunted in derision. “I’m supposed to buy that, after you’ve just announced that some of you joined Lucifer in hell, and that a fair number of heaven’s inhabitants may not give a damn about humanity.”

  “They all give a damn,” she snapped, “but a portion of humanity may simply get in the way. What part of ‘collateral damage’ do you not understand? Are you a total dipshitiot?”

  “‘Dip’—what?”

  “Dipshit. Idiot. Dipshitiot.”

  The absurdity completely swamped me. I could find no words. None at all. In any language. In fact, the only thing I was physically, mentally, and emotionally capable of undertaking at that moment was to go prop myself up against the bar clutching a useless gun. Where I broke into long, slightly hysterical laughter.

  Like a dipshitiot.

  When I wiped the tears from my eyes, she was gone.

  * * *

  —

  Okay, yeah, I could have reentered Lily Morrigan’s rig with a little less drama, but the door really did get away from me as I yanked it open. It crashed against the side of the RV, and by then I was through it and standing in the entry way.

  Remi, who apparently had dozed off on the couch, sat up swiftly even as Lily pulled a gun from somewhere, the crow flapped its wings and loosed a horrific sound lodged somewhere between a gargle and a horror film shriek, and the wolfhound leaped to her feet growling, peeling back her lips to display a fine set of highly intimidating teeth.

  I sliced the air with the edge of a flattened hand. “Okay. My life over the last forty-eight hours has become something of a cosmic joke. I’m not even sure it’s real anymore. I’m not even sure you’re real. For all I know I got slammed by an 18-wheeler, and I’m lying in a hospital somewhere in a coma dreaming up this whole entire screwed-to-hell scenario—a scenario about hell!—or maybe I’m actually dead; or maybe somebody slipped me a roofie; or, for that matter, maybe Rod Serling is standing in the wings while they play the spooky damn Twilight Zone music; or maybe this is even the holodeck on the fucking Enterprise and I’m a token redshirt, but I’ve about had it. I got mysterious women coming out the wazoo: a she-demon trying to gut me or strangle me; one sitting right here in front of me who’s playing Need To Know with Irish mythology as she arms me with magic guns, bullets, and holy oil, for Christ’s sake; and some chick named Gregory informing me it’s not just good versus evil anymore but humanity caught in the middle between the forces of good and evil and, as it turns out, heaven has a few angels with agendas and the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and humans are outnumbered and are therefore screwed all to hell. Literally!”

  I stopped then, because I was out of breath.

  Remi, who’d been staring at me in alarm as I began, relaxed back into the couch and eyed me in something akin to compassion. “Could you have possibly fit any more movie and TV references into that?”

  “Yes.”

  Lily put the gun away, said something soothing to both the crow and the wolfhound, then fixed me with wide green eyes. “A woman named Gregory?”

  I reached around, caught the door, pulled it closed. “Well, not exactly. What she said was Gri-gor-i. That she’s an angel.”

  “A Grigori?” Remi asked in shock.

  I eased between bird and dog to reach the armchair, dropped my ass into it. “You know what that means?”

  “Watcher.” Lily lowered herself to the floor to sit beside the wolfhound. “And also fallen angels.”

  “She said some are fallen. She said she wasn’t. That not all are.” I shrugged. “Though we don’t know that she’s telling the truth.”

  Remi rubbed a hand through short hair. “The ones who fell started out okay, here on earth. But they kind of screwed the pooch when they got a little up close and personal with womankind, and got cast out for good. Some believe that was one of the deciding factors for the Great Flood.”

  “Nephilim,” Lily put in. She noted my blank expression. “You’re not all that up on your Bible, are you?”

  “Basics,” I answered. “I was into folklore, not religion.”

  “The Grigori were sent here to be actual guardian angels,” Remi said, “when humanity was still wearin’ diapers. All kinds of conflicting stories exist, but in Judeo-Christian texts it says they started sharing kn
owledge not yet intended for humankind: astrology, divination, herb lore, even magic. I can see where magic might could be a bit chancy, but I don’t know why the first three were considered risks.”

  “Too much too soon,” Lily put in. “You don’t generally ask a toddler just learning to stand to go out and run a marathon.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Nephilim,” Remi said, repeating the word Lily had used. “They’re the offspring of human women and angels. Grigori specifically.” He paused. “Bad juju, according to some of the ancient texts, though others were kinder. But the upshot is, all those watcher-angels who dared to sleep with human women got cast down from their places, and the kids, all male, were considered genetic no-nos.”

  “So God, being pissed off with a lot of things by then,” Lily went on, “including his rebellious son, Lucifer, from whom He took back the car keys and tossed out of the house, decided it was time for a do-over. But he didn’t want to wipe out all of mankind, so he sent Uriel to Noah.”

  “You should know the next part,” Remi noted. “About Noah. It’s kind of famous.”

  I shot him stink-eye. “What concerns me is that she said Grandaddy hadn’t told us the whole story.” Now I looked at Lily. “Why would she say such a thing? Why would she suggest humanity might get caught in the crossfire and end up collateral damage?”

  “Because humanity might,” Lily replied. “He didn’t lie to you, Jubal didn’t. It is about Good versus Evil, Heaven versus Hell. But if you want a metaphor, look at traffic lights.” She shrugged when we both stared at her. “What falls between red and green?”

  We exchanged blank glances, then chorused dutifully, “Yellow.”

  “And what happens when a light turns yellow at a very busy intersection when everyone’s in a hurry?”

  “Drivers step on the gas,” Remi answered promptly.

  I, who had experienced several near-misses on the bike, added, “And cars often collide.”

  Lily nodded. “Humanity is the yellow light.”