Almost as if waiting for him to depart, demons and Watchers alike began falling from the heavens, crashing into the bridge, exchanging blows on the way down. If I’d thought the fights between the demons and the Nephilim had been vicious, I was quickly proven wrong. Those tussles were nothing compared to this: the demons Ricci had summoned this time were much larger and deadlier, while the Watchers themselves had flipped the switch from “Observe and Report” to “Smite First and Ask Questions Later”—the angels flung golden lightning from their fingertips, bolts that disintegrated all they touched.
Chapman and I ducked for cover behind a steel beam as a scaled demon with the wings of a bird and the face of an insect took a shot to the side that sent it screaming into the side of the bridge. The bridge shivered, and I saw a few steel cables snap. One whipped around with such force it sliced a Grigori messily in half. As the sun rose and the chaos up above escalated, I began to worry about what would happen once the bridge became more trafficked and whether the Regulars would see the storm up above for what it was—a battle between Heaven and Hell. How could anyone miss this?
“You can’t hide from us,” Darrel said, hovering a few feet away, glowing, his body almost unrecognizable, lightning dancing along his knuckles, sparking off the ends of his fingers. “We’re out of time. Hand over the seed.”
Chapman and I exchanged looks.
Then we ran.
Chapter 50
Have you ever been chased by a bumble bee? You know when you duck for cover, protecting your exposed areas, and there’s that awful buzzing whirling around your head like a siren of impending doom, and you wish you could swipe it out of the air, but you’re equally worried that you’ll miss and piss it off even more?
Yeah, fending off Darrel was exactly like that.
Except less buzzing, and more yelling.
“Get them!” Darrel commanded, flying after us. “They have the seed!”
One of the Grigori broke away from the battle in the sky to come after us, a contingent of demons hot on its heels. Lightning flashed, tearing into the bridge’s wooden slats behind us; the exposed metal screws smoldered as we tore off towards Brooklyn. I hadn’t given any thought to how we’d lose them once we left the bridge, but I knew we couldn’t hang around; Darrel’s angelic powers hadn’t worked on me before, but I doubted Chapman had that kind of protection. Just because he couldn’t die didn’t mean he’d stay on his feet if one of those lightning blasts hit him.
One of the Grigori came soaring in from our left, pulling up casually alongside us, a hand extended. I raised my shotguns and unloaded all four barrels, praying to God that they’d take the angel out.
Oh, the irony.
Steel projectiles exploded outward, passed through the angel’s body, and came out the other side as—I kid you fucking not—glitter. “Well that’s fuckin’ great,” I said, panting as I fought through the pain of running on my injured leg. I tossed the guns aside. They were too heavy to carry and, unless angels were deathly allergic to shiny confetti, more or less useless.
The Grigori, perhaps more than a little annoyed that I’d shot at him, pointed at me. A single bolt of lightning arced towards me, only to slam against my anti-magic field, ricocheting wildly in different directions. I wasn’t sure what to make of that; usually when magic of some sort hit my field, it fizzled out. But, much like Gomorrah’s inability to hit me, it seemed the angel’s lightning was more repelled than nullified.
“How are you doing that?” Chapman asked, huffing. He wasn’t really dressed for this sort of thing; brown loafers weren’t the best running shoes he might have chosen. Not that I could talk; I hadn’t packed cross-trainers.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. I wish I did. If I knew how I was doing it, maybe I could control it. Use it to get us out of here, somehow. The idea was half-formed in my mind when one of the demons—this one squid-like with knives at the end of its tentacles—caught up to the Grigori. The two flew at each other. The demon took the worst of it and slammed into the wires that hung above us, thrashing about like a lobster caught in a net, the blades attached to its body clipping steel cables and beams alike in his frenzied attempt to break free, gouging them all. Somewhere behind us, another shockwave arrived, sending Chapman and I stumbling to the ground. Chapman dropped the planter, and it rolled towards the edge, but mercifully halted against a sheet of steel grating.
Darrel landed next to Chapman. The Grigori dropped to one knee, the light from his body suffusing Chapman’s face as he looked up. “I never did understand you humans,” Darrel said. “None of us ever have. That’s why we must have the seed, don’t you see? How can we be asked to watch beings we cannot understand?” The angel settled his hand on Chapman’s shoulder. “Give it to us.”
Defiance hardened Chapman’s jawline as he ground his teeth together and shook his head. Darrel’s serene expression transformed into something hateful. “Fine,” he said. I covered my eyes as another flash of blinding light pulsed—but that didn’t block out the sounds of Chapman’s screams. When I looked back, I saw his skin smoking. Chapman groaned and tried to get up, but Darrel kicked him in the shoulder hard enough to send him flying onto his back. The angel stood over him, one hand held out. “You wanted to die. Consider your prayers answered.”
“No!” I screamed, flinging my own hand out. I felt my field expand in answer to my rage and frustration, like a balloon blown outward. Darrel flew back, thrust away with enough force to send him soaring into a steel beam, denting it with his body.
Above us, the sounds of fighting diminished as Grigori and demon alike took note of what I’d done. I struggled to rise, fighting off the wave of exhaustion that threatened to pull me under. I needed to get to Chapman. Get Chapman, get the seed, and go. A brief glance upwards told me that my chances of doing so were less than stellar; Heaven and Hell were headed straight for me.
When did I get so popular?
I crawled over to Chapman as quickly as I could. If they were coming after us, maybe my field would stop them. I felt the tunnel vision settling in. The migraine I’d been fighting this whole time seemed seconds away, which meant a blackout was inevitable. I cursed, only a few feet from Chapman’s smoldering body. What a way to go out, chased down by angels and demons alike, and I wouldn’t even be conscious to see it.
I reached for Chapman’s hand as the darkness descended.
I came to a moment later, screaming in pain.
Chapman, clutching my hand, stood over me. The pain was a dull roar thudding in my ears, emanating from the hand Chapman held, as if I’d stuck it in a tub filled with ice and water—my nerves on fire, begging me to let go. Above, demons and angels howled in rage as they were forced back. By trees. Trees the size of California redwoods, their roots surrounding us, branches soaring out with such speed and force that they impaled those who got too close. The trees continued to grow until their shade blocked out the morning light, covering the Brooklyn Bridge with a virgin forest. Boy, the morning commuters would be in for a surprise. The pain in my hand threatened to make me pass out again. I tried to withdraw it, but Chapman refused to let go. He looked down at me, his eyes burning green, so bright he didn’t even look human.
Those eyes were the last thing I saw before I felt the world slip away again.
Chapter 51
I felt someone prod me and groaned.
“Hey! Let her rest,” I heard someone say. A woman. A voice I knew but couldn’t place. I struggled to remember who I was. Where I was. I opened my eyes, and then immediately shut them—too bright.
“She’s awake now, might as well see how she’s feeling,” I heard another voice say in response. This voice, like the one before, had an accent—though neither were the same. I tried to sit up and panicked when my muscles wouldn’t respond; I realized I’d been tied down and panicked even more. I fought against the restraints that bound my arms, legs, and torso.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there! We’ll get them off you, cher, don’t you
worry. You were having little seizures there for a bit. Had to be extra careful.” I felt the bands on my wrists disappear and raised my hands to my eyes to block out what little light made it past my eyelids. I wasn’t sure why I was so sensitive to it all the sudden, but knew better than to tough it out.
The other restraints were removed shortly thereafter.
“What happened? Where am I?” I asked, my throat dry and scratchy.
Silence, then the woman spoke, her Russian accent faintly detectable. “We were hoping you might tell us. Serge found you on the bridge and we were able to get you to the hospital…but you were non-responsive. Comatose.” I could hear something in the woman’s voice. Sadness. Grief. “We were all really worried. This morning it was like someone flipped a switch. Lots of brain activity. Then the seizures started. You’ve been quiet for a couple hours since, though.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up, cher. Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
“Alucard’s been with you the whole time.”
Alucard. The flaming vampire angel. The name brought back a flood of memories. “Did he…” I drifted off, my throat too parched to continue. A cup of water was pressed into my hands. I took a grateful sip. “Did he watch me sleep like a total creeper?”
The woman chuckled. She seemed so familiar, but my memory was fuzzy, sluggish. Like I had woken up during the last action scene of a movie, but couldn’t recall how we had gotten here.
“Very funny,” Alucard drawled.
“I’m really glad you’re alright,” the woman said, with a sob.
“Othello was very worried about you,” Alucard said.
Othello. My friend. Right. I reached out for her until she took my hand. I braved the light, found it somewhat bearable, and opened my eyes wide enough to look at her. I smiled. “I’m never takin’ a job offer from ye, ever again.”
Othello sobbed again as she nodded, laughing.
“So, can you tell us what happened?” Alucard asked once Othello got herself together.
“What do ye mean?” I asked.
“On the bridge.”
Another rush of memories. Ricci’s smug face. Darrel preparing to kill Chapman, hand outstretched. Chapman standing over me with inhuman eyes.
“There was a battle. Angels fighting demons. I’m not sure how, but I t’ink Chapman stopped them.”
Alucard and Othello exchanged puzzled glances.
“What?” I asked.
In answer, Alucard fetched the remote from the table next to my hospital bed. He turned on the TV and plugged in a number. A weatherman waved his hands to mimic the movement of a storm front due later that evening. I cocked an eyebrow at the Daywalker, noting how the sunlight poured through the window and across his face.
“Wait. Alright, now look.”
The weather report finished, the news had switched to a scene of the Brooklyn Bridge from a helicopter’s point-of-view, panning from left to right. Crews of workers hung along suspension wires and scuttled around the base of the bridge. A few of the men held chainsaws. I thought I could see a bulldozer working its way back across the bridge. And, on the far end, there was a small forest of the thickest, tallest trees I’d ever seen.
The headline read: Eco-terrorists Lay Siege to New York City Bridge. Below, the text smaller and easier to miss: No Group Has Yet Claimed Responsibility.
I reexamined the bridge and the various stages of reconstruction. “Othello? How long have I been asleep?” I asked.
“Five days,” she said, settling a hand on my arm.
I hung my head, realizing I’d spent more time in a hospital gown on this trip than in regular clothes. “Could ye two do me a favor?” I asked. I glanced up at them, noting their doting expressions. “Could ye find me a drink? And make it a stiff one.”
Because nothing goes better with a coma and seizures than Scotch.
I was sure I’d read that somewhere.
Chapter 52
Alucard filled me in on everything that happened after I went through Roland’s gateway as we left the hospital. Apparently, Gunnar and Ashley’s pack had forced the majority of Magnus’ vampires to surrender before too much blood was shed. The sight of Magnus’ creepy, rat-like head dangling from Alucard’s flaming fist might have had something to do with it, also.
I pressed for details, but—midway through Alucard’s explanation, somewhere between his graphic description of tearing one rival vampire in half with his bare hands and decapitating another—we realized we were in the middle of a hospital.
Full of people.
With ears.
A nurse reached for a phone, punched in two numbers and froze. Alucard had leaned over and met her eyes, holding her pinned there. “Forget we were ever here,” he said, softly.
She nodded.
I glanced up at the woman, who still seemed a little dazed, and grinned. “We are not the droids ye are lookin’ for.”
Alucard pushed me forward and described the rest of what had happened in a whisper.
They’d managed to save the girls, but Roland and Alucard had to put them under their spell to calm them; most had been too hysterical to question. Othello had booked a private wing of a rehab facility while I was unconscious and put the girls under constant guard, claiming they’d been exposed to a mind-altering chemical that had amnestic side effects. She’d employed doctors, scientists, and even hypnotists—without the slightest change in their condition. She’d been about to give up and call their families when my seizures started.
“Maybe seeing their loved ones will help,” she said as we descended in one of the elevators, sounding defeated.
“I have something I’d like to try, before you do that,” I said. “I have a lead to run down first, but if you give me twenty-four hours, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Gladly,” Othello said. “Anything you need.”
Serge greeted us on the curbside and I felt like kicking déjà vu in the testicles. The only person missing was Hemingway. I held up my hand, urging Alucard to stop pushing my hospital-mandated wheelchair. “Wait, where was your boyfriend durin’ all this?” I asked. I’d completely forgotten about the Horseman, but in hindsight the clash at the bridge should have been right up his alley.
Othello shook her head. “I haven’t been able to get hold of him. The last time we talked, he was planning to visit Kansas City. Something was going on there that warranted his attention.”
Alucard grunted and resumed pushing. “Roland ran off pretty quickly after the fight. Probably Callie related.”
Othello shrugged, but didn’t look inclined to disagree. If she was worried about her boyfriend, she didn’t show it. But I guess that made sense; how much trouble could Death really get into?
“That Callie girl sounds like fun,” I said. “We should grab drinks.”
Othello snickered. “No drinks for at least a week, remember? Doctor’s orders.”
I glowered at her. “You’re not invited.”
Funsucker.
Chapter 53
I hurried across the heavily congested street, slipping between two taxis. With the bridge still under repair, Manhattan had become somewhat gridlocked as commuters sought other access points. Which meant getting uptown had been a major pain in the ass.
I was hoping it would be worth it.
John Chapman, also known as Johnny Appleseed, buzzed me in.
I ascended to the second floor and sought out his apartment number. A door opened down the hall and Chapman himself waved me in. He’d shaved, which made him look younger, and a bit less edgy. Or maybe that was simply me projecting; after our last encounter, all desire to run my hands up and down his body had fled, and now I had a hard time looking at him without shivers running up my spine. Even his voice gave me goosebumps—he’d called me the day after I returned to my hotel, given me his address, and asked me to drop by. Said we needed to talk.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, flashing me a smile.
“A
ye,” I said, sneaking past him while maintaining as much distance as possible. “So, what is it ye wanted to talk about?”
Chapman shut the door and frowned. “Is something wrong?”
I frowned. “The last time I saw ye, ye were makin’ trees pop up out of nowhere.” I didn’t bother mentioning his eyes. “I blacked out, fell into a coma, and had to be saved by my driver. And I’m pretty sure all that is somehow your fault.”
Now it was Chapman’s turn to frown. “You mean you didn’t do it on purpose?”
“Do what?” I asked, exasperated.
“Lend me your power.”
I gaped at him.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Chapman said, slowly, looking troubled. “I’ll admit I’m surprised. That night on the bridge…” he drifted off, the memory of what happened playing across his face in real time. “I’ve never felt like that before. It was the most intense sensation. I had seeds in my pockets. Decoys, in case things went wrong. I knew as soon as I touched them that I could awaken them. That I could make them grow.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head in confusion.
“I didn’t, either. I’ve never had that sort of power. I can urge things to grow. To flourish.” He waved a hand at his apartment and I realized we were surrounded by greenery, some of the plants exotic, indigenous to much different climates. “But nothing like what I did on the bridge. It was like you were flooding me with power. I didn’t want to leave you behind, but once I stopped touching you and the power faded, I decided to take the seed and run. I was betting they wouldn’t come after you. That…and I was a little afraid to touch you a second time.”
I turned away, trying to sort through what Chapman was telling me. He wasn’t lying; the awe of what he’d done was written all over his face. Somehow, when we’d touched, his power had reacted to my field. Or something. I had no way to know exactly what happened. Since leaving the hospital, I’d given myself a once over—my various wounds had healed, although I still had a slight bruise on my thigh and abrasions on my wrists from the restraints. As far as I knew, my field was unaltered, although I sensed it was slightly more pliable than it had been before. It seemed like every time I was forced to expand it, the field became easier to manipulate.
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