Nothing, said my pillow. Just forget it and come back to sleep. But that pillow was a liar. I'd heard something – I knew I had. If I could just focus…
There. Again. A frightened whimper. A muffled thud. The fog lifted – not much, but a little – and I sat upright in bed, sliding the gun out from beneath the pillow as my feet found the floor. The scrap of fabric I'd used to hold in the powdered remains of the catshard protruded comically from the gun barrel, like a kerchief from a magician's sleeve, as though mocking me for putting my faith in so ridiculous a weapon. But it was too late to worry about that now. I crept over to my open bedroom door and peered out into the hall, but it was dark, and there was nothing to see.
I approached Kate's bedroom, gun held ready. The lights were off, the curtains drawn, but by the faint illumination of the alarm clock, I could tell the bed was empty. I padded barefoot down the hall to the staircase. At the top, I stopped, straining to hear what might be going on below. There, faintly – the whisper of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Something like a body.
The time for waiting had passed. I bounded down the stairs, two at a time, making for the source of the noise. The problem was, the whole damn place was marble and hardwood, and sounds bounced off the walls like an echo chamber. I ducked into three empty rooms before I was forced to admit I had no idea where the sound had come from. It was then that I heard the voice.
"Hello, Samuel."
It echoed through the darkened apartment as if from everywhere, or from nowhere at all. The voice itself was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking that smug tone, that knowing sneer.
"Bishop," I said.
His laughter reverberated off the penthouse walls. "Of course, that's not my name of choice, but for now it should suffice."
I listened closely to his words, not caring a damn what they meant. No, all I cared about was where he was. The problem was, I still had no idea. If I wanted to find out, I was gonna have to keep him talking.
"Where's the girl, Bishop?"
"The child is fine," he replied, "for now."
I ducked into the living room, where brocaded high-backed chairs and a silken chaise gleamed dully by the city lights that trickled through the half-drawn curtains. But Bishop and Kate were nowhere to be seen. I leaned heavily against the mantel, trying to shake the cobwebs from my drug- and sleep-addled brain. If I couldn't focus, Kate was good as dead.
Once I gathered my wits, I tried again. "Let her go!" I called. I always wondered why people in the movies always said that; it's not like it ever works. Turns out, it doesn't matter. You say it because it buys you time. You say it because that's all there is to say.
"I don't think so," he replied, oblivious to my game, or perhaps not caring. "I rather like her where she is."
Another open door, this one to a darkened office. But they weren't there. I wondered how long it would be before Bishop tired of this game and ended her. I prayed I wouldn't find out.
I returned to the foyer, and called out to him again. "How did you know where to find us?"
"It was simple, really. The violent are so predictable, you see – so eager to return to their killing grounds. They always return eventually, desperate to reclaim that thrill, that joy, that ecstatic rush that only comes from taking a life. Tell me, dear, how did it feel when you bled your brother dry? When you snapped your father's bones in two? How did it feel when your mother begged for mercy as you tortured her? She did beg, didn't she? They all do, eventually. Even the biggest and bravest among us cower before the altar of suffering."
Kate whimpered, but didn't speak. It sounded like Bishop had her gagged. But suddenly, I realized where they were. I should've known from the start. He'd brought her back to where it had all begun. He'd brought her back to make Kate face what she had done. He'd brought her to the kitchen.
I snuck toward the kitchen hall, my bare feet noiseless against the hardwood floor. Before I began my approach, I ducked my head into a bathroom and shouted, "Don't you talk to her, you son of a bitch!" It was better, after all, if I was something less than expected.
"Son of a bitch? Oh, no, Samuel – you could not be more wrong. It was God himself that plucked me from this mortal coil, so pleased was he at my cleansing of the unrighteous."
I paid his words no mind, creeping down the hall toward the kitchen with my finger on the trigger.
Unbidden, Bishop continued. "Those boys were destined for a life of sin, and had I not intervened, their souls would roast still in the fires of hell. But I did intervene, purifying them and sending them into the arms of their loving God. Of course, they were young and poor and had so little to give, so they paid their tithe in blood. I assure you, He understood, which is why He made me his chosen son, his emissary in this realm."
At the threshold of the kitchen, I stopped, willing my heart to slow. My borrowed flesh was full of twitchy energy, muscle memory eager to put a bullet in Bishop's brain. Or perhaps it was something more? I'd never felt such willingness in a meat-suit before. I wondered if maybe after all he'd seen riding shotgun with me, Flynn was on my side.
The support was welcome, even if it might've been imagined. Whether willingly or not, we wheeled together around the corner, my gun hand drawing a bead on Bishop's smiling face, illuminated softly by the dim light that shone from up above the kitchen range.
But he was already a step ahead of me, crouching behind Kate to ensure I didn't have a clean shot. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape, which wound as well around the limbs of a dining-room chair, affixing her in place. A strip of tape stretched across her mouth. Bishop held Kate by her hair – her head tilted awkwardly backward, her eyes pleading and terrified. A kitchen knife glinted cruelly at her throat.
"Ah-ah-ahhh!" he said, yanking back her head and pressing blade against flesh. "I wouldn't do that if I were you – someone might just get hurt!"
I took him in now, this familiar creature in an unfamiliar vessel. This one was a large-framed man, thick and meaty, like an athlete gone to seed. A few sad wisps of graying hair swept from one ear to the other in a foolish attempt to hide his baldness. He wore pants of bluish-gray, and an elaborate shirt to match – a doorman's uniform, no doubt. The shirt's double row of brass buttons were undone, his undershirted gut protruding from within. Mischief danced in his eyes, and his face was twisted into a manic grin.
"What are you going to do, Bishop – slit her throat? That's not the job, and you know it."
"It wouldn't be the first time I've taken a soul from a corpse," he said.
"I'll kill you before you ever get the chance. You have to know that. You've failed, Bishop. Just let the girl go, and you'll be spared."
"You expect me to be frightened of that popgun? You know as well as I that it won't kill me; like Lazarus, I shall rise again, and when I do, you'll pay. You and your little whore both."
"I wouldn't count on it," I said, training the sight of my rag-stuffed gun barrel at the bridge of his broad, crooked nose. "I'm pretty sure Beleth is never coming back."
"DON'T YOU SAY HIS NAME! Only the righteous may know the true name of the Lord!" Bishop cried.
"And what would you know about righteous?" I shot back.
"I was His chosen son! For centuries, I was the hand of God, smiting the wicked and ensuring His will be done! How dare you question me, when it is I who must step in after what you've done! It is a mantle I do not wear lightly, being God in His stead, but you've left me no choice. That is why we're here. That is why it's come to this."
"So that's what this is about?" I asked. "I kill your god, and now you want to make me pay?"
His eyes danced with anger and spite, and something else as well. Madness, I realized. The madness of a zealot.
"There is no payment great enough to repair what you have done. You've robbed the world of its Heavenly Father. I should have sensed the stink of wickedness upon you all those years ago when I first took your soul; I should have realized my attempts to cleanse the s
tain of sin from you were for naught. But I didn't, and it cost our Lord His life. That will forever be my burden to bear. But this girl, this harlot, this vile creature – she means something to you, does she not? Perhaps you see your wickedness reflected back at you. Perhaps you were seduced by her comely features, or tempted by her feminine wiles. I care not what it was that drew you to her; all I care is that you care for her – that this girl, this sinner, this foul creature holds meaning for you, as the Heavenly Father does for me. You see, I cannot extract payment enough from you to change what you have done, but I can force you to suffer. I can force you to watch as I tear her soul from her body. I can cause you to suffer as I myself have suffered, for I am a vengeful God, and all must learn that it is dangerous to cross me."
"You're no God at all, you fucking freak. You're a scavenger at best – or even less, you're just a cog in a machine. Your only task is to collect the souls of the damned, and even in that you're deluded. This girl's an innocent, Bishop. She didn't do it. That's why I've been protecting her. That's why I can't let you collect her."
"I'm deluded? Listen to yourself! You're not making any sense! Why would you be sent, if this girl was not to be taken? Why would the Lord himself have dispatched me to collect her?"
"Because she's been set up," I said.
"By whom? Who but she had motive to do what she has done? Who would stand to gain by the collection of an innocent soul? Who could possibly wish for war to erupt between the ranks of the righteous and the wicked?"
And just like that, I had it. It was obvious, really. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before.
The answer to Bishop's question fell softly from my lips, just one word, so quiet even I could barely hear it. Just one word, but with that one word, everything changed.
"So'enel."
32.
There was no thunderclap, no flash of lightning – no trumpet's blare to announce his presence. One moment, there was nothing to my left but empty space, and the next, the angel was there. In my jail cell, he'd worn a suit of charcoal gray, but now he wore nothing at all, his tall, slender body suffused with light and impossibly bright after the dimness of the room. As before, his features were indistinct, and almost painful in their beauty, but this time, I refused to look away.
"Collector," So'enel said, his rich baritone both confident and soothing, compassionate and strong.
"Seraph," I replied.
The angel looked around, taking in the scene before him: Kate, duct-taped to the chair, her gaze averted; Bishop, cowering behind her, the knife lying forgotten at his feet; and me, my silly rag-stuffed gun still trained at the spot over Kate's shoulder where, until recently, Bishop had stood. Then So'enel returned his gaze to me, his bright eyes of neither blue nor brown nor green penetrating into the furthest reaches of my tattered soul. "Tell me, Collector, why is it that you've brought me here?"
"Because I've done it," I said, willing the quaver out of my voice, the tremor from my limbs. "I figured out who it was that set up the girl."
The angel shook his head. "I see you're still persisting in this fiction of yours. It is understandable, I'll grant you, to refuse to believe one so young, so seemingly sweet, could be capable of such a terrible act, but as you recall, I looked into the matter myself. I assure you, the child is guilty."
"Yeah, so you said. Here's the thing, though – I'm positive she's not."
The angel smiled: blinding, beautiful. "Are you accusing me of lying, Collector?"
I ignored his question. "Before, in my cell, you told me my name was from the Hebrew for 'heard by God'."
"So I did, and so it is."
"Tell me, what does So'enel mean?"
"I fear I fail to see the relevance of the question."
"Oh, I think you see the relevance just fine. It means that you're a warrior, does it not?"
"A warrior for God, yes."
"Right," I said. "Not much to do these past millennia, though, huh? I mean, what with the détente and all."
"I'm sorry; I must be misunderstanding you. Are you suggesting that I am somehow involved in orchestrating an elaborate ruse to frame a poor innocent little girl?"
"I'm not suggesting that you orchestrated a thing. No, what I'm suggesting is it was you who possessed this girl. That it was you who killed her family. That it was you who tortured her mother until the police arrived, just to ensure there'd be no mistake in determining who was responsible. And that it was you who made sure she was marked for collection, covering your tracks so well that both sides are convinced she's guilty."
"That is preposterous," the angel said. "I am an angel of the highest order; a servant of God. I've no interest in being insulted by a lowly Collector."
"My apologies," I said. "I mean, it's not like any other angels have ever gone off the reservation. So tell me, this God of yours, you think he was just gonna let this slide? I mean, you damn an innocent soul to hell and start yourself a war, just for a little something to do? Sounds a lot like free will to me, my friend, and that's strictly verboten in angel-land, is it not?"
"What you're saying is heresy. You know not of what you speak."
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't. But it seems to me it's a fine line between an angel and a demon; just a hint of jealousy, or of doubt, and you're off to the races. Are you telling me you couldn't have possessed the girl – that you don't have that kind of power? Of course you're not. If a demon can take a human host, it stands to reason an angel can, too. And here's the thing: Kate here told me that when she killed her family, she did it with a sense of calm, of peace, the likes of which she'd never felt before. She told me she did it with a song in her heart. Does that sound like any demonic possession you've ever heard of?"
The angel shook his head. "Don't you see what she has done to you? She's blinded you to her true nature! She's convinced you of this impossible scheme to blind you to the fact that she's responsible for these horrible acts!"
As he spoke, the angel approached, his action lending urgency to his words. I backed away from So'enel, and trained the gun at his chest.
"That weapon will not harm me," he said gently. "You sure about that? You may wanna ask Beleth." I found myself wondering if it's a bluff if you don't know for sure you're bluffing.
The angel raised his hands in acquiescence, a bemused smile settling across his beautiful face.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Nothing whatsoever, I assure you. It is just that I underestimated you, Collector – you're far more compassionate a creature than am I. After all, it must be difficult to defend the life of the girl who so brutally slaughtered your own granddaughter."
The blood drained from my face. I felt suddenly dizzy and weak, and my gun hand dropped to my side, the Glock pointed uselessly toward the floor. "What did you just say?"
So'enel replied, "Don't tell me you didn't know! I mean, the resemblance to your Elizabeth is astonishing! In the mother, and the boy as well; why, he would have been your great-grandson, would he not?"
Though the summer of '44 had been sweltering, October brought with it a brutal cold front, blanketing the city in the kind of chill that settles in your bones and makes you think you'll never feel the kiss of warmth again.
"But… she couldn't be." I said. "That's impossible."
It had been a month since that night, since Dumas, and I'd spent that time living on the streets. No, not living – trying desperately to drink myself to death, wishing every night as I lay down in the gutters and the alleyways that I would simply drift away with the next hard frost, never to wake again. The way I saw it, without Elizabeth beside me I was dead already. Sometimes, though, it takes a while for the meat to get the message.
"Is it?" the angel asked. "But you'd been following her, those months after she bid you adieu. You must have seen."
Liz had left the apartment in New Brighton, shacked up with a young doc from her program. I spent most nights camped out in a park across the street from his place, so desperat
e was I to be near her.
"No," I said, not in answer, but out of sheer denial.
I wanted to tell her I'd been wrong. I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I must've tried a dozen times, but her eyes would pass right over me, in the way that people's do when confronted with those who have fallen through the cracks, and every time, my voice would fail.
"You must have seen your child growing within her."
Every time but one. It was early evening, and Liz was walking briskly down the street, a bag of groceries in her hand. Her face was downcast, her brow furrowed in worry, and in that moment, I wondered if she was thinking of me. As she passed, I called to her – just her name, just once.
I said, "You're lying."
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