Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  She turned around then, the bag falling forgotten to the sidewalk. I saw Liz peering into the crowd, searching for my face, but with my ratty hair and my twisted scraggle of a beard, she didn't see me looking back at her. But I saw. I saw too much. I saw the weight she carried in her cheeks – just a touch, rounding out her face and glowing pink in the chill fall air. I saw her swollen belly, protruding from beneath her woolen jacket.

  "Did you tell yourself it wasn't yours?" said So'enel. "I assure you that it was."

  And in that moment, I understood.

  "Shut up."

  Why she had pushed me away. Why she'd been forced to let me go.

  "And that child grew into a woman, who had a child of her own."

  She'd been protecting her child.

  "I said shut up."

  Protecting our child.

  But he didn't shut up. "A child that grew up strong and sweet and brave and beautiful, so like your fair Elizabeth."

  She'd been protecting it from me.

  "Shut up shut up shut up!"

  It was then, as I stood staring at the woman that I loved and the daughter I'd never know, that Bishop struck.

  "A child that this one killed, without mercy, and without remorse."

  The pain was excruciating as Bishop gouged my soul out of my chest, cackling gleefully all the while. In truth, I didn't mind. I knew then that I deserved it. For the person I'd become. For the choice I'd forced Elizabeth to make. And as the world around me disappeared, replaced by the swirling gray-black of my soul, I thought I heard her call out – just one heartbreaking syllable, her voice tremulous and full of hope: "Sam?"

  My entire body shook in rage and pain and sudden doubt. I looked from the seraph to Kate, who once more fought against her restraints. She was trying in vain to speak, but the gag prevented it, deadening her words into a frantic series of grunts. Her eyes, wide with shock and terror, found mine, and even without her words to guide me, I knew that she was beseeching me not to listen.

  "It seems the girl has something she'd like to say," the angel said. "Well, then, by all means, let her speak." He gestured, and the duct tape unwound from Kate's mouth as if of its own accord. "But first, my dear, a question. Your half-brother: what was his name?"

  Kate forgot her fear for a moment, so thrown was she by the question. "C-c-connor," she said. "Connor MacNeil."

  "Yes," said So'enel, not unkindly, "but what was his middle name?"

  At that last, Kate's eyes went wide with shock and horror. When she spoke, it was flat, uninflected, barely audible. To me, though, it was a fucking knife in the gut.

  "Samuel," she said. A single tear tracked downward across her trembling cheek. Then, as if from somewhere far away: "Patricia said it was in honor of her grandfather. But Sam, I never thought–"

  "Enough of this," the angel said. "You see, Collector, I've steered you true. You know what it is you have to do."

  I felt sick. Tears poured down my face, and my breath came in ragged, hitching gasps.

  "Collector," So'enel said, and then he stopped short, correcting himself. "Samuel. This violation of your blood cannot be allowed to stand – the girl must pay."

  "No!" I said, clenching shut my eyes as though to shut out the world – as though to shut out the angel's words.

  "Samuel, you have to realize you were sent here for a reason. God isn't through with you yet, my child, and perhaps redemption is not so far off as you would think. It's time for you to do your duty. It's time for you to do what's right."

  As the angel spoke, a calm settled over me, quieting the trembling in my limbs, the fire in my heart.

  "You're right," I said, smiling at So'enel through my tears. "Of course I know you're right."

  And then I aimed my gun and fired.

  33.

  I suspect there aren't many who've had occasion to see an angel die. I'm pretty sure that's for the best. When the bullet struck, he staggered backward, his face a rictus of shock and sudden pain. His inner light dimmed a moment, and then surged outward, engulfing us all in its radiance. Ceramic dust from the cat-shard, which had filled the room when the gun discharged, sparkled like stars in the sudden glare. The very building beneath us trembled, and I felt as though the flesh was being stripped from my bones, though perhaps it was my soul that ached, as the cleansing light of grace illuminated every moment of doubt and anger, of sin. A cry escaped my lips, agony and ecstasy in equal measure. From somewhere in the blinding light, Bishop let out a piteous wail, his own corrupted soul no doubt in flames. Only Kate failed to cry out, and it was in that moment that, by luck or providence, I realized my choice had been the right one.

  Then, suddenly, the light collapsed upon itself, and unsupported by its presence, I fell to the floor, weeping like a child. In the angel's place, there writhed a single segmented insectile creature, black as sin, its back on the floor, its legs kicking frantically to right itself. It shrieked in agony, and then lay still, collapsing inward on itself as if a thousand years had passed in just one heartbeat, reducing the creature to no more than an ashen husk. I thought back to the demons Kate and I had so recently dispatched, full themselves of such creatures, and I wondered how long it had taken Beleth and Merihem once they fell to be consumed by the creatures, filled from within until there was nothing left of the beings of grace and light they once were. Then I thought of Veloch's act of mercy, and decided perhaps not all of them were so far gone.

  I can't tell you how long I lay there crying, only that the first faint rays of morning light glimmered off the rooftops of Manhattan by the time I finally managed to rise. A glance around the room told me Bishop still lay trembling in the corner. I staggered over to where he lay and rolled him over, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pulling him toward me until we were nose to nose.

  "You're finished, here, you hear me? You'll not come for her again," I said.

  But Bishop said nothing – he just stared wide-eyed at me, his face red and wet with tears. A stream of snot poured from his nose, and as I held him, he tried to pull away from me like a frightened animal.

  I slapped him, hard. He yelped in pain and fear, but I thought I saw the slightest hint of clarity returned to his borrowed eyes.

  "I said you're done here."

  His head bobbed up and down – suddenly obsequious, eager to please. Eager, perhaps, to avoid another slapping. Not that I cared either way. Bishop was broken, beaten down by what he'd seen. So long as he remained that way, he'd pose no threat to Kate or me or anybody.

  "I suggest you leave this body at once. He's an innocent in this, and I'd hate to have to kill him."

  Again he nodded, and then his body went slack in my hands. Improbably, his abandoned vessel started snoring, and so I lowered him to the floor, leaving him to sleep. No doubt the man had earned it.

  Kate, of course, was still fastened to the kitchen chair. I knelt at her side and tore through her restraints; the skin beneath was red and abraded. When she was free, Kate threw her arms around me and held me tight, tears streaming from her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

  I held her close, her head pressed tight to the crook of my neck, her tears soaking through the fabric of my pajama shirt. "It wasn't you, Kate. And you couldn't have known."

  "Is it over?" she asked.

  "Yeah, kid. I think it is."

  34.

  The hall of the hospital was bright and clean and bustled with activity, its staff too busy with their evening rounds to pay me any mind. Not that there was anything out of the ordinary for them to see if they did. I'd learned my lesson the last go round, and this time, I'd snagged a napping orderly from another floor – familiar enough to anyone who passed to not warrant a second glance, but with luck unknown enough to the staff on this floor to avoid any pesky conversations. That was the theory, at least, and so far, it had worked; I'd gotten to where I was going without bothering a soul, unless you counted my orderly-suit, and there was a chance I'd have him back before he ever wok
e up.

  I stood leaning just inside the doorway for a while, listening to the soothing rhythm of the heart monitor in the room within. Anders lay sleeping on the room's sole occupied bed, his face slack with peaceful sleep. From what little I could understand of his chart, he was gonna be just fine, and that made the whole body-swap worthwhile. I'd left my last meat-suit tied to a radiator in Kate's apartment, and I assured him I'd give the cops a ring as soon as my errand was done. It's tough to say for sure, but I think he understood. The man was a warrior, after all, and if it were one of his who'd fallen, I'm sure he would've done the same.

  "Hello, Collector."

  When I heard her voice, I jumped. I hadn't heard her coming, but then with Lilith, you never do.

  She strolled past me into the room, tracing the line of my goateed jaw with one delicate finger. My meatsuit thrilled at her touch, her playful smile, her intoxicating scent. She was barefoot, of course, and clad in the barest suggestion of a cotton dress. It clung tight to her supple curves and halted scant inches beneath her luscious hips. The fabric was so thin one couldn't help but catch a hint of silken skin beneath.

  "Evening, Lily."

  She frowned – a beautiful, pouting, playful frown. "I've asked you not to call me that," she said.

  "So you have."

  "Nice to see you've chosen a live one once more – your second in as many vessels. Dare I hope this is the beginning of a trend?"

  "Not likely."

  "A shame, that – they do suit you so. Perhaps to honor the occasion, then, you and I should avail ourselves of that empty bed, and make this little errand of yours worth this meat-suit's time."

  "Thanks, but no thanks," I replied. Lilith just shrugged.

  "You did a good thing back there," she said. "Clearing that girl. I was wrong about her – we all were. I suppose I owe you an apology."

  "You don't owe me anything."

  "You'll be happy to know that she's been taken care of: new name, new face, new life. Easier than bringing back her family, I suppose, and with an entire city looking for her, I guess it's best she disappear."

  "I assume it wasn't you who made the arrangements."

  "No," Lilith said, smiling, "when the white hats realized it was one of their own who set her up, they were quick to volunteer. Nothing like an angry Maker to whip them into action, I suppose."

  "So you don't know where they put her, then?"

  "No, why?"

  "I'd just hate to see you hunt her down, is all."

  She shot me an odd look, then – puzzled, guarded. "Now why on Earth would I do that?"

  "Oh, come now, Lily – don't play coy."

  "Really, Collector, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

  "Of course you don't. Only here's the thing: I spoke to Mu'an."

  "Yes? And?"

  "And there was something he said that I couldn't make any sense of at the time. See, he'd told me he was carrying a message, but that he couldn't tell me what it was, on account of he'd been bound by a rite of suppression."

  "That makes sense," she said. "I mean, So'enel couldn't have marked the girl for collection on his own – he had to have some help. And it was angels, you recall, who destroyed Grand Central in an attempt to silence Mu'an. Maybe they're who he was there to meet, only once he'd served his purpose, he was nothing but a liability to them."

  I shook my head. "I don't know – it doesn't track. See, when I asked him who it was he was playing courier for, he told me to ask my lady friend."

  "Maybe he figured the MacNeil girl would know – I mean, it was the fact of her possession they were covering up."

  "Sure, but Mu'an didn't know anything about the message he was carrying, and besides, we both know it wasn't Kate he was talking about."

  "I don't understand. What exactly are you saying?" Lilith said.

  "I'm saying he was talking about you."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it? You've always taken quite an interest in me, Lily – there's no denying that. I always figured you enjoyed the game: tempting the poor tortured Collector and watching him squirm. Only maybe it was more than that."

  "You flatter yourself, Collector. My interest in you is strictly professional."

  "Is it? So it's a coincidence, then, that I'm dispatched to collect a girl it turns out is responsible for the murder of my own flesh and blood?"

  "You think it's not?" she asked.

  "Damn right I think it's not. In all my time as a Collector, I've never been sent on a job I would have taken any joy in, and why would I be? After all, this gig is punishment for a life misspent. But if this job had been legit, it would've been a gift. Except it wasn't legit, was it? And the fact that I had a personal stake in it made for a nice little ace in the hole – if I got out of line, all So'enel had to do was play the family card, and I'd do my job like a good little soldier, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart."

  "So So'enel set you up as well – is that any surprise, given what he did to the girl?"

  "I suppose not. But what is a surprise is that he would have chosen me to do the job, not knowing me personally, and therefore having no idea how I'd react. No, I think he had help picking me – picking her. And I think that help was you."

  "I assure you, Collector, you're mistaken."

  "Am I? Then tell me – where were you when I went off the reservation? You said yourself – when we met in the park – you ought to report me for what I'd done. Why didn't you? You ask me, you didn't say anything because you were sure I'd eventually collect the girl, and you didn't want to be tied too closely to the job when I did. After all, if they suspected it was you who was responsible for the war that would have certainly ensued, you'd have both sides gunning for you."

  "Assuming for a moment you're right," Lilith said, "what could I possibly stand to gain by inciting a heavenly war?"

  "Revenge, for a start. I mean, the story says you were cast out of the Garden of Eden for refusing to be subservient to Adam. My guess is, if anybody's got a reason to start a war against God, it's you."

  "Those are bedtime stories, Collector, nothing more. You of all people should know that."

  "I do know that, but I also know that most of them contain a kernel of truth as well. Tell me, how long did it take you to tempt So'enel to your cause? Years? Centuries? Millennia? And how long, now that he's failed, before you try again?"

  "You can't expect me to answer that."

  I smiled and shook my head. "I suppose not."

  "Nor can you prove a single word of what you just said."

  "No, I guess I can't."

  "So where does that leave us, then?"

  I thought a moment. "Right back where we started, I suppose."

  "Yes," she said carefully, "I suppose it does."

  She strolled over to me, rising on tiptoes and kissing me softly on the cheek.

  "You should take some time here with your friend," she said. "This work of ours can wait. After all you've seen, you deserve some rest – and believe me, you're going to need it. I have a feeling there's a storm brewing."

  I said nothing: I just stood there watching as she strolled toward the open door. As she reached the threshold, she called to me, not looking back.

  "See you 'round, Collector." Her voice hung in the air for what seemed like forever, long after she'd disappeared from sight.

  Yeah, I thought. I bet you will.

  About the Author

  Chris F. Holm was born in Syracuse, New York, the grandson of a cop with a penchant for crime fiction. He wrote his first story at the age of six. It got him sent to the principal's office. Since then, his work has fared better, appearing in such publications as Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Needle Magazine, Beat to a Pulp, and Thuglit.

  He's been a Derringer Award finalist and a Spinetingler Award winner, and he's also written a novel or two. He lives on the coast of Maine with his lovely wife and a noisy, noisy cat.
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  Acknowledgments

  There was a time when I – then but a lonely writer clacking away at a keyboard in a dark corner of my basement apartment – looked upon acknowledgments with skepticism. Writing is, by its nature, a solitary task. So who were these people to whom authors claimed they were so indebted?

  Now, of course, I know better. Because it turns out those people are the difference between a dusty, unread manuscript cranked out by some lonely writer in a dark corner of a basement apartment, and the book you're now holding in your hands.

  To that end, I'd like to first thank my agent, Jennifer Jackson, for her tireless work on my behalf. My path to publication has been circuitous, but Jennifer's enthusiasm and faith have been unflagging.