forest.
When he came to his senses, he was standing in a wasteland of dead wood. It was dawn. At first, he couldn’t remember what had happened. He blinked a couple of times against the morning light. His swords were still in his hands but his hands hurt. He didn’t know why.
Hundreds of trees lay shattered about him as if a team of lumberjacks had worked furiously for a week. Sam looked down at his swords. With trembling hands, he raised them to eye level. Both were blunted and notched. How did that happen? Swords like his were not damaged easily. And then it came rushing back to him. Aimi. She was gone and he had been betrayed. He staggered and fell to one knee.
He didn’t cry this time. Gradually, as he assimilated the memory, a cold anger grew in his heart, replacing whatever grief he had felt. He stood slowly, nodded once to himself and cast around for his backpack. Eventually he found it, buried under the remains of a thicket he’d sheltered under the previous day.
He stalked back to the beginning of the forest and seated himself on one of the stumps he had created. Dipping into the side pocket of his backpack, he pulled out his whetstone and began sharpening his Katana with smooth, rhythmic strokes, his blank gaze staring at nothing in the middle distance. Sharpening his swords always calmed him, clearing his mind and giving him space for ordered thought.
He started to feel better straight away. The dried blood on his hands flaked off as he worked, revealing fresh scars. He must’ve really given his hands a work out to inflict damage like this. The injuries were an anomaly though — one that he couldn’t really explain. The hilts of his swords were made from steel, not iron. In theory, the steel couldn’t harm him so why the damage? It had happened before and usually he set the problem aside as something to think about when he had less pressing matters to attend to. For some reason, this train of thought suddenly appealed to him. He knew it was a distraction, something to occupy his mind so he didn’t dwell on current events but he didn’t care.
Hikari had helped train not only his body but his mind. To attack problems with the same vigor as he would in one of his martial training regimes. Hikari had often advocated the theory of Occam’s razor — the simplest and most likely explanation was usually the correct one.
There were two most likely explanations. The first was the proximity of the iron. His hands were only separated from it by a fraction of an inch. The other explanation was that repeated impacts — and he was talking about hundreds or even thousands — could still damage him over time, even if it wasn’t iron. It was something to think about.
These thoughts and the monotonous, repetitive task were soothing. He started to feel back in control, more rational. Reluctantly, he considered his current problem. It was monumental — a real doozy. What was he going to do? He’d only just got Aimi back and suddenly, she was taken from him again. What were Gabriel and Heaven playing at? Weren’t they his ally? Didn’t they give Aimi back to him to keep his favor? Perhaps they had and perhaps and then again perhaps not. He couldn’t let his father’s insidious words influence him though. Satan was known as the father of lies for a reason.
He thought about what had happened to the Grigori. God had punished them, banishing them from Heaven because of their conduct with human women. And they had been angels like Aimi. What the two of them had done was worse, in theory. Aimi hadn’t just loved a mortal human, she had loved a demon. Or half of one. In Heaven’s eyes, it probably made no difference. Sam knew that Heaven could not overlook such a trespass. It had to be punished even if it was just for form’s sake.
Just like Hikari had taught him, he examined the issue from every angle. What should’ve happened is that Aimi should have been banished, just like the Grigori — perhaps even stripped of her Angelic status. Either way, Sam would’ve been happy. He would have got his Aimi back. But clearly, this was not in the best interests of Heaven. They wanted to keep Aimi close, but why? There had to be a rational explanation. Surely the reason couldn’t be to antagonize him? That just didn’t make any sense. Or did they think they could hold Aimi hostage in exchange for his obedience? What obedience? He was already doing what his heart and soul compelled him to do — help the innocents. What else did they want from him? Sam didn’t understand. Try as he might, he couldn’t get to the truth.
He drew in a great breath of air and let it out slowly, releasing some of the pain and frustration he felt. Whatever the reason, Heaven had antagonized them at a time when he suspected they needed him the most. Wasn’t he about to go into battle with the Antichrist and his forces again?
There was something he could do, something he always did when the burden and weight of who he was became too much: the mindlessness of pure physical exertion.
Both swords were sharpened now, their edges now restored through sheer determination and hard work. He hadn’t even noticed moving on to the Wakizashi. He felt suddenly ashamed. He loved his swords more than most anything else and he felt horrified that he had dishonored them in such a way. To be used like a common axe was unforgiveable. He swore to himself that no matter what happened, he would never treat his blades in such a way again.
Replacing the whetstone, he put his backpack back on and sheathed both swords. The interstate was only a few hundred feet away. He set off, quickly accelerating to a fast jog. He’d exorcise his inner demons with flat-out exhaustion. The thought amused him slightly, quirking one of his lips up for a moment. Then he ran and ran, with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy. His endurance had always been much greater than any normal human and he was going to test its limits. It was daylight but he didn’t care. He needed this.
A battered sign told him Harrisburg was thirty five miles distance. It took him just over two hours; if anything, he was probably increasing his pace. Despite the light, he felt strong, his anger fueling him. He didn’t actually go through the city itself. It was probably a bit risky to enter it even though in his state of mind, he felt like a fight. A city this large would probably have its share of demon worshippers. He just didn’t want to slow down, wanting to keep going, to temper his body against this anvil that was the road.
Something else compelled him. A sense of urgency. He wanted to reach New York. Knew he had to reach it as soon as possible. Something was happening there and it was where he needed to be too.
The interstate took him through the outlying towns around Harrisburg without incident. He could see the city in the distance. Black smoke rose from some of the taller buildings, a firestorm probably igniting whatever was left to burn. Some miles behind him, he sensed something, now recognizing them immediately — the Devil’s Hand. They were definitely on his trail. He smiled grimly. Let them come. They would have to catch him first and fight him on his terms.
He crossed another riverbed. From the looks of it, the river — whatever its name, Sam could find no helpful signage — had once been mighty. The dried riverbed was a few hundred feet wide, once home to what must have been a great torrent of water. Whatever was left was diseased and dirty. A fetid odor rose from it, so bad that Sam increased his pace even more to outrun the stench.
By nightfall, he had reached the outskirts of Allentown. The interstate would take him directly through the city but at the last instant, some instinct warned him against it. The city screamed trap. He sensed many demons within.
He veered off, following highway 78, heading south east. He’d been running for several hours now, without rest or drink or food. Still he persevered and would have done so for many more hours if it hadn’t been for what happened next.
Out of the dark sky came another winged figure. Sam knew immediately who it — or he — was, and finally stopped just out of curiosity, a strange feeling after running for so long. The exercise hadn’t taxed him. He was hardly out of breath.
The figure was winging its way closer. The last time Sam had seen him was just before he’d departed for Hell to rescue Grace. Another unexpected visitor. Strange how the mere mention of the Grigori earlier had seemed to summon him. Sam was indeed quite popular lately. If that didn’t tell him that events were moving apace, then nothing did.
Samyaza dropped to the ground several feet from Sam, impossibly elegant. Sam hadn’t seen angels make such a gracious entrance. The Grigori folded his glossy black wings onto his back and crossed the distance between them on long, slim legs. The black leather pants reflected what little light there was, shimmering as he moved. Naked from the waist upwards, his lean, muscled and hairless torso gleamed like polished ivory.
He stopped within arm’s reach of Sam and smiled, his perfect teeth flashing, his handsome face the epitome of allurement. Unconsciously, Sam returned the smile, not as immune to Samyaza’s charms as he would have
