The angel soldier roared, his ivory wings carrying him through the air toward Francis. Francis dove out of the way, but he was too slow and the angel’s booted foot caught him on the temple, sending him sprawling to the hallway floor.
Through blurred vision Francis watched as the angel touched down, and strode eagerly toward him, burning sword ready for another strike.
Was that a smile he saw on the angel’s chiseled features?
Francis managed to push himself up into a sitting position, reaching into his suit coat as the angel prepared to deliver what was certain to be a killing strike.
“Hold that pose,” he said as he withdrew the Pitiless pistol and fired a bullet into the angel’s armored knee.
The scream was horrible. The soldier of Heaven pitched to one side, his fiery blade burying itself in the hardwood floor, angrily sputtering and crackling. He looked as though he were about to say something, but Francis didn’t wait to hear it.
“Say good night, Gracie,” the former Guardian said as he struck his foe on the side of the head with the butt of the gun.
The angel went down with a grunt, but fought to remain conscious, another weapon of fire beginning to materialize in his grasp.
Francis hit him again, and then one more time for good measure. He waited a moment to be sure that the angel was down, using the time for a much needed breather. He was surprised that he felt so winded after having dealt with only five of the home invaders.
There was still one more angel to go, and he was pretty sure that it was the leader, and would likely be tougher than the others.
He took a deep breath, put the gun away, and pulled out the knife again. He was just about to slice into the fabric of time and space when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—the angel he had thought was out for the count launched himself at Francis with a predator’s shriek.
The enraged soldier of God tackled Francis, sending the blade of the knife he was about to use into the substance between here and there, slicing a crooked line sideways as the two flew backward to the floor.
The angel screamed like some bird of prey, flapping his wings crazily while raining blows down upon Francis, finally knocking the special knife from his grasp.
“Son of a bitch,” Francis hissed as one of the angel’s fists connected with his face, knocking off his glasses and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. He tried going for his gun, but the fists just fell all the faster.
He knew what he had to do to survive.
It was the same sort of decision he’d made while standing before the Lord God, when he’d thrown himself on the mercy of his Creator. He’d known he’d fucked up in taking the side of Lucifer Morningstar and hadn’t been afraid to admit it.
And he’d fucked up again now, letting this piece-of-shit angel get the jump on him.
He called upon the special reserve of strength he always set aside for times like this, arched his back, and launched himself up toward his attacker, the flat of his forehead connecting with the angel’s face. Francis took a certain amount of pleasure in the snapping sound the angel’s nose made as it broke.
The angel was stunned as blood poured from his nostrils. Francis grabbed the angel by his breastplate and threw him to the floor. The angel yelled, his wings beating wildly. Francis had had enough. Reaching into the mass of feathers and taking hold of the angel’s wings, he savagely bent and twisted until he heard the sweet, sweet sound of snapping, followed by a wail of agony.
But Francis did not stop there. He straddled the angel, driving his own fists down upon the warrior to stun him further, and then taking hold of his head slammed it down repeatedly against the floor. Before long, the angel soldier wasn’t moving anymore, and Francis made sure that he wasn’t playing possum by giving the back of his head a few more hits before letting it limply fall upon the floor.
His own face felt broken and sore, and he could have used a few hours of rest, but he knew he still had one more soldier of Heaven to deal with. He was about to continue on his way, when he felt himself being grabbed from behind.
“You have got to be shitting me,” he managed as he was yanked backward, into the jagged rip that had been accidentally cut through time and space.
Simeon had Tjernobog, also known as Robert, construct a shelter from an old tarp, and the forever man was now sitting in what would have been the mining city’s square when the coal town had welcomed its first inhabitants back in 1887.
He was curious, and felt that this might be the perfect way to satisfy that curiosity without raising concerns. The rain was coming down in sheets, but the makeshift lean-to was doing an adequate job of keeping him dry. A small fire burned in front of him under the shelter of the tarp.
He had ordered his servants not to disturb him, but he knew they kept a watchful eye on him from the cover of some nearby buildings. Simeon really did admire their loyalty, but sometimes it proved to be a little too much. Who would have thought that the promise of Heaven destroyed could elicit such devotion?
As he stared into the fire, he was again reminded of the orphan, Gareth, and the problem his change from child to adolescent had begot. And what of the others?
Would Gareth’s change somehow affect them?
That was what he intended to find out, sitting there in the rain, waiting for them—the orphans—to notice.
It didn’t take long. He felt their eyes before he actually saw them. They peered out from hiding places in the various abandoned buildings that surrounded the square. Simeon pretended not to notice, focusing on the fire and the rain.
He heard the sound of someone approaching, and looked up to see a young girl standing before him. She was wearing a heavy, leather jacket, two sizes too big for her thin frame. Her T-shirt, which was also too big, announced in fading letters that she was a Sexy Bitch, and her jeans were faded and torn at the knees.
Simeon was fairly certain that this was Mavis. She and Gareth had been two of the first to be saved from death. He smiled, hoping that he was doing it properly. It had been a very long time since he’d had a reason to smile, and he didn’t want to scare her.
“Why are you sitting here?” Mavis asked.
He didn’t answer her right away, instead focusing on the churning fire.
“Hey!” she said impatiently.
“I heard you,” Simeon replied, tossing another piece of wood onto the fire. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I was hoping one of you would come and talk to me.”
“You’re that guy,” Mavis announced. “The guy that comes to speak with Prosper.”
Simeon attempted another smile, nodding. “I am that guy.”
“You scare him, you know?” Mavis said. “We can tell when you’re coming because he acts all different . . . nervous.”
“I have that effect on some people,” Simeon answered. “As you might someday.”
He threw that last bit out there; a baited hook, fishing for a response.
“What do you mean?” Mavis asked. “Why would anybody be afraid of me?”
She stepped closer to him—as if curiosity compelled her.
A piece of wood popped and snapped, tumbling from the pyre he had built. He moved it closer to the burning mass with the side of his shoe.
“I spoke with your friend not too long ago,” Simeon said.
“What friend?” she asked with caution.
“Gareth.”
Simeon looked up in time to see a certain amount of excitement showing in her dark green eyes, which she quickly attempted to suppress.
