St. George looked around and spotted a flat area on the roof shared by an oversized pet shop and a huge lamp store. He flew over and set Max down. The sorcerer swung his arm in a circle a few times, then rolled his shoulder back and forth.
St. George turned and looked down at the street. The shadows were getting darker. “How long do you need?” he asked Max. “We probably shouldn’t stop for long, right?”
“Just a minute.” He said. He shook his hand out like a pitcher getting ready for a big game. “I’m not going to be much use if my arm doesn’t work.”
On the street below, the crowd of exes spread out. Some of them lost track of the two men on the roof and stumbled away. A dozen or so were trapped on the far side of cars, helpless until dumb luck moved them around. They kept their blank eyes on St. George and clawed at the air. Others pushed their way through the lamp store’s broken display windows. The sound of crunching glass made its way up to the roof.
“I don’t suppose there’s a chance the demon just left? Didn’t you say he might just decide you weren’t worth it?”
Max walked to the edge of the roof to stand by St. George. He rolled his shoulder again. “It never works out that way. D’you remember any fairy tales where the devil makes a deal with someone but then never bothers to follow through in the end?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
“There’s a reason for that.” He shook his head. “He’s too pissed to leave. We just need to find him before he finds …”
St. George followed Max’s gaze. Across the street was a small storefront that might have been an art gallery or some kind of showroom, something that looked more East Coast than Los Angeles. He remembered searching it years back and finding nothing useful. The huge picture window had been smashed ages ago, if the leaves on the inside floor were any sign.
Josh stood inside the gallery, watching them. He was just far enough in that they never would’ve seen him if they’d been floating down the center of the street. A deep sigh moved his chest as he locked eyes with St. George.
The man formerly known as Regenerator was tall and broad. His build was solid, despite months in a cell with no food. His white hair almost glowed in the gallery’s dim interior, while his gray eyes were just dark enough to be black in the fading light.
St. George risked looking away for a moment. There were at least sixty exes between the lamp store and the gallery. Too many to have a conversation at street level.
He glanced back. Josh hadn’t moved. He looked tired.
Max shrugged. He put his fists side by side to make a row of tattooed knuckles, then rolled them back-to-back. A few murmurs slipped from his lips as he pushed his fists forward and opened them. He whispered a few more words, closed his eyes, and swung his hands away from each other.
Twin clouds of dust and dry leaves rose up off the street. A few of the cars squealed and lurched in either direction. The exes slid across the pavement as if they were being swept aside. Some of them fell over and kept moving. One of them, a dead woman in shorts and a gory tank top, kept trying to stagger forward even as she was swept back.
Max opened his eyes and looked at the pristine path across the street. “Looks great when you do it with water,” said Max. “Very biblical.”
“You can keep them away?”
Max let his hands drop. “It’ll stay for a while. It only goes side to side, so watch your back.”
The hero stepped off the roof and sailed down to land in the center of the street. His boots tapped the pavement and he took a few steps forward. The white-haired man watched him come.
“Hey, Josh,” St. George said. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a few exes staggering inside the lamp shop. One of them, a dead woman, had already spotted him. It would take a few minutes to reach him.
Josh stepped out of the gallery. He’d found some new clothes that fit him pretty well—a pair of dark slacks with stained cuffs and a rumpled jacket with a pair of bullet holes in one shoulder. He still wore the plain white T-shirt from his imprisonment, soaked with blood from his escape. His feet were still bare, and broken glass crackled under them as he walked. “Coming to talk with me twice in one month,” he said. “I’m starting to feel special.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” St. George said. “We need to get you back inside.”
“Back in my cell, you mean.” His hands hung at his sides, and the withered hand twitched at the mention of imprisonment. The sleeves were too short for his long arms, and the pale bite was just visible past his wrist.
“Honestly, right now it’s just important we get you back inside the Mount,” said St. George. “Even just inside the Big Wall. We can talk in there.”
Josh chuckled. “I don’t think Stealth or the others are going to be in a talking mood.”
A few feet away, an ex stumbled toward them and hit Max’s barrier. It swayed for a moment, its jaws gnashing at the air, and then tipped over backward. Its skull hit the pavement with a solid thunk and it went limp.
“I know you’re not too happy with us,” said St. George. “I know you’ve got no reason to go back, but you’ve got to believe me. We have to go and it’ll be quicker if you don’t fight.”
“And if I did fight?”
“Please,” he said, “we really don’t have time. There’s something out here looking for you, and if it finds you … it’s not going to be good for anyone.”
“So?”
St. George took another step toward the
