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The tree is in a little bed of purple and puke-yellow flowers. I stroll through them and reach up to grab the Light Killer when a stabbing pain shoots up both legs. I jump back and check myself. There’s no blood, but the bottoms of my leather pants are shredded. I squint at the flower bed, looking for the razors and meat grinders from earlier, but what I find is even better.

It’s a whole plot of flowers ranging from a few inches to a foot high. They have petals like roses, but in the center of each blossom is a bright white set of teeth. They snap and snarl at me when I get close enough to give them a once-over.

The front teeth are sharp with big canine fangs at the edges. The big ones are like Rottweiler flowers, while the little ones bark and nip like Pomeranians with an attitude. There’s a good six feet of them between me and the tree. I look around for something to smash them with, but everything in here is as mean as these mutt posies.

Think, goddammit.

I have to go all the way back to the palace and carry an armload of unburned chair legs and arms. I toss them carefully among the fleabag flowers, and they land in a rough rectangle about eighteen inches wide and long enough to reach from where I am to the base of the tree. When I’m satisfied with the shape, I get out my plastic bottle and splash Aqua Regia all over the wood. The little dog mouths lap the stuff up. Enjoy the drink, puppies. It’s going to be your last.

I crouch by the edge of the flower bed and spark the phoenix lighter. The Aqua Regia explodes into flame, burning me a nice path through the hungry mouths. I actually feel kind of bad for the little curs. It’s not their fault they’re a cannibal florist shop. Unlike most of the havoc, they were bred to be the way they are.

I drink the rest of the Aqua Regia and wait for the flames to die down. When they’re low enough that I’m reasonably sure I’m not going to go up like a Roman candle, I walk carefully through the little walkway I’ve created. The flowers on either side of the path growl and stretch their stupid stems to get a piece of me, but they can’t quite reach.

When I get to the tree I don’t touch the sword right away. I take out Doris’s butcher knife and probe around the branch. After all, the tree in the other Eden had a snake in it. Who knows what kind of nefarious wrigglers might be hiding in this one?

But the blade comes back clean and with no bite marks. I sniff it and don’t smell any obvious poison. And I didn’t trigger any booby traps. Still, I don’t exactly want to reach up there and just grab the sword. I should have kept the golden blade instead of being all magnanimous and giving it back. Lesson learned: once you get a weapon, never, ever give it up. Unless it’s the amber blade. That one I promised to give back, but that’s a special case. Now that I think about it, I wonder if it might be useful here. If there is something hiding in the branches, maybe it will kill it before it gets a piece of me.

I put away the butcher knife and take out the amber blade. Probe around the branch the way I had a couple of minutes earlier, but this time it’s different. The moment I touch the tree, there’s a crack. The trunk sags a few inches and slips to the side. Branches fall off all around me. Shit. I killed the thing. It’s funny watching something die that’s older than anything you know. I don’t exactly feel bad about it, but it’s another reminder of how everything snuffs it somewhere, sometime. Maybe I should get over being dead and figure out the best way to spend eternity. For damn sure it isn’t going to be in this weed patch.

Finally, the branch right above my head snaps off. I have to duck out of the way, then twist around to catch the falling sword. The moment I have it in my arms, I, very carefully, slip the amber blade back inside my coat.

The flames have died down enough on my walkway that the nearest dog blossoms can reach me. I have to jump out of the flower bed to keep from getting gnawed to death.

And that’s it. I have Mr. Muninn’s sword in my defiled Abomination hands and neither of us exploded or turned into a pillar of salt. The gold is beautiful, but I’m surprised. I mean, it’s just a sword. I was expecting something that vibrated with power the way the amber blade does. This is just a sword. And it’s light for gold. I swing it through the air a few times. The weight is perfect. I’d really like to keep it for a while and play with it, but there’s a bunch of grumpy killers and angels and a soon-to-be-dead messiah waiting for me.

I remind myself that I can’t get too anxious about doing in the Magistrate. Not with Daja around. She doesn’t realize I’d be helping her, and I won’t have the time to explain to her the facts of life. So, just like every other goddamn thing on this fun-house ride, I’m going to have to wait and pick the right moment. And Daja isn’t the only one I’m worried about. I have to make sure Traven is clear of the havoc before I do anything. But I’ve waited this long. A little longer won’t make any difference.

They wait for me at the edge of the ruins. It doesn’t look like anyone wants to get closer to the spooky junkyard, so I put on a little show. Swinging the sword. Spinning it. Flipping it end over end into the air and catching it just before it hits the ground. Alice laughs, but Vehuel and the other angels look like they’re about to have kittens, so I let them off the hook. Stepping out of the ruined palace, I toss Vehuel the sword. She plucks it out of the air more gracefully than I ever could. Angel show-off.

“You’re welcome,” I shout before taking a deep and obnoxious bow.

The angels crowd around Vehuel, laying hands on the sword like sixties teenyboppers trying to touch the holy hem of Jagger’s tailored suit.

“It’s beautiful,” says Vehuel.

I pat my pockets, looking for a cigarette. Find a pack of Maledictions with one last soldier inside.

“It’s pretty,” I say, “but until you’ve had a Singapore sling at Bamboo House of Dolls don’t talk to me about beautiful. Carlos is Picasso with little umbrellas.”

No one is paying attention. Here I am telling these halo jockeys about the best place in L.A. for a celebration drink, but none of them hears a word. They’re all too busy wanting to get back to Heaven for milk and cookies. An angel wouldn’t know fun if it showed up in a blimp with dancing girls and a full bar.

Traven and the Magistrate go over to cop a feel from Excalibur, leaving Daja alone. I walk to her and offer her the Malediction. She takes it, has a couple of puffs, and hands it back.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“That’s it, then? That’s God’s sword?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“Me too. It’s light for gold. But I guess Mr. Muninn can do what he wants with the molecules or atoms or whatever.”

I hand her back the cigarette. She puffs and hands it back.

“I don’t understand anymore. We take it back to the weapon, make it work, and then what? Do we have to drag it back into Hell?”