Page 92

His free hand quickly comes up to rub his eyes.

“It burns! What have you done to me?”

“Don’t worry. It’s just bleach,” I say. “And some of my blood.”

I hold up my bleeding wrist and he staggers back, letting his Gladius go so he can use both hands to wipe my blood from his face.

“What have you done to me!” he yells. “Unclean!”

Thrones are all morons and they sure as hell aren’t fighters. I grab the ceremonial golden dagger from Simiel’s belt. Still blinded, he tries to shoulder-butt me away, but I’m almost as strong as he is.

“Let me help you get clean.”

I slash the dagger across his throat where his armor doesn’t quite reach. And slash him again, making a real mess of both of us. Pearly-red angel blood splatters my new shirt and coat.

I told you I was hard on clothes.

He throws his arms and wings wide, trying to scream. But all he can do is gurgle a bloody prayer as I shove the knife into him up to the hilt. I’m normally a lot more efficient at killing things, but I want to make sure every soul, Hellion, and winged creep know exactly what I’m doing.

When he’s just about dead, I pick him up and throw him off the top of the trailer. I guess he dies on the way down because he never hits the ground.

There’s a moment of silence, then a shriek from above. I look up, expecting to see every fucking angel in the sky speeding down at me. Instead, the angelic swarm bursts apart like a Fourth of July fireworks display. Angels fly apart in every direction, their Gladiuses flailing uselessly as they spin out of control. The swarm explodes again, but this time the fireworks are fainter as some head back up into the sky and others fall, dying.

It takes me a minute to figure out what the hell is going on.

Turns out a second group of angels dive-bombed through the center of the first and are happily ripping them to shreds. They’re a smaller group, but they’re faster and they look better armed. Whatever it is about them, Simiel’s group backs off fast, fluttering away into the dim Tenebrae sky with their tail feathers between their legs. But before they disappear, they have time for one final fuck-you.

A group swirls past the obelisk with their Gladiuses raised, and smash it to pieces.

Besides being morons, Thrones really carry a grudge.

As the second group of angels settles to the ground near center camp, I climb down from the truck. I’m still holding the golden dagger and dripping with Simiel’s blood when I make it over to them. The Magistrate, as cool and calm as ever, is chatting amiably with the tallest angel, a woman with cascading red hair. His smile fades a little when he sees what a mess I am, but he beckons me over.

He says, “Mr. Pitts, you have visitors. And, it appears, benefactors.”

The redheaded angel bows her head at me slightly and I do the same to her. She’s scarred, and her armor is dented and scratched. So are the other angels with her. They’re fighters, no question.

“Thanks for stopping by.”

I reach out to shake her hand, but when I get a look at my filthy mitt, I pull it back.

“We’re friends of Hesediel,” she says. “I believe you knew her.”

I sure did. I watched her kill herself to destroy Black Milk, a drug that might have prolonged the war in Heaven forever. I don’t respect many angels, but she was one I hated to see go.

I wipe Simiel’s knife clean on my pants and put it in my pocket.

“I knew her. She was the only angel I ever liked.”

“That’s what I understood. Perhaps, though, we can change your attitude.”

I shake my hands, trying to get the blood off.

“I seriously doubt that.”

An angel from the back of the group steps forward. She’s shorter than the others.

“For fuck sake, Jim. Stop being such a dick.”