“Oh? And what do I get in return, Mr. Dollar?”
“The inside information on how a major angel fell. You’ve heard about Anaita?”
“I confess that I have. In fact, even if I hadn’t, the fact that you’re still around suggested she was out of the picture.”
“Yeah. Well, I was there when she was taken down. And it’s an interesting story. What do you say? You game to trade?”
He drank his water, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “And what angel is it you want to know about? Because that might make a difference. One of the ephors in charge of your case? Someone involved in the Magian movement, one of Anaita’s dupes?”
“Nope. I want you to tell me all about an archangel called Samkiel.”
I’m betting that name won’t mean anything to you, but trust me, you’ve heard it. Gustibus recognized it, too, because he looked surprised. “Really?” He shook his head as though I’d offered to hock him a priceless antique for the price of a cheap bottle of wine. “Very well. Let’s talk.”
And so I told him about the snow and ash on Kainos—all the way up to the last moments when the angels came and my best friend died in my arms. I told him everything, even the things I’d rather have forgotten. When I didn’t tell him enough, Gustibus asked questions—good questions, hard questions that I didn’t always have the answers to myself. It really made me wonder about him, because it might just have been the hunger for truth of a true historian, but there were times when it seemed to go deeper than that.
When I was done, he answered my questions, and you’ll hear about those answers soon enough. All together, it made for a fascinating afternoon, and for a long time it was just the two of us, one speaking while the other listened. The ocean beat against the shore like a lover at a locked door, and the wind plucked at the shingles and rattled the windows.
• • •
By the time we finished it was early evening. I stood up, stretched, then fumbled in my pocket for my car keys.
“Oh, one last thing,” I said. “Just a minor question, not a trade. You don’t have to answer.”
He put his glass down and turned from the window. He, as usual, had stood during the entire time I was with him. “What might that be?”
“I was just wondering whether you might be someone else.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know, it sounds strange. But I couldn’t help thinking that if someone wanted to slip me information, even manipulate me a bit here and there, it would be nice if they had a cover as someone who knows a lot about Heaven while still being an outsider. Someone like you.”
“Ah. And in this solipsistic view of things, Mr. Dollar—Bobby—who would I be?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. One of the ephors? My boss Temuel? Some other angel I don’t know? Heck, maybe not even an angel—there have to be lots of folks from Hell playing the long game up here, who wouldn’t mind the combination of getting inside information and making trouble for Heaven.”
His smile looked genuine, if a bit indulgent. “Should I remind you that you came looking for me, not the other way around?”
“Absolutely. Can’t argue with that.”
“And even if this conspiracy theory were true—although it most definitely is not—you know very well that such a mysterious double-agent version of Karl Gustibus would have to deny everything anyway. So the question is a bit pointless, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.” I got up. “Thanks for the briefing on Samkiel. I have a feeling I may find that very useful.”
Gustibus didn’t walk me out. The nun who’d let me in hours ago was still clutching the broom as I went past her on my way to the door, but at least she didn’t take a swipe at me.
I had a lot to mull over on my way back through the hills. I put on Sonny Rollins’ Blue Seven, good thinking music, and watched the trees swaying in what looked like the winds before a storm. The sky was dark. So were my thoughts.
I parked my gaudy yellow ride in the Tierra Green garage and headed for the stairs. I had decided to call Clarence, because I thought I’d better share some of this with somebody, and he was about the only person left who knew enough of the story to understand, not to mention that he’d handed me a major piece of it himself. But just as the phone screen lit up, and I started to put in numbers, something punched me in the back hard, knocking the wind out of me. I staggered, and it was harder to turn around than it should have been. I got myself swiveled just in time to see the pale, staring face of one of Baldur von Reinmann’s minions—Timon, the dark-haired one. His eyes were wide with an almost sexual excitement, and I could see sweat beaded all over his face in the pale light of the garage’s overhead light. He had a long, bloody knife in his hand, an SS dagger.
“The fuck!” I said, then he stabbed me again, this time in the belly. He grabbed me with his free arm so he could plunge the knife in several more times. My knees buckled and he let go of me.
“You killed him!” The words tumbled crookedly out of his mouth. “The most beautiful man, our leader! He could have been one of the world’s masters!” Timon’s dark hair hung in his face. He looked way too emo for a genuine murderer. “You ruined it!”
“No,” I said, bubbling blood. “You ruined it.” I was on my hands and knees, drizzling blood, trying to find a way not to shriek at the pain that had set the whole of my torso on fire, front and back. I was talking to distract him, but it felt like I was belching out fire and broken glass. I grabbed his legs with my hands and began to drag myself upright. He tried to pull away, but somehow it didn’t occur to him to stab me again. “Dumbass,” I grunted through clenched teeth. “You could have been a camp counselor. Or a Deadhead, or a fucking comic book fan, something decent.” And there it was, tucked in his belt like a birthday surprise for me—my own sofa gun, the Smith & Wesson.38 that he’d stolen at the museum. “But you had to hook up with a bunch of miserable racist Nazi shits—!” I did my best to punch him so hard in the nuts that he’d die, but I was pretty weak and only gave him a mild thump. As he stumbled back, though, I managed to hang onto the butt of the revolver.
It took him a second to realize what I was pointing at him.
“I bet you wish you’d taken up golf,” I said as his eyes grew wide. “Or collecting stamps.” Then I emptied the revolver into the middle of him. Like a good little fascist, he’d cleaned and reloaded it, so he got all five rounds. I don’t think the last two or three were necessary, but by that point I couldn’t actually see anything, and even the healthy crack of the.38 Airweight sounded like the tap of a distant hammer.
I died pretty quickly after that.
forty-eight:
one tick away
OKAY, HERE’S something you may not have known: apparently dead people dream.
How did I know I was dead? Well, unless it’s ever happened to you (and you were an angel at the time, like I was) it’s hard to explain. Basically, there was a brief moment when all the lights went out, the party was over, and I could no longer feel the breath of the Highest whispering in my blood. I can’t explain it any better than that.
So I know for sure I was dead. What I don’t know is how I came back to life in the same body. But I’ll get to that in a moment. As for the dreaming part . . .
It was Caz, but somehow I was seeing through her eyes. And I thought she must be in Hell, because all I saw was fire and smoke and hopeless faces. She was stumbling past them and the owners of those faces kept trying to grab at her, to pull her down, but she fought past them and out into a swirling nothingness. Suddenly there was a line of fire in front of her, and then something else was there—something big. Something powerful. Something that had come for her and her alone. It raised its hand . . .
And I woke up. Shouting. Thrashing, trying to help her, save her, but I was restrained.
No. Only restrained on one side. And not exactly restrained, either. Somebody was holding my hand.