End Chapter 6 pp 61-64

Finsternis stopped short, causing Lucia to bounce off him into a pile of lances and spears. “Finsternis, we need to get out of here now!” Lucia did not want to see an Agent. She could only picture them as eight foot tall spiders, dripping viscous fluids smelling of rot. Diseased, hairy, eight foot tall spiders dripping rotting fluids, chittering and squelching as they moved.

“Not through the back of the shop. If the agents come in here, they will sense the power of the items hidden here and Earth will be doomed, not to mention what they would likely do to Bayarma,” he explained.

Lucia could see his point. She certainly didn’t want the kind old woman harmed in any way, nor did she want to let anyone loose with the Spear of Destiny. Yet she could not make herself move towards the agents. She couldn’t. It would have been easier to breathe water.

“You’re going to have to drag me. I just . . . can’t,” she said weakly.

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. “You suffer from a phobia?” She nodded. “Something about the power of the agents, their mandate, feeds phobias.” He picked Lucia up, threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and dashed out the front door. It was all Lucia could do not to howl and kick to be let go. Finsternis, not nearly as sensitive to agents as Lucia, stopped suddenly, turned and ran in the other direction.

Lucia twisted her head to look. No spiders, just an Orthodox priest, a nun and a man in khakis and a mint green polo shirt, silently chasing them down the street. They voiced no threats or warnings, only followed with grim determination. Lucia blinked, shook her head. It was the most unlikely trio of all time, the setup to most of the jokes she knew, in fact, but they were hardly—

For a moment the agents had too many legs and chitinous shells covered in oozing disease. Lucia blinked again. A priest, a nun and a man. Blink and they were insectoid. Blink and they were normal. Blink and the flesh dripped off their bones in rotting rivulets. Blink and they were healthy. Two blocks down the street and it was the ever-changing nature of her visions that was upsetting, not the visions themselves.

Finsternis had put some distance between them and the agents. The agents ran with fixed determination, but none of them were wearing shoes for running, the priest and the nun were both over fifty and the man in the polo shirt had at least thirty extra pounds spilling over the waistband of his khakis. Still, Finsternis was fit and physically young and should have been able to outrun the trio easily. The agents’ legs moved like pistons, untroubled by terrain or pedestrians. They were all red-faced, sweating and panting for air, but didn’t even wipe the sweat dripping into their eyes. Apparently, the agents were as unaware of their own physical states as they were the pedestrians they knocked aside. The hair at the back of Lucia’s neck stood up as she watched them.

Finsternis ducked into an alley between two Tibetan restaurants. Lucia’s first impression was that Tibetan restaurants must have the best Health Department ratings in New York, but then came the feeling of disease and despair and terror that heralded the agents of Yhwh coming from the end of the alley Finsternis was running towards.

“Fin—“

He skidded to a stop, dropping Lucia to her feet. There at the end of the alley stood a Hasidic Jewish man and a Muslim woman in hijab. Lucia giggled. Finsternis looked at her alarmed. She spread out her hands. “It’s just . . . all these people, normally at each others’ throats, united in killing us. If not for the killing us, I’d be really happy to see Catholics and Protestants and Jews and Muslims working together.”

“Yes, well I have noticed that nothing brings humans together like killing,” said Finsternis, the last word echoing in an atonal chorus. He flared, purple fire surrounding his form, then it abruptly winked out. “No need to bring angels into this, too.”

The Muslim and the Jew stopped, the priest and the nun and the man in the polo shirt slowed in their approach. So many different races and creeds, but all shared the same expression: vicious but vacuous, like a rabid dog. They shared something else, Lucia noticed, brass knuckles. Her stomach knotted. Brass, the only weapon against a demon, and all five were armed with it.

The nun acted first, lashing out with a fist faster than Lucia would have thought possible for a woman her age. Lucia idly wondered if all nuns received martial arts training. Finsternis blocked the punch with a heavy boot, breaking the nun’s arm. Lucia winced in sympathy as the nun’s arm bent at a brand new joint between her elbow and wrist, but the nun had no reaction at all other than to follow up with another strong fast punch, left-handed this time.

Finsternis dodged that one, narrowly avoiding a kick from the man in the mint green polo shirt. Lucia removed her necklace. It was heavy, its weight around her neck already uncomfortable. It also had sharp points. She grasped it by the chain, swung and hit the priest in the head as he moved in. The crunch as the heavy stylized sun connected with his skull brought tears to Lucia’s eyes. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.

“What happened to these people, Finsternis?” she whispered.

He snarled, ducked back from a punch thrown by the man in the polo shirt. “Pray enough and you get what you ask for—a life lived only to serve Yhwh. These people are not human any more, not in any way that matters.” His boot hit the man square in the abdomen. Lucia swore he could hear his spleen explode. He slid to the ground, expression never changing.

The Hasidic Jew lashed out, brass knuckles connecting with Finsternis’ left cheekbone. The skin sizzled and blackened. Finsternis growled and Lucia swung the locket across her body, turning into the swing. A point of the sun caught in the man’s neck, tearing out his windpipe as Lucia finished the spin. He made a wet gurgling sound as blood sprayed Lucia and Finsternis, but dropped without even putting a hand to his ruined neck.

That left the nun on one side and the Muslim woman on the other. They jockeyed for the next punch while tears flowed down Lucia’s cheeks and Finsternis growled, a low rumble that bounced off the walls and pooled in the shadows.

The nun stepped past Lucia, who realized that with a demon present, she was invisible. No doubt once they finished off Finsternis, they would turn on her, but for now Lucia might have been a cardboard box for all they cared. Understanding hit her. In the churches Lucia was familiar with, the most devout were so obsessed with demons as to be unseemly even to other fundamentalists. It made sense now, it was a symptom of becoming an agent.

Lucia took the locket in her right hand, the heavy gold chain dangling free, and crashed into the nun from behind, bringing them  both to the ground. Lucia shut her eyes and brought her arm down, smashing the stylized sun into the woman’s skull. The nun bucked, trying to throw Lucia off. Again Lucia smashed her hand down as hard as she could. Eyes still closed, again. From somewhere far away, Finsternis howled, bones broke and again.

Lucia raised her arm again- how many times, what would she see if she opened her eyes- and a hand grasped her wrist, held it back. She turned with a snarl of her own and opened her eyes. Finsternis held her arm. “Finsternis? Are you—“ No, he wasn’t okay. The left side of his face was swollen, his left eye a slit of violet. His hands, his elegant fingers, were scorched, the skin peeling back, several purple fingernails missing. His breathing was harsh and pained, but he was alive, standing and holding her wrist.

Lucia stood up. A brief glimpse at the nun showed a ruin of bone and blood and gobs of something she didn’t want to think about. Lucia clenched her teeth against the bile rushing up her throat.

“What-“ She swallowed. She refused to throw up on Finsternis’ boots. “What happened to your hands?”

Finsternis considered his hands briefly. “It is not as bad as it looks.” He gestured at the Muslim woman lying on the ground, her neck obviously broken. “She had on a brass collar under her hijab.”

“Clever of her,” said Lucia. Despite the churning of her stomach and mind and a desperate desire to start screaming and never stop, she sounded quite calm.

“Yes, it was. Luckily, I only touched the fabric over the collar, not the collar itself. Otherwise, I could have lost my fingers altogether.”

“Yes, lucky us.” Lucia sounded as empty as she felt. Perhaps her soul had fled, running away from the blood that covered her face and hands.

Finsternis spun with a pained gasp at the sound of footsteps in the alley, but Lucia could only look with disinterest. What did it really matter? She’d kill another agent, another ten, another thousand. She was damned. Satan was her father, she’d started off that way and now it was official.

It was Bayarma. She carried a bag and evinced no interest in the bloody corpses littering the alley. She looked at Lucia with concern. Lucia laughed hollowly. “He’s the one who’s hurt. I’m just damned.”

Chapter 6, pp 56-61

Despite living only two and a half hours away by bus for over a decade, Lucia had visited New York City only twice. She told herself that it was the expense that kept her away, but the truth was, though she wanted to like Manhattan, she found the crowds and noise and relentlessly fast pace of absolutely everything overwhelming, and she always felt the country mouse every time she stepped onto the pavement of any street in the city. It didn’t help that New Yorkers tended to assume anyone with a Southern accent was an ignoramus, or that, in a lot of ways, she was one. Growing up fundamentalist in the South didn’t result in a cosmopolitan understanding of the world. Today, however, she looked at the sleek, fashionable city folk and wondered if any one of them would have the nerve to take a whack at an angel with an iron poker. Probably not.

Not even Finsternis could make street parking appear in the West Village, so he parked in a garage like everyone else and they walked along streets lined with beautiful, well-maintained brick buildings, upscale shops marked only by the wares discretely displayed in their windows, and restaurants whose only advertisements were the tantalizing smells from the kitchens. Like everywhere in New York City, the pavement baked in the late Spring sun, the sunshine boiling down unfiltered save by small, stunted trees growing out of iron gratings in the ground. Lucia couldn’t really comprehend living in a place where she’d have to take a half hour cab ride just to see grass.

Lucia tugged on Finsternis’ sleeve and pointed at what might have been a Chinese restaurant. The only clue to ethnicity was the discrete lettering on the door and Lucia couldn’t tell Cantonese from Korean. Whatever it was, the four empty tables in the dining room looked clean and the smell was mouthwatering.

“We should get what you need first. I do not relish the idea of being caught in there by a group of angels without it,” he said.

Lucia didn’t blame him. Finsternis would have the advantage in the dark, cramped space, but they would be trapped until they killed the angels or were killed themselves.

“Why weren’t you worried about being caught before?” she asked.

“I was expecting the Morningstar to provide more backup. Apparently, he has a new strategy.”

Lucia considered her brief meeting with her father. “Yeah, have you considered that his new strategy may be ‘let it all burn’?”

Finsternis looked at her seriously. “Yes. I have. It is not, however, my strategy.”

They walked on. After a block, the crowds changed from perfectly coiffed office workers and unwashed beggars to brightly dressed people of an Asian heritage Lucia couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until she saw a line of men with shaved heads wearing red and gold robes that she realized the neighborhood was Tibetan.

The monks avoided looking at Finsternis, but they stared at Lucia without any attempt at subtlety. Their expressions were . . . delighted? Lucia wondered what place in Buddhist mythology nephalim occupied. By their expressions, it was as saviors.

“Finsternis, why are those monks so happy to see me?”

He glanced at the monks, who very carefully looked away, and said, “They are happy to see your aura. It is, as far as I can tell, the same colour as their robes. This must have some meaning to them, though I do not know what.” He considered them, surprisingly unoffended by their refusal to look at him. “Of course, Buddhist monks tend to be happy more often than most humans.”

“Yes, I’ve never seen a picture of the Dalai Lama where he wasn’t smiling.” She met Finsternis’ gaze. “He’s on Twitter, too, you know.”

“What does the Dalai Lama do on Twitter?” asked Finsternis curiously.

“Puts more love into 140 characters than most people do into an entire book.”

“He is the reincarnation of the spirit of compassion.” He glanced at the monks. “Or so they say.”

“What did you mean ‘as far as you can tell’ about my aura?”

Finsternis began walking again, paying more attention to the buildings they passed. Lucia looked behind her. The monks were still staring. “I cannot see your aura directly as I can a human’s or a demon’s. I can only see it reflected on the humans you persuade. It is red and gold.”

“Oh. What does that mean?” Lucia was jealous of yet another of Finsternis’ abilities.

He shrugged. “On a human it would denote a passionate person, an artist or a revolutionary, someone who burns so brightly, they are doomed to die young. On a nephalim, I have no idea what it means.”

“What about on a demon?”

“Demons’ auras are the fire they channel. Purples have purple auras, greens have green auras, et cetera. Our auras are not reflective of our personalities or physical state, as in humans,” he explained.

He stopped short in front of a door just like every other door on the street. There was nothing special about the door at all, no sign or lettering on it, not even a street number. The building itself, a brownstone with a tall stoop, high entryway, and long windows with deep sills, was like every other on the block.  The heavy black cast iron railing contrasted nicely with the overflowing flower boxes on either side of the door, but other than the profusion of colorful flowers, there was nothing to distinguish this door from any other.

Finsternis opened the door without hesitation, clearly expecting to find it unlocked, which Lucia found odd, especially in Manhattan, until she stepped inside after him to discover a shop. The inside of the shop bore no relation to the West Village street it inhabited. It smelled of old spices, wood, leather and very old books. Shelves lined the long, thin space, from floor to ceiling, displaying leather bound and gilted books, daggers, urns, vases, bowls, jewelry, musical instruments and other items Lucia had no names for. Everything gave off the impression of such age that she was certain that only the shelves themselves were made after the Revolutionary War, but not a hint of dust or rot or mold could be found.

A glass case filled with smaller pieces of jewelry and objets d’art stood toward the back of the nameless shop, nearly hiding an ancient Tibetan woman in a loose, bright orange shirt, her hair covered by an equally bright green scarf.

“Finsternis! It is ever good to see you,” she said, her face lit by a joyful smile, her voice strong and high.

Lucia blinked. Finsternis was openly contemptuous of humans, making this woman’s warm greeting confusing at best.

“Bayarma! It is well indeed to find you still here,” he said in return, his own smile lighting up his face.

Lucia felt her jaw drop. She instantly liked the old woman with her sincere warmth and infectious smile, but Finsternis so happy to see a human was bizarre. “It’s like you’re trying to be difficult! You hate humanity!”

“That does not mean I hate every human,” he said loftily.

Bayarma moved from behind the case with surprising ease. She walked up to Lucia and grasped her hands, barely reaching her chin. “Pay the Dark Prince no mind, child.” Finsternis flinched. “He is by his nature difficult, and that is no fault of his.” Bayarma’s dark eyes, though nearly hidden under wrinkled, drooping eyelids, were bright. Her accent reminded Lucia forcibly of the Dalai Lama.

“The Dark Prince?” Lucia asked. Finsternis flinched again.

Bayarma looked at Finsternis craftily. “You didn’t tell her?” Finsternis shook his head, his violet hair shimmering in the dim light. Bayarma turned back to Lucia. “Finsternis is the heir to the Unclaimed Throne of Hell. It is only foolishness that he refuses to claim it.”

Lucia raised her eyebrows. “Funny, I’ve never known Finsternis to be foolish. Irritating and impossible, but not foolish.” He glared at her.

Bayarma reached up an patted Lucia’s cheek. “Dear girl, all men are foolish in one way or another. Finsternis may be a demon prince, but he is still a man.” She looked at Finsternis, all wounded pride. “Why did you come, Finsternis? Sure not just to warm my old heart?”

Finsternis took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. He was nervous and it sat oddly on him. “I need the Seal of Solomon, Bayarma.”

Bayarma’s eyes opened wide and she took a step back. “Why would you, of all people, want such a thing?”

“Wait, the Seal of Solomon? That’s real? You have it?” Lucia looked at the shop’s contents more closely. “What is all this stuff?” A blade caught her eye. There was nothing special about it, nothing attractive. She moved closer to it. It was ugly, really, dull, strangely shaped, too big for a knife, not big enough for a sword. She had seen drawings of this . . .“This the Spear of Destiny, isn’t it?” The blade had an aura of power to it, and she couldn’t look away. It sang a song of blood and fate and she knew it was just what she needed, if she could just touch it—

Finsternis grabbed Lucia’s arm and spun her around. “Stop that!” he ordered. “Do you see why I need the ring, Bayarma?”

Lucia could still hear the song of the Spear, could smell blood, could see fate—she hugged Finsternis, pressed her face into his chest and breathed deeply. Salt water and woodsmoke, fresh cut grass and five minutes before a storm. The Spear stopping singing.

“Finsternis, the Seal of Solomon is a danger to you,” said Bayarma, clearly shaken, all trace of good humor gone.

“And if Hell’s Champion dies, the danger to me will be less?” asked Finsternis.

Lucia shoved herself back. “I know I was only born to stop the Apocalypse, but would it be too much to ask that one person in the entire universe care about me?” Tears pooled in her eyes and she prayed to a God she had hated her entire life for an archangel, a lightning bolt, a gas line explosion, anything to kill her before she started crying.

Bayarma’s face was pure sympathy. “Child—“

“Little Light,” Finsternis began.

Lucia shook her head, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I wanted to hear lies, I could call my mother. She’s been lying to me since the day I was born. Bayarma, I can’t save the world if every angel I run into can set me off and I do want to save the world. Everyone on Earth should not have to die because I’ve got issues.”

Bayarma studied Lucia carefully. “That should not happen, you know.” She sighed. “Of course, I thought nephalim were only male. Perhaps that is why this has never been a problem before.” She walked to the back of the store more stiffly than before, to a door Lucia hadn’t noticed. Lucia and Finsternis carefully avoided looking at one another, which left Lucia looking at her shoes because she was afraid of looking at anything else in the shop after the Spear of Destiny.

Bayarma returned, holding a small, blue box familiar to any engaged woman. Lucia took it and opened it. Nestled in the blue velvet lining was a thick ring made of iron and brass and decorated with the only Hebrew word Lucia knew: cut crudely into the metal. Unlike the Spear of Destiny, Lucia had no desire to touch the Seal of Solomon. In fact, it radiated ugliness and perversion, a thing that should not be. She held the box out to Bayarma. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

Bayarma darted a glance at Finsternis, who shook his head slightly. “This is a thing of great power. It will help you.”

“Then give it to Finsternis,” said Lucia.

“It can only be used by those with human blood,” replied Bayarma.

“Used for what?” Lucia did not want to touch it, didn’t want to get it on her skin, wanted to bathe just looking at it.    

“Controlling angels and demons, of course. Haven’t you read the stories?” asked Bayarma. “Iron is the only weapon humans have against angels, brass the only weapon against demons.”

Lucia had read the stories, though not in many years. “Didn’t Asmodeus steal the ring from Solomon? How could a demon touch such a thing?” She felt nauseated and dull, tired from the effort of having to retrieve her thoughts through a layer of rancid honey.

Finsternis made a multitonal derisive noise. “Many of the ‘demons’ of legend were not demons at all, but rather fallen angels.”

“But still-“ Lucia was certain that didn’t make sense. The ring controlled angels as well as demons.

“Asmodeus was an archangel, like Lucifer and Azrael. Archangels are not the same as angels. Asmodeus did steal the ring from Solomon. It is too powerful, a foolish thing for Yhwh to have made, let along give to an Israelite warlord,” explained Finsternis. He was pretending at calm, but to Lucia’s eye, he flickered and flashed like static on a screen as he repeatedly drew on the Inferno only to immediately let it go.

“As I said, all men are foolish at least once,” said Bayarma.

“So archangels are immune to it?” If Lucia were going to carry something that repulsive, she certainly would not wear it, it should be useful against her most dangerous enemies.

Finsternis shook his head, snarled, displayed too many shiny white fangs. “Asmodeus lives, but he is broken. It is debatable as to whether he even is an archangel anymore.

Lucia shook her head. Nothing was worth all that. “No.”

Finsternis drew in a deep breath, eyes narrowing and Bayarma shook her head. “I don’t have any other way to keep you safe.”

Lucia looked at Finsternis. “You can just do what you did before.” Bayarma gave Finsternis a considering look.

“What if I am not there? What if I do not get to you in time?” asked Finsternis.

Lucia knew he was right. She also knew she’d rather jump into a vat of hydrochloric acid than wear the damned thing. They were at an impasse. Finsternis ground his teeth and Lucia glared at him. Bayarma turned, went to the display case and opened it. She selected a necklace and brought it back to Lucia, who hesitated to take it before realizing it was just metal with no power she could discern.

The necklace was a gold stylized sun hanging from a heavy gold chain. The sun itself was the size of the palm of her hand. It was old, surely, the gold almost the colour of brass, the design unlike anything she had ever seen before. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the edges of the sun’s rays still sharp, each link of the chain uniform.

Bayarma reached over and opened the sun. Until that moment, Lucia hadn’t noticed that it was a locket the clasp and hinges were so cleverly hidden. “Oh, I can put the Seal in here. I don’t have to touch it.”

“The gold will block any effect it might have,” said Finsternis.

“So gold conducts electricity and insulates magic?” asked Lucia.

Finsternis rolled his eyes. “It is not magic. It is physics a human scientist could never see.”

“They probably have seen it,” added Bayarma, carefully placing the Seal inside the locket. “They just aren’t capable of knowing what it is.” She placed the locket around Lucia’s neck.

Lucia looked down at it, the huge stylized sun resting in her cleavage. She like knowing what the locket hid, but she couldn’t feel anything. She looked at Finsternis. He no longer flickered with supernatural fire. Still, wearing the locket was like carrying a spider in a box, she couldn’t see it, but she couldn’t possibly forget the spider was there, all covered in goo, a gooey spider . . .

Lucia spun to face the door. Nobody was there, but they were coming. “Finsternis! We have to go!” She hugged Bayarma. “Thank you.”

“What is it?” asked Finsternis as he led Lucia to the back of the store.

“Agents.”

Chapter 6 pp 51-54

Fire. Fire for blood, fire for skin, fire for thoughts. Fire that burned without consuming. Fire without light, fire without pain, fire without fear. Fire that felt like a—

Lucia opened her eyes. Finsternis’ eyes weren’t really violet, nor did they actually have pupils, irises or corneas. His eyes were a starbust of every shade of purple from almost black at the center to a nearly white lilac at the edges. They were beautiful and she wasn’t sure why she’d never noticed it before.

They both pulled back at once. Lucia looked around, confused. They were still at Famine’s house. Four dead angels decorated the floors amongst shattered glass, burned wood and broken knickknacks. The one closest to her still smoldered. Apparently, very little time had passed, though Lucia felt as though she had overslept, leaving her groggy, even though fire still sparked through every nerve ending. She was pressed up against Finsternis, one of his hands wrapped in her hair, the other on the small of her back while he studied her intently.

“What . . . what was that?” she asked.

Finsternis removed his hands and stepped back, one arm out as if to catch her. “We need to go. This is not a safe place to be.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? One second I’m saving your ass from getting chopped in half by a light sword, the next you’re kissing me and we have to go? What the fuck is going on? Is that a shofar? A real one?” Her thoughts couldn’t seem to come together, but the shofar held her attention. Christianity, or at least the churches that tended to hire speakers like Tanny Harris, had gone from hating Jews as the killers of Christ to appropriating their culture. Lucia had spent many a Sunday listening to people refer to God as “Yahweh”, or the informal “Yah”, and attempting to produce notes on rams’s horns made of plastic. It was worse when they succeeded. Those same people would often serve challa bread with bacon and pray in Jesus’ name during Rosh Hoshanna dinners, a joke that never got old with the Jewish partners at the law firm.

“Yes, that is a real shofar. And I am sorry for . . .” Finsternis ran a hand through his hair, smoothed down his shirt. “We really need to go.” Sirens sounded in the distance.

Lucia realized that if the police did see the corpses as angels, it would provoke questions she couldn’t possibly answer, and if they didn’t, she was in a house with four dead bodies. “Fine, let’s go.”

As they walked out the door, Finsternis set the house ablaze without looking back. “How would the average human see dead angels?” Lucia asked as she got into the car.

“Dead, both angels and demons lose our ability to hide in plain sight.” He whipped the car back and took off, tires screeching and smoking.

“Where did you learn to drive, the Indy 500?” Lucia asked, pressed against her seat by the speed.

A grin crinkled Finsternis’ eyes. “Back when cars weighed ten times as much, steered like boulders and did not even have seat belts, there were no speed limits. Now that cars are actually controllable, filled with safety precautions and capable of real speed, you are forced to plod along barely faster than a horse. Humans are perverse.”

“True that, but—“ Lucia gasped as Finsternis threaded through traffic at 80 mph, missing the other cars by inches or less. “Am I capable of having a heart attack?”

“No. Why does every nephalim ask me that?”

“Because you are a crazy person, that’s why,” said Lucia. “So, kissing, what was that all about?” Lucia asked casually. She still felt somewhat . . . warm.

“Simply blasting you with Hell’s Inferno would not have worked. You are nearly immune to it,” Finsternis explained.

He said it so matter of factly, Lucia’s first reaction was to nod and accept his explanation. “Wait a minute, you need to back up. Why was it necessary to ‘blast’ me at all?”

Finsternis frowned. “The angels, their use of Heaven’s Light, triggered the archangel within you. It was consuming your human half. Allowed to continue, it would have killed you,” he finally said quietly.

“So I’m a walking time bomb and any time the angels that are hunting us right now find me, I could explode?” She didn’t remember any of this. From her point of view, she’d hit an angel with a poker and then, with no transition at all, Finsternis was kissing her. Lucia believed him, if only because also didn’t remember the fourth angel or his shofar. Obviously something had happened and for some reason, she hadn’t been aware of it. Right in front of her.

"It should not have happened. Only an archangel should be able to trigger the archangel within you," said Finsternis.

"How is that relevant? It did happen, it could happen again. At any moment. Like right now." Lucia stopped, concentrated on breathing for a few moments. "Is there any way to prevent it from happening again?"

"I hope so. There was a thing that could possibly help you, assuming it does not kill you. I hope that we can find it Manhattan."

"In a club?"

"No, in a store."

For moment, Lucia felt marginally better. "Possibly help, assuming it does not kill you" wasn't the most positive description she'd ever heard, but it was better than nothing. Besides, this was Finsternis. He was fearless, could defeat four angels with very little help and was thousands of years old. Finsternis wouldn't let her die a horrible death.

 Then she considered why Finsternis would keep her alive. To prevent the Apocalypse, to stop War, Pestilence, Death and the Messiah, her nephalim cousin. Rats in a cage, all of them, just like her.  And when the Messiah was dealt with, Finsternis would, quite literally, go to Hell, leaving Lucia on Earth to explode. She didn't imagine that the forces of Heaven would just let her go after all the trouble she already had caused them, and the trouble she intended to cause them in the near future.

"There's no winning against God, is there?" she whispered.

"Certainly not if you give up now," replied Finsternis.

“Fine. Is there anything else I should know about?”

Finsternis’ jaw clenched. His eyes flashed fire and he seemed to crackle for a moment. Lucia realized she could now see him holding Hell’s Fire even when he wasn’t using it. “The Messiah is Gabriel’s son.”

“What?” Lucia knew she could not have heard that right.

“The Messiah is the nephalim son of the archangel Gabriel, General of Heaven’s Host,” Finsternis repeated through clenched fangs.

“I thought angels didn’t do that. At least not the ones serving Yhwh, anyway.”

Finsternis snorted. “I’m sure Gabriel is very careful to hate every second of it.”

“Well, that certainly explains the first chapter of Luke. Do you suppose he actually said ‘Hail thou art highly favored, the Lord is with thee, blessed art though among women’?” Lucia had heard some bad come on lines in her life, but that had to be the worst ever recorded.

“I have no doubt that is a direct quote.” Finsternis laughed. “This would be funnier to you if you had ever met Gabriel.”

“I’m sure,” said Lucia.

“He is just such an uptight, self righteous, arrogant—“ the last was in demonspeak, a collection of hisses and growls that Lucia interpreted as “bastard”. “Serves him right, what Yhwh makes him do sometimes.”

“I’d find that funnier except that I can’t help but think of Mary. No matter how right it served Gabriel, what did she ever do to anyone?” Lucia asked.

“I am not without a heart, Little Light. You forget I spent two years in the company of Jesus. I actually met Miryam once. I doubt she liked the sex itself, but she was very proud of having been chosen to bear the Messiah,” Finsternis said gently.

“I hope you’re right. What was she like?” Lucia just couldn’t quite grasp the idea that Finsternis had personally known Jesus, Judas, Mary and the rest. It wasn’t reasonable.

Finsternis shrugged. “She was a proper married Jewish women of her time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Married Jewish women did not spend any great deal of time with men other than their husbands, certainly not without their husbands present.” He paused. “She seemed nice enough.”

Lucia laughed. “Of course I meet someone who actually met Mary and all I get is that she ‘seemed nice enough.’ Where are we going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Is that where War is?”

“I have no idea where War is. Finding him is up to you. I just like Manhattan,” Finsternis replied.

“Of course you do.” Lucia pulled out her iPad. “Let’s see what’s happening in the land of lolcats and lulz lizards.”

“Where?” For the first time, Finsternis looked honestly confused. Lucia rolled her eyes.

“The internet, Finsternis. Welcome to 1999.” She scrolled through her twitter feed. “Holy shit!”

“What is it? Cats or lizards?”

“It looks like Anonymous got hold of Famine’s data. It’s everywhere. And,” she pressed a link, “It looks like they hacked Santalmo but good.” She held up the iPad so Finsternis could see it. It displayed a picture of a man’s torso, in a suit and tie, surrounded by laurel leaves. Where the head should have been was a question mark.

“What is that supposed to be?” Finsternis asked.

“That is one of the symbols for a group of hacktivists called Anonymous. That picture is where Santalmo’s website used to be,” Lucia explained.

“What is a ‘hacktivist’?”

“An activist who attempts to change the world through hacking. You know, computer hacking?” Lucia explained.

“Does that work?” Finsternis sounded doubtful.

Lucia paused, then said quietly, “I sure hope so. The world needs changing. So, anyway, why are we going to Manhattan again? You just decided you’d like to enjoy the nightlife halfway through the Apocalypse?”

“Well, I do enjoy the nightlife.” He looked at Lucia, alarmingly while merging at 95 mph. “What? I cannot enjoy dancing?”

“You cannot use contractions, which makes it a bit difficult to picture you—we’re not talking about ballroom dancing, are we?” Lucia just could not picture Finsternis getting down at a club. Maybe lurking in the shadows, brusquely rejecting every woman who thought dangerous was another word for sexy, but actually on the dance floor? No.

Finsternis scowled at her. “I learned English several hundred years ago. Excuse me for not keeping up with every change in slang. I did ‘ballroom dance’—back when it called dancing. I do not—don’t—do so anymore.”

Lucia studied him for a moment. He was strong, quick and coordinated, so maybe he wasn’t joking about dancing. She just couldn’t picture it. “Well, okay, we’ll dance. Or, you’ll dance and I’ll watch.”

Finsternis raised an eyebrow. “You do not—don’t—dance?”

“I was raised full on fundy, you know, they don’t allow sex because it might lead to dancing,” Lucia said. She’d love to go dancing, she just had no idea how and no desire to look stupid in public.

“I could teach you how to dance,” offered Finsternis.

Lucia shrugged. “Sure, you can try.”

 “If I say I will—I’ll-- do a thing, I do it.”

“Okay, forget the contractions. You’re not good at them.” Lucia was almost certain he was being deliberately annoying about it.

Finsternis winked at her.  “I know I’m not.”

Chapter 5 - pp 44-50

Famine did not live far from Santalmo, which was a good thing because Finsternis was too distracted to pay much mind to driving. He followed Famine’s car, too lost in thought to be angry that Famine stayed exactly one mile under the speed limit the entire trip.

None of the previous nephalim had fought Finsternis on killing the Horsemen. Lucia was unique in that. If she had not been so, they would have guaranteed the End of Days the moment they killed Zachary Grant. Finsternis could hardly breathe thinking of what would have happened had Lucia not restrained him.

Why had she?

Rejected and abused by humans her entire life for reasons she could not have understood, why did Lucia care what happened to one human? One human fated to kill billions, no less.

And why did she have pointed ears?

Lucia was right. Lucifer did not have pointed ears. No archangel nor any angel did. Neither did any demon- any living demon.

Finsternis had never seen an archdemon. No demon alive had, not even those on the Counsel, finally long-lived enough to show some age. Every demon had, however, seen the statues erected in honor of the archdemons and their sacrifice. Those statues had pointed ears.

Finsternis shook his head. The Bloodlines of the Archdemons was an old story. A story likely dreamed up by the Morningstar himself. Finsternis would not put it past Lucifer to give his daughter pointed ears solely for the purpose of causing Finsternis to doubt the honor of the archdemons. Finsternis and Lucifer had that kind of history.

“Hey! We’re there!” Lucia pointed at Famine’s car, pulling into a driveway. Finsternis whipped the car into the driveway in a tire screeching turn, parking next to Famine’s car.

“Nice house,” said Lucia as she got out of the car.

“Thanks,” replied Famine.

Finsternis had no idea what made a house nice or not. Demons lived in sprawling castles grown from the living substance of Hell. They were dark and shadow-filled and changed shape as they wished, such that no two trips through a Keep were ever quite the same. Famine’s house was . . . symmetrical.

Finsternis studied the sky as they approached the front door. He did not like this pairing of Hell’s champion and a Horseman. To Finsternis’ eye, Famine’s aura, the brackish yellow of rotting things, had a scarlet and gold tinge at the edges. Finsternis had no idea why Lucia’s aura was overtaking Famine’s, or what was happening to Lucia’s aura. If he could see the peculiar interaction between Famine and Lucia, could the angels sense it, and if so, from how far away? Finsternis did not like it.

He did not like any of this. How could he win a game if he did not know what game he was playing? Could he count on Lucia instinctively knowing every winning move? Whose game was it, anyway?

Finsternis shook his head. Speculation was useless, he needed to focus on the task at hand.

They were greeted just inside the door by a plump older woman, her pleasant face a mix of confusion and fear. Her aura was all calm blues and soothing greens overlaid with the greenish grey of chronic illness. Famine was right to be concerned about her.

“Zack? I-“

Famine put up a hand to forestall his wife’s question. “I’ll explain later, Sherry, go pack a bag for each of us. When I’m done here, we’re picking up Matt at school and taking a trip.”

She gaped at him. “But, but why? School’s not out for three more weeks, and the tomatoes need planting . . . where are we going?”

Famine looked at Lucia. She shrugged. “I’d suggest somewhere with a lax interpretation of ‘extradition’”, she said.

“Extradition?” Sherry put a hand to her chest, her face a study in fear. Famine looked ready to sick up.

Lucia caught Finsternis’ eye and winked. She moved to Sherry, put a hand on her arm and said, “Ma’am, this is Special Agent Dereck Finsternis,” she gestured at Finsternis, “and I am Lucia Stanton. We are from an agency-“

“An agency?” interrupted Sherry. 

“A government agency,” said Lucia in an officious but kindly tone. The change in Lucia was remarkable. Her accent had changed from Southern to the crisp accentless tones of a news anchor. Her posture, facial expressions and body language had all changed to match. She was a government agent, she had answers, she knew what to do. Famine’s wife was already under her spell.

“Agent Finsternis, please assist Fa- Dr. Grant. We do need to be on our way soon,” said Lucia.

“Of course, Agent Stanton. Come along, Dr. Grant. You have a job to do. For an agency.” He winked and Lucia stifled a laugh.

As Lucia wove a tale that had Famine as the hero, uncovering terrorists at Santalmo, Finsternis told Famine, “Get to work, Horseman. We need to be gone before the agents of Heaven get here. Billions dying, spitting your name with their last breath is Heaven’s plan. They will not abandon it if they can help it.” He pulled his lips back, displaying every fang.

“Uh, yes, sure.” Famine walked to a desk in the adjoining room, sat down, placed his finger on a small square device next to the keyboard. “See, no agent of anything could get in.” He began to work frantically, chewing at his lip.

Finsternis did not bother to tell him that angels and demons both were proof against biometric security devices. Machines were as easy to fool as the humans who built them.

Famine worked quietly, the only sound the clicking of the keys under his fingers. Lucia’s ramblings, filtering from the second floor of the house, were louder. The windows were open, letting in the sounds of birds and lawnmowers and passing cars. To a human, this would probably be pleasant, comforting even, but Finsternis was getting more and more tense with each passing second. Part of it was simply being on Earth, in the company of Famine, rather than at home in Hell with other demons, but something else-

“Finsternis!” Something thumped at the bottom of the stairs.

Famine looked up. 

“Keep working!” Finsternis ran to the stairs as Lucia came thundering down them, a suitcase in either hand, Sherry right behind her, clutching at her chest. A third suitcase already sat at the bottom of the stairs, right where Lucia had thrown it. Finsternis opened his mouth to ask Lucia what she was doing when he felt it.

Terror and pain gripped him, squeezed his heart, filled his lungs, beat at his mind. Angels. Four, maybe five. Lucia squealed as something heavy crashed into the roof, through the roof. Famine and his wife looked up, wide eyed and shaking, afraid but not enough.

Finsternis looked at Famine. He was Famine no more. His aura was all warm browns and greens, not a trace of brackish yellow left. He had finished his task and he was a Horseman no longer. Good.

Finsternis grabbed Dr. Grant by the arm, pulled him close. “Take your wife and get out of here. Do not take the bags, do not look back, no matter what happens. Get to an airport and take the first plane out.”

“Uh, okay.” More crashing from the attic drew his eyes up. 

“Now!” Finsternis put command in his voice. He could not persuade as nephalim could, but he had led armies of demons before this man’s ancestors had ever colonized the continent.

“Sherry, let’s go.” Dr. Grant reached out to his wife. “Now, honey, we need to go now.” 

She looked at him as if she had no idea who he was or what he was saying. The attic went ominously silent. 

Lucia put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “Go with your husband, Sherry. Right fucking now. Goodbye, Sherry, Dr. Grant.” Sherry’s aura went equally scarlet and gold for a moment reflecting Lucia’s persuasion. That was a good deal more gold than had been in Lucia’s aura just a few hours ago.

“Wait, what about you?” asked Dr. Grant.

“I was planning on giving you cover to escape, but if you don’t leave, that’s not going to work!” replied Lucia. 

The humans left, running out the front door as fast as they could. Finsternis and Lucia watched the stairwell. Finsternis had no intentions of helping Dr. Grant escape. It was of little concern to Finsternis whether the former Horseman lived or died. Finsternis was simply picking the most advantageous place for him to fight: inside where the angels’ swords would be hampered, where there were shadows, where he could put himself between Lucia and a wall. Outside, in the sunshine, with nothing between the ground and the sky, would be disastrous for them both.

“What’s up there?” whispered Lucia. Her accent had reverted to Southern.

“Angels. Four, maybe five. No archangel.”

“Oh, good.” Finsternis idly considered attempting to teach her demonspeak. In demonspeak, there was a word for things that were good only in comparison to the worst possible outcome, it perfectly described their situation. Unfortunately, demonspeak required the ability to produce a minimum of five tones at once, something nephalim vocal chords were not capable of.

The first angel burst through the ceiling over the landing at the top of the stairwell to land lightly on his feet. Like every angel Finsternis had ever seen, he was tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, and well muscled with pale gold skin, pale gold hair cropped short and pure white eyes. His tunic and loose trousers were an unblemished white, a perfect contrast to his rough leather sandals and belt.

“Wow,” said Lucia. Finsternis was annoyed at her for being impressed until she continued. “You’d think they would’ve updated their look at some point in the last two thousand years.”

Finsternis laughed and when the angel cocked his head in confusion, he let it turn into a howl of challenge. The angel moved forward, down one stair, then the next, with the silent, deliberate movements of a tiger stalking prey. Another angel, a perfect twin of the first, dropped onto the landing.

“Um, Finsternis?” Lucia moved behind him, pressed her forehead against the middle of his back for a moment.

“Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we have weapons?”

Finsternis pulled Hell’s Inferno into himself, felt his muscles loosen as the pain of being so close to angels receded into the glory of the Eternal Flame. He held the Inferno, let it roar through his veins and up inside his skull, let it burn away every thought and feeling, then sent it back out into his hands, brilliant violet flames casting unnatural shadows about the room.

“I have all the weapons I need right here,” Finsternis finally replied, his voice echoing in a way natural in Hell and impossible on Earth.

“What about me?” asked Lucia.

“What about me?” mocked the first angel in the clarion tones of all angels. He flicked his wrist, drawing a greatsword of pure, white light.

“Oh, fuck you,” said Lucia.

“I am not fallen,” sneered the first angel and took another step in perfect unison with the angel behind him.

Finsternis realized that there were at least two more angels not coming down from the ceiling above the landing. In one movement, he snuffed the flames of one hand, used it to grab Lucia and throw her behind him while sending a torrent of violet fire at the angels on the stairs.

The first angel screamed, a beautiful sound really, as flames tore at his golden flesh, melted his perfect face. He dropped, rolled down the stairs, screaming and burning, his greatsword gone. The second angel ducked up the staircase out of the way of the flames. He made no move to help his brother.

Lucia landed in the fireplace of Dr. Grant’s office with a muffled curse. Finsternis pulled in every shadow from the foyer, staircase and office, leaving corners and spaces under furniture impossibly bright and took a step back. He wrapped himself in darkness and took another step back. Flames poured out of both of his hands, holding the second angel at bay. The first angel had stopped screaming, lay gasping and twitching at the bottom of the stairs. Finsternis took another step back.

Two more steps to Lucia and the remaining two angels burst through the ceiling, landing between himself and her. She froze, wide-eyed. Finsternis sent flames at them, but these angels were more experienced then the first two angels, or better trained. They pulled out wings before swords, the feathers of pure white light providing them protection against the Eternal Flame.

Where were the demons? Groups of demons on Earth created a resonance angels could feel. Two in the same place for any period of time could be sensed by an archangel. Otherwise, Finsternis would have had a full legion escorting Lucia on her quest. But that was demons together. There should have been demons carefully spaced all around the area ready to respond to any draw on the Inferno. Where were they?

One angel swung his sword at Finsternis in a slow, graceful arc while the other swung at Lucia, frozen in terror on the floor. Finsternis abandoned flames to draw shadows from further into the house, bound them tightly around himself and wondered why the angel was trying to kill Lucia with a sword made of Heaven’s Light when simply stomping her with one thick sandal would do the job. Nephalim were practically immune to the forces of Heaven and Hell, a fact proven by the greatsword passing through her harmlessly to lodge in the floor.

The other sword hit Finsternis’ shadows, showering purple and white sparks with a sound like an enormous cracked gong being hit with a lead hammer. Finsternis staggered backwards as did the angel, graceful even in that.

The sound seemed to free Lucia from her fear. She gasped, shook her head and scrabbled to her feet. Swaying, she ran to the huge picture window dominating the far wall. The angel closest to her abandoned his sword and grinned, displaying straight, white teeth.

Lucia reached the window and Finsternis, fearing she meant to escape into the sunshine yelled, “No, don’t-“ stopping when she grabbed the thick blue curtains and pulled them shut, plunging the room into shadow. She turned to Finsternis, smiling triumphantly and barely avoided an angel’s fist to the head, her sudden twist out of the way sending her to the floor again. This time, the angel did the sensible thing and raised his foot over her head.

“NO!” Finsternis roared, the sound of a demon in full rage rattling the floorboards and sending pictures and knickknacks crashing to the floor while Lucia crawled out of the way. He leapt onto the angel and dug his fingers into pale gold flesh, sending indigo fire into the angel’s veins before they even hit the floor. The angel’s shriek of agony as Hell’s Inferno invaded his body was quite lovely indeed.

Two angels out of the way, but Finsternis had put too much power and rage into killing the second and had lost his protective shadows. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see a sword of light raised over him. Finsternis rolled out of the way, too slow, too slow—

Lucia moved into view, swinging a fireplace poker like a baseball bat. She stepped into the swing, putting all 100 pounds of her behind the blow. The black metal bar hit the angel square across his wings, exploding the Light, sending Lucia into the far wall and causing the angel’s sword to wink out of existence just before it hit Finsternis, who sent a great gout of hissing violet fire into the now defenseless angel. He had no time to scream before he fell to the floor, smoldering.

“Well done, Little Light,” said Finsternis. He was impressed. Iron was the only possible weapon she had against an angel, though he had no idea how she knew that.

Lucia extricated herself from the wall and sat down heavily next to the smoldering corpse, looked at it with horrified fascination. “I always wondered why iron chariots would be a problem for God, then I realized it must have been angels.” She shrugged.

A curious faint honking noise drew Finsternis’ attention back to the stairs. There stood the last angel, brilliant white wings wrapped around him, holding a shofar up to his lips, attempting to sound the note that would summon an archangel.

A think line of verdant fire tore between Finsternis and the angel, knocking the shofar from the angel’s hands. It clattered on the hardwood as the angel stared at it, too surprised to move. Clearly, the angel was under the impression that the shofar itself contained the power of Heaven, rather than simply being a focus device for an angel’s natural abilities.

“Niran, good to see you. Finally,” said Finsternis acerbically.

“You seem to have everything in hand.” Niran pushed tangled green hair out of green eyes now surrounded by bruises. His already broad nose was flattened and the skin of his hands and arms was scorched. His shirt was in tatters and a tear in his pants displayed a gash on his left thigh still oozing brilliant red blood that smelled of sulfur.

The angel rounded on them with a snarl. Finsternis casually flicked a fireball at the angel, taking off his face before he could open his mouth.

“That explains much,” said Finsternis, nudging the shofar with the toe of his boot.

“Oh?” Niran edged away from it as a human would from a venomous snake.

“Yes, they were ill-prepared, untrained, stupid, in fact,” said Finsternis. “These were new angels. They were doubtless ordered to summon an archangel if they happened upon us, not to engage us.”

Niran chuckled. “They decided to earn their first glory against a purple? How foolish.”

Finsternis started to ask Niran what had kept the demons away and why he looked like he had attempted to cuddle a razor wolf when he noticed that Lucia had not moved. He walked over to her, knelt down and tried to catch her eye. She did not seem to notice him. Her eyes were heavy lidded, her face was even paler than usual and her expression had an alarming slackness to it. She continued to stare fixedly at nothing even as he called her name. “Lucia? Little Light?”

Niran moved to her other side. “Is she injured?”

Finsternis could neither see nor smell iron based blood, but he would not be able to smell internal bleeding, either. “Lucia?” He put a finger under her chin, tilted her face up.

“Oh, dear,” said Niran.

Lucia’s eyes were red from lid to lid, scarlet tinged with gold. The pleasure and triumph of the battle drained out of Finsternis to be replaced by cold dread. He had seen this before- when it had killed Osiris. Lucia had been caught between Hell’s Inferno and Heaven’s Light. The fight had triggered the part of her that was archangel and it was consuming the human in her.

Finsternis had not expected this, not yet. Until Lucifer had awakened her, Lucia had been fully human. They archangel in her should not have been a danger so soon, nor should any but an archangel have been able to trigger it.

“Then all is lost,” said Niran with quiet despair.

“Niran, go,” Finsternis ordered. He stood up, pulling Lucia up with him.

“But—“

“Do not argue! All is not lost. Wait for me on the shore of the Sea of Shadowed Souls. If I do not appear in one hour, Lucia is well and we are off to find War.”

Niran shook his head sadly, but pulled the shadows for travel to Hell.

“Niran?”

“Yes?”

“Do not speak of this to the Grand General,” said Finsternis.

“I can take no such order from you,” replied Niran neutrally, face carefully blank.

Finsternis sighed. “You can take such an order from the Dark Prince, can you not?”

Niran bowed deeply. “Yes, I would have to.” He drew verdant fire into the shadows and faded from view.

Finsternis considered Lucia. She had begun to shake. The archangel within was ripping through her faster than Finsternis had expected. For millennia after Osiris had died a protracted, horrible death, Finsternis had wrestled with whether or not Osiris could have been saved. Finsternis had come to the conclusion that it should be possible to quiet a triggered archangel by passing Hell’s Inferno through the nephalim being consumed. However, simply blasting Lucia with fire would not suffice. She was virtually immune to it. Finsternis did know another way to use the flame, though he doubted Lucia would like him for it. 

Discarding the question of why he should care of the Morningstar’s daughter liked him or not, Finsternis put his hands on either side of Lucia’s face and kissed her. He kissed her as he would another demon, allowing the fire that burned within him to pass through his lips into her.