The Kill Society

  Barbora says, “Maybe it’s a sign from God.”

  “If it is he isn’t happy to see us,” I say. “Where’s the Magistrate’s telescope?”

  “Your boyfriend has it,” says Wanuri.

  “Wait here. I’m going to fucking settle this.”

  Traven is copying symbols on the far side of the obelisk, so he doesn’t even see me take the spyglass. I bring it back to the others, holding it over my head like a war club.

  I point to each of them.

  “It’s not rain. It’s not locusts. It’s not sand. And it sure as shit isn’t the Almighty.”

  Daja folds her arms.

  “So, what is it?”

  I extend the telescope and hold it up to my eye.

  And just about piss myself.

  “Where’s the Magistrate?”

  Daja hears something in my voice.

  “What’s wrong? What did you see?”

  “Where’s the fucking Magistrate?” I yell.

  “He’s over in the motor home. What’s wrong?”

  I speak to her as quietly and calmly as I can.

  “Round up everyone and get them in the center of camp. Make sure they have guns and ammo.”

  “What the hell did you see?” she says.

  “The worst thing you can imagine.”

  Before she can ask another stupid question, I run to the motor home and bang on the door.

  The Magistrate opens it and says, “Pitts. What is wrong?”

  I climb up a step.

  “Do you have any Spiritus Dei?”

  “Of course. It’s with Mimir.”

  “A lot?”

  “Gallons,” he says.

  “Good. We need to pour it on all the ammo.”

  “What are you talking about. What is wrong?”

  I hand him the telescope.

  “Look.”

  He peers in the direction of the cloud. Adjusts the glass several times, then takes it from his eye.

  “Are those angels?”

  “Damn right. And those aren’t bouquets they’re carrying. They’re swords.”

  He comes down from the motor home and we run to Cherry’s ambulance.

  “Mimir will be able to tell us if you are right,” he says.

  “I am.”

  “What if you are? Perhaps they are angels of the Lord, come to aid us on our mission.”

  We reach the ambulance and I slam open the door. Cherry is lying on the floor, twitching with convulsions and foaming at the mouth.

  “I don’t think they’re coming to help us.”

  The Magistrate swallows and nods. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him truly spooked. He grabs a couple of gallon jugs of Spiritus Dei from the ambulance. As he climbs out he says, “With this on our bullets, will we be able to destroy them?”

  “Spiritus Dei will kill pretty much anything, but I’m not sure about angels. But it will slow them down until we come up with a better idea.”

  He heads out with the jugs to the center of camp where they’re handing out weapons.

  “You stay with Mimir,” he says. “I will rally the havoc.”

  Right. Great. This is exactly what I wanted. We’re about to be overrun by flying armored assholes with flaming swords and I’m on babysitting duty. I look down at Cherry. She makes choking sounds, so I roll her on her side and use a rag to wipe the spit off her face. The ambulance is full of medical supplies, but I don’t know what 90 percent of them are for. I was never great at healing hoodoo, but we’re all about to die and there’s no one around to see me, so I improvise a quick spell.

  Cherry does one more big convulsion and coughs up a lot of white spittle. She opens her eyes and looks at me blearily.

  “What the fuck is happening?”

  “Congratulations. I actually believe you’re an oracle, but you’re a shitty one with bad timing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I help her sit up and point to the approaching cloud.

  “That was my vision,” she says. “Angels.”

  “Do you have anything more helpful to say?”

  “Yeah. They’re going to kill us and it’s your fault.”

  “Why is it my fault?”

  She sits up and I help her out of the ambulance. She looks at the angels, and then looks at me as if I’m the stupidest person in Hell.

  “Who do you think they’re looking for, Shit-for-Brains?”

  They’re close enough that I can see individual angels in the swarm. Their Gladiuses—their flaming angelic swords—crackle with power and flash like lightning.

  “Well, go ahead,” says Cherry. “Save us.”

  “What? How?”

  “Give yourself up.”

  “Yeaaaaah . . . I’m not doing that.”

  “Are you going to do anything?”

  “Yes—I’m going to go out there and fight them.”

  “By yourself?”

  “If I have to. Do you have any better ideas?”

  “Yeah. Let’s run. This ambulance is gassed up. Let the Magistrate and the Lost Boys distract them while we get away.”

  “Right. I’m sure no one will spot that and then we’ll have angels and the havoc after us.”

  “How are you going to fight them?”

  That’s right. Cherry doesn’t know that my angel half can manifest its own Gladius.

  I say, “Like this—”

  —and nothing happens.

  I look at my hands and there isn’t the slightest flicker of flame.

  “Anytime now!” Cherry screams. The swarm is right over the havoc.

  I think about screaming, too.

  So, let’s see. I’m still fast and I’m still strong. Check. And I still heal quick. Check. But I didn’t think about taking the Gladius out for a test drive. In retrospect, I should probably have checked on it earlier.

  Without warning, the mass of angels dives and tears through the camp like a tornado, knocking aside vehicles and blowing members of the havoc into the air, where they smash to the ground like sacks of meat or are sliced in half by fiery swords. The remaining havoc pours automatic gunfire up at them. It doesn’t kill them or even penetrate their golden armor, but it drives them back into the sky. The murder cloud climbs out of the range of the rifles. But one angel descends and hovers above the camp, his wings wide and his sword high.

  By the time he starts jabbering, I’m already on the roof of an eighteen-wheeler with a plastic bottle I stole from the ambulance. When I get to the top, I slice my wrist with the knife Doris gave me.

  The angel bellows, “We have no quarrel with you. Give us the Abomination and you may pass in safety.”

  It’s no big surprise when no one in camp has a fucking clue what he’s talking about. I pull the Colt and fire off a couple of shots into the air.

  I yell, “Hey, space monkey. I’m right over here. Come on over and let’s have a drink.”

  I wave the jug at him and pretend to take a swig.

  He doesn’t need to be asked twice. Flyboy shoots down at me like a meteor, but stops just before he hits the top of the eighteen-wheeler, drifting down for a gentle landing.

  Show-off.

  He drops his Gladius down to his side and we walk toward each other. We’re only about three feet apart when he stops.

  “I didn’t think you possessed enough honor to show yourself.”

  “I never could resist an asshole in uniform.”

  He looks around.

  “Still, you did let some of your compatriots die for you.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. We both know you’re going to kill everyone here whether they gave me up or not.”

  “True. But now I have the pleasure of killing you face-to-face.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I am Simiel of the Thrones.”

  “A throne. Mr. Muninn’s furniture movers. What are you doing here?”

  “We no longer serve the God who would allow damned souls to pollute the He
avenly presence.”

  “You’re spoiled brats who don’t want kids from the wrong side of the tracks drinking in your malt shop.”

  He looks me up and down.

  “You’re less than I thought you’d be. Not much more than the pathetic creatures you hide among.”

  “You angels always did like the sound of your own voices. What are we doing here? Are you going to take me Upstairs so you can kill me in front of your frat pals?”

  He slowly raises his Gladius.

  “I have led the army that found you, so it will be my privilege to destroy you.”

  I hold out the bottle.

  “At least have a drink with me first.”

  “I will not drink with the Abomination.”

  “Just one,” I say, and flick my wrist, splashing liquid from the bottle onto his face.

  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.”

  I blink to make sure I’m not seeing things.

  “Alice?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “No. It’s Veronica Lake. Now clean yourself up so I can hug you. We have a lot to talk about.”

  The Magistrate’s motor home is big, but it’s not this big. He’s at his table with Daja next to him, and Traven and Cherry next to her. Most of the dog pack—including Billy, who’s finally back on his feet—are crammed together at the far end of the motor home like rush hour on a Tokyo subway. I’m at the other end with Alice and Vehuel, the redheaded angel. The other four angels she brought with her are standing guard outside, like anyone is going to bother us after what just happened.

  “That was quite the performance you put on out there, Mr. Pitts,” says the Magistrate. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  I take out Simiel’s blade.

  “Yeah. Anybody want to check out my cool new knife?”

  “I do!” says Doris.

  I give it to Traven to pass back to her.

  Alice says, “I think what your friends want is to understand how you were able to take an angel’s knife in the first place.”

  “And why an army of rebel angels was after you,” the Magistrate says.

  “That too,” Alice says.

  I look around. Not a lot of friendly faces right now.

  “That wasn’t an army. It was more like a street gang come to shake us down for being in their territory.”

  “I doubt that,” says the Magistrate. “I was under the impression they were looking for you in particular.”

  “Yeah. It kind of looked that way, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” the Magistrate says dryly. “Especially when you said, ‘Here I am.’”

  “Right.”

  “And why did that one call you an Abomination?” says Wanuri.

  I look at Alice. She squeezes my hand and for the first time in a long time I don’t feel quite so alone.

  “The Abomination is what he said. If you’re going to call me that name, get it right.”

  The Magistrate says, “And what sort of Abomination are you precisely, Mr. Pitts?”

  Doris passes the golden blade back to me.

  I catch Traven’s eye, and he gives a little “I’ll back your play” shrug. I shake my head. “Hell. I’m tired of this. My real name is James Stark. My father was an angel, which makes me a nephilim. That’s why he called me Abomination.”

  “You told me your father tried to shoot you,” says Doris.

  “Different father.”

  “I see.”

  The Magistrate says, “It’s my understanding that ‘nephilim’ is plural. I believe that ‘niphal’ is the singular.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

  Gisco is propped against the wall on crutches. He grunts a few syllables at me. I recognize them from the other night. The Magistrate looks at him.

  “I don’t understand, Gisco. What are you trying to say?”

  I put the knife back in my pocket.

  “He’s saying that my other name is Sandman Slim.”

  A couple of mouths drop open. A few eyebrows go up. The Magistrate sits up a little straighter. Johnny looks around at everybody, then at me.

  “Sandman what? What the fuck kind of name is that
? Some kind of TV cowboy?”

  The Magistrate half turns in his chair.

  “Sandman Slim was a rather renowned killer in Hell. But he disappeared. I take it that is who you claim to be?”

  “No. The angels that just kicked your ass and the one that I killed with his own fucking knife. That’s who says I’m Sandman Slim.”

  The Magistrate turns to Vehuel. She’s smiling to herself, amused by the tension among the mortals.

  “My dear lady celestial, can you shed any light on this? Is this man, our Mr. Pitts, the half angel called Sandman Slim?”

  “Oh yes,” she says. “He’s Sandman Slim and James Stark and the Abomination. All these names are his.”

  “And why do you smile at him like that?”

  “Because he’s every bit as ridiculous as I was told he would be.”

  “And who told you this?”

  “God,” says Alice.

  The mouths go open. The eyebrows that had settled down go back up. You get the idea.

  Johnny is still the holdout.

  “God doesn’t know this waste of space. It’s a trick. He’s a con man.” He points at Vehuel. “How do we even know you’re who you say you are? You could be in on it with him. You’re just a bitch on wings to me, sweetheart.”

  I almost feel bad for Johnny.

  Faster than anyone can see, Vehuel’s arm is up and her Gladius is aimed right between Johnny’s eyes. When she speaks, her voice rattles the walls.

  “You are a fool and an offense to the Lord and his emissaries. You will not speak again or you will be silenced.”

  Johnny holds up his hands, scared but trying to save as much of his face as he has left.

  “All right now. No offense meant. I’m mostly mad at that wombat standing next to you.”

  Alice prods me with her elbow.

  “I think he means you, wombat.”

  The Magistrate laces his fingers together. Takes them apart.

  “Mr. Pitts, Mr. Sandman, Mr. Stark—and any other names we do not know . . .”

  “Those about cover it.”

  “Good. Of all the places in Perdition you could have been, why did you come to us?”

  “I told you: I don’t know. I was on that mountain, I walked down, and there you were.”

  He nods, thinking.

  “I thought we had reached an understanding, a state of trust between you, Daja, and myself,” he says. “Why did you not tell us of your other life?”