Dead Harvest

33

I suspect there aren't many who've had occasion to see an angel die. I'm pretty sure that's for the best. When the bullet struck, he staggered backward, his face a rictus of shock and sudden pain. His inner light dimmed a moment, and then surged outward, engulfing us all in its radiance. Ceramic dust from the cat-shard, which had filled the room when the gun discharged, sparkled like stars in the sudden glare. The very building beneath us trembled, and I felt as though the flesh was being stripped from my bones, though perhaps it was my soul that ached, as the cleansing light of grace illuminated every moment of doubt and anger, of sin. A cry escaped my lips, agony and ecstasy in equal measure. From somewhere in the blinding light, Bishop let out a piteous wail, his own corrupted soul no doubt in flames. Only Kate failed to cry out, and it was in that moment that, by luck or providence, I realized my choice had been the right one.

Then, suddenly, the light collapsed upon itself, and unsupported by its presence, I fell to the floor, weeping like a child. In the angel's place, there writhed a single segmented insectile creature, black as sin, its back on the floor, its legs kicking frantically to right itself. It shrieked in agony, and then lay still, collapsing inward on itself as if a thousand years had passed in just one heartbeat, reducing the creature to no more than an ashen husk. I thought back to the demons Kate and I had so recently dispatched, full themselves of such creatures, and I wondered how long it had taken Beleth and Merihem once they fell to be consumed by the creatures, filled from within until there was nothing left of the beings of grace and light they once were. Then I thought of Veloch's act of mercy, and decided perhaps not all of them were so far gone.

I can't tell you how long I lay there crying, only that the first faint rays of morning light glimmered off the rooftops of Manhattan by the time I finally managed to rise. A glance around the room told me Bishop still lay trembling in the corner. I staggered over to where he lay and rolled him over, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pulling him toward me until we were nose to nose.

"You're finished, here, you hear me? You'll not come for her again," I said.

But Bishop said nothing — he just stared wide-eyed at me, his face red and wet with tears. A stream of snot poured from his nose, and as I held him, he tried to pull away from me like a frightened animal.

I slapped him, hard. He yelped in pain and fear, but I thought I saw the slightest hint of clarity returned to his borrowed eyes.

"I said you're done here."

His head bobbed up and down — suddenly obsequious, eager to please. Eager, perhaps, to avoid another slapping. Not that I cared either way. Bishop was broken, beaten down by what he'd seen. So long as he remained that way, he'd pose no threat to Kate or me or anybody.

"I suggest you leave this body at once. He's an innocent in this, and I'd hate to have to kill him."

Again he nodded, and then his body went slack in my hands. Improbably, his abandoned vessel started snoring, and so I lowered him to the floor, leaving him to sleep. No doubt the man had earned it.

Kate, of course, was still fastened to the kitchen chair. I knelt at her side and tore through her restraints; the skin beneath was red and abraded. When she was free, Kate threw her arms around me and held me tight, tears streaming from her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

I held her close, her head pressed tight to the crook of my neck, her tears soaking through the fabric of my pajama shirt. "It wasn't you, Kate. And you couldn't have known."

"Is it over?" she asked.

"Yeah, kid. I think it is."