don’t use profanity in here. The Accelerator captures the energy released by charmed-strange mesons as they decay into protons and antineutrinos, and uses that energy to amplify the talisman’s blessed essence.”
“You lost me after ‘profanity.’ But I think I get the idea. You’re the respectable magic committee. You’ve got a real Norman Rockwell vibe here. Except for all the guns.”
She looks right through me. Suddenly I’m thinking that maybe I would have been better off if the guys in the van had been a hit squad.
“Come with me.”
She takes me into a soundproofed side room. After the noise of the factory floor, the room is spooky quiet. There are stained-glass windows suspended by wires from the rafters. More angelic script cut into the floor, this time in the shape of a cross. There’s an altar at one end of the room. The other end looks like Frankenstein’s lab. There are celestial maps of the universe looking down from Heaven (I’d seen the reverse maps Downtown). The machine that surrounds the operating theater could be anything. Part of a personal nuclear power plant or one of the alien rooms from Forbidden Planet.
I wait for the angel to say something. I want to know why she had me dragged here, but I’m not about to be the first one to blink. I turn and find her over by the altar, brushing Communion-wafer crumbs into her hand. She gently drops them into a trash can beside the altar, then bows her head and crosses herself. Now I know why Lucifer and his wild bunch ended up down below. If I had to take my boss’s kid so seriously that I was required to salute his dandruff, I’d go stab-happy, too.
“Have you been enjoying yourself since your return?” she asks with her back to me.
“Not particularly.”
Now she turns. She smiles. A beaming, monstrously insincere angel smile. Probably another part of her job training.
“I only ask because it seems to me that you’ve been having a lot of fun. Cutting people’s heads off. Beating up people in bars. Blowing up whole shopping districts. Shooting people on the street in the middle of the day. It sounds terribly fun to me. The kind of fun that I’d expect to appeal to someone like you.”
“Is snatching people off the street your idea of fun? God gave you wings, so you have an everlasting get-out-of-jail-free card. You can do anything you want because everything you do is holy. Is that it?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Is everything your army does holy, too? They didn’t all look like angels to me. Was Marshal Wells sweating holy water? I must have missed that.”
“Marshal Wells is a good and dedicated man who is willing to give his life in the cause of good. What are you willing to die for?”
“To kill the people I came here for. And to not be fucked with along the way.”
“What if I told you that I could help you find what and who you’re looking for?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because I rode here with a gun to my head.”
“Have you ever heard of the Golden Vigil?”
“Sounds like a community-college Goth band.”
“We’re an ancient order. A coalition of celestial beings and humans dedicated to protecting the world and mankind from its greatest enemy.”
Get ready for the Garden of Eden Sunday school lecture.
“Don’t try and sell me the snake oil you fobbed off on your Ghostbusters out there. I’ve met Lucifer. I’ve killed his generals. Those idiots are too busy stabbing each other in the back to be much danger to mankind.”
“You’re right. I agree completely.”
Aelita walks to a long wooden table and picks up what looks like a piece of thick brown cloth. When she gets closer, I see that it’s vellum.
“Lucifer is a eunuch and his armies are buried at the bottom of Creation. No, our real concern is the world’s true enemy, the Enerjik Kissi.” I’m not sure I catch the first word, but she pronounces the second one “Kee-shee.” She holds up the vellum and a sigil has formed there. One I’ve never seen before. It’s not like the usual angelic or even Hellion symbols. It’s practically a Rorschach blot, like someone spilled ink on the vellum, and then tried to wipe it off.
“Let me tell you a story,” she says, and goes and sits at the wooden table. “All little boys like stories.”
As much as I want to get out of here and away from this crazy angel and her mercenary zealots next door, I’m still feeling too ragged to bolt or put up too much of a fight. So I do the next best thing, and surrender. I go to the table and sit down across from her. She spreads the vellum on the table between us. As her hands pass over it, the sigil fades away.
“At the beginning of time, the Lord God made a mistake. Frankly, to some of us, He made two mistakes, but since He likes you talking monkeys, we can’t fix that one. So we turn our attention to the first great mistake.”
She passes her hand over the vellum and images of rough glass globes appear, like pen-and-ink drawings. As Aelita talks, the drawings begin to glow.
“When the Lord bought life to the universe, He did it by spreading His divine light throughout the dark. He breathed His light into glass vessels that He hung in the sky like the stars that would come much later. We, the angelic order, were born from this light. And we helped to spread it throughout Creation. Once, as the Lord blew light into a vessel, He blew in a bit too much and the vessel shattered. His divine light fell into the void and onto the worlds we were building. That falling light was the beginning of life in the universe.”
Like a Disney cartoon, the vessels on the vellum crack open, turning into squirming little one-cell organisms.
“But not all of the divine light landed on the worlds. Some fell into the deep unformed void that was nothing but boiling chaos. Since the Lord was now enchanted by the life growing on His worlds, we never bothered to put anything into the far void. We all now regret that decision.”
She waves her hand and the vellum images disappear, like lines on an Etch A Sketch. She lays her palm on the vellum, and a roiling, crawling blackness seeps across it.
“As both angels and lower life”—she nods in my direction—“were born from divine light, so was something else. In the chaos grew another sort of life, very much like angels, but different. Wells and some of his men describe them as ‘anti-angels,’ which is as good an explanation as your little brains can grasp.”
I put my hand on the black vellum that’s now roiling and writhing like liquid obsidian. It looks like the knife I have under my coat. The knife is supposed to be bone, but I never found out what kind of bone.
I say, “The anti-angels are the Kissi.”
“Yes.” She moves her hand again and the bubbling black is gone. As she talks, other images appear from under the hand resting on the vellum.
“The Kissi don’t hate life. Life fascinates them. The energy. The unpredictability of it. The chaos of
