discovered a rust-covered sink, mildewed shower and stained toilet. She shut the door again. Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but then again, thirty dollars didn’t go very far in this city.
Justine turned off the overhead light, moved to the only window and pushed aside the dusty curtains to peer out. The street below was deserted save for a homeless man who had taken shelter in an alley across the way. He staggered around for a bit, then hunkered down and draped an old blanket over his tattered coat in an effort to keep warm. Satisfied her pursuer hadn’t seen her enter the building, she kicked off her boots and shook out of her coat, letting it drop to the floor. Stretched out on the bed, she crossed her arms over her chest, braced herself and allowed the past to enter.
Chapter 5
After tracking the Symphonic disturbance through a bitterly cold night, Raziel crouched in the shadows of the alley where he had taken refuge. An icy wind ripped through the stained and dirt-encrusted coat he now wore. Anyone looking at him would have seen only a destitute mortal indistinguishable from the homeless men he had witnessed earlier on the frozen streets of this place called Toronto.
He fixed his gaze on the eighth floor window of the rundown building directly across the road. His sharp eyes detected slight movement at the curtain and the momentary appearance of a woman. It was from her the jarring dissonance emanated.
She had spied him lurking in the alleyway, but his appearance must have caused her to dismiss him, for a moment later, the curtain stilled and she disappeared from view.
Shockingly, now that he was in proximity to it, Raziel recognized the dissonance as being Nephilim in nature. As far as he knew, no Nephilim had walked the Earth for many centuries. Not since the destruction of Atlantis and the annihilation of its inhabitants had a member of the fallen race been detected. And yet, there was no mistaking the soulless vibration emitted by the offspring of an angel and a mortal. She was one of the race he had assumed to be extinct, and the thought jolted him.
The memory of the great slaughter rose in his consciousness like a red tide, causing an involuntary shudder to run through him. The extermination of the fallen race, both before and after the great flood, counted among the most vicious of the angelic wars. The subsequent destruction of Atlantis and its doomed inhabitants following the re-emergence of the Nephilim on Earth had been equally brutal. And now, one of the fallen race had turned up again. It boded ill.
Distraught, Raziel debated the wisdom of sounding an alarm and invoking angelic intervention, but he could already envision the celestial uproar when it was discovered this Nephilim had existed on Earth undetected for years. Raziel was the only remaining Watcher. He should have sensed her presence the moment she had entered the world, yet he had detected nothing until now. For this, he had only himself to blame. Had he been attending to the Symphony, had he not withdrawn from civilization to such a dangerous degree, he would most certainly have detected the dissonance caused by the return of one of the fallen before now.
No, he would not sound an alarm. He was capable of dealing with the matter himself, before another celestial got wind of it. His instinct, however, cautioned him against acting hastily. Better to watch and wait for the time being, at least until the Nephilim emerged from the building, so he could deal with her without attracting attention. Although the matter was urgent, Raziel refused to act on impulse. It was bad enough he would be forced to kill her, a task that went completely against his gentle nature. The law, though, was unquestionable with regard to the fallen race. They were not permitted to live. If he took care of her himself without involving other celestials, he could at least grant her a painless death and put an end to the entire matter without instigating a celestial storm.
His decision made, Raziel sat with his back against the cold wall, oblivious of the extreme temperature, making himself one with the frozen ground. Through half-closed lids, his gaze remained riveted to the building where the Nephilim was ensconced, in anticipation of her exit and the act he would be forced to carry out.
Chapter 6
In much the same way Justine had kept the past at bay while in flight, she reversed the process now, allowing the memories that clamored in the doorway of her mind to cross the threshold. Her shabby surroundings faded into the background and disappeared. She was...
* * * *
...six years old. A skinny little girl who played in the dirt behind the old lean-to shed near the farmhouse. Every now and then a stray chicken wandered by, scratching at the ground in search of something to eat. The farm where she and Mamma lived was isolated, miles away from the nearest town. Such a funny name for a town, she always thought...Oskaloosa.
Lunchtime had come and gone and it was nearly time for supper, but Israfel had not yet had breakfast. Nor had she asked Mamma for any today—not after she’d woken this morning to find Mamma sitting on the porch, bible in hand, her pretty dark hair all askew and looking at Israfel out of the corner of her eye.
Israfel knew what that look meant. She’d do well to steer clear of Mamma today. Whenever Mamma started out looking at her all sideways like that, before the day was over, Israfel usually ended up on the wrong end of the leather strap that hung on a nail just inside the cellar door. Being hungry was nothing compared to what might happen if the wrong thing came out of Israfel’s mouth when Mamma had one of her spells.
Israfel did what she usually did when Mamma went strange. She tried her best not to exist. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes she’d get off without a strapping. Other times, she’d go to bed not only hungry but covered in welts from the leather strap as well.
As she played in the dirt with her little shovel, Israfel wished fervently it was Sunday instead of Saturday. On Sunday mornings Mamma left her alone, departing early to walk the five miles to town to attend church. Usually she didn’t return home until late afternoon, and Israfel could breathe easily for a few hours. Mamma never took Israfel to church with her. She told Israfel once that she’d probably be struck by lightning and burned to a crisp if she ever tried to enter a church, on account of she was a “’bomination”...whatever that was.
“Israfel!”
At the sound of Mamma’s voice, Israfel’s head snapped up, her pulse pounding at her neck.
“Israfel... You’d best mind me, girl.” Mamma lowered her voice. “Come out from wherever you’re hiding, you little heathen.”
Real fear sloshed over Israfel at the words. Things always got really bad when Mamma started calling her a “little heathen.” It meant she’d read the bible again. Something in it always seemed to make Mamma mad at her.
“Don’t make me look for you,” she heard Mamma say in a voice that meant business.
Israfel peeked around the corner of the shed and spotted Mamma standing close by on the other side, her face turned up to the summer sky. Her intense fear did not prevent Israfel from thinking how pretty Mamma looked in that moment with the brilliant sun shining down on her. Mamma was beautiful. On the outside, anyway. Then her mother lowered her head and, turning, spotted her.
Suddenly, Mamma didn’t look so pretty anymore. Her eyes narrowed to slits and Israfel felt the bad intent in them from where she stood. Mamma muttered something else then, but all Israfel caught was “...should’a killed you long ago.”
With a start, Israfel saw it was not the leather strap Mamma clutched in her hand, but something much worse. At the sight of the large butcher knife her mother carried, Israfel took off like a pistol shot, her heart pounding like hooves. She did not run back to the farmhouse. Instead, she
