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Chapter 3

  It's hard to remember the days, crossing the wild, when I was a normal man. Not sure how people do it. Bad enough with bandits, outlaws, brigands, and loons out here—men depraved either from birth or gone nuts with their brains baking in the hot sun. Worse knowing what other monsters lurk in the forgotten corners of the world. Guess that's what makes it simple, though, ain't it? Most folks don't know any better.

  But when the sun goes down in the West, and the wolves start their song, it's hard not to clench a bit tighter on the reins. People aren’t afraid of being alone in the dark. They're afraid of not being alone in the dark.

  And friend, I'll tell you one thing: you ain't never alone. Not ever.

  One of my many blessings from on High is the ability to see as well at midnight as at noon. Good for spotting wicked beings that may be after me. And wicked things are always after the Black Badges. They ain’t happy we escaped our fate. Ain’t happy we got the second chance they never did.

  So, I stick to the worn paths.

  Just easier that way. And poor Timperina is getting on in years. She may be sturdy as an ox, but I feel better not pushing her to gallop unless I've got no better choice. And her ears ain't what they used to be, either. Sometimes, I feel her muscles tense over threats so distant, she need not worry her at all.

  Maybe it isn’t age. Maybe she and I have run into one too many werewolves or shapeshifters. Hard to know the mind of a horse. Could be, she thinks every living thing her weary eyes behold might transform into something rabid and terrifying.

  Shit, she’s not all wrong about that. The meditation of wise men ain't always sound… but horses and simple things? Humans should be so lucky.

  “Crooowleeey.”

  I heard the voice of my angelic handler, Shargrafein, but it was really more like a nagging tingle in the back of my mind. I wasn't in the mood, not often I am.

  "What do you think, girl?" I leaned over and whispered into Timp's ear. "Should I answer?"

  Timp's ear twitched in response, and she released a low snort. I patted the side of her neck and snickered. "Yeah. You can say that again."

  "Crowleeey." My name rang again, a pinprick in my brain.

  I clicked my tongue, and Timp—ever the obedient girl—slowed to a meander. I rustled through my pocket and pulled out an old shaving mirror. A pretty thing, once, with an intricate design of flowers and birds—doves, I think—decorating its iron case. The symbol of the Holy Trinity centered the piece, three ovals interconnecting in the center. Used to look silver—though it wasn't. None of us supernatural types could touch the stuff, which is why I always wear gloves. But even so, now it appeared more made of dirt than anything else. Pitted and black, in need of a good polish.

  There was a time when my angelic benefactor Shargrafein would need to wait for me to find a reflective surface, be it looking glass or still water before she could badger me about what I was or wasn't doing. But I guess I'd pissed her off one too many times. She'd forced this little trinket upon me, and now it was always right there in my pocket to give me a metaphorical headache.

  I flipped open the clasp and found myself accosted by her reflection instead of my own.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting, Sweetheart," I said.

  "Do not call me that," she replied, in a voice like velvet and sweet as white cake. It was something, hearing words from coming from the mirror. There were no lips to move, only the vague form of a woman's face, though she appeared more like swirling smoke. I think I get under her skin—rather, I know I do—but she gets under mine, too. Fair is fair, in my book. Tit for proverbial tat.

  "Apologies, oh, Illustrious Shar of the pearly gates," I said, bowing my head slightly. "What can your humble servant do you for today?"

  "I am in no mood for games, Crowley," she snapped.

  "Pretty sure you say that every time."

  "Then perhaps you should adjust your attitude."

  "What's the matter, Shar—Paradise ain't comfy?"

  "You know nothing of Paradise."

  "Never professed to, you keeping me stuck here and all."

  The mirror shuddered ever so slightly. Such a frail little thing to contain the immortal being within its reflection. But the Hand of God is steady, and I kept my grip.

  "You are insufferable," Shar said.

  "Just a bit rattled from what I walked into back there," I replied. "How is it that you always seem to send me stumbling upon death and destruction after it's over with? Just occasionally, it'd be nice to stop some."

  "If only the agents of Hell warned us before they struck."

  I smirked. "Was that sarcasm, Shar?" I grabbed the cuff of my shirt between my fingers and the heel of my hand and rubbed the mirror's surface. "Seems I'm rubbing off on you."

  "Enough."

  The way she said it shut my trap tighter than a nun's thighs. Shargrafein is a pain in my ass, but she's my handler in the shadow war between Heaven and Hell that I was unwittingly thrust into. And an angel. There's a ton of things about what I am and who I serve that I don't reckon I'll ever understand, but she's guided me on this here mortal plan since the day I awoke in Cathedral Rock with a burn mark on my chest.

  “He giveth and taketh away,” the good book says, and I know if I became too much of a hassle, she'd do just that and take this… gift away. Punch me straight to the icy pits of Hell.

  I guess that's a lesson we all need reminding of now and again: not every gift comes with ribbons and a bow. Thing is, you survive long enough, the only thing left to fear is not surviving any longer.

  "What is it you need?" I asked again, a little more pointed this time. "I saw what I saw in Lonely Hill. Confusing way to rob a bank, you ask me. If they're fixing to keep this spree going, then Elkhart's the most likely place to be, ain't it?"

  "As always, you see nothing," Shar rebuked.

  "I saw an evil son of a bitch, plain as day. Throwing Hellish magic and leaving corpses."

  "No. What you witnessed was a flagrant disregard for the lesser kingdom—that of mankind. One of Lucifer's kin empowered one of the Children within that bank. This isn't the spawn of demons misplaced in your world as it was in Dead Acre or a mere monster surviving off its call to the darkness. Those powers were bestowed upon that man, same as yours. This is an act of war."

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  "Against whom?"

  "Against the Throne you serve until we deem otherwise."

  I sniffed a little laugh. "What's Heaven care about cash?"

  "It's not—"

  "Well, I suppose I've seen more than a fair share doled out to the priests during mass. Guess it makes sense they got banks up there."

  "Crowley!" Shargrafein's voice boomed, interrupted my rant. "It's not about money." This time, the mirror whistled like the glass was right on the precipice of becoming a thousand little chips.

  A raven flapped out of the nearby brush. Timp whinnied, but I gave her mane a tug to remind her I was still there.

  "It's about chaos," she continued, more calmly. "I sense Abbadon, or even Chokoketh behind this."

  "Remind me which evil bastard that is again?" I asked.

  I recognized the name Abbadon. We all did, us Hands of God. But sometimes, my memory goes a little fuzzy with all these wacky names. The last book says Abbadon is "a king, the angel of the bottomless pit" and describes him like a plague of locusts resembling horses with crowned human faces, women's hair, lions' teeth, wings, iron breast-plates, and a tail with a scorpion's stinger. Sounded downright charming.

  But Chokoketh?

  "He goes by many names as he appears to Earth's many peoples,” Shar explained. “Among the most notable, Loki, Prometheus, Anansi—but here, he is most commonly called Coyote."

  Right. Now his name rang a bell, and it unsettled me. I thought about the raven who'd just flown the coop when Shar called my name. It was no secret that the Native American people in these parts often spoke of a trickster god who often masqueraded as a raven. Abaddon was Hell's lord of destruction, but at least he was honest about his role. This Chokoketh would just as soon bed you then kill you, and you'd never know his true intent until the knife slid between your ribs.

  "The job’s the job," I said, hiding my very real concern. "What's it matter to me?"

  "It means, be wary, Crowley. Hell grows bolder. The Fallen Ones scheme. The Throne fears it won't be long until they try and open another Hellmouth."

  “Huh. Ain't like your kind to fear," I said.

  According to my knowledge—limited as it might've been—a new Hellmouth hasn't been raised in centuries, back when the American Frontier was no more than a few wood houses and a brothel. Before America was anything, really. There're dormant ones here and there, from old times, that occasionally leak something Hellish through, but the Hands of God keep them under control… mostly.

  We're spread out all over this fine planet, I've been told. I've only met a few, but I reckon by the things I hear, there's gotta be at least a hundred of us from here in the West to the Orient.

  "You think this bank robber was what—one of the Fallen?" I asked.

  "It is impossible to know yet," Shar said. "You saw very little."

  Admittedly, by then I'd gone soft on Shar's warnings. Every time we talk, it's "Hell this" and "Hell that." Constantly, warning me that Lucifer’s minions are after me at every turn. Eventually, you just get used to being ready for anything.

  However, if this was truly the work of one of the Fallen Ones, eager to open a Hellmouth…

  "Of course," I groaned. "Tell me again, what's the benefit of being up there in the clouds, looking down on us? You're telling me what I saw—well, it wasn't you or the White Throne who told me where they were headed next. And considering you ain't turning me around, my guess is I’m right."

  "Do not presume to understand what is beyond you, Crowley."

  "Oh, I wouldn't dare. But it ain't angels these bastards are killing. Sometimes, I worry you forget that."

  "The White Throne takes the deaths of the Children very seriously," she said. I started to protest, but she cut me off. "Just focus on the task at hand. You do not have the luxury of worries."

  "Sure, Shar. I'll take your notes to heart."

  "I mean it, Crowley. No dawdling. No veering from the path. And for the final time, my name is not Shar."

  "And what should I—" Just like that, she was gone. No clap of thunder or beam of light, just my little mirror flickering back to reflecting my weathered face and the pale old moon behind me.

  I sighed and clacked it shut. More riddles and skittles. I swear, sometimes I think I'm right and the beings above and below, they only involve humanity because they've got nothing better to do. That they created us needy creatures, and then we grew beyond needing them so much.

  It's like the West is a big old chessboard, and there's demons and angels trading rooks with pawns. Was this checkmate? Doubt it. Probably just more of the same.

  That raven crowed somewhere overhead, reminding me of what Shar had said of Chokoketh. All I could do was hope this current situation didn’t actually involve him. When actual demons start getting involved, things get dicey. I prefer simple assignments, with simple answers.

  "What do you think, Timp?" I asked. "Is it time for Kingdom Come?"

  She gave a deep snort, then a whinny as she shook her tawny mane.

  "Yeah, I doubt it too. Hell can't have nearly as much fun if they break this old world open."

  Timperina pushed through a field, brown with summer. Hell, it's always brown around these parts, and worse the farther West you go. Green becomes as rare as decent, honorable men.

  My gaze lifted toward the path, snaking through dry brush. I hadn't even realized how quiet it was. Peaceful even.

  That notion went to Hell in hand-basket.

  "Help!" someone shrieked.

  Timp reared up on her hind legs and neighed. She might have darted if I hadn't steadied her.

  A woman came stumbling out of a thicket, doing her best to run.

  She wore a fine dress made of some kind of rich cotton, but its bottom was muddied and torn. If she'd been wearing shoes, they were nowhere in sight, and I could only imagine how many stickers and prickers would be digging into her bare flesh.

  She saw me a second later and threw herself onto the dirt right in my path, not caring that her knees scraped against rocks and Lord knows what else in the darkness.

  "P-please, you have to help me…" she whimpered.

  I squinted at her, out in the middle of nowhere, with not even the glow of a campfire in sight. There was no blood on her that I could see. That was a good sign, at least. But tears aplenty streamed down her dirt-caked cheeks. Something put the fear of God in her; of that, there was no doubt. Enough for her to throw herself at the mercy of a traveler at night who looked, well, if I'm being honest, as dangerous as me.

  Can't say I approved. What if I was anybody else?

  She pled more, grasping at Timp's hooves. My girl was careful not to hurt her as she clopped away from the lady's touch. I watched the woman, then looked to the road.

  "No veering from the path," Shar had said, as if she knew this was coming around the bend.

  Of course, I stopped. Undead Hand of God, I may be. Ex-outlaw with enough blood on his hands to make a priest blanch, sure. But one thing I am that even the White Throne can't take away is me being a gentleman.

  And so, giving Timp's reins a light tug, I did what any gentleman should.

  "What's got you ruffled, miss?" I asked.

  Gazing down on her from atop a horse Timp's size, I must've looked damn intimidating. Hair down to my shoulders, a big black duster, and hat to match. A shaggy beard—not that I needed to shave. Since the day the White Throne brought me back to life, I hadn't touched my beard, and it hadn't grown a hair longer nor any more flecked with gray. Who was I to know if the hairs were as dead as me? If I shaved them off, would my face remain smooth as silk for all of time?

  Just the thought of it makes me shudder more than old Lucifer ever could. Not a risk I was willing to take. You expect a baby-faced demon hunter to shake the hearts of the wicked? Not likely.

  All this and still, the woman came right up beside me and clutched the sole of my boot.

  "My Lyle, he… he…" she sniveled. She kept going like that for a few seconds before I put an end to it.

  "Slow down," I told her gently.

  I clicked my tongue, warning Timp not to get all rambunctious if I strayed too far. Swinging my right leg over the saddle, I nudged a bit of distance between her and me before sliding down. The echoes of my spurs clanked like an angry rattler.

  I was no fool, and I certainly wasn't a virgin to the wild. First thing I did was check from side to side. Bandits loved to prey on backwater roads like this. There's this old saying that there's honor amongst thieves, and I reckon that's as much myth as half the creatures I find myself battling. Wasn't above those types to throw a pretty lass out like a fishing lure and see what hapless traveler went to biting.

  My hearing was good before the Almighty brought me back. Now, it was keen as a hawk. We were surrounded by nothing but the soft rustle of wind against the brush. No men lurking in the shadows. Nothing.

  The woman clasped her chest, stuck between crying and hyperventilating.

  "Take a breath, slow and easy," I said as I took her by the shoulders. "What's your name, miss?"

  I couldn't see the color of her eyes in the night, but I held her gaze until she found the wherewithal to focus. Her arms lifted as her chest heaved.

  "Agatha…"

  "There you go, Agatha. Breathe. All right. Now, start slow and tell me what in God's name you're doing out here? Haven't you heard there's outlaws about?"

  "My Lyle and I…" She inhaled sharply. "He brought me out here to show me his favorite spot down by the gorge. But something… something grabbed him, and…"

  "Some-thing?"

  She blinked. “Or someone. I don't know, but I heard screaming and growling and… Oh, please."

  She fell against me, arms around my neck. All the things I've seen and done, this caught me by surprise, my being unapproachable and all that.

  Unable to feel by human definitions, I still sensed Shar's vexation with me for even stopping, like a bee zipping around in my chest. I could almost hear echoes of her shouting "Stay on the path!"

  I told myself it was just a night dog, then told Agatha to "Show me the way.”

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