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The angel stopped, taking it all in.

Johannes ran, sprinting from the blacklit room into the hallway.

He’d set up traps and tools all around.  He’d worked it so he had this entire section of town to play around and prepare in.  At least until tomorrow.

Trouble was, he hadn’t known who or what he was up against.  If he planned too broadly, he risked something powerful simply striding through and ignoring the effect.  If he was too narrow in having certain traps for certain foes, he risked having the wrong weapon at the wrong time, or simply not having an answer to a given threat.

He’d plotted that room and that trap with that in mind.

The binding wasn’t for the enemy.  It was for the bullet, which he had gone to great trouble to give a name.

The angel was free.  Nine brief meetings to date, nine skirmishes.  He hesitated to assign labels to beings as powerful and abstract as this angel was, but he was pretty sure that it was pretty close to getting pissed.

Around the fourth encounter, he’d stopped trying to start up the ritual and resigned himself to being chased.  His pursuer could travel anywhere instantaneously and couldn’t be delayed for long.  It was very possible the pursuer simply knew where he was.

But with that knowledge and the dogged pursuit, Johannes had formed a hunter-hunted connection with the angel.  He had a sense of where the angel was, and what tricks were working better than others.

Most were inducted into the practice as they entered puberty.  Johannes had been a part of it since birth.  He’d inherited it, and he’d inherited very little else.

He’d seen the good, he’d seen the bad, and he’d seen the ugly.

He’d done practitioners and others an awful lot of favors, and collected scraps of knowledge in pay.

He had, in a roundabout fashion, grown to loathe the status quo.  He’d found his mission, and very recently, he’d reached the point where he couldn’t postpone it any longer.

Now the status quo was coming for him in the form of an angel.

He was nearly out of tricks to use.  His pockets were light.

Time for the old standbys, he thought.  Back to basics.

Blood was power.

He drew slips of paper from his back pocket, and scattered them into the air.

Each was inscribed with a name.  Vestiges of people.  Each one appeared in turn.  Imperfect.  His work in this field was better than most, but it was still crude.

Vestiges were fragile.  There was a chance this wouldn’t work.

He cut the back of his hand, and he touched the blood to each vestige’s forehead.

Of the seven, only two shattered on contact with the blood.  The rest at least looked more or less human, albeit with an eye or other feature slightly askew.

Blood was power, and if the angel was following the most obvious source…

Let them be distractions.  He only needed a minute to get set up again.

“Scatter,” he said.

“I, Johannes the bard, the sorcerer, the miscreant, hereby make a statement.  Let this be my claim.”

There was a flash of light.  The angel appeared opposite Johannes.

“I claim only those places and spirits as far as the reach of my voice,” he said.  “I claim this space and only this space.  I claim the connections here and only those connections.”

He watched the angel, tense, waiting for the attack.

The angel remained where it was.

“I name this space my demesnes, a place where convention doesn’t hold, beyond those conventions which I openly decide to be fair and right.  I claim this alone, with no bloodline of note behind me, and no intend to mark a bloodline after me.  This demesne is forfeit when I have passed from this mortal coil.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I claim this space as mine, as I dislike that which lies elsewhere.  I would return to old times, stable times, and let this place be a sanctuary, both for Others that would come here, and for myself.  For I do not like where things are going elsewhere, and I would hope to change the destination.”

“Or delay it?” the angel asked.

“…Or delay it,” he said, eyeing the angel warily.  “Let this be my challenge.  All who would deny me this demesne, declare your right to challenge me, and find me here.”

The words were ominous, and they held power.

But so very few heard, and many of the ones who did were slow to grasp their import.

Johannes had retreated to a broom closet, lit only by the glow of his laptop.  The angel was only a few feet away, looming over him.

“The device?” Faysal asked.

Johannes nodded slowly.

He worked his way to a standing position, facing the angel.

The angel reached out to touch the microphone.

Johannes spoke, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You’d already begun.  It was done.”

“Ah.  If you wanted to protect convention, mauling the person who tried to pull a stupid stunt is a good way to discourage others.”

“Martyring you?  I could be discreet, but I couldn’t be sure.  I’ll see this to its conclusion, first.  Some powerful beings did hear you.”

“What?  Who, where?”

“The bridge.  It’s a place where local goblins dwell.  They’re on their way now.”

Johannes grit his teeth.  He’d used up too many tools evading the angel.  He’d been forced to start earlier, rush it.  He’d wanted to be more careful with wording.

“There are others,” the angel said.  “Many will challenge you for even a small, closet-sized space.  Some Others do not want neighbors.”

“I made the speakers quiet,” Johannes said.  “Had to make it my voice, all the same.  Needed the quality to be top notch.  Should’ve been whispers, but it’s hard to test, spur of the moment.”

“Your voice was quiet, but they heard all the same.”

Johannes nodded, already weary.  The battle hadn’t started yet, and he was exhausted.

“I liked the declaration,” the angel said.  “The sanctuary.  Returning to old ways.  So much of humanity is focused on rushing forward.  Shall we discuss in the moments between your challenges?”

“Sure,” Johannes said.  “Sure.  But can we do it while moving?  Let’s get out of this closet, first.  If it’s goblins, I have things I can do.”