They were everywhere.
Cut loose, they crawled the cities looking for trouble – and if they didn’t find any, they made it their business to start some. Anything to tip the balance ever further in their favour; to sway humanity towards them... and meanwhile, the angels’ celebration toasts turned to drowning their despair.
Not that it bothered the woman sitting at the bar, eating stale peanuts out of a bowl. Her hair fell across her face as she picked at them, only occasionally looking up to reach for the glass of water in front of her.
“She doesn’t belong here,” said the Earthbound at the other end of the bar, speaking to no-one in particular. He had built a little wall out of empty shot glasses in front of him and his speech was slurred, although it was only half past four in the afternoon.
The barman shushed him loudly. “Don’t you know who that is?”
“Half-born, slumming it with the Earthbounds?”
“It’s her.”
“Her?”
“Alice.”
“Alice?”
“Alice. That Alice.”
They turned to stare along the bar at her, one more fuzzily than the other. Alice glanced up from her peanuts and gave them a wave, and then went back to crunching her peanuts, as noisily as possible.
“That Alice? Fought-with-Lucifer Alice? Into-hell Alice?”
“That Alice.”
“I thought she’d be taller. And a redhead.”
There was an indignant snort from the other end of the bar; one the barman tried his best to ignore. Instead, he started to dismantle the wall of glasses. “Well, that’s her. And she’s good to drink in here as long as she wants. She’s one of us.”
“I don’t drink,” said Alice, sliding off her stool and brushing peanut skins from her hands. “And I’m not exactly one of you.”
“Don’t mind him, he’s...”
“I get it. He’s still adjusting – is that it? Not got used to having his wings clipped. I’m not the one he should be taking it out on, am I?” She smiled unhappily.
“It takes a while.”
“I said I get it.”
“I mean, you. You and Mallory and hell and Lucifer. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have Lucifer.”
“We don’t. Michael does. And what do you think he’s going to do with him?”
“End it. End the war.”
“Really?”
“You kill Lucifer, you end the war. Everyone knows that.”
“Huh. Know Michael well, do you?”
“Sure. Well... no. Not personally...”
“Huh.” Alice blinked at him. “I do.” She slid a couple of coins across the top of the bar. “For the peanuts. And this.” Her fingers closed around a slip of paper lying on the bar. Written untidily across it in green ink was a date.
A date, a time and a place... and the word “FALLEN.”
IT HAD BEEN six months. Six months since the angels besieged hell; six months since Alice, along with her mentor Mallory and friend Vin, had climbed back up to the world – cold and exhausted, but victorious. Moderately victorious, at least. Six months since she had defied the Archangel Michael, and six months since she had seen Gwyn, Gabriel’s favourite, stripped of his wings for betraying them all.
Six months since Michael had warned her that – sooner or later – he would come for her.
Six months since Mallory had left.
She still didn’t know how she felt about that.
Mallory had, at long last, been able to go home. It was what he wanted – what he needed – and Alice knew she should be happy for him. She wanted to be happy for him... But.
However hard she tried, however much she wanted... a part of her still felt the same. Like he had left her; they had all left her: with Mallory’s wings restored, he was able to go home, and Vin had wasted little time before disappearing back off to Hong Kong. And Alice had looked around at the ruins of her life and wondered what it had all been for, exactly. And every time she caught sight of the angelic sigil burned into her wrist, it reminded her of Michael, with his eyes full of spinning fire, and his warning that he would come, and she decided it might be best to just get on with things and keep her head down.
If they wanted her – any of them – they knew where to find her.
Her first problem had been finding somewhere to live. With Mallory gone, it seemed only logical that she should take over his home in the sacristy. It also seemed only logical that (given his somewhat laid-back approach to housekeeping) she should give it a thorough clean first. So she did. She scrubbed and polished and threw out a quite extraordinary number of empty bottles, which had been stashed everywhere from under the sink to inside the cold water tank. She washed the mould from the grout and shook the woodlice out of the sofa cushions – feeling only the faintest pang of guilt as she did so, given the number of times she’d woken up face to face with one of them – and she had a close encounter with a cockroach which made her entirely glad she was alone, because she screamed like a little girl. And flapped her hands. And screamed one more time before finally clamping an upturned bucket over the unfortunate creature and sitting on it, just for good measure.
But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn’t quite rid herself of the image of Lucifer’s eyes, watching her from a face that was not his own.
It was on the Day of the Cockroach that there was a knock at the door; quiet but firm, and Alice ignored it at first. It came again, and she ignored it again. The third time, the knocking grew more insistent, and although she’d planned to ignore it just the same, the sky outside the tiny windows darkened and a pile of Mallory’s old papers, stacked in a corner, rustled as though in a breeze. And while the sacristy was draughty, there were limits to what Alice was prepared to ignore.
“Alice,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “I’m at the door. Whether you invite me or not, I am coming in – so don’t you think we could start this on a more... civil footing?”
Alice opened the door.
On the other side was a neat man wearing a dark morning suit. His hair was cropped short and mottled with grey; his beard was clipped close to his chin. One hand was folded behind his back, while the other hung at his side, clutching the brim of a top hat.
“Going to a wedding?” Alice asked.
“Not exactly.” He frowned at her, and Alice was startled to see that his eyes were black – as though pupil and iris had merged into one. Still, they twinkled at her.
“So,” he said, turning the hat in his fingers, “will you invite me in, or must I invite myself?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I have what you might call... trust issues. Of course, you could help by telling me who you are. And what you want.”
“But of course – how rude of me. My name,” he said, shaking out his black wings, “is Adriel. And I’m here to offer you a job.”
Alice felt her jaw drop open and snapped it shut. “Adriel.”
“Yes. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”
“You could say that.” She hadn’t needed the name. Alice had spent enough time around angels to recognise him; the one who made them all twitchy. Black wings. Black eyes.
The Angel of Death.
“A job.”
“A job. Yes.”
“‘Job’ as in ‘mission’?”
“No. ‘Job’ as in ‘employment.’ Paid employment.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?” Adriel looked puzzled.
“You’re offering me a job. Why? You don’t know me.”