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holster and without ceremony shoots Horacio in the gut.
    He sputters something and gropes at his stomach in an effort to catch the life-force as it leaks out of him. It’s a futile attempt, and Damien turns away, transferring back to the Celestial. Without question, Helene has heard the gunshot and will return. The demon leaps into the sky, flaps his wings just once, and lands on the roof of the crumbling church across the way. If the Shield acts as expected and lands at Horacio’s side, he’ll be out of her immediate reach here.
    His ears pick up the thrust of her wings before she comes into view, at last wrapping her outer wings tight to her frame and tunneling like a sniper’s bullet to the earth. Tucked against her core, enveloped in her sinewy, transparent inner wings, is the frightened Baby Joe. His knobby arms and legs are balled up—a ridiculous spectacle.
    The force of flight notwithstanding, Helene lands softly, hugging Baby Joe to herself. She glares up at the demon, enraged, as though he hasn’t played fair, as though he’s cheated. Damien savors the compliment, waiting for the perfect moment to act. He watches as she kneels next to Horacio, reaching her hands out to his wound.
    Suddenly, too suddenly, she stands and shoots into the sky. Away from him. Away from the dying man on the ground. Flustered and bewildered by her abandonment of Horacio, Damien takes flight, quickly gaining on her forsaken position at the man’s side. Only the whites of Horacio’s eyes are visible as they roll back and forth in his head. His face is moist and gray beneath the sludge of fear.
    Death is close. Damien can taste it.
    He can conceive no reason for the angel’s desertion of a human facing certain death. As much as it angers Damien to do it, he needs Horacio. He’ll have to heal this dying man.
    Damien reaches out, placing his hand on Horacio’s abdomen.
    A current of electricity shoots up his arm. The pain is raw, excruciating. He tears his arm away in horror—horror at the pain coursing through his body, and then more devastatingly, horror at his mistake.
    He’d forgotten. Neglected the obvious.
    Although Celestial beings can deliver both life and death, their finality does not rest with the angelic. Like a violent dog on a short leash, he howls.
    From high above, the sound of frenetic wings draws his attention. Helene hovers hundreds of feet up, her face pointed toward the heavens. Damien cannot make out her expression, but he has no trouble hearing the words her soul cries.
    “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done!”
    The demon curses and spits. As much as He allows their rampant intrusion, life and death rest solely in the hands of the Creator. If Horacio’s end has been determined, death will not be permitted to give him up. Damien pulls out his scimitar and drives it through the man’s heart, sending his tortured soul into darkness. Years and years of work on this man, training him, corrupting his gifts. All wasted.
    With Horacio’s soul added to his cosmic scorecard, his lips curl and he snaps both sets of wings, taunting the angel still hovering above the warehouse. She cries out again.
    “Holy! Holy! Holy is the Lord of hosts! The whole earth is full of His glory!”
    The sound of her voice is a grainy, acidic salt in the wound of his mistake, and Damien cringes.
    Her anthem continues to echo across the heavens, and he remembers a time when his mouth, too, sang the Creator’s praises. It was like an impulse, a compulsion, like there was nothing more imperative than declaring the holiness of the Almighty. An overwhelming sense of gratitude and awe continually flood the angels of light—an awareness impossible for them to ignore in the Celestial. Whether intended or not, opening their mouths in that realm sends nothing but praises into the atmosphere.
    If it weren’t for the innate ability of Celestial beings to share thoughts at will, the angels of light would be unable to communicate anything but