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the left one, a thick gold tube ran from wrist to elbow—it was exactly like the one worn by the tunic-clad, lavender-eyed guy from Merryn’s hospital room.
    We shook hands and he introduced himself. “Shemja-za.”
    Shemja-za? A popular name, I know, but I tampered with the idea that this may be the Fallen Watcher Shemja-za. The Chool’s father Shemja-za.
    â€œCome again?” Maybe I’d heard it wrong.
    â€œNow don’t tell me you haven’t heard of me, Og.” He winked and patted me on the shoulder with a ham-sized fist and banana fingers.
    At least it wasn’t Azazel. He was the one, according to Merryn, who posed the much bigger threat.
    The resemblance between Shemja-za and my hospital visitor was remarkable. This gigantor was a good foot taller with brown hair instead of black and green eyes, yet the kindness of his face, the sparkle of his smile, the athletic build, charm, and whole aura were identical to Mr. Lavender’s.
    I smiled at him, calm and warm, hypnotized by the emerald lakes that were his eyes. The colors were wet rainforest leaves, parrot feathers, stained glass, and—
    I caught myself and rattled free from his hypnotic gaze. Asked, “What am I doin’ here anyway? And where’s Tucker?”
    â€œI am here.”
    Tucker, in full demon voice, came out from behind a column.
    â€œAnd you are here so I can knock you!”

Chapter Twenty
    Tucker stepped into the sunken room, Smiler’s grin stapled to his face.
    â€œHey, Tuck.” I gave him a chin bob, playing it cool.
    I stood and put out my hand to shake.
    The bait.
    He bit. Tried to bat away my hand.
    I latched onto the inside of his wrist with the grip of a pit bull.
    His annoying smirk contorted. Pain. “Aaayyyy!” he screamed, yanked his arm back, desperate to break my hold.
    But I was locked on. I’d take a bullet before letting him go.
    Vines of smoke climbed from where my palm met his flesh. The little round Eucharist Amos had given me burned itself into Tucker’s inner wrist.
    â€œBlessed be the name of Jesus,” I said, like Amos had taught me.
    Tucker, still yowling, jerked and kicked and grabbed at my hand. The wafer made him weak. He plummeted to his knees, smoke pouring freely from his arm.
    Now the Latin. “Benedictum Nomen Iesu!” Amos had suggested it.
    Tucker was on the floor now. Writhing. Squirming. Squealing. He looked to Shemja-za and Chool for help.
    Yet the Watcher and Nephilim remained at a distance, entertained by the action. Chool even mumbled, “Hmmph. Kid knows Latin.”
    I brought on the Aramaic, Jesus’s native tongue. Repeated the sounds just as Amos had instructed. “A-von dvash-may-ya.” It meant Our Father in Heaven.
    That was Christmas. Like Tucker had been dunked in boiling oil.
    â€œOkay Mighty Man,” Shemja snickered. “That is quite enough. Free him.”
    â€œNo!” I pulled a crucifix from my jeans and pushed it at them.
    They gaped at each other and laughed.
    â€œDo we look like vampires, Og?” chuckled Shemja-za, and snatched the cross away. “Now set the poor boy free.”
    â€œNo!”
    He tore my hand off Tucker and tossed my two hundred and fifty pounds across the room like I was a dishtowel. Thankfully, I landed on the couch.
    Tucker rose, cradling his wrist. “You will pay for this double, Mighty One!” He spat in my direction. “Filthy Gibborim, I—”
    â€œKnock, Smiler, please,” Shemja warned, then turned to me, clearly impressed with how I’d handled Tucker. “Now, in answer to your query of why you are here, Augustine.” He sniffed his wine and flashed all thousand watts of his Hollywood smile. “It is because I have deemed you worthy of a second chance.”
    Deemed me worthy? What a dweeb.
    â€œAre you the type of man, Og, who believes in second chances?”
    I held my stare. Silent.
    â€œGood.” He