“So you don’t remember anything

“So you don’t remember anything?”

“Aside from my name, rank and serial number, nope. Not a clue.”

“And that you’re a wiseass.”

Jack snorted at that. He couldn’t do much else—his mouth was too stuffed with a mixture of eggs, bacon, and half a piece of harshly burned toast. How all that fit in there, he wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t particularly matter, so long as it didn’t choke him on the way down. Hunger had won out over shock, and while he learned about his benefactor, he’d been busily stuffing himself on the simple breakfast fare.

At first, he’d wondered at Wilcox sharing his food and home with an amnesiac stranger. But it was, apparently, the other man’s job. The so-called Hermit was paid to live on the fringes of civilization, rescuing injured and ill travelers, all on the government’s paycheck. The setup sounded familiar. There must have been a similar sort of occupation whenever Jack had been alive.

“You a cop?” Wilcox asked, once Jack had managed to swallow. He observed the feeding frenzy with little more than a raised brow. “The ‘rank and serial number’ bit doesn’t exactly scream ‘farmer’,” he added, by way of explanation.

“Maybe.” Jack could only shrug. He rested his elbows on the top of the chair. After regaining his wits, he’d turned it around, pressing the seatback to his chest. It was more comfortable by far for sitting in. “I don’t remember. Remember a lot of blood… guns going off… It’s all hazy though,” he added around the dregs of his coffee. “Honestly? Feels like some kind of war.”

The sudden silence was enough to tip him off. He looked up, fighting the urge to groan at the by now familiar expression of disbelief on the hermit’s face. Resignedly, he waved the mug at Wilcox, indicating the other should hurry up and be out with whatever shocking tidbit he had for Jack.

“We haven’t had a war in…” The hermit trailed off, scratching at his beard. “Oh… sixty some-odd years.”

Well, that would definitely explain a lot—such as why there were suddenly a whole lot of angels running around dispensing God’s judgment. “Must have been when I died then,” he said, half to himself. “Because I don’t remember anything about anything you’ve said so far. Guess a lot can change in that kind of time…”

Wilcox grunted, shifting in his chair to tug a pipe from his pocket. “The war lasted over fifty years,” he said after a moment. His eyes were on his pipe, methodically packing it with tobacco procured from another pocket. “I’m not the one you’re going to want to ask about it. It never hit out here, except for a few guys enlisting here and there. So, we never really had an investment in it—I don’t even know who started it or what it was about. All I know is, the world got sick and tired of all their boys and girls dying, and called in God.”

He lit the pipe then, pausing in his sparse narrative to allow the smoke to curl over the table. One of the cats hopped up, only to be pushed back down by the hermit’s huge hand. “Government wasn’t doing squat to end it, so I’m told,” Wilcox continued. “Some kind of huge economic boom was going on, or something, because of it. So they figured it was best for everyone to keep on trucking, so to speak. Church on the other hand…” He shook the pipe at Jack for emphasis. “Church actually got off its ass and put an end to things. They sent up one big collective prayer, nonstop, for a whole week. Pretty soon, we had the Inquisitors.”

The pipe smoke distracted him from what the hermit was saying. Enough of it had begun clouding the air above the table for Jack to breathe it in, and, after each breath, he found himself relaxing, the perpetual headache slowly releasing its hold on his skull. It was different than he was expecting, sweeter, almost. But it felt wonderful to breathe the heady stuff all the same. He must have made some outward sign of his enjoyment, for the hermit wordlessly handed over the pipe. After some awkward fumbling, he managed to down a draft firsthand. Something tense inside him eased, and he sank against the seatback, resting his elbows on the table.

“So…” said Jack, returning the pipe. “The Inquisitors. They’re like… holy cops or something?”

“Not exactly,” Wilcox answered. “We still have cops. ‘Cept instead of bringing people to jail, they bring them to the Inquisitors. Angels talk to God, they pass on judgment.” A shrug. “Something like that.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “Just like that? They’re guilty?” When the hermit nodded, he scoffed. “Shit. No trial? Nothing? What if they’re innocent? Hell, what if cops just don’t like them?”

This was a fine place to have himself thrown into. A theocratic police-state. If this was the alternative to the war, he’d have chosen the latter. At least, he assumed he would. Fighting sounded preferable to being lorded over by angels, and having no say in your own ultimate fate. It didn’t sound right to him. Then again, what did he know? He didn’t even know where he was exactly, let alone the moral standards he’d once had. But considering it was Heaven he’d just plummeted out of, and not Hell, he should probably be more inclined to go with his instincts.

“Isn’t my place to say, Jericho,” said Wilcox, with another shrug. “I don’t make a habit of getting called up for an Inquisition.”

Jack took the pipe again, using the smoke to settle his jangling nerves. “Sounds like a good practice to me,” he said, at a loss for anything else. For what felt like the fifteenth time that day, he pushed his hair up out of his eyes. Glaring at the inconsiderate strands, he added, “You got any scissors or a hacksaw lying around?”

Deadpan, the hermit replied, “Bathroom, down the hall, behind the curtain.”

“You keep a hacksaw in your bathroom?”

His host replied to his smart comment with about as much reaction as a corpse. Shrugging it off, Jack clambered awkwardly back to his feet, leaving the pipe on the table with no small regret. He felt almost like a drunk as he moved along, reeling into the walls even as he tried to keep his wings folded tight to his spine. It was like wearing an overloaded, moving backpack which had every intention of getting entangled on any, and every, vaguely rough surface. The hermit must have enjoyed the show, as it came complete with a stirring routine of cursing.

The so-called “bathroom” was little more than a closet with a pump and a shoddy-looking device Jack could only assume was an ancient form of a toilet. He barely fit inside, thanks to the mass of feathers attached to his back. A cracked mirror hung on one wall, above an oversized bucket. Beside it was a cabinet that had definitely seen better days. He moved carefully, lest he knock into either one of the rickety-looking objects and destroy them completely.

First things first—he had to find the scissors. His hair was driving him up the wall. They were in the cabinet, laying along side several forlorn objects of personal hygiene. Prize in hand, Jack maneuvered around to face the dingy little mirror, and triumph turned to cold consideration.

Damn, he thought to himself. That what I look like? Yikes.

A square face stared back at him, complete with a chin coated with too much stubble to be considered anything but slovenly. Dark blue eyes were almost lost beneath unkempt, brown hair. Lines creased the area around their edges, betraying his age, and more graced his forehead. Judging from the angle of his sharp, prominent nose, it had been broken at least once. It was a hard, tired face, more suited to dive bars than magazine photo shoots.

“Ugly son of a bitch,” he muttered, running a hand across his unshaven cheeks. Shaving could wait. No way he was going to use another man’s razor—provided that machete in the cupboard counted as such. The hair had to come first. And then, a shower. Even if that shower was courtesy of the rather sketchy looking bucket.

Holding up a lock of hair, he applied the scissors with a single-minded determination, something along the lines of a grin cracking the tanned planes of his face apart.

When the Inquisitor had left, Wilcox figured it was as good a time as any to make his report. He pushed himself up from the table, leaving the dirty dishes for another time. Sounds of swearing informed him the odd Inquisitor had located the bathroom, and Wilcox smirked to himself. Bizarre though this encounter was, his guest did have a sort of awkward charm to him. He was probably murder on women’s hearts.

But that wasn’t really the sort of thing you told HQ, or the Imperator. That guy had no sense of humor to speak of. At least Wilcox had never been forced to meet the Lord of Inquisitors face-to-face, he reflected, slowly making his way up the ladder. He didn’t envy those who did. Even if your conscience was clean as a newborn baby’s the Imperator had a way of making you suddenly recall every minor idiocy you’d ever committed, or even thought of committing. Holy though they were, he’d heard those eyes burned a hole right through you. He supposed he was just lucky he’d never had the occasion to make his way into the state capitol, Delfee, where the Inquisitors’ Sanctum was based.

Of course, he’d heard all that through the grapevine, so-to-speak. There was no way of knowing how reliable that information was. Then again, why would his fellow Hermits need to exaggerate? Their lives were interesting enough as it was.

He heaved himself up into his living quarters, ducking under the low beams. It was the only place in the cabin the cats couldn’t get to, and thus it was his. The bed was set low to the floor, pressed up in a corner, and surrounded by burned-down candles and spine-broken books. There was little else to the attic room, save a trunk and a table cluttered with equipment and papers. Wilcox sat beside the table, on the floor, as the ceiling was too low to allow him to put in a chair.

One of the papers littering the table was older than the rest, faded and crinkled with use. It listed several strings of numbers and letters, as well as what looked like a short questionnaire. Wilcox picked it up without hesitation, and absently twisted the dials on a radio that definitely had seen better days.

“Hermit 325 to HQ,” he said into the battered microphone. “Found a stray. You read me out there, HQ?”

There was a burst of static, followed by a faint, “Affirmative, 325. What’s the status of the stray?”

Wilcox chuckled into the microphone. “You’re not going to believe this, HQ,” he said, somewhat ruefully. He wished he could speak plainly, and not use the ridiculous jargon used to encrypt conversations. Why should they care who overheard their conversations? It wasn’t as if the eavesdropper could really do anything with the information. “But the bastard brought down the sky.”

The pause that followed was so lengthy, Wilcox began to wonder if the call had gone through. He went to adjust the volume, only to be startled when the reply nearly blasted in his ears. “Was it wearing a collar?” HQ asked, sounding as expected—bewildered, and not quite believing the story Wilcox was giving them.

“He was not,” the hermit replied, stressing the pronoun. “Answered to the name ‘Jericho’, but no tag. No ID, nothing.”

Another long pause. “We’re transferring you to the Sanctum,” HQ said. Now they sounded unnerved. “Headman and the General will want to hear about this.”

They didn’t give him a chance to respond, much less protest. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted that chance—no telling what he could have said. The thought of the Imperator overhearing his report sent a distinct chill up his spine. How state officials could manage talking to that guy on a daily basis, and stay sane, Wilcox would never know. He found himself sitting tense, hands clenched at his sides, waiting for thunder to crack overhead, or lightning to flicker out of the radio. Something impressive to showcase the Imperator’s presence.

A click sounded over the speaker, followed by the low, sonorous voice of Delfee’s Governor, and Wilcox jumped. “What’s this about an unmarked angel, hermit?” the Governor asked, straight to the point, though his voice betrayed his feelings.

“I picked him up about a mile or so from my home location,” Wilcox answered, belatedly adding, “sir” as he realized he couldn’t remember this particular governor’s name. They all sounded alike to him. “Said his name was Jericho. Other than that, the guy doesn’t remember anything.”

“’Guy’?” The Governor sounded just as skeptical as HQ had. “You’re certain?”

“Sir, I found the guy naked in the middle of a road, and had to drag him over a mile. If I don’t know male anatomy after that, you should take away my license.”

“And you say he has no marking on him?” asked the Governor, ignoring Wilcox’s colorful statement.

“I wouldn’t say he’s clean as day,” the hermit admitted. “Scarred up something fierce—like something ripped his arm clean off, then slapped it back on. But no, there’s no tattoo on him. Angelic or otherwise.”

He was about to say more, but a new voice cut in over the line, sending him nearly under the table. The tinny radio speaker did not seem to affect it at all—it was as if the owner of the voice was in the very room with him, shaking the walls with a great and awesome power.

“Send him to us,” it said. “The fallen ones are not for man to judge.”

What was he supposed to say in the face of that? You couldn’t question a voice with that much authority, that much divine right, behind it. All he could do was nod, murmuring out an affirmative. Somehow, it was enough, and the voice did not speak again, though the radio made a few dying moans, sparking.

Warily, Wilcox peered out from behind his hands. There was no great avenging angel swarming out of the speakers—nothing but a vague haze of smoke around the radio. He relaxed slightly, glaring at the radio in question. They could have at least left him with a working machine. This was the third one this month. Used to be, you didn’t have to worry about the Inquisitors speaking directly to lowly hermits like him.

“Must be real interested in this guy,” he mused, leaning back on his hands. A fresh round of cursing drifted up from the lower floor. Must have tried the hot water pump. The guy didn’t seem like a fallen angel… but… “Can’t argue with an order like that.”

He headed down the ladder, shaking his head. There was a lot he had to get ready to make sure the man—Jack—got on the road as soon as possible. Even if that meant he was sending him right into the Imperator’s holy claws.

“Poor bastard,” Wilcox muttered. “Hope you live through this.”

“Are you certain of this, O Holy one…?”

The Imperator turned its head, the motion fluid, almost lazy, to rake Governor Bryan Sullivan with its gaze. Wincing, the man looked away, unable to stare into those terrible eyes. He instead stared at the angel’s feet, but even those were so obviously inhuman, he had to once again avert his eyes.

It was hard to describe to someone what exactly the Imperator was like, unless they’d seen it for themselves. It never seemed to be quite the same thing twice, its features constantly shifting—light and dark at the same instant. One thing always remained the same, no matter how many times he looked at it.

The wings. They were utterly magnificent. Constantly in motion, the appendages were snow-white, trimmed in what looked like fire. How they stayed burning, smoldering, whatever, Sullivan didn’t know. He assumed it had to do with divine will. If one turned their head just right, the barest outlines of still more wings appeared, drifting about the angel like prisms.

Everything about it made him very aware of his appearance—his faults. It was too perfect to be real, whereas he was pushing fifty, with all the graying hair and widening gut that tended to accompany a politician of his age. Absently, he smoothed his suit, brushing off invisible dust motes.

It stood now upon a dais, framed in the blinding, radiant light of its halo, looking down on Sullivan, considering him as man considered insects. Sullivan really hated this chamber. Situated at the top of Delfy’s central cathedral, the Sanctum should have been a place of light, a place to bask in God’s love, His devotion to His children. Instead, it was dark, a single shaft of light the only outside illumination, all else radiating out from the Imperator. Only a few feet into the room, he could no longer see the entrance. All was shrouded in darkness. Icons and devotional artwork were dim, shadowy, as if hiding from the world. The only furniture was the folding chair and radio Sullivan had brought with him. It didn’t help the matter any that, on occasion, he felt he was being watched by more than just the Imperator.

“You question our judgment?” the Imperator asked. Its voice was, quite literally, like a choir, one hundred voices speaking each word in harmony. The sound made Sullivan cringe again.

“No, Holy One,” he managed. “I was merely wondering… how you know this to be a fallen angel.”

The wings rustled, a simple sound, yet coming from this creature, it was oddly menacing. “We did not hear word of this one’s arrival,” the Imperator intoned. “Were it one of us, we would know.”

Sullivan bowed his head. “Yes, Holy One,” he murmured.

As no further orders came, he bent to collect the chair and radio. He tried not to show his relief. As accustomed as he was to meetings with the Lord of Angels, they always left him shaking, glad to be out of the room, once they were finished. The sooner he could get out of there, the better. He knew he was a good man, guiltless, and without any mortal sins. He couldn’t have stood in the Sanctum otherwise. That was the law—the edict passed down from Heaven to earth.

It seemed to be finished now. And Sullivan had a financial meeting to get to before the day was out. As he left the room, he bowed to the angel, murmuring little words of prayer in its direction. He hadn’t gotten very far when the voice rang out again, stopping him in his tracks.

“When this one arrives, you will bring him to us.”

Slowly, dreading the outcome, Sullivan turned. “Holy One?”

The angel was looking sideways at him. Its mouth parted in what seemed to be an absent, faraway smile—so long as you didn’t look too closely at it. “We have need to question it,” it said.“There has been… a disruption in the order. We suspect it. We wish to find answers that only a fallen one may provide.”

Again, he bowed, lower this time, a sign of subservience. “As you wish, Holy One.”

It flicked a long, perfect hand in his direction, a sign that this audience was truly over. Unseen guards pulled open the huge, ornately carved doors for him as he darted through, head bowed, eyes on the tile work at his feet. Sullivan beat a hasty retreat, expensive shoes beating a frantic rhythm on the stone stairs just outside.

Silence fell across the Sanctum, unbroken for long moments. Then, slowly, a shadow detached itself from the far wall, gliding across the floor. The Imperator glanced once in its direction, vacant smile gone from its face. “Come no further,” it said. “Another step, and we will not bear your presence. Nor you ours.”

“I figured that out long ago, General,” the shadow purred. A dry sound, like scales over stone, emanated from it as it paced sideways. It was as formless as the angel, apparently unable to keep still. Black eyes, flat and nearly lifeless, peered out of the dimness beyond the reach of the angel’s light, considering. “Is it true? Has one of our ranks left Heaven once again?”

“What else could it be?” the angel answered, serenely. “He has not delivered us a new Inquisitor. He did not tell us one was coming—He would not keep that from us.”

The shadow twisted, like a head tilting sideways. “And you think our Lord would keep us—excuse the pun—in the dark, if it were one of our own?”

“This is not one of yours?”

Another twist, as if the body were folding in on itself, contorting impossibly. “Do you sense any evil?”

The voice hitched in what could have been a scoff. “Only your own,” the angel admitted, still serene. It turned to regard the shadow, which scuttled backwards slightly under the scrutiny. “There is still no word of your brother, we assume. Otherwise, you would not be here, scurrying about our chamber.”

It hissed. Black eyes sparked, suddenly alive. “The others brought no word of him,” the shadow snarled. “Except what we already know. The Inquisitor is dead. And Little Brother is missing. Not a trace of him remains.”

Perfect brows furrowed. “The timing worries us,” said the angel. “This thing… our order may be at risk.”

Now the black shape wormed back and forth among pillars, occasionally wrapping bits of its length around them, coiling and uncoiling. It appeared endless, made up of every shadow in the Sanctum. As it moved, it seemed to take the darkness with it, leaving in its wake lit candles, and small shrines bathed in warm light. “You think this is connected?” it asked.

“We do. Your brother slays an Inquisitor, disappears, and then this one falls,” answered the angel. “We do not like what this implies.”

“So what do we do about it?”

The Imperator turned, following the lines of a pillar, up towards the ceiling, where the shadow now reclined. “We will send this one to find your brother,” it said simply. “Urhe requires a new Inquisitor. If this one finds your brother, it will be destroyed, along with the village. Our order will not be meddled with.”

“And if this creature doesn’t locate my brother?”

The smile that split the angel’s face was no longer vacant. Nor could it quite be called a smile either. It was an almost savage, malignant expression. “We are sure your siblings would like to vent their frustrations, Greed,” said the angel.

A wicked laugh, almost matching the look on the angel’s face, split the air. “Well said, General!” the shadow cackled, before sliding down the pillar, dissipating into the dark air once more.