Crucifer, Chapter 1

Los Angeles
March 19, 2268

Peter Romito slouched in the back of a yellow hovercab, the worn vinyl seat sticky with human residue. Thank God it was dark so he couldn’t see the stains--after a night spent turning tricks, he didn’t need reminders. Stale cigarette smoke lingered in the cabin, poorly masked by vanilla air freshener, but unlike the old black man flying the cab, Peter knew he’d be dead before he got cancer.

He shivered despite the warm air blowing from the heater. It didn’t help that the rain had soaked his black lambskin trench coat. His dark eyes were black holes with the pupils blown, and his chalky skin made him look like a drowning victim. Water dribbled from a lick of his short dark hair, running down his forehead and tickling his nose. He wiped his face, his second best physical attribute, and gazed out the window at the City of Fallen Angels.

Storm clouds blotted out the stars and rolled over the towers, titanic structures that surged into the sky. Some of them were dazzling geometric puzzles; others curved and twisted, warping light and space. Far below, an older city had been smothered by the towers, crumbling blocks and monuments of concrete and stone, the labyrinthine graveyard where he had been born.

The cab banked and soared over Sunset Boulevard. Plasma coils churned inside the cab’s dented fenders. The vibrations from the engine settled in his teeth. He looked at his trembling hands and clenched them into fists. Hours had passed since he’d taken his last hit, and his wetware was shorting out, in need of a fix. Flush with credit, he was off to meet his dealer, desperate to score a quarter sheet of Slam.

As a kid, he dreamed of traveling to other worlds, and wandering through strange cities filled with aliens. Sometimes he explored the ruins they had left behind, and went inside the temples of more forgiving gods. He even built plastic models of his favorite starships, which his father smashed to pieces in a drunken rage. He’d escaped to those worlds when his father hurt him, and instead of an astronaut, he became a psychonaut.

As if he sensed Peter was drowning and wanted to push him deeper, the old black man at the wheel turned on the stereo. The voice of Billie Holiday crackled over the speakers:

“Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest, the shadows
I live with are numberless...”

Peter looked at the old man in the rearview mirror. Crescents of blue dots underscored his eyes, glowing on his cheekbones like tiny fireflies. A rosary with a gold crucifix swung from the mirror.

The driver met his gaze. “You’re wondering about my ink.”

Peter shrugged. “We’re all marked, one way or another.”

The old man studied his face. “How old are you?”

“Old enough. I turn twenty-one tomorrow.”

“Well, tomorrow’s almost here. Happy birthday, kid.”

Peter snorted. “Been a long time since I was a kid.”

“At least when I was your age I had something to live for.”

“You saying that I don’t?”

“I’m saying that I did.”

“So, what happened?” Peter asked, knowing he’d regret it.

“You heard of Silent Night?”

“You mean the suicide bombing?”

The driver nodded. “Yeah, by the Sol Invictus cult. It was Christmas Eve of ‘42, before you were born. My wife had taken the kids to see the tree in Rockefeller Center. When the clock struck twelve, the head of the cult set off a plasma bomb, claiming that baby Jesus stole their holiday. My family died along with two thousand people. You couldn’t even sift their ashes from the snow.”

“Jesus.” Peter dropped his gaze. He wished he hadn’t asked.

“My tattoos are the tears I shed for my family. I moved out here to get away from the ghosts.”

“Did it work?”

“Of course it didn’t. They followed me. But you’ve got your own ghosts to worry about, don’t you?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. You’re haunted. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t jack up on Slam unless you’re running from something. Give yourself a birthday present. Get off that shit.”

“I thought I hired a cab, not a therapist.”

“Tough as nails, huh?”

“I’ve been hammered plenty.”

The cab shuddered, struck by a sudden gust of wind. The voice of Billie Holiday crooned in the background.

“Gloomy is Sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all...”

Peter winced. “For Fuck’s sake, would you turn off that song?”

“Sorry. Hit a nerve?” The old man killed the stereo.

Peter glared at him. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m just saying it’s not a good time to be doing what you’re doing. People are getting hurt, found with pieces missing.”

“The Crucifix Killer,” Peter said, going cold inside.

“They found another body this morning. One of my regulars.”

“Yeah, I heard. Her name was Meagan. She was a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your family.”

The old man grabbed a pack of menthols off the dashboard. He lit one, took a drag and slowly exhaled. “So, have you got any plans for your birthday?”

“I’m spending it with Tony. She’s my fiancée.”

“You’re shitting me. Well, there you go. You do have something to live for.”

Peter closed his eyes, stung by the truth. Tony was six years older than him, a streetwalker gone straight. He loved her with all the love he didn’t have for himself.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he told the driver. “Forget Sunset Terrace. Take me to the Reef, landing platform twelve.”

The driver fought back a smile and punched in the destination. Sunset Terrace was skin central, but the Reef was residential. “Had enough for one night?”

Peter didn’t answer. Thanks to the old man, his conscience was itching. He dug his phone out of his coat and speed-dialed Tony.

“Peter!”

“How’s it going, babe?”

“I’m doing all right.” Tony’s voice grew cautious. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. You busy now?”

“Just working on a painting for my new show. It’s too normal, though. Kinda turns my stomach. I’m ten seconds away from slashing the canvas.”

Peter smirked. “That’s my girl.”

“Where are you right now?”

“In a cab, five minutes from your door.”

“Really? Come on over. I’ll make some tea. I just hope you don’t mind if I smell like turpentine.”

“Heh.” Peter squeezed his nose. “My favorite perfume.”

“I love you.”

“You too.” He ended the call.

The cab flew past an egg-shaped ring that arched into the sky with a hologram projected inside. A broken DNA chain spiraled in the center, looking like a staircase on the verge of collapse. Stars spun around the chain, repairing the links. The image zoomed out through the eye of a middle-aged Latina, and a ring of light washed over her face, obliterating decades. She smiled and lines of text replaced her lovely skin--“End Time. Born Again. Dynagene Pharmaceuticals.” The hologram blinked out and the loop started over.

The driver huffed. “Whatever happened to growing old gracefully?”

Peter stared at his own reflection. “There’s no such thing. LA’s morgues are packed with beautiful corpses.”

“Rotten hearts in young skins, that’s the real problem.”

“Well, when they hand out new hearts, I’ll be the first in line.”

Beyond the egg, a scarlet reef skirted the Hollywood Hills. The crescent of glass towers branched like coral growth. Bands of light scored the towers, made of countless windows. Tony’s tower, the tallest in the Reef, stood at the center. Near the top, a ring of spikes curved upward like fangs, a dozen beacons so bright that they hurt his eyes. Red light spilled inside the cab as it glided toward her tower. The cab slowed and hovered over one of the landing platforms. The plasma coils rose in pitch as the cab slowly descended. Peter’s door lifted open and the air hissed out. The cab fare flashed on a meter wedged between the seats. Peter punched in a tip and pressed his thumb on the scanner. The meter dinged when the charge went through and he climbed out of the cab.

“Thanks,” he said.

The old man tipped an imaginary hat.


#


The Priest stood in a narrow alley south of Hollywood Boulevard, the skirt of his black cassock flapping in the wind. His cassock was single breasted with hidden snaps, the trappings of a general at war with the flesh. Thunder rumbled overhead and he squinted at the sky. Mist fell through the gap between the old brick walls, beading on his black hair which he wore slicked back. He dropped is gaze, wiped his face, and his fingers grazed the Collar. An electric shock made him flinch and chilled him to the core.

On the wall to his left, someone had stenciled an inverted pentagram, shining with cold blue light that fanned out from the bricks. The pentagram was two meters wide with a goat head in the center. Hebrew letters circled the star, printed in the border. He read the glowing script and whispered, “BAPHOMET.” Sparks crawled across the seal as if he’d cast a spell. But the Priest knew the source of the spectral luminescence; the pentagram was made out of countless nanomechs. He touched one of the letters and the characters shifted, spelling out the first law of the damned--“Thou art God.” After a few seconds, the letters shifted back. A smile touched his lips and he lowered his hand.

The Collar whispered like a lover. “There is no God but God.”

“And I will touch the stars and sit at his right hand.”

“But you are his right hand, your fingers dripping red.”

“Red as the heart that I will liberate tonight.”

“Come,” the Collar prodded him. “Our wait is nearly over.”

The Priest kept close to the wall and peered out of the alley. Across the street stood a gothic church, converted into a nightclub. Light blazed through the scarlet glass in the huge rose window. Over the doors, “Church of Steel” had been written in Fraktur, the brushed steel letters backlit with red neon. Industrial music leaked through the vaulted doors, the heavy beat pounding like a mechanical heart.

Crowded on the stairs of the church and spilling onto the street, were several dozen men and women dressed for a nightmare. Black vinyl was the fabric of choice for many of the Goths, making them look like they were painted with crude oil. Several women wore corsets which pushed up their breasts. Piercings gleamed on eyebrows, spikes jutted from lips, and tattoos scrawled over skin like tribal hieroglyphs.

Some of the tribe had been enhanced by strange technologies. One couple had long black horns grafted to their skulls, curving down their backs like bony scimitars. When they kissed their horns clacked with a dull, hollow sound. The priest smirked at the absurdity of it. A woman with a shaved head went without a shirt, exposing chrome vertebrae imbedded in her spine. Eyes glowed in the dark like jewels lit by flames, their irises injected with luminescent proteins.

Then there were the old school Goths who worshipped Rice and Poe, anachronisms dressed for a Victorian funeral. Some of the men wore velvet jackets, others full-length coats, gloves and vests with silk scarves knotted at their throats. The women wore corsets and billowing skirts, dyed black, burgundy, and deep, smoky purple. Cool poses of disdain appeared de rigueur, but a few who didn’t give a damn broke convention and laughed. These Goths embraced the scene with a wink and a nod--everyday was Halloween in the shadows of the towers.

“Dressed to kill,” the Priest said.

“Or be killed,” whispered the Collar.

The Priest scanned the pale faces. “Travis isn’t here.”

“Patience, the night is young and murder is a virtue.”

“We’ve been waiting all night. That whore said he’d be here.”

“Trust me. Hell calls, and the heart will answer.”

The Priest frowned and clenched his jaw. It all came down to the heart.

The Collar had first spoken to him on the day of his ordination. He’d been lying face down on the floor of the Cathedral, arms spread at the bishop’s feet like he’d been crucified.

“Fear not,” the Collar said. “I’ve got places to take you. You have much to learn before you enter the house of your Father.”

In the years that followed, the Collar led him on a pilgrimage of flesh. His teachers had been high-class hookers and back-alley whores; Slam addicts willing to trade their skins for a fix. He had honed himself into an instrument of agony and ecstasy, experienced every mortal sensation until all that remained was taking a human life or surrendering his own. Mercifully, before the ennui could strangle him, Father Funes, the chief of the Vatican Space Commission, appointed him Director of Project Ezekiel.

The VSC had created the project ten years ago to reestablish contact with its off-world colonies. A century and a half had passed since Rome lost contact. The colonies were early casualties of the Great Collapse, which followed in the Red Death’s bloody footprints. His appointment to director came as little surprise--he’d served as head of R&D under Father Funes, and brokered a construction deal with the Yutani Space Consortium, in exchange for exclusive rights to alien technology.

With his appointment, the Collar told him that the time of purging was at hand. He would wash his robes in the blood of the martyrs. None of them appreciated the honor that was theirs, but one by one, through love and the knife, they came to an understanding.

“He’s coming,” the Collar said.

The Priest scanned the street. A glossy, black speed bike roared overhead. Instead of wheels, plasma coils spun like balls of lightning. The biker shot between the buildings, hunched like a jockey. When he reached the intersection, he leaned hard to the left, pulled a one-eighty and sped back toward the church. Brakes flared beneath the bike and it hovered over the ground. It looked like a one-eyed shark with sleek metal skin. Along its sides, blue light fanned from cooling vents like gills. The biker shut down the coils and landed near the alley. He tugged off his leather gloves and removed his helmet.

“Travis,” the Priest sighed. He sank into the shadows.

The man was in his mid-twenties, his head shaved to the scalp. He climbed off his bike and removed his leather jacket. The Priest was surprised to see he wore no shirt beneath it. A red, Chinese dragon tattoo crawled down his chest, clenching his nipple in its jaws like a pearl. The dragon’s tail wrapped over his shoulder and snaked down his back. A finger-length metal rod gleamed on his spine. Red lenses studded the rod like a pair of barnacles. His muscles knotted as he tossed his jacket onto the seat. He walked away and pressed his key fob, setting the alarm, and a glossy carapace slid over the cockpit.

The Priest’s chest grew tight and his mouth went dry. He swallowed. “I forgot how beautiful he is.”

Sensing he was being watched, Travis glanced into the alley. His green eyes narrowed to slits beneath his heavy brow. Did he see the Priest’s face gleaming like marble? Perhaps he noticed the white square like a beacon on his throat? Travis frowned, turned away, and strode toward the club, the heels of his biker boots thudding on the pavement. When he reached the middle of the street, he reached behind his back, and pressed a button on the rod between his shoulders. Scarlet wings unfurled and slowly beat the air. The traceries were holograms of angelic grandeur.

“Beautiful,” the Priest gasped, stunned by the display.

A group of Goths were smoking cloves at the top of the stairs. Travis climbed the steps and several Goths embraced him. He returned their hugs, slapping backs and strode through the doors.

The Priest waited a few seconds and went after him. For the first time in twelve years his vestments served as camouflage. A few of the Goths looked his way with fleeting disdain. One woman with purple braids smiled, embarrassed for him. His cassock wasn’t a faux-pas, it was a cliché. Perhaps he should have taken it further and capped his teeth with fangs. The Collar refuted the cliché, but no one seemed to notice, despite the fact that it marked the Priest as an enemy of the people. Even the kid collecting the cover didn’t pay attention; a Chinese girl in a snakeskin dress was gnawing on his neck.

The Priest pulled out a credit card and handed it to the kid. The kid sneered and swiped the card, annoyed by the distraction. Returning the card to the Priest, he grabbed a rubber stamp. The Priest held out his arm and the kid stamped his wrist. He glanced at the stamp and smirked--a Jerusalem cross, the glowing red nano-ink spitting tiny sparks. He crossed the lobby and stepped through a pair of black velvet curtains.

Fog flooded the sanctuary and pooled around his feet. Purple spotlights washed over the crowd on the dance floor. The music wasn’t melancholy as he expected--growled lyrics and haunting arias rode synthetic waves. His eyes were drawn to the marble crucifix that towered above the altar. A nimbus of green lasers fanned out from the cross. Christ looked like a deep sea god, passing judgment on the damned.

The galleries along the nave were a circus of atrocities. Women writhed half-naked, caged in rebar crosses. Strips of black electrical tape crossed out their nipples. Tied to a St. Andrew’s cross was a man in a black leather hood. A woman in a rubber nun’s habit drizzled wax on his chest, pouring it from the glass chimney of a votive candle. The wax trickled down his stomach, clotting in the hair, and hardened into stalactites that dripped from his crotch.

The spectacle froze the Priest. He struggled to swallow. Nothing had prepared him for these obscenities. But a more honest part of him felt like he’d come home, the part that throbbed between his legs to the beat of the music.

The Collar tightened like a leash. “This is not your playground. You are not allowed to taste the fruit of Hades’ garden.”

“But it’s so sweet,” he said, touching the man’s thigh. His mouth went dry as he slid his hand toward the masochist’s crotch.

The Collar choked him. He yanked away his hand. Clutching his throat, he reeled toward the dance floor.

“See with my eyes,” the Collar whispered, loosening it’s grip. “See what has become of the house of your Father.”

“It’s still His, all of this, the beauty and the terror.”

“You have work to do. Another fruit to pluck.”

The Priest gave a slight nod and searched for his angel. The dancers swayed with hypnotic grace to the alternating beats, reaching up like they were plucking apples from the air and dropping them in invisible baskets as they swung around. None of them paid attention to their siblings in extremis. Even Hell failed to shock with enough exposure.

Then the priest spotted Travis leaning on the bar. His ruby wings were folded, given substance by the fog. The Priest glided through the crowd and the dancers parted, driven back like magnets with the same polarity. He waited as the bartender filled a glass with wine, and set it on a napkin in front of Travis. The counter was made of cracked glass that shone with emerald light. The bartender, a tall woman in a red vinyl tank top, had a sharp face, pearly skin, and bobbed, burgundy hair. Frosty white contact lenses blotted out her eyes.

Travis spotted the Priest in the mirror behind the bar. He met his gaze with cool disdain and took a sip of wine.

The Priest squeezed in beside him and waited to be served.

“What are you having?” the woman asked.

“Same thing as the angel.”

The bartender glanced at Travis and the hustler raised an eyebrow. A sneer touched the woman’s lips as she filled another glass.

“You remember me,” the Priest said.

“How could I forget?”

The Priest smiled, lips closed, and paid for his drink.

Travis swirled his wine and stared into his glass. “They think you’re wearing a costume. And they’re right, but for all the wrong reasons.”

“You’d know all about that. The wings are a real nice touch.”

Travis tilted his head, cracking his neck.

“Your wings were broken when we met, but I see you bought some new ones. I’d like to think that I contributed to your redemption.”

Travis set his glass on the bar. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“And that bike of yours, very nice. Very expensive. Wasn’t I the one who made the down payment?”

“Leave now, before you get hurt.”

“That’s gratitude for you.”

The Priest reached for his glass. Travis grabbed his wrist. He glared at the Priest. “Not here. I’m not fucking around.”

The Priest didn’t even flinch, he simply stared at Travis.  The look in his eyes chilled Travis, hollowing him out. Travis swallowed and released his arm. “What do you want?”

The Collar rasped, “To split your ribs and lick your beating heart.”

The Priest muzzled the Collar. “I think you know.”

“Fuck off,” Travis growled. “I’m not on the market.” He grabbed his drink, shouldered the Priest and strutted away.

“You still eating Lotus?”

Travis froze in his tracks.

The Priest smiled into his glass. “Hard to get these days.”

Travis stormed toward the Priest, his face an angry knot. He spun the Priest around. Their foreheads nearly touched. “How the fuck would you know?”

The Priest sighed, looking bored. “I know you were the first person I ever tried it with. Ever since then, I feel like we share a special connection.”

“How much are you holding?”

“Enough to show you God.”

Travis’ eyes smoldered. “Be more specific.”

“Twenty mils.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Trust me. I’m a priest.”

“Yeah, and I was an altar boy.”

“That explains a lot.”

Travis narrowed his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You know the alley across the street with the glowing pentagram?”

“Sure I know it, the Devil’s Snatch. Next to the Pan’s Pipes bookstore. Did a rivet girl there once, after Church got out.”

“Meet me there in five minutes. I’ll head out first. You feed me your junk and I’ll give you mine.”

“That’s it? You just give me head? No reciprocation?”

“All I ask is that you put your heart into it.”

“What’s the catch? With what you’re holding, you could buy a choir of angels.”

“But I wouldn’t have you, and you’re so very special.”

Travis wet his lips. He could already taste the Lotus, liquid moonlight, bittersweet like honey mixed with wormwood. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. But I swear, if you burn me...”

“There’ll be Hell to pay.”

Travis strutted away.

The Priest gave a thin-lipped smile. “Don’t forget your wings.”


#


The Priest waited in the alley, hugging himself. The mist had become a light rain which soaked through his cassock. Finally, Travis emerged from the Church of Steel. Squinting against the rain, he strode down the steps and crossed the glassy street, his ruby wings aglow. He glanced back, making sure he wasn’t being followed, and ducked into the alley with the glowing pentagram.

“Where’s your car?” Travis asked.

“Who needs a car?”

Travis wiped the rain from his scalp. “The storm is getting worse.”

“A good night for a baptism.”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

The Priest didn’t deny it. He reached for Travis’ belt.

Travis pushed his hands away. “Show me what you got.”

The Priest pulled out a vial of glowing, ice blue liquid. Contrary to its name, it wasn’t a narcotic. Lotus amped the user’s senses with an orgasmic rush, making him feel like ten-thousand volts charged his nervous system. On Lotus, you were a high-speed modem jacked into the universe.

Travis whistled, impressed. “Where did you get it?”

The Priest was cool, detached. “From someone who no longer needed it.”

Travis gave him a sly look. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

The Priest tipped the vial and righted it. “Would it make a difference?”

“Not really.” Travis smirked.

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

“One more question, Priest. How do you want to die?”

“What--?”

Travis spun around and kicked him in the chest. The vial flew from the Priest’s hand and he crashed into the wall. Before the vial hit the ground, Travis blurred with speed. He caught the vial and landed in a crouch.

The Priest slid down the wall. Pain shot through his ribs. He stared at Travis, shocked by how fast he had moved.

“You should have done your homework, Priest. Time stands still for the Lotus eater.”

The Priest drew a breath and winced. “Synaptic enhancement.”

Travis tapped his own nose. “Another gift of the Lotus. How do you think I cut through this city like a razor? I can fly at two-hundred clicks without even blinking.”

“Keep him talking,” the Collar rasped. “The real fun’s just begun.”

“Hush, I’ll handle this.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?”

The Priest glanced beyond him. “Try looking behind you.”

“You think I’d fall for that?”

“The devil’s got your back.”

Travis glanced over his shoulder at the Seal of Baphomet. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he? You picked the wrong God.”

“Not quite.” The Priest punched Travis in the mouth. Blood flew from his lips in a thick, ropy spray.

Travis snarled and rammed his fist into the Priest’s face, but the Priest dodged and Travis’ knuckles cracked against the bricks. Travis still clutched the vial, which shattered with the impact. Shards of glass sliced his palm and the Lotus sprayed through his fingers. He howled and gaped in horror at his bleeding hand. The Priest kicked him in the chest, flinging him on his back. The rain quickly diluted the blood that ran down his chin. It trickled over his heaving chest, smearing his tattoo.

The Priest stood over him with his arms out from his sides. A cold, blue blade of light emerged from his fist.

Travis stared at the blade and shuddered violently. He clenched his wrist as if he had been bitten by a snake. Shards of glass poked like fins from his palm and fingers. The Lotus, mixed with his blood, shimmered in the wounds.

“Oh, Shit,” Travis moaned. His teeth began to chatter. Enough Lotus had entered his veins to kill a dozen men.

“What do you see?” the Priest asked.

Travis thrashed and groaned. Fragments of his ruby wings sprayed across the pavement.

“What do you see?” the Priest demanded.

Travis tried to focus. The white tab on the Priest’s throat blazed, blinding white. His face shone brighter, brighter, like a star was trying to escape. “Oh, Christ,” Travis moaned. His eyes rolled up in his head. Veins throbbed on his forehead and he foamed at the mouth.

“Close enough,” the Priest said. His lips curled into a smile.

“He’s dying,” the Collar said. “His heart’s about to burst.”

The Priest sank to his knees between Travis’ legs. He leaned over and slid his arm beneath Travis’ back. His skin felt like greased ice. His chest hitched, counting off seconds. The Priest hauled him up and Travis’ head slumped on his shoulder. The Priest stabbed him in the gut. Blood sizzled on the blade.

“Momma,” Travis whimpered. He shuddered and went limp.

The Priest kissed him on the forehead and laid him on the ground. He unbuckled Travis’ boots and tugged them off his feet. Next he stripped off Travis’ socks and tugged down his pants. His cock rolled across his thigh like a huge, bloated maggot. Even in death, the sight of it made the Priest ache with longing, wishing he could feel that conqueror worm in his bowels. He rolled up Travis’ pants and shoved them under his back, propping him up so his wings could unfurl. Blood bubbled from his lips and streaked down his cheeks. The Priest sliced across his chest, carved through his sternum, and pried apart his ribcage, exposing his heart. The sight of the beating organ filled him with awe.

“Quickly,” the Collar rasped, “before his soul escapes.”

The Priest gave a weak nod and went back to work. He severed veins and arteries and ripped out the heart. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, rumbling away. He bowed his head and held the twitching heart against his chest.

“Let us pray,” the Collar whispered.

The Priest closed his eyes:

“The Son of Man turns away,
He cannot bear the sight
Of angels bleeding for the city
That makes Hell seem bright.”

“Amen,” the Collar said.

The heart beat once. Amen.

Normally, he scrawled a Bible reference near the body, finger-painted with the blood of the sacrifice, but he knew the rain would quickly wash away his message. Let this murdered angel be his silent witness, its hollow chest and scarlet wings a lesson for the damned.

The Priest strode down the alley, heading away from the Church. Pulling out his phone, he called his hovercar, and punched in the code for its homing device. A few seconds later, a black sedan glided overhead. It descended ahead of him, blocking the alley. Rain streaked down the slanted plane of the tinted windshield. The door rose and he popped the locks on a ribbed metal briefcase, which he’d left on the seat when he put the car on autopilot. He dropped the heart in a plastic bag and zipped shut the seal. Blood oozed from the severed arteries, pooling in the sack. He opened a second bag, pulled out a wet towel, cleaned his hands, wiped the locks and gently closed the briefcase. He laid it on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. The door sealed like a coffin lid and he soared into the night.