The Angel lay in his arms, letting the weeping man stroke his — her — hair and play protector while the police secured the crime scene. It was a pitiful sham. They photographed the bodies from every angle, covered them, and talked quietly about one of their own gone bad.
It was too easy to smile, to let his lips curl into satisfaction, when he — she — was supposed to be the victim here. The helpless woman needing the big strong protectors. But the smile was there, inside, when he looked at the mess of The Watcher’s face and saw another aspect of his dark secret dying with those six bullets.
Now only one of the wraiths from St. Malachi’s still walked this land of the would-be dead, Gabriel Rush, the Little Indian Boy, and he (at least some parts of him) was inside this shell with the Angel. Inside the dead flesh of his love, memories and weaknesses to be trawled while the Angel sought the means of his undoing.
He allowed them to help him — her — stand and be ushered towards the door and the cars waiting in the street below. Said: “Gabriel...”
“He’s on his way home, Ashley. On a plane now.”
“Yes,” he said, tasting the rightness of it. On his way back into New York City, back into his glassy territory. There would be more blood. He could feel the song singing in his veins. One more sacrifice and then the dance could truly begin.
“We’re going to get you to a hospital. Get you checked out.” The olive skinned police man said soothingly. “But everything’s going to be okay now. It’s over. I promise.”
Ah, the Angel savoured the already broken promise, wondered why these humans were compelled to promise what they couldn’t deliver.
“Yes...” he — she — said again picturing the face of the last dead man walking back into his cold embrace. “Gabriel.”
It was almost time. Almost time.