A Field Guide To The Angels In Brooklyn

CHAPTER 1

Belgium, November 30, 1 P.M.

"I have parchment affecting universal order needed now in the New World. Has the messenger been arranged?" Goochelaar Kwaad asked.

"Your Excellency," said a Principality, "It has been summoned and awaits orders. It waits to serve outside your Library. A trusted Guardian."

"Put this package into it." Goochelaar Kwaad placed documents into the Fallen Angel's hands. "Send it off. Make it aware that delay will have memorable consequences."

The Principality bowed again, took the papers, and said, "Your Excellency, your envelope is not sealed."

Goochelaar Kwaad stepped forward and backhanded the Principality's face. "Who serves? Do you believe I do not know my own business? That I need your help?" He grabbed the Principality's face. "No, I think not. Once you finish my errand, I have something that will teach you proper reverence and humility."

"Yes, Excellency. I will not contemplate or interfere in the matters of the Choir Most High." Bowing repeatedly, the Principality backed out of Kwaad's office.

Once outside, however, he stood up straight. What an asshole, he thought. Try to make it look like he has a clue, and he breaks my lip open.

On a shelf hewn from the living rock in the hallway outside Goochelaar Kwaad's Library sat the Guardian, a small red creature. A Fallen Angel of the lowest rank, without Angelic or human form, it was no more than a pouch, but it was fleet, accurate, and dedicated to its sacred delivery mission. That failure meant the Lake of Fire for him was much less a punishment than to fail at his assignment.

"Sorry to have selected you for this task," the Principality told him, "as I would be sorry for any Angel, but you know the domains of Bellilyn, and this needs to be in Nieuw Amsterdam Stad immediately. Dirty and noisome, it's among the most consistently pestilent cities on the planet, I've heard our brethren say..." He slipped the papers inside the Guardian and closed the skin flap, sealing them in. "Give this to your most trusted intermediary. Say only, deliver this immediately."

"To whom may I give gratitude that my intermediary has the privilege to serve?" the Guardian replied in his native language of clicks and chirps.

"Xavius."

With that, the Fallen Guardian vanished on its mission.

--

Brooklyn, November 30, 7 A.M,

The surf kite's lines rang as Alastar tacked against the wind, He skimmed the surface of the Rockaway Inlaat and flew out into the Oplishter Island Kanaal. He adjusted his grip en the IDS bar and checked the steering and centerlines of his new crossbow kite. Quinn and Liam hung back to see if the money he had invested was worth it.

Wearing full winter wetsuits against the forty-five-degree water, the three friends circled southeast until they faced up-channel toward Jamaica Bay. Here the strong west wind grabbed hold of Alastar's kite, and he took off, shredding the kreek and moving with great speed in perfect rhythm with the flow of air and water. It was an effortless ride verging on flight.

He slid into an aerial three-sixty as a wall of water rose from the bay, rolling straight at him, its surface a throbbing plasma. The wave glimmered, lit by pulsating orbs; the palisade of water was building as if a great hand was pushing it forward. He guided his kite toward heaven so that he could vault the wave, then forced the bar down at the last moment. The glimmering wave blocked the midday sun. It was too damned high. He plowed directly into it. Inside the wave appeared not blue water, but the night sky filled with brilliant stars and peopled by dense but fluid orange, yellow, and red orbs. A piercing metallic whine filled the interior of a massive space. The sound was coming from the orbs. Could they be communicating? If so, it didn't sound friendly.

Alastar lost his kite but finally emerged from the wave. His board rocketed into the sky, snapping its leash.

Stunned and free from the encumbrances of modern windsurfing, Alastar crashed hard and sank into the bay.

It could have been a blink or a day later when he awoke floating in the bay. Liam had gone after the kite and board. Quinn slowed until he dropped into the water near Alastar.

"Yo, Starman! You develop a fear of flying?? You just fell out of the sky, like a shot mallard."

"Where'd that wave go? I thought we were all dead. Never saw anything like it—"

"-whoa, Alastar. Chill, What wave? The water is glassy and chilly, but big waves? I must say no. You got some awesome air. Must've been fifteen feet up, but talk about a crash landing. Icarus would be empathetic.

Starman's fall to the bay will live on fondly in my memory for a long time." He paused. "You stayed down a long time. I would've left if it were anyone else, but I believe you owe me something."

"Eat shit," Alastar said, pushing his body upright. "Did Liam see the wave?"

"Liam's gone to collect your gear. You can ask him when we meet up. You gonna be okay to re-launch?" 

Alastar looked fairly freaked; his face in the water had an unhealthy, corpse-like glow. He was treading water now, rotating clockwise like a radar beacon. He could tell he was in calm waters. Looking skyward, his gaze spiraling down as he rotated, he searched in every direction. He saw a bright blue sky, though high and far to the east wispy clouds heralded a change in the weather. Spiraling down, he had seen ships heading out into the Atlantic, the Rockaway Peninsula, and the planes landing at Gelderland Luchthaven. He could also see Corlear Beach and (at sea level) Quinn.

Where, Alastar thought, where could the empty wave have come from? The channel? Wrong direction. Such a wave could not arise in the shallow bay, and the bay to the east was shallower still. "Yeah," he said aloud. "I don't know what came over me. I'll be fine."

"Could be you saw Oude Sidhe," Quinn said. "The temp's gonna drop from our balmy fifties into the high teens. When the mercury drops more than two inches a day, even grizzled old surfers stow their kites until May,"

If you didn't see that wave of dread, Alastar thought, I'm sure you didn't hear those demon horns leading the parade into Brooklyn.

The two surfers re-launched Quinn's bow kite and rode in tandem until they caught up with Liam, who had caught up with Alastar's stuff.

--

Sunset Park, Brooklyn, November 30, 7 P.M.

Fallon was sitting on an icy concrete bench outside the park that gave Sunset Park its name and watching the apartment building burn. A chill was creeping through his thin pants into his legs and back. Although the flames rising skyward from the first-floor windows drove back the falling snow and lit the night, they failed to warm his heart. He could easily hear the fire feeding from half a block away, but he did not feel its warmth on his face. A fire in someone's home usually brightened his mood. That was why he had set this fire on the last night of November. Fallon needed cheering up.

His chronic melancholy, a cocktail of boredom, loneliness, and eternal loss, provoked obsessive thinking, but fire's dance and sensuous voice had lifted his spirits more than once. Tonight, however, even the blaze could not pull him from the grip of the frigid eastern wind, a wind that bit with grit as sharp as any urban predator's teeth. Whatever was coming, it was taking shape. He could sense it.

The wind's a herald, he said to himself. It boasts of unearned burdens, dangerous beings, and cold, lonely times. It's the leading edge of a storm of bad luck, pain, and sorrow. Sloshing in his head, these morose thoughts effectively countered the fire's soothing effects.

Ashes from the burning building were now replacing the snow flurries. The large, warm flakes left gray streaks on Fallon's blue child's blanket. Catching a flake on his tongue, he enjoyed the pleasant nutty-sooty flavor with a hint of burned blackberries.

Fallon began to detect a faint but unmistakable scent, one separate from the miasma created by the burning building. One which contained generous portions of molten tar, oxidizing plastic, and burnt lumber. Fallon licked his lips. This sulfuric smell meant he would be leaving his fire soon. Yet he still had a quiet moment to engrave the scene into his memory.

Fallon carefully surveyed the scene and determining that no one was looking his way he snuck a drink from his ever-present flask; he considered his flask to be a close, if not his best, friend.

Now someone was coming to enjoy it with him. He could gauge when his visitor would arrive at the portal by the increasing pungency of its miasma.

The stench, unique among all others, might be attributed by the uninitiated to some new fuel added to the fire. It was unbelievably foul, and it soon became choking and acidic. It was not fuel, but the scent of a speeding Guardian, braking so its arrival did not end in a splat.

The Guardians had unique features among all the Fallen Angels' choirs. A Guardian's scent could be so foul, caustic, and clinging that the higher choirs had banned all Guardians from coming into their presence.

Whisker's aura embodied organic decay. This resulted from eons spent racing and braking through a mist of brimstone and the ashes and less processed parts of incinerated Angels. His scent, a blend of the charnel house, canker, rot, and burned brakes, preceded him, and lingered.

Guardians alone among the Fallen Angels had chosen to forgo human appearance. To Fallon, Whisker looked like a pulsating red tripe pouch. Guardians were the lowest rank of the Fallen. Fallon, a Principality, held the next lowest rank. But Fallon's luck and job made him feel equally abused, if not equal to a Guardian.

Fallon sat on a stone and manufactured wood bench. The slats were purple, imprinted with a woodgrain. The bench sat beside a granite wall covered with long dead morning glory and overhung by the skinny branches of leafless trees. He had positioned the portal beneath the bench where no one would see it. From long practice, he gauged the instant of arrival and plunged his arm into the portal, grabbing the Guardian and dragging it onto this plane of existence.

"So," he adopted a jovial tone, "what do you have to say for yourself this evening?"

Whisker emitted a series of buzzes and chirps in a language known to Fallon. It sounded like an irate cricket. Its answer to Fallon's question went on until Fallon said, "If you think traveling the spirit plane is so bad, you should try sitting in this ill wind waiting for a stinking small creature who doesn't even say hello when it shows up."

Both Fallen Angels were members of the Solvo Ordo Abyssus, a lodge of Minor Fallen Angels, who, like the Ronin of ancient Japan, were forced to serve any members of the superior choirs without compensation for their labor.

The buzzing stopped. After a moment's silence, Whisker said in Fallon's language, "I'm sorry. I thought only of myself. Hello, Fallon."

"Hello, yourself. What are you bringing that will make me regret your existence this time?"

Whisker popped open his flap, revealing an envelope.

Fallon lifted the envelope from the Guardian's body, frowning. As Fallon withdrew the envelope, Whisker said, "The Principality who called me said, 'You are to deliver this immediately under pain of extreme torment and various rude behaviors by and from the Cherub."

"No one tells this Nieuw Amsterdammer," he continued as Whisker moved its eyes to stare at him, "when to pack up camp and begin the pilgrimage, not even a well-meaning Principality, 'cause a command never bodes well. And this comes from a Cherub, which bodes even worse. Not a decent one fell. And it's from Maliphius' territory, at that."

Fallon opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper and another envelope. Printed on the paper were the words, Deliver the accompanying envelope to an Ophan residing in Nieuw Amsterdam Stad known as Seamus. This is as Goochelaar Kwaad wills, Goochelaar Kwaad Cherub Serving the Exalted Maliphius, Seraph.

Fallon shook his head. "Seamus and I have a one-sided and abusive history that sours our every interaction.

Seamus is a sneaky, mean, and nasty piece of work. He's not been happy with anything I've done for him in the past. Mind ya, I get the job done every time. I'm sure any Cherub that's got business with him is a like type but on a grander scale."

Whisker lay on the bench, pulsing, his red flesh glowing like embers. He spoke again in clicks and buzzes.

Fallon laid the note on the bench and set Whisker on top of it to keep it from blowing away.

"Careful," Fallon said, "don't singe my correspondence." Then he examined the other envelope. Made from living skin and known as a "seal and scab," it had no scab. Fallon lifted the flap with his thumb and forefinger and teased it open. The liquid sound as the skin separated set Whisker off on a long, loud buzz.

"Shut up, you petulant little beast. I didn't break the scab. There was no scab. Nobody sealed it!" Fallon muttered, "Which is probably your fault, ma petite bête." Whisker continued his buzzing, clicking tirade.

"Oh, what a sensitive little angel you've become," Fallon said. "I know the Cherubs are to blame. The higher-ups are to blame for all our agonies. But they don't go near your kind, so you're at no risk. I'm as low on the ladder as they go, and I'm the one who pays when they're pissed."

Then he removed the letter from the envelope. "Mia Besteto! This is an old hand I've not seen in a long time." Scratching his chin, he looked down at Whisker. "It must be six or seven hundred years. Takes me back."

"And," the Guardian said, "you shouldn't be seeing it now."

"Tut, tut, my little friend." Fallon read the letter aloud:

You will come to my residence. You have the privilege to be of service. I am at Flanders Fortress. Do not keep me waiting.

- Goochelaar Kwaad
Cherub in Service to the Exalted Maliphius, Seraph.²

"Well, well," Fallon muttered, "this one is full of himself. Seamus is gonna be extremely annoyed, and that is never good for the messenger. What a lousy way for winter to begin."

He put the letter back into the envelope, then tucked the envelope and the note to himself back into Whisker and asked, "Who wrote the note to me?"

"Principality who called me."

"This Principality have a name?"

"Probably. Most of them do." Whisker watched the sad, gray expression spread across Fallon's face, yet he was reluctant to give up the name. "That's an impressive fire you've set," he added in a conciliatory tone.

They both looked and saw that the fire was now hungrily consuming the second floor. All but helpless, the firefighters were falling back.

"Fallon," Whisker continued, "I think we should stay and watch for a while." This obviously suggested a mutual insult to the higher ranks.

"From your mouth, I question nothing. I will obey your command." Fallon took out and drank from his ever-present flask. Then he saw the blue uniform and hard eyes looking at him.

A large young cop in a crisp blue tunic seemed happy to have discovered something to do other than watching the fire in the freezing cold and getting his uniform jacket covered with ash. He headed toward Fallon at a military double-time pace. Arriving at the bench, he stopped and made a face that showed his displeasure with the local odor.

Fallon pretended to be alone.

"Sir," the cop said.

Fallon kept watching the fire as if he had not heard anyone speaking.

"Sir. Can you hear me?" Fallon still ignored him.

The cop leaned in and tapped Fallon on the shoulder with his baton, but not hard enough to knock the ash off his shoulder. He did not want to touch him, not even with a baton in his gloved hand.

"Come on, man," he said. "I saw the flask. You know as well as me, no drinking within a hundred yards of a community park. Plus, there is no drinking on a public street. And I can see that you want to add disobeying a lawful order and resisting arrest to your list of offenses." The cop's tone was starting to heat up.

Although a night in lockup might be more pleasant than one with Seamus, Fallon's plan for the evening did not include a vagrancy arrest. He continued to play "I don't hear you" as he quietly buzzed and clicked.

In response, Whisker directed a stronger stream of his odor in the cop's direction.

The cop took a quick step backward. "Ach, you're foull" Never taking his eyes off the Fallen Angel, the cop retreated a dozen more steps and spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio. Fallon focused on the conversation.

"This is Foot Patrol 12. beat Sunset Park North," the cop said. "I got a nutcase. Public intoxication. Crapped his pants while I was talking to him. He may be one of those mentally ill homeless assholes."

He listened to static and vague voices before the dispatcher said, "EMS has an ETA in six to ten minutes."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"If I were either fucking you or kidding you, you would not need to ask. You would instinctively know."

"Roger that," Foot Patrol 12 said.

"You hear that?" Fallon clicked to Whisker. "We need to be leaving."

"You need to watch your drinking," Whisker said.

"Now is no time to be lecturing me on my drinking habits."

"Okay. Let me go through the portal. I'll wait on the other side."

"I need you with me," Fallon said. He stood up and pulled his blanket tighter. "You can't go through the portal."

Speaking to no one in particular, "Stinking skank," the cop spoke into his radio again. "Foot Patrol 12. Our nutcase has collapsed. I'm going over to see what I can do." He touched a button that put the radio on mute and, spinning his baton, marched back toward Fallon, who took this as a call to action. Closing in, the cop gripped the baton like a spear. As he came within striking distance of Fallon, he pulled his arm back, preparing to launch the baton at the drunk rising from the bench.

Whisker countered by lancing a thin, concentrated stream of his scent into the cop's face. Then, stepping into him, Fallon slammed him down on the bench. The young officer passed out.

Fallon said, "Whisker, again." The guardian upped the intensity. Nodding in satisfaction, Fallon shoved the Guardian into his pocket. When Whisker buzzed with fury, Fallon slammed his fist into the pocket, changing the timbre of the Guardian's protest but not silencing him. Then he reached under the bench, grabbed portal, and slapped it on his head like a beret. Finally, he walked away.

Two spectators of the apartment house fire were watching from a distance as Fallon seated the officer.

Said one to the other, "You think he got the gun?"

"Could be."

Fallon passed them, and they followed. As he walked, he folded his blanket and stuffed it into his pocke Reaching deeper, he pulled out a fleece-lined denim jacket, which he put on. Where, he wondered, would Seamus be? Not one of his hangouts was in Brooklyn, despite its growing status as the place to live. No, Fallo would have to ride the train into Nieuw Amsterdam Stad itself.

"Let me return to the spirit plane," Whisker called from his pocket. "I will wait at the portal, ready to pounce should the opportunity present itself."

Fallon frowned and stuck one hand back in the pocket. "You know I don't like riding the Metro alone," he said. "Besides, you're liable to be grabbed and dragged across the big, wide-open spirit plane. T'would be the darkest night of my soul. I'll put you in my jacket, right next to my heart. It'll be like you're at your mother's teat."

"You know I have no moth-"

"Yes, I do know," Fallon said at an indiscreet volume. "But try to use your dim spirit to imagine a mother. Give you something to do on our ride into Manhattan."

Two guys passed Fallon and, hearing him talking to himself, promptly headed up the street. Local delinquents, as teens and now adults, they had remained local to stake their claim on the route between the park and the station; their idea was to make this part of Kings County their private hunting ground. At the station stairway, Fallon grabbed the handrail and climbed down the stairs to the station to take the R train across the East River Bridge.

"That's repugnant and unnecessary," Whisker clicked.

"Then sit still and shut your flap."

Fallon paid his fare, descended to the platform, and walked as far from the tracks and as close to the wall as possible. He preferred standing with the wall to his back and riding in the car with the conductor during off hours.

As he approached his spot, a utility vault door sprang open, and the larger of the two thugs pulled him in, slammed the door shut, threw him down on the floor, and pinned him there with a knee.

"Listen, Grandpa, give everything up, and you won't get cut, not too bad, maybe," said the smaller, younger man with bad breath and a knife.

"Easy, Brothers," Fallon said. "My billfold's in my jacket."

The young thug stuck his knife in Fallon's cheek, not too deep, but deep enough, he believed, to demonstrate to the old man he meant business and wasn't someone he should fuck with. Fallon reacted like a man already dead. He did not move.

Patting him down, the bigger guy asked, "You get the cop's gun? We want the fucking gun."

"No, my son, I didn't get the gun."

"Georgie," said the smaller thug, "don't talk to that old piece of shit. Search him."

"Thanks, Mike, I will."

"Oh, bad luck." Mike grinned, gap-toothed, and pushed his knife through Fallon's cheek, saying to him, "Now you know our names, seen our faces."

Fallon's mouth filled with blood.

"No, brother," Fallon said, spraying blood on both his attackers. "It's too dark, and I'm too scared to remember anything about tonight. Never saw you...this never happened. I've a flask in my pocket, I'll drain it and be a simple ol' drunk."

"I think you're telling me the truth," Mike pulled the knife out of Fallon's cheek and pushed the knife into his nose, "and I do hope you have that flask. But I'm not gonna rely on your loss of memory to be my protection, plus getting you out of my realm is necessary." Fallon's nose and sinuses filled with blood.

"Mike, we don't need to kill him."

"I say we do, Georgie. This waste of life is headed for hell, tonight."

Fallon sneezed, creating a mist of blood apparent to him, but otherwise unseen in the dim light.

The only light came in from under the station door, which allowed more than enough light for Fallon to see the two young men. Mike pressed the blade harder, slicing through his nasal cartilage. George rested his weight on Fallon's chest and pulled out Fallon's flask with his free hand. After setting the flask on Fallon's chest, he reached back in and pulled Whisker out of Fallon's jacket.

"Oh, man! This thing stinks!" George spat out as his last slice of pizza came up. He stretched his hand with Whisker in it toward Mike, who reached out for it. At the instant both hands held him, Whisker went from tepid to white hot, searing the men's fingers to himself. They could not drop him. Their hands began to smoke. Their fingers sprouted flames.

Fallon rolled out from under the two thugs, stood, and with a rag he pulled from his pocket he wiped his face.

"George," he said, "puking on me was a step too far." He reclaimed his beloved flask from the floor. "You, Mikey, are a vile rodent," Fallon said wiping away the blood that was no longer running from his face. "Gonna kill an old man who did you no harm and was willing to give up his cash for some peace."

--

Mike and George were now up on their feet, dancing, facing each other, arms extended, holding the blazing Guardian. They performed quick little steps in a tight circle around Whisker, keening a dirge that Fallon imagined they sang for themselves. The heavy walls and vault door kept their manic lament trapped inside the utility vault.

"Mikey, ya think you're a scary monster? I'm sure when you menace the children and old women of Sunset Park they quiver and quake. But, Mike, I am a whole different level of horror. You'll be impressed."

Laughing, Fallon himself took a few mimicking steps. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a plastic poncho, which he slipped over his head. He checked to be certain it reached the floor. "This is some splendid party you boys have going here," he said. "What with the dancing, and the fire, but your singing is getting on my nerves."

Pulling a large, curved blade with a wooden handle out of the same pocket, he used a single motion, down, under, and up, and cut the hands holding Whisker free from their owners. Both thugs fell, George on his back, dying fast, his feet still kicking, blood pumping out of his wrist. The fall fractured his skull.

As Fallon picked up Whisker, the hands lost their grip, and he used the Guardian to cauterize Mike's wound, which caused his wail to peak on an E-8 note, tying the record for the highest sustained note by a male vocalist as he jammed his arm into his armpit and curled himself into a fetal position. In a moment, he was quiet.

"Mikey, your voice will deepen as you age," Fallon opined.

Fallon took his flask out of his pocket again. Putting it to his lips, he swallowed and smiled with contentment, then he stepped over to Mike and squeezed his nostrils closed until his mouth popped open, after which he poured some amber liquid down his throat.

"Mikey," he said, "you can tell by the taste of my liquor it ain't whiskey. It doesn't have a name you'd know. The taste is pleasant, and the side effects mild. The central effects are both interesting and intense. You won't sleep. Not ever again."

Mikey seemed alert, wincing when his eyes locked on the rapidly forming lake of blood flowing from George's wounds.

Fallon was still talking to him. "It increases your intake of sensations," he said. "Makes striking a match seem like the Fourth of July. A paper cut. Well, you don't want to think about that."

Mikey's twitching picked up its pace. His eyelids stretched wide open as his pupils dilated. His nostrils flared, but no breath hissed from his lips.

Fallon turned to the big guy and pulling his mouth open, he poured the liquor until his mouth was full. As soon as it drained down his neck, he called back to Mikey, "My friend, look this way."

When Mikey's eyes swiveled in his direction, Fallon cut off his friend's head, then set it down in front of Mikey, who went rigid and started vibrating at an inhuman rate. Fallon then sawed through George's rib cage and cut his heart and a bunch of other stuff out of his torso. He laid this near George's head.

"George," Fallon called out, "it's time to wake up."

The liquor animated the decapitated head, George's eyes peeled back. His mouth opened and closed.

Fallon didn't expect any sound to escape, but the head did speak. It asked a question. "Are you gonna kill us, man? Because that's not called for."

"Ya shoulda said something before I cut your head off, doncha think?" Fallon replied, "Besides, I'm not gonna kill Mikey here; I want him to remember this night."

"What is this shit in front of me?" George asked.

"Why, those are your innards. Your heart is there," Fallon said, nudging the muscle with his foot.

"Not my heart!" George said.

"Oh. Yes, your heart is not looking too good at the moment. Your liver," Fallon said, stepping on George's liver,

"is not red. It is mostly fatty deposits."

"You think you could keep your feet away from my vital organs?" George's head asked.

"Young man, you had only months, a few years before this...I was going to say before your liver would do what I am doing today."

"You suck, I didn't hurt you, that was Mikey, but you really fucked me up, it'll take me forever to get over this shit..." George said in his now fading voice,

"Longer than that."

As the head tried to speak again, the jaw motion caused it to fall over on its right ear. One eye was submerged in the pool of blood, the other was fixed on Mike. Sensing George's need for both eyes, Fallon righted the head, which worked its jaw in tiny motions that Fallon interpreted as "thank you."

"You're welcome, my friend," he said cheerfully. "But be careful," he added, wiping the blood out of George's eye with a well-used tissue. "If you keep rolling over, you might drown."

"Maybe I'll sue you," George's head, motionless as a ventriloquist's mouth, whispered.

"You would be the first person to bring your own wrongful death suit in Nieuw Amsterdam Stad."

"I don't think so. I'll hire the nastiest fucking ambulance chaser in Nieuw Amsterdam Stad." The head moved too much and rolled over again.

"Now, now," Fallon admonished him, "watch your Brooklynese." Gazing down at Mike's now sweat-and-blood-soaked body, he added, "We don't wanna put yer dirty words into Mikey's innocent ears. Look-he's curled up tighter than a wee babe.

"I was the one who didn't want to kill you, and I said so," George said, "and you let that worm off the hook."

"Surely, I cut the head off the wrong fellow," he mused. "Is it too late to go back on that?"

He looked at George's head again. It was now lying on its back, both eyes blank and fixed on the darkness above. "George," Fallon said, setting the head so its neck was facing up and pouring a large amount of his liquor in.

As the liquor seeped into the head, George's eyes opened wide, and his mouth smiled. "Oh, that stuff is good. I suppose I'm obligated to you...uncle."

"I suppose you are, but when did we become family?" Fallon replied. He turned to Mikey. "Mikey, you know I won't do shit for you."

"You have called me brother and son, I think I'll stick with uncle," George's head said. "Regarding Mikey, I got more faith than that, uncle," George's head said.

"Ah, shut yer trap," Fallon said as he lifted George's head and dropped it into his pocket. Then, he turned again and picked Whisker up. The Guardian waited patiently beside the vault, enjoying Fallon's performance.

"Thank you, my friend," Fallon said with the ring of friendship in his voice. Whisker's clicks and buzzes indicated warm friendship. What he said, in fact, was, "What's a Guardian for?"

"That's why I want you with me," Fallon replied, the two guys and the sundry body parts on the floor forgotten. "If it'd been just me alone and you were on the spirit plane, I'd've faced those two as a motherless child."

"I would have burst through the portal and gladly joined the fight," Whisker cooed.

"T'm saying l'm keeping you close to my nipple."

"You're disgusting." Whisker jumped out of Fallon's hand and slipped deep into the pocket of Fallon's denim jacket.

Immediately, Fallon heard the explosion of Guardian Invective to the effect of, Why is this fucking head in here? And how come it's talking? In a conspiratorial tone, Fallon said, "He may be useful if we're investigating and need an eye on the target."

"Could you put him in a plastic bag?" Whisker asked. "He's getting blood and other stuff all over everything." Sticking his hand deep into his pocket, Fallon moved George's head into a small dog bed. Pulling a towel out of the same pocket, he wiped his blade and then used the towel to rub the blood into the general filth on his shoes. He stowed the blade away in the pocket, then peeled off his poncho and tossed it and the towel on top of the headless body.

"Mikey, lad, have another drink," Fallon said as he held Mikey's nose closed and poured the liquor into the guy's mouth. Mikey sat up and choked. After a while, he looked at Fallon, and when they locked eyes, Fallon said, "Mikey, you will never sleep again while you live, and you will live no matter what you do. The train is coming, so I'll call 9-1-1 and say goodbye.*

When he opened the door, only a crack, Fallon could hear the approaching Metro. He stepped onto the station platform, then turned and set the lock, which engaged as the door closed.

When the train came to a stop, Fallon was waiting under the Stand Here During Off-Hours sign, which was orange and displayed civilian and police stick figures. He could hear Mike crying and banging against the door.

The conductor heard nothing.

Fallon nodded to the conductor, who nodded back and checked both ends of the station, so he could safely close the doors.

Fallon, Whisker, George's head, the conductor, and several other passengers settled in the car. They rode the noisy Metro under de Grote Appel's peel into Nieuw Amsterdam Stad.

Fallon could hear Whisker chirping and George's head cheerfully singing.