Return Of the Fallen. Rita Vetere
punctuated by a painful, searing stitch in her side. She rammed her nearly frostbitten hands into the pockets of her heavy pea jacket and looked around, not recognizing the squalid neighborhood she had entered. Up ahead, rising above the other ramshackle constructions on the street, she glimpsed the flickering neon sign of a dingy-looking hotel.
The man in her house tonight had been one of Jared’s, she was sure of it. Jared. The name caused a rush of black emotion to wash over her. The past clamored around her, furiously trying to force its way in. “Not yet,” she whispered to herself, pushing the images aside. First, she had to get to safety, someplace she could think in peace, undisturbed. She looked again at the rundown hotel. The O and T of the neon sign had blacked out, so that it read H EL. Figuring she was indeed about to enter hell, she limped over to the entrance of the decrepit building and pushed through the glass entry door to the lobby.
Stark florescent light glared from the ceiling. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a cockroach skittering across the cracked tile floor in search of refuge. Off to the right was a shabby green couch, its arms so worn the wood showed through, its ripped upholstery daring anyone to sit. The caged registration desk on her left was unattended. From an open doorway beyond it, Justine spied the edge of an old armchair and small table, upon which a half-empty bottle of whisky sat, the amber liquid glowing in the flickering light of a TV.
A sign posted on the enclosure informed her she should ring for service. She punched the bell on the counter and glanced over her shoulder. The man chasing her might run by at any minute and spot her inside.
A moment later, a man emerged from the room beyond and shuffled over to the counter. He was rail-thin with pock-marked skin, long greasy hair and a face only a stone-blind mother could love.
“How much for the night?” Justine asked, realizing she did not know if she had enough cash on her to pay for a room. She’d grabbed some money from the dresser before leaving for dinner with Edmond earlier and, hoping she had enough, yanked out some bills from the pocket of her jeans.
“Thirty’ll do it,” Greasy Hair responded.
The strong odor of alcohol on the man’s breath caused her to back up a bit. She counted the money—two twenties, a ten and two fives, she was relieved to see—extracted a twenty and a ten, and stuffed the rest back into her pocket.
When she slid the notes through the opening, the man leered at her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Just gimme the key,” she snapped.
Resentment crossed his features, which did nothing to improve his looks. He turned and grabbed a key attached to a wooden slat with the numbers 827 on it. “Eighth floor. Elevator’s not working. You can take the stairs.”
Certain he had plenty of rooms available on the lower floors—the place wasn’t exactly overrun with customers—she was tempted to reach through the opening and grab him by his scrawny neck. She could kill him if she chose to, and the knowledge caused her irritation to abate a little. She picked up the key and, flicking him a look that would incinerate a rat at ten feet, glanced around for the stairwell. It was in the corner, next to the furniture that didn’t want to be sat on.
Up on the eighth floor, she walked to the end of the hallway and stood in front of the door marked 827. One of the numbers had come unhinged and hung upside down. She stared at it for a moment. It looked much the same way she felt. After entering, she took the precaution of turning the lock and sliding the deadbolt into place, even though the door looked as if a good draft would probably knock it down.
The room consisted of a double bed with a lumpy mattress, a scratched wooden end table sporting a lamp with a skewed shade and a splintery old dresser, which was further maligned by a cracked mirror that hung over it.
The place reeked of sweat and sex. The blue carpeting was worn through in places and covered in stains, the origins of which she did her best not to ponder. She opened the only other door in the room. Behind it she discovered a rust-covered sink, mildewed shower and stained toilet. She shut the door again. Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but then again, thirty dollars didn’t go very far in this city.
Justine turned off the overhead light, moved to the only window and pushed aside the dusty curtains to peer out. The street below was deserted save for a homeless man who had taken shelter in an alley across the way. He staggered around for a bit, then hunkered down and draped an old blanket over his tattered coat in an effort to keep warm. Satisfied her pursuer hadn’t seen her enter the building, she kicked off her boots and shook out of her coat, letting it drop to the floor. Stretched out on the bed, she crossed her arms over her chest, braced herself and allowed the past to enter.
Chapter 5
After tracking the Symphonic disturbance through a bitterly cold night, Raziel crouched in the shadows of the alley where he had taken refuge. An icy wind ripped through the stained and dirt-encrusted coat he now wore. Anyone looking at him would have seen only a destitute mortal indistinguishable from the homeless men he had witnessed earlier on the frozen streets of this place called Toronto.
He fixed his gaze on the eighth floor window of the rundown building directly across the road. His sharp eyes detected slight movement at the curtain and the momentary appearance of a woman. It was from her the jarring dissonance emanated.
She had spied him lurking in the alleyway, but his appearance must have caused her to dismiss him, for a moment later, the curtain stilled and she disappeared from view.
Shockingly, now that he was in proximity to it, Raziel recognized the dissonance as being Nephilim in nature. As far as he knew, no Nephilim had walked the Earth for many centuries. Not since the destruction of Atlantis and the annihilation of its inhabitants had a member of the fallen race been detected. And yet, there was no mistaking the soulless vibration emitted by the offspring of an angel and a mortal. She was one of the race he had assumed to be extinct, and the thought jolted him.
The memory of the great slaughter rose in his consciousness like a red tide, causing an involuntary shudder to run through him. The extermination of the fallen race, both before and after the great flood, counted among the most vicious of the angelic wars. The subsequent destruction of Atlantis and its doomed inhabitants following the re-emergence of the Nephilim on Earth had been equally brutal. And now, one of the fallen race had turned up again. It boded ill.
Distraught, Raziel debated the wisdom of sounding an alarm and invoking angelic intervention, but he could already envision the celestial uproar when it was discovered this Nephilim had existed on Earth undetected for years. Raziel was the only remaining Watcher. He should have sensed her presence the moment she had entered the world, yet he had detected nothing until now. For this, he had only himself to blame. Had he been attending to the Symphony, had he not withdrawn from civilization to such a dangerous degree, he would most certainly have detected the dissonance caused by the return of one of the fallen before now.
No, he would not sound an alarm. He was capable of dealing with the matter himself, before another celestial got wind of it. His instinct, however, cautioned him against acting hastily. Better to watch and wait for the time being, at least until the Nephilim emerged from the building, so he could deal with her without attracting attention. Although the matter was urgent, Raziel refused to act on impulse. It was bad enough he would be forced to kill her, a task that went completely against his gentle nature. The law, though, was unquestionable with regard to the fallen race. They were not permitted to live. If he took care of her himself without involving other celestials, he could at least grant her a painless death and put an end to the entire matter without instigating a celestial storm.
His decision made, Raziel sat with his back against the cold wall, oblivious of the extreme temperature, making himself one with the frozen ground. Through half-closed lids, his gaze remained riveted to the building where the Nephilim was ensconced, in anticipation of her exit and the act he would be forced to carry out.
Chapter 6
In much the same way Justine had kept the past at bay while in flight, she reversed the process now, allowing the memories that clamored