The Perdition Score. Richard Kadrey

with luck she’ll do something stupid.

      The problem is, she’s taking her sweet time about it. Neither one of us is landing a killing blow, but she manages to get close to my right arm, setting my coat sleeve on fire. I don’t have time to put it out as she charges in again. I aim under her sword arm, hoping that if I can catch her at the right moment, the tightened chain mail will give way. I get the shot in, but the mail doesn’t budge. She smiles, thinking she’s winning, and I’m afraid she might be right. In the second she takes to gloat, I get to wave my arm enough to put out my burning sleeve. Something is going to give here soon and I’m afraid it might be me.

      When she comes at me again, I feel the parking meter under my foot. I kick it at her and it glances off her left knee, slowing her just long enough to pull the Colt Peacemaker I keep in my waistband at the back. Normally, shooting bullets at an armored angel is a bigger waste of time than teaching algebra to cats, but I don’t use ordinary bullets. I dip mine in Spiritus Dei, a rare and excruciatingly expensive potion. It can cure wounds when used right, and when it isn’t, it will kill pretty much anything that walks, crawls, or flies. I don’t know what the bullets will do to angelic armor, but desperate times call for stupid choices and I’m the world champion of those.

      I fire three times right into her heart. The bullets hitting the celestial armor sound like someone smashing a church bell with a sledgehammer. The bad news is, while the bullets dent her armor, none get through. She takes a step back, realizes what I did, and laughs at me. I’ll admit it. That hurts a little. It also leaves her open, though, so I shoot her where she isn’t armored. The first shot rips off part of her right ear. The second goes through her cheek. The third bullet goes straight through her eye. She staggers, goes down on one knee. There’s no time to see if she’s playing possum. I charge her.

      Even hurt, she’s still strong and partially deflects my blow, but I spin my Gladius around and rake it across the side of her throat.

      I don’t know what kind of vitamins they have in Heaven, but even wounded, she looks like the berserker in her is making a comeback. She lunges at me, but she’s slow and she knows it. She has one hand to her throat, but she’s leaking blood down the front of her armor. I get ready to move in again, but before I can take two steps, she hammers her Gladius into the sidewalk, splitting open the pavement. I go down flat on my ass, but manage to keep my Gladius up to block her next blow, only there isn’t one.

      The angel staggers back and her Gladius flickers out. Then she does the one thing I’ve never seen an angel do in front of civilians. She rolls back her shoulders, allowing her enormous wings to sprout from under her armor.

      She points a shaky finger at me and rasps, “You aren’t part of this, Abomination. Give me the box.”

      “How about we go to Musso’s instead? Martinis are on me.”

      She flaps her wings and lifts from the cracked street.

      “There will be others coming for you,” she says.

      I nod. “There always are. You should get going. It looks like you’re running a quart low.”

      With her hand still at her throat, she pumps her wings hard and banks over the Egyptian Theatre, disappearing into the starless Hollywood sky.

      Like I said, it’s usually a bad move for angels to reveal themselves like that on a street in front of dumb-ass mortals, but after our little slap fight, I don’t think it matters much. However, with her gone, I’m feeling a bit naked and exposed. I might be fast and strong, but lousy nephilim like me, we don’t have wings. And I can’t disappear into a shadow anymore. I let my Gladius go out, dive into the Catalina, and hit the accelerator, using the steel nose of the beast to shove the lighter modern plastic cars out of the way. In a few seconds, I see a clear spot between the abandoned cars and blast through it. I take the corner on two wheels and keep going.

      My heart feels like it’s gone twelve rounds with Mechagodzilla and my burned arm hurts like part of me has been deep-fried. Why didn’t she set fire to my Kissi arm? That thing is pretty much everything-proof. But no, she had to get my meat arm instead. If I didn’t know better I’d swear there was no God. But I do know better and the worst I can truly say is that I wish he was better at his job.

      I picture the angel flapping into the sky like an armored goose and wonder how many traffic, store security, and ATM cameras caught our square dance. LAPD already has video of me stealing cars. Now they’re going to have shots of me playing laser tag with a celestial tweaker. Nothing I can do about it now.