Page 64 of The Morning Star
“Did you talk to everyone? Are they onboard and ready to go?” I asked Snip.
“Yes, I did, and yes they are.” Snip gestured toward Gimlet with a flourish that would have done Vanna White proud. “And I brought Gimlet, just as you requested.
“Where’s my cookies?” the other Low demanded. “And my milk?”
“Downstairs next to the naughty and nice list, and my giant bag of toys for the stockings.” I rolled my eyes. “I even bought those nasty fucking oatmeal raisin things, just for you. I’ll get them later, when we’re done talking here. There’s more important things than cookies and milk to think about right now.”
Gimlet leveled me with a stern gaze. “There’s nothing more important than cookies and milk. Nothing.”
Actually, I kind of agreed with him, just not oatmeal raisin.
“Later.” I turned back to Snip. “Based on what Doriel tells me, we’re probably going to move in the next day. Two at the max. This guy has no patience, and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to settle in for a siege and try to either wait us out or force our hand by killing off humans. He wants a fight, and he’s embarrassed about the thing in LA.”
Gimlet eyed the Cheetos again. “Watch the gates during the attack. I’d make a big deal of marching an army across the pass with a huge show of power, and in the meantime hit those other five gates. Bogota was a disaster, but if he can get a few dozen decent warmongers and their households through the other gates, the angels will be toast. They’ll never be able to defend seven different locations.”
I totally agreed. “And I’d use the big look-at-me, look-at-me battle to get small groups of demons out into the rest of the US. They’re all bunched up from San Francisco to Seattle, hemmed in by the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other. Get as many demons as he can out of there and spread out, then have them begin small-cell terrorist hits scattershot across the globe.”
Gimlet nodded, his bulbous eyes still on the snack food bag. “Angels can’t defend against that sort of attack. Never could and never will. They want everything all in battle formation. Idiots.”
Snip’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t they understand how demons fight?”
I snorted. “No, they don’t. They seriously think there’s going to be some organized battle with everyone all in nice neat lines by household with matching outfits and syncopated marching rhythms. Idiots.”
Gimlet leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms. “Angels. You would have thought after two-and-a-half-million years they would have gotten with the program a bit. They never learn, do they?”
No, they most certainly did not. And that’s probably one of the things I loved about them.
“Can’t we just sit this one out and let the angels take care of it?” Snip pleaded. “I don’t know how to fight this way. Just send us in to stab them in their sleep or something, but don’t make us line up and march and fight that way.”
“Just hide behind the angel with the biggest wingspan,” I advised. “Make sure you don’t whack him with a staff or anything, though. Shoot between his legs or something.”
“An angel shield.” Gimlet laughed. “I like that. You know, this sounds like fun. I might just be interested enough to get off my ass and watch.”
“I expect you to fight.”
A shadow flickered across his face, there one second and gone the next. “I don’t fight. Did it once and didn’t like it at all. I’ll watch instead. Maybe I’ll be the water boy. Or the cleanup crew.”
It was time to end this nonsense. “Can you give us a minute?” I asked Snip. The Low left with a hurt backward glance at me. I didn’t blame him. It was like a slumber party here, Gimlet and me sitting on my bed with a bag of Cheetos and a six pack of beer—none of which I wanted to share.
The other Low watched him leave, then again relaxed against the bedpost, fixing me with a look that was far too intelligent, far too knowing for a Low.
“Time to cut the crap,” I told him.
He regarded me, deadpan. “Gross, but okay. Horse? Human? Or are you expecting me to defecate on your bedspread? Is there a ritual weapon you plan to use for this shit-slicing, or should I run down and get a butter knife from the kitchen drawer?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You know exactly what I mean. When do you plan on telling them?” I asked Gimlet, not sure whether by them I meant the other Lows, the demons of Hel in general, or the archangels.
“I’m not very good at telling. I’m more of a ‘showing’ kind of demon. And I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Can you pass those Cheetos over here?”
I handed him the bag, knowing that I was going to have orange finger-smears all over my comforter. “Samael.”
I let the word hang there between us while Gimlet filled the silence with loud crunching noises. Sure enough, he wiped his fingers along my formerly snow-white comforter.
“Yep. That Samael is a bad dude. He’s going to kill a few million humans and thousands of angels. Then he’ll work his way across the globe like a fucking plague until nothing living is left here. Bad dude.”
“And he’ll do it all without proper immigration documentation either,” I drawled. “No laws, human or angelic are gonna stop a denizen of Hel bent on revenge. We’re gonna have to kill him, that’s all there is to it.” I leaned forward, putting my face on level with the Low’s bulging eyes. “But I’m talking about you, not whoever the fuck that is leading the army.”
Gimlet swallowed then dug his hand back into the bag of Cheetos, his eyes oddly intelligent as they met mine. “Me? I’s just a Low.”
