locusts, death of the firstborn, boils, frogs . . . Honey Boo Boo.”
The angel laughed then. “That last one was a joke, but you never can tell.”
The air was suddenly filled with the screams of an awakening populace.
The Broker looked terrified, pressed against the wall of his abode.
“It works fast,” Francis said, the cries spreading and growing louder by the second. “I doubt it’ll take long.” He looked at the Broker. “It’ll take you last as a favor to me.”
He then moved toward the waiting car, opening the door to get into the driver’s seat.
“Wait!” the Broker yelled.
Francis paused, one foot in the car.
“We can talk. . . . Perhaps something could be done to lift the contract on the Seraphim—please.”
Francis slowly shook his head.
“Not all the pleases in the universe could get me to put this genie back in the bottle, and besides, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Once it’s released, it has to do its business; it could never be controlled.”
There was the shattering of glass above them and a demon fell through the broken window to land upon the street, obviously dead before he struck the ground. It was the Harvester that had told Francis what he needed to know, his face swollen horribly, thick blood like tar leaking from his mouth, nose, and eyes.
“Huh, I was wondering where he went.”
The Broker pushed off the wall with some obvious discomfort.
“Kill me,” the demon demanded. “I will lift the contract, and then allow you to kill me—just spare my people.”
Francis stared and then shook his head sadly.
“Now, why couldn’t you have been this reasonable before you pissed me off?” he said, climbing into the vehicle and slamming the door closed.
The Broker threw himself against the car, kicking and flailing with his useless arms as the world and all living things upon it were murdered by the Wrath of God.
Francis ignored the desperate actions of the Broker, reached over to turn on the radio, and tuned the channel to an oldies station, cranking up the Beach Boys to drown out the cries of the dying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They continued to dig at the base of the tree, careful so as not to disturb the crumbling ground around its base.
“We’re getting there,” Linda said breathlessly. She wiped the back of her hand across her sweating brow as she eyed the darkness within the hole.
A darkness that seemed to call to her.
“And why exactly are we digging around the abyss?” Ashley asked, pulling a handful of earth toward her.
Marlowe had gone to the other side of the tree and was digging and sniffing, sniffing and digging.
“I’m beginning to think you want the hole big enough for us to climb into,” Ashley complained.
Linda shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “We’re not going in.” She saw a place where the hole could be widened and went to the edge, reaching in to pull clumps of dirt away.
“That’s good,” Ashley responded. “Because I’m not sure what . . .”
“I am,” Linda interrupted, busily working at the hole. She could feel Ashley staring at her.
“You’re going into the hole?” the girl asked incredulously. “You’re going down into that abyss?”
“He’s down there, Ash,” Linda said. “I can feel him down there.”
“Down there,” Ashley repeated. “We don’t even know where ‘down there’ is . . . or what it is, for that matter.”
“Yeah, but we’re here for a reason, and I think me going down that hole is part of it.”
Linda was staring again into the blackness of what Ashley called “the abyss.” It was as good a name as any. She could feel its pull on her, something akin to that gentle tug on the hand when the water of a full sink went down the drain. Only this was a tug upon something much deeper.
This was a tug upon her soul.
“No.” Ashley seemed flustered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea; in fact, I think it’s horrible. We have to stay together.” She looked around. “Wherever ‘here’ even is. If I lose somebody to talk to . . .”
Marlowe appeared from around the tree.
“Sorry, baby, but you’re not much of a conversationalist.” Ashley apologized to the Labrador. “I don’t know what I’d do here alone.”
“You’ll help to keep him alive,” Linda stated simply.
Ashley looked as if she was going to cry, and her shoulders slumped. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You and him,” Linda said, pointing to Marlowe. “You and he are going to lend your strength to Remy—to this tree.” She