Cosmopolitan

by Shayne Silvers

  “Tell him to go fuck himself,” I said, my voice hoarse from exhaustion. I felt for the gun at my back, resolving to give the bastard a few more scars if he came anywhere near me. My other gun, a smaller caliber pistol I’d kept in my pocket, must have fallen out in the car.

  The man giggled, his laugh painfully high-pitched. “You tell him. We’ll see how that goes.”

  I heard a yelp from behind me and turned in time to watch Serge take a backhand that launched him into the remains of our car. The gas tank, which had held up admirably up to this point, blew, and the resulting explosion drove me onto all fours, sending my gun skidding across the pavement.

  The man’s obnoxious laughing continued. “Ooh, fireworks.”

  I fought against the blackout I knew was coming. Suddenly, a pair of shoes appeared in my peripheral vision. No, not shoes…hooves? I fell over, wondering who’d let a horse in on this party.

  Everything went dark.

  Chapter 19

  I woke to a nurse recording data on my chart, an EKG beeping, and a vase of fresh flowers sitting on the table beside my bed—an artfully arranged mound of blue-eyed-grass, my favorite flower since I was a little girl.

  There was also a man leaning against the doorframe.

  “Hello again,” Chapman said.

  “Johnny Appleseed, is it? So, was it ye?” I asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “On the horse.”

  Chapman’s brow knotted. He and the nurse exchanged looks. She finished marking down my vitals and stepped out of the room, flashing him a knowing smile. “She’s had a head injury, don’t be surprised if she’s a little…not herself,” she advised before leaving.

  I snorted. “Not like he knows me, anyway.”

  Chapman stepped into the room, noted the flowers, and took a seat in the corner of the room. He’d dressed for the cool weather in a dark green turtleneck, a jacket and hoodie secure in the crook of his arm now that he was indoors. He stared out the window, looking posed and impossibly handsome—like a cover model in a turtleneck campaign.

  I didn’t even want to think about how I looked. Scraped and bruised and potentially broken, my makeup hours old, eyes bloodshot. Whatever. I was honestly beyond caring.

  “Um, are ye goin’ to tell me why you’re here?” I asked, irritably. “I’m guessin’ ye have no idea what horse I’m talkin’ about.” There was a white knight joke in there somewhere, but I was too tired and in too much pain to make it. Looks like they’d avoided doping me up on morphine this time around.

  Totally going to file a complaint.

  “Darrel stopped by this morning,” Chapman said. “He told me you were attacked by demons last night. They thought I’d passed the seed to you to give to him, which would have been clever, if it’d been true.”

  I groaned. So, that was why Gomorrah had targeted us. In all the confusion, I hadn’t paid much attention to motive—survival had been my main priority. I realized the nurse had been wrong; my head throbbed and my body ached, but otherwise I felt like my usual, crabby self. “What the fuck does this seed even do?” I muttered.

  Chapman cocked an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t know?”

  I ground my teeth. “My employer was a little coy with the details. To be fair, I’m pretty sure her information was spotty, at best.”

  “Well, you figured out who I am. Or what people call me, anyway.”

  I nodded. “I know who ye say ye are. I’m not sure I entirely believe it.”

  He chuckled. “You met an angel yesterday and got attacked by demons last night and you don’t believe I exist?”

  When he put it like that, it did sound a little ridiculous. “Shut up. I have a head injury. I’m not meself.”

  “Do you know what I was, then? My profession, I mean.”

  “A nurseryman,” I said. “You took care of trees.”

  “I did, when I was mortal. Since then, I’ve been responsible for taking care of other things. Let’s just say there are a lot of untended gardens out there, and I’m responsible for most of them.”

  “So, the seed?” I pressed.

  Chapman huffed and stared out the window again, the overcast light from outside bathing one side of his face in a uniform shade of grey. “The seed is all that remains of a tree. I should say it’s all that remains of the tree. The one that led us to where we are now, and what we’ve become.”

  “Which tree would that be?”

  Chapman folded his hands in his lap and glanced back at me, his eyes hooded. “The Tree of Knowledge. From the Garden of Eden.”

  Oh. That tree.

  Chapter 20

  Chapman rose to leave, doggedly ignoring my follow-up questions.

  “The less you know, the better,” he claimed. “Get some rest. Recover. I’ll make sure none of the Grigori bother you from now on.”

  “Aye, that’s all well and good. But how do ye plan to keep me safe from the other side?” I asked, pointing out the flaw in his plan. They’d attacked me before with almost no guarantee I had the seed, so what would stop them from doing it again?

  “I’ve agreed to meet with their representatives. They know I have the seed and have no intention of passing it off to anyone else.”

  “Why would ye do that?” I asked, baffled. His guilty expression said it all. “Wait, you’re meetin’ with demons to stop them from comin’ after me a second time?”

  Chapman sighed. “It wasn’t ever supposed to come to this. I never wanted to jeopardize innocent people.”

  “What are they offerin’ ye that’s worth all this trouble?” I asked, for perhaps the fourth or fifth time. At this point, I wasn’t even concerned about leverage. I genuinely wanted to know what could be so valuable he’d risk everything to get it.

  “Something only they can,” Chapman said, echoing Darrel’s assertion from the day before. “Now, I’ve got to go.” He approached my bedside and placed a hand on the rail. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  I stared up at him and briefly fantasized about doing things that, in my condition, could best be described as suicidal—and that’s assuming we could even touch each other without ending up twitching on the floor. “No,” I grumbled, finally, feeling as prickly as I ever had; it was like he’d offered me chocolate while I was on the strictest diet imaginable.

  “Take care of yourself, Miss MacKenna.”

  “You too, Appleseed.”

  He headed out, pausing at the door for a moment. “You know, I always hated it when people called me that. I never wanted to be a legend. Just a good man.”

  “From what little I’ve seen,” I said, haltingly, the unfamiliar taste of a compliment giving me pause, “ye seem a wee bit o’ both.”

  “Thanks.” Chapman smiled and ducked out of the room, leaving me to my troubled thoughts.

  The seed to the fucking Tree of Knowledge.

  I could see now why Othello hadn’t told me more; I’d probably have laughed in her face if she’d been upfront about what she’d sent me after. I mean, angels and demons were all well and good, but Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden? The Tree of Knowledge? Those were all part of a creation myth, and I’d walked away from organized religion a long time ago. Hell, I’d switched schools my junior year because I couldn’t wrap my head around people who took the Bible literally.

  Guess I owed my Theology teacher an apology.

  I lay in the hospital bed for maybe a minute before Othello strode through the door, hurrying to my side. She paused at the edge of my bed as if unsure how I would react, her eyes downcast. I was surprised to see her, but at least now I knew who’d brought the flowers—I wondered how many of my likes and dislikes Othello had tucked away in a file on her computer. Maybe I should outsource her on birthdays.

  “Quinn, I am so sorry,” Othello began. “I did not know—”

  “How’s Serge?” I interrupted. Othello’s apology could wait. In fact, if I were being honest with myself, I didn’t need one to begin with. Sure, she’d gotten m
e involved in one hell of a mess—no pun intended—but it wasn’t like she’d done it on purpose. On the other hand, the last time I’d seen the Serbian was when he’d landed on our car. A car that had been blown to shit.

  If Serge had gotten hurt trying to save me, then Othello would have something to apologize for.

  “He’s fine. Skinwalkers are more or less invulnerable to physical damage. You tried shooting him once, remember?”

  I remembered. My bullets had hit the skinwalker center mass but hadn’t left so much as a mark on him. In hindsight, I realized Serge’s impregnability made him the perfect guy to have my back; magic couldn’t touch me, and nothing but magic could touch him. We made one hell of a duo.

  Too bad his alter ego was a deranged animal that liked to pee on things to assert its dominance.

  “Right. That’s good, then. Ye don’t need to apologize, Othello. I know ye didn’t intend for this to happen,” I said, waving casually at the hospital bed. “And I know about the seed.” I directed her to a nearby chair with a nod. Othello took a seat, looking nervous, probably trying to gauge my reaction to the news that she’d sent me after a priceless religious artifact that shouldn’t even exist. I smiled to reassure her. “So, the nurse left before givin’ me the damage report. Care to fill me in?”

  Othello looked relieved to change the subject. “Concussion, a few lacerations, some bumps and bruises, but nothing broken. The doctors say it was a miracle that’s all the damage you walked away with, but then they were looking for injuries consistent with a car accident, not a run in with a demon.”

  “So ye were able to track down what hit us?”

  “I saw it on the camera, for an instant, before it took out the car. Then the footage stopped.”

  “So ye didn’t see the other bastard? The scarred one?” I asked.

  Othello frowned. “No, it wasn’t a man. In fact, I didn’t know what it was, originally, but I knew who to send.”

  “Are ye talkin’ about the horse?”

  Othello looked surprised. “You remember?”

  “I remember seein’ a horse, right before passin’ out.”

  Othello fetched the chair from the other side of the room and took a seat beside my hospital bed. “That was Hemingway. He stepped in to save you. He couldn’t interfere directly, but he hid you and Serge—bringing you here was my idea. He was against getting involved, at first. Stepping in is not something he’s supposed to do. But when I showed him what attacked you, he seemed…well, angry. Very angry.”

  “It was too soon,” Hemingway said from the doorway, mirroring Chapman’s pose from earlier. A man I didn’t recognize stood next to him, his back turned to us as if guarding the door.

  “Too soon for what?” I asked, ignoring the stranger.

  “For Gomorrah and the rest of the Unclean. That’s the name of the creature who attacked you.”

  “Aye,” I nodded. “The rock monster and I had a nice little chat before he tried to kidnap me. Although t’is the first I’ve ever heard about the ‘Unclean’,” I admitted.

  “They’re practically indistinguishable from demons in most ways,” Hemingway replied. “But they are able to act with more freedom. More autonomy. Think of them like mercenaries.”

  “The scarred fucker said they were servin’ someone named the Marquis. Any idea who that is?” I asked.

  Hemingway frowned. “There was no scarred man,” he said.

  I blinked rapidly. Had I imagined it? Dreamt it? No, I was sure of it. There had definitely been someone there. A hideously scarred man.

  With a horrifying laugh.

  Hemingway’s companion grunted and spoke, still turned away, interrupting the silence. “Your Marquis could be anyone. They’re all about titles down there. Duke this and Count that. But if he’s controlling Gomorrah, my guess is it’s one of the Fallen. Maybe even one of the Lieutenants.”

  Hemingway ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit in frustration. “Things are escalating. They’re interfering directly. Both sides. But why now?”

  “They want the seed,” I explained.

  “The seed?” Hemingway asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Othello dipped her head. “I asked Quinn to track down a rumor I heard. About a seed.”

  Hemingway’s companion tensed, taking a sharp breath, drawing Hemingway’s attention. They shared a look and a small exchange I couldn’t quite make out.

  “They can’t have it,” Hemingway said, his expression stern.

  “Well, obviously not,” I said. “I don’t want the bastards that attacked us gettin’ ahold of it, either, but”

  “No,” Hemingway interrupted. “Not the Fallen. Or not only the Fallen. Heaven cannot claim it, either.”

  “Why not?” Othello asked, saving me the trouble.

  Hemingway folded his arms over his chest. “Think of the seed like a nuclear weapon. Right now, both sides are armed, but neither has the upper hand. Peace exists because neither is sure they could win. That—and there are a few level-headed people in charge serving both camps who are content to play the long game. The seed might upset that balance.”

  “What happens then?” Othello asked.

  “Then my brothers and I go to work,” Hemingway answered in an emotionless tone that brought chills to my spine.

  Othello blanched.

  The silence in the hospital room stretched until it practically hurt—like staring at a taut rubber band about to break. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I raised my hand. Hemingway’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “Where can I get a horse that teleports?”

  The figure behind Hemingway laughed, his voice raspy. “Don’t you dare go recruiting another one.” Then he walked off into the hall.

  I took that as a no.

  Chapter 21

  Hemingway stood vigil at the window. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I know you’ve been through hell—metaphorically speaking. But I need your help.”

  “With what?” I asked, fidgeting with my hospital gown. “And who was that guy?” The gown’s material was thin and itchy; I couldn’t wait to change into something that made me feel less like a victim.

  “That was one of my brothers. He was checking up on me.” Hemingway’s face told me that he wasn’t fond of being on any kind of leash. He sighed. “I need your help retrieving the seed. The only way this doesn’t go to shit is if a third party, someone independent, takes possession.”

  I glanced at Othello, trying to get her read on the situation, but she seemed preoccupied; I could practically see the wheels spinning in her head as she planned her next move. I liked that about her—her ability to adapt and overcome.

  “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to do,” I said, finally. “But Chapman won’t trade for it. Apparently, the Grigori offered him somethin’ we can’t. I tried to get him to tell me, but he refused.”

  “Appleseed was here?” Hemingway asked, facing me.

  “Ye just missed him,” I replied. “Ye might have even seen him on your way in. About my height, a green turtleneck, brown hair, brown eyes. Young.”

  “Wait, that was Johnny Appleseed?” Othello exclaimed, tuning back into the conversation. “That hunky guy we passed in the lobby?”

  Hemingway pursed his lips but seemed more amused than jealous. He ignored Othello’s outburst. “I can only guess what they’re offering him, but the Grigori are known for keeping an eye on mankind. They never get involved. In fact, for angels, they’re surprisingly reasonable. If they are making a grab for power, things are worse than I thought.”

  “It gets worse,” I said. “He’s arranged a meetin’ with the other side as well, tryin’ to lure ‘em away from yours truly.”

  Hemingway muttered a few obscenities under his breath. “Maybe you can use that to your advantage, somehow?” he asked, absentmindedly. “Pit one side against the other.”

  I shared a look with Othello. She could read the question on my face and shook her head, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I h
ad to know. “Who are ye?” I asked. “Ye saved me life, I know, and I appreciate that. But now you’re askin’ me to risk the life ye just saved to stop Heaven and Hell from goin’ to war, so I t’ink the least ye can do is tell me who I’m doin’ favors for.”

  Hemingway slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, his eyes cool and distant, his mouth turned down at the edges. Othello started to say something, but he shook his head. “No, she’s right. Besides, I’m sure she’d figure it out on her own sooner or later.”

  He locked eyes with me and that eerie sensation—the one that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle—returned. “A few people know me as Hemingway these days. Friends, mostly. But the rest of the world knows me, has known me, by another name.” The lights flickered for an instant and I swore I could see a dark and foreboding figure in Hemingway’s place. “I am Death, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” He smiled, but it was a sad, wistful thing. “And, contrary to what most believe, my brothers and I are in no rush to see that happen. We cannot stop it directly, but we can…nudge it further into the future, here and there, if we’re careful.”

  I had to look away. I stared at my hands, at the abrasions and torn skin left behind after our tussle with Gomorrah and the scarred man. “So, what does that make me, then?” I asked, softly.

  “What?” Hemingway asked.

  “When ye tested me field, ye realized somethin’ ye didn’t want to share. Somethin’ about what I am. My field hasn’t been actin’ the same since. Tell me what it was ye did, what ye felt, or I won’t help ye.”

  “Quinn—” Othello began, gently.

  “No,” I glared at them both. “I’m tired of people I’m supposed to trust keepin’ secrets. Even if they mean well. He owes me an explanation, and I intend to hear it. The world be damned.”

  Hemingway surprised me with a grin. “You remind me more and more of someone I know. I should say first that I don’t know what, if anything, I did that affected your field. That wasn’t my intention.” He took a moment, considering his next words carefully. “But you’re right, I did keep something from you. It’s not so much about what you are, though, as what you aren’t. Do you remember when we first met, when you saw me as a child? When I said I couldn’t see your death?”