Devil's Deal: A Nephilim Thriller, #3

By Jeff Altabef

It turns out that hell and Lucifer aren't what Steven Cabbott imagined. That's a good thing, although he's still forced to make a deal with the Devil, one that might trigger the Apocalypse.

Though not at his best, Steven Cabbott is compelled to walk a tricky line. He's already sworn an oath to Father Paul and the light angels, but if that oath was based on falsehoods, does it still bind him?

A terror they call 'The Vampire' is killing kids in Charleston, and Steven can sense that he's not human, but he's not an angel or a demon either. He's something else. Steven, along with is friend Hank, will put everything on the line to figure out what's happening there and shut down whoever is terrorizing Hank's hometown.

Steven suspects this is all tied to the End of Days and his untenable position between light and darkness. Hopefully, the Fates will be kind to him.

EVOLVED PUBLISHING PRESENTS an intriguing, thrilling look inside the great battle between good and evil, possibly leading to the End of Days, with the third book in the multiple award-winning "A Nephilim Thriller" series of supernatural thrillers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
• Release date: Nov 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781622531417

Jeff Altabef

Jeff Altabef lives in New York with his wife, two daughters, and Charlie the dog. He spends time volunteering at the Writing Center in the local community college. After years of being accused of “telling stories,” he thought he would make it official. He writes in both the thriller and young adult genres. As an avid Knicks fan, he is prone to long periods of melancholy during hoops season. Jeff has a column on The Examiner focused on writing and a blog on The Patch designed to encourage writing for those that like telling stories.  [AUTHOR OF: A Point Thriller Series; A Nephilim Thriller Series; Chosen Series; Red Death Series]

Book preview

April 15, 2042, 3:32 AM

Most people believe monsters only live in fairytales to scare children.

That’s crap.

Monsters are real—flesh and blood, life and death.

Some are born in the deepest circles of hell, and others start out perfectly normal and evolve into pure monster form.

Most people don’t believe in them and therefore won’t see what’s right in front of their noses. Once you know though, you know, and you see the world differently. You start examining the questionable things, and that’s when the monsters appear. Not always straight on—often in the peripheral, in the shadows—but you know they’re there just the same.

For me, that’s the easy part. I’ve known monsters exist for a long time now. The next question is the really hard one and it hits me like a shotgun blast to the chest.

What do you do if you’re the monster?

That one haunts me. How do I cope knowing I’m one of the monsters?

I try to sleep, but sleep is a fickle mistress, and we haven’t been on speaking terms for years. I’m not sure why. It may have something to do with all the secrets I keep. They started when I worked in the government as a spy, and then when I worked security for the rich and powerful, and lately Father Paul has thrust the angels’ secrets upon me.

It turns out that I’m a Nephilim—my mother, human, and my father, a dark angel. I discovered this recently, after being thrust in between angels and demons in their eternal struggles. My unique heritage embodies me with certain abilities: enhanced strength, faster reflects, an ability to heal quickly. More importantly, it’s made me important in the upcoming war between angels and the fallen angels. I swore an oath to Father Paul to be on the side of light over darkness, provided he helped keep Kate and my daughter safe. He kept his side of the bargain, and now I struggle with mine.

Nothing is black and white in this conflict, and now I have even darker and more complex secrets still, which threaten to spill out of me at night, clamoring inside my mind, making more noise than a local bar on payday. I’ve turned to alcohol for help, but it only provides the briefest respite, and ultimately makes matters worse... like tonight. I lie still—a drunken runaway train rumbling through my head—and pry my eyes open only because I sense someone glaring at me. The heat from her gaze is so intense it dislodges my internal track and disrupts the fragile equilibrium in my head, threatening to send the Tequila Express completely off the rails and right through my left eye socket. It’ll probably take most of my pickled brain with it, which, all things considered, I’d like to avoid.

Evelyn, arms crossed and face practically on fire, lurks at the foot of my bed.

Oh, hi, Eve. Would you mind glaring at me a little more quietly? I’m trying to sleep off a whopper.

Her anger only intensifies, her gaze transforming into a flamethrower that practically sears the skin off my face.

I reluctantly sit up, hoping to prevent objects flying around my room, the likely outcome if I ignore her. The world lists to the right before it settles back down. I rub my face and wait until my pupils focus in the darkness.

Is this really an emergency? A stupid question under the circumstances but I’m still burning off a dozen or more tequila shots, so I’m not working at peak efficiency.

When she stomps toward me, I say, Okay, okay, I get it. Is it tonight? Is he about to hurt Laura? Laura is her daughter.

She nods and lifts her white T-shirt, revealing a dozen different stab wounds, a blue-black stream forever oozing from them—knife wounds where her husband plunged a six-inch blade that took her life, or that’s what I’ve come to believe.

I get the point, all twelve of them, I say.

She lowers her shirt, which doesn’t quite reach her denim shorts, and a red aura bathes her in an angry glow. She’s about my age, in her mid-thirties, and pretty in a delicate way. Long black hair tumbles past her shoulders, soulful eyes shine meaningfully, and her figure manages to be petite and full at the same time. At least she used to be pretty... when she was alive. Now she’s a ghost.

I started seeing ghosts a little more than two months back. I’m sure it has something to do with my Nephilim status, but no one’s given me a handbook outlining the rules. I’m left to wing things on my own, to make assumptions that might prove false in the end.

She found me at Willy’s Saloon, a bar here in Clarkstown.

Most nights, Eve haunts the establishment, and she’s not the only one. A middle-aged man slumps mournfully on the last stool at the end of the bar, and an ex-waitress flutters around the tables as if still taking orders. Those other ghosts look lost in their own memories

Most ghosts don’t realize I can see them, and they can’t talk. They’re used to being ignored.

Eve is different. She spends all her time watching the group I’m with, scowling at Willy.

Willy owns the bar, the largest fishing boat in town, and the small hotel where I’m staying. Everyone—well, almost everyone—loves William Jenkins Jr. Most everyone calls him Willy. The crew on his boat respectfully refers to him as Capt’n Jenks. No one uses either of his given names, which fit him poorly, like a suit two sizes too small.

He’s a tall fella with a huge personality, always smiling, laughing, joking with those around him. His curly hair looks perfectly disheveled, his curls like waves breaking against a smooth shoreline. Patches of gray appear, little white caps among the waves, and numerous lines, all looking as if left behind by long nights of fun, ripple through his windblown tan, flowing gracefully from his eyes and along his forehead.

I work for him, as a hand on his boat.

I’m deep into my third glass of moonshine when Willy starts a joke. A mermaid, a rabbi, and an Originalist politician all enter a bar....

The joke would surely be funny. All of Willy’s jokes are, but my focus is stuck on Eve. Moonshine affects me that way—makes my eyes sticky, especially on pretty women.

That’s when she catches me staring.

I was careless and she understood.

Since then, she’d been desperate to tell me her story. I tried to ignore her at first, but... well, some ghosts won’t be ignored. Eve is one of those ghosts.

She could have been a champion charades player, and what she communicated to me in her unique way didn’t take long—eight minutes and fifteen seconds, to be exact.

Willy, her husband, had killed her in a bloody rage, and now she was worried about her daughter.

Normally, this wouldn’t be my problem; people get murdered every day, and sometimes they deserve it, but I know her daughter, Laura, a spitfire at age thirteen, who deserves better.

Even then, I was reluctant to get involved, but she persisted, bothering me multiple times a day at my apartment, the bar, even when I was on the can, so I investigated.

Eve married Willy fifteen years ago, only to disappear this fall.

Some locals speculate that a stranger kidnapped her, or perhaps did her in and buried the body in one of the marshlands inland from town. A few others think she ran off with someone, but I get the sense they’re optimists who don’t want to face the likely fact that she’s dead.

No one imagines Willy did anything nefarious to her. Whenever I mention the possibility, they inevitably wave me off, or chuckle at me as if I’m the town idiot, and they couldn’t possibly contemplate such a crazy thing. Based upon all reports, he certainly acted all torn up about Eve’s disappearance, even offering a reward to get her back. Maybe he was torn up back then. Now it’s hard to see Willy as someone mourning a loved one. Although, to be fair, Eve disappeared five months ago and some people move on quickly.

Everyone but Eve’s sister, Suzanne, is convinced of Willy’s innocence. One night she confided in me, saying, He’s not all that he seems, but when I pressed, she left it at that.

The next night, I bought her a few drinks and she confessed her doubts to me, although they were nothing more than doubts. Eve told me they were having problems, and she had these bruises she would hide. I didn’t like the way Willy looked at her when no one else was around.

I slept with her, hoping that would open her up a little more.

I’m willing to do my part, and it didn’t hurt that she’s a looker in her own right, but afterward she seemed even more reluctant to discuss Eve with me. After all, I’m a stranger in town. I guess I could have told her that I’ve met her sister’s ghost, but surely if I told her that, she’d lock all her secrets into a vault, and likely call the sheriff, who’d bounce me from town.

Still, Suzanne has her doubts, and I have my own suspicions. Guys like Willy—big personalities, always on, always happy—often have a dark side they keep hidden. Only in private moments, in the shadows, do they reveal themselves. Such as moments a husband and wife would share.

After spying on Willy for the last two weeks, the only evidence I have is a gut feeling and Eve’s word. I’m no jury, and I don’t need proof beyond a reasonable doubt, but something more than a hunch and the word of a ghost would be nice.

If it weren’t for Laura, I’d tell Eve to piss off, but Laura is special. Sometimes, she works with us on the boat or helps clean the tables at the bar. She can be as salty as any of the sailors and as tough as nails. I’d say she’s thirteen going on thirty, but sometimes, even tough thirteen-year-olds need protecting from monsters. Oddly, she has a thing for crossword puzzles and has taken to pestering me for answers. I like her, and I won’t let something bad happen to her.

Okay, I’m going to the docks to check on your daughter, I tell Eve.

I grab my jeans from the floor and wrestle them on. A moment later, I snatch my Smith & Wesson automatic from underneath my pillow and click it into the holster at the small of my back. It takes me longer to lace up my boots than it should.

Eve grows impatient with my fumbling around. She flutters around my room, waving her arms like a bird that can’t take off.

I’m going as fast as I can. I grab my army jacket from the bedpost and stroll out the door.

Communicating with ghosts is tricky, and I’m new at it. You’d think they’d be truthful, having died and all, but some of them lie. Just like people, it seems: you can’t take them at their word.

I slip down three flights of creaky stairs and into the empty small lobby. The almost full moon brightens the cloudless night sky, and the air smells rich with salt water, which sobers me up a bit.

Eve follows along next to me, her energy pulsing with desperation. She’d push me to the docks if she could, but she’ll have to wait on me, and I’m not at my best at the moment. Still, I’m all she has, so it’ll have to do.

The small hotel is only three blocks from the waterfront. I weave my way through the deserted residential streets, past old Victorian houses needing paint, gravel yards that used to have grass, and dead lampposts that haven’t worked in a decade. A light fog swirls around us. Not a proper fog, like they used to sing songs about in San Francisco or London, but a light mist just heavy enough to dull the edges, like a layer of cheap perfume a call girl might use to hide a busy night.

Eve moves beside me. In an alternative universe, we could be lovers going for a late-night stroll, hand in hand, bathed in moonlight and fog, but not tonight.

She’s a ghost, and I’m a killer.

The lifeless docks sit in an eerie quiet, like a factory floor after closing. A dozen fishing boats, mostly used for tourists, bob drunkenly on the current, gently bumping against the wooden piers. Willy owns the largest and the most popular boat.

I climb a metal chain-link fence, with razor wire coiled on top. Normally, I’d flip over the top and land on my feet, but I’m not operating at peak efficiency. I swing my body over the coils, but I don’t quite clear them and one cuts my left hand. I land off balance and stumble to the ground.

So much for quiet and graceful.

I pass Willy’s fishing boat. He also owns an old, sixty-foot houseboat that’s been carefully restored and tied at the end of the pier, just beyond the tourist boat. I squat low and listen. I hear nothing, but not all silences sound the same. This one raises the hair on the back of my neck. It feels surreal, as if something evil hangs in the air.

Eve’s already on the boat, waving for me to jump on board.

Okay, just getting my bearings, I say, and land quietly on the deck. I open the door that leads to the cabins below and descend tight stairs.

Willy meets me with a shotgun in hand.

I must have triggered a motion detector when I skipped onto the pier. If my mind weren’t so muddled, I would have disabled the thing. Great.

He’s standing in the middle of the dark living room, with cherry wood paneling on the walls, oak floors, a leather couch, a mahogany chair and desk. The kitchen sits on one side and two bedrooms behind him. He’s just able to stand upright without bumping his head against the low ceiling.

He looks understandably confused, and his eyebrows arch upward. Steven, what are you doing here?

I’m sleepwalking.

He points the shotgun at my chest. It’s a little far to go for sleepwalking, don’t you think?

While it’s true that he aims the shotgun at me, it’s only a half-hearted gesture. I could draw my Smith & Wesson before he’d shoot me, but once he sees my gun, he’ll likely get a whole lot more serious about blasting a hole in my chest. Then, I’ll have to shoot him first, which is fine with me, except I don’t have any proof that Laura’s in trouble yet. I’d prefer that first. Events need to unfold in their proper order.

Eve silently stomps her feet in front of Willy, her aura turning a dangerous ruby red.

I had a dream that Laura was in trouble, I say. Do you know anything about that?

Laura... who sent you? Suddenly he’s much more serious with the shotgun, tensing his legs and resting his finger on the trigger.

Your wife.

Do you think I’m a fool? He laughs. That’s impossible. I think I’ll shoot you, and call the sheriff and tell him I’ve killed an intruder.

It’s too late for me to draw my handgun. I’ll have to dodge the blast by jumping to the side. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to him before he pumps the gun and shoots again.

I bend at the knees, but before I can jump, Eve turns electric, flying around the cabin like a poltergeist pinball. The kitchen table turns over, a laptop flips in the air, and her rage sends the desk chair careening toward Willy.

Surprised, Willy swats away the chair with his shotgun before it crashes into him.

I dart forward, grab the barrel of the gun with my left hand, and smash my right fist into his head in a neat right cross. The punch lands flush, snapping Willy’s head back, and he releases his grip on the shotgun. I yank it away and crash the stock into his stomach in one smooth motion. The blow knocks the air from him, bending him at the waist, breaking a couple of ribs.

My right elbow collides with his temple, which sends him to his knees.

I stare down at him. Eve says ‘hey,’ although she’s not all that happy you stabbed her to death. She really would have liked to try marriage counseling first, but I guess that’s out of the question now.

Eve vanishes, the energy she expended exploding around the cabin too much for her to maintain her presence.

I step past Willy and nudge the door open to the master bedroom with the barrel of the shotgun.

Inside, Laura is tied to a four-poster bed, each hand and foot secured to a different bedpost by plain rope. Six angry red lines crisscross her back, where Willy whipped her raw. She’s unconscious, probably from shock and pain.

My body shakes with anger as I picture Willy standing over his daughter, whip in hand, crazy running from his mouth. She must have been frightened beyond belief. I bet she still cursed at him, still defiant until the whip lashed her. That kind of searing pain, the ripping of flesh from skin, will change anyone—I know way more about that than I’d like to admit. She’d start pleading with him as her tears streamed down her cheeks.

He’d have worked up a sweat, each lashing becoming progressively more violent, each one ripping more skin from his daughter’s back.

Now, the air stinks of blood and fear and sweat. The whip, bloodied and dormant, lies coiled like a snake on the floor near the bed.

Did Laura last all six lashes until she blacked out? Would Willy have continued if I hadn’t interrupted him? How could anyone do that to a defenseless girl, much less to a daughter?

I turn back to face the fiend, and grip the shotgun so tightly that the tendons in my arms hurt. He’s made a horrible mistake. As bad as he is, he can’t imagine the truth about me. You miserable lump of buffalo shit. What type of creep are you?

Willy groans as he struggles to his feet, both hands holding his side where I caved in his ribs. You don’t understand, he says as he backs into the kitchen area. She has demons in her, like her mother. I have to whip them out of her.

Oh, I understand. The words take me back in time. My mother told me a similar thing when I was a teenager. She’d bang on my door at night. ‘Let me in, Stevie. You’ve got demons in you, boy. Let me cut them out of you.’

Willy must have grabbed a six-inch kitchen knife while I was distracted reliving past nightmares.

Good, at least this way his end will be more fun.

Really? You want to kill me with the same knife you used on Eve? I toss the shotgun onto the floor behind me. A quick death is too good for Capt’n Jenks. Okay, I’m game. Give it your best try.

He lunges forward. A good four inches taller than me, he swings the knife downward at my chest in a chop.

I catch his right hand with my left and stop it cold.

He’s strong from a life filled with the outdoors and fishing, and outweighs me by fifty pounds. He smiles a triumphant grin and tries to plunge the blade into my neck. When he grunts and I hold the knife steady, he adds his left hand to his right to increase the pressure.

Eve returns now, her aura a dull white. She’s watching me, standing next to me.

I’m sorry, I tell her. I should have killed him when you first told me.

At least she’s here now to see Willy’s fate. It’s the best I can do for her.

Tears dots her eyes, and I re-focus on the knife. My heart rate jumps for the first time as I slowly turn the blade toward Willy’s chest.

His eyes open wide as I inch it toward him.

What do you see when you look into my eyes? Find any demons there, Capt’n?

He stammers. I-I-I’m sick. I can see a doctor, get medication. I’ll be better.

And perhaps he’s right. Maybe with medication, and under a doctor’s care, he’d get better. Perhaps, but I’m not taking that chance with Laura’s life. You should have thought about that sooner.

I plunge the tip of the knife into his chest, and he screams. I let it stay there, so he feels it, the steel biting into his muscle.

I say, You never answered my question. What do you see when you look into my eyes?

Hellfire.

Send my regards to Lucifer.

I push the blade into his chest, past flesh and through bone and into his heart. When the blade sinks to the hilt, I smile. Taking Willy’s life is the highlight of my month. I imagine it feels the same to me as a junkie feels when he injects poison into his bloodstream after going cold turkey for a time. It’s been more than a month since I’ve killed anyone, which for me is almost a record.

"You have your daughter to thank for a quick death. I can’t risk her waking and seeing what I’d really like to do to you. Next time we meet, you won’t be so lucky. I let go of the knife and push him to the floor. You were right about that knife. It’s handy for killing."

He folds over like an empty bag as the life leaves his eyes.

Eve is in the bedroom with her daughter. Her aura has turned a bright white as she strokes Laura’s long black hair. Some of my energy must flow to her, because she looks almost whole.

I find one of Willy’s blue T-shirts and slip it on the girl. It looks like a dress on the still unconscious teenager. I then lift her in my arms, and it’s strange. For such a tough kid, she’s nothing in my arms—all vulnerability, almost as if she’s made out of air.

I turn toward Eve. I’ll take her to your sister’s place.

She nods and disappears in a quick burst of white light, which washes over me like a lover’s kiss.

I have no way of knowing for certain, but I suspect I’ll never see her again, at least not while I’m still alive.

Thankfully, Laura keeps her eyes closed all the way to her aunt’s apartment. No one sees me in the fog. Only one car passes and it never slows.

I find Suzanne’s building and ring the bell for her apartment in three long jabs, then stare at the camera and wait.

It takes four minutes for Suzanne to open the door. The sleepiness in her eyes vanishes immediately when she sees Laura in my arms, and she immediately takes the unconscious girl from me.

I say, You were right about Willy. He’s not going to win any awards for husband or father of the year.

What did he do to her?

He whipped her pretty bad. She’ll need a doctor so the wounds won’t get infected.

Suzanne’s face turns white and she peers past me. Where’s Willy?

He won’t be bothering her again, or anyone else for that matter. Give me until morning before you tell anyone.

Why did you do this? Why help Laura? We’ve only just met. The sex was good, but I can’t—

Eve is a friend of mine, I say, and I’m surprised because I mean it.

Suzanne’s voice turns to a whisper. Is she alive?

I understand her confusion, given that I used present tense. My bad. No, Willy murdered her.

I should have done more to help her. I....

I don’t offer false words of comfort. Maybe she could have helped and maybe she couldn’t. She’ll have to live with her actions. That’s on her.

After an awkward moment, Laura stirs, and Suzanne nudges the door closed.

I only need a few hours to get out of town. Once the cops discover Willy’s dead, they’ll look for me, the new guy on his crew. I’m sure to have left fingerprints behind in the cabin. As long as I’m gone before they realize I killed Willy, I’ll be fine. No one is going to come looking for me. Even though Willy was well liked, he wasn’t rich and wasn’t connected to the Originalists, so I’ll be in the clear so long as I never come back to Clarkstown.

When I return to my hotel, I bound up the staircase, and freeze.

My door is ajar.

I left it shut.

So many people want me dead that I can’t even guess who’s inside my room.

Some of them aren’t even human. They’re monsters, like me.

I draw my Smith & Wesson from my back holster and flip the safety off. The smart move would be to retreat, watch, and wait to see who’s in my room, but I need my duffel to leave town, and besides, my curiosity is piqued.

Who wants to see me so badly they’d sneak into my room at this time of night, and who’s dumb enough to leave the door open?

A demon or a fallen angel might be so brazen not to care about the door, or whether I know they’re lying in wait. They’d spell trouble for me in the tight confines of my room. I’ll need some luck to survive a heated encounter with one of them. My heart rate ticks up and my senses intensify as I sniff the air for a scent of demon or fallen angel. A medley of aromas assaults me, but no sulfur, no hellfire.

I decide to go in quietly. Loud noises might pull the wrong reaction from the intruder—like a bullet in my chest—and quiet is more likely to give me time to think and react. I slowly inch the door open and peer inside the dark room.

A rather large shadow sits on my bed, wearing a gray, hooded Peterson University sweatshirt and blue jeans. He’s eating from a bag of potato chips and not being particularly neat about it, an avalanche of crumbs having already toppled down his chest and onto his lap and the bed.

I lower my gun. Hank... I should have known. Only you’d be dumb enough to sneak into my room and leave the door open.

Who’s sneaking? I’ve taken a new job as a hotel inspector. You’re not keeping this place neat enough.

Funny. I’m not the one slobbering chips everywhere.

It’s the only way to eat the things. They design them that way, so half the chip gets wasted.

He stands and stretches, sending the army of crumbs that have gathered on his chest marching to the floor, and pulls me into a bear hug. He’s a few inches over six feet and just about evenly split between two hundred and three hundred pounds. Depending upon the week, he’s either north or south of the middle point, but he’s mostly muscle either way. The hug ends when he claps me on the back.

Out for a late-night stroll? he asks, his voice full of unspoken questions.

Something like that. What are you doing here so late? I imagine hotel inspectors work a 9-to-5 job.

Looks like you’ve cut your hand.

It’s already mostly healed thanks to my unusual pedigree. In an hour it’ll be like new.

His face turns somber. He smiles most of the time, so this new, serious Hank, worries me, as if he’s donned an ill-conceived mask. I need help.

Is this angel business or personal?

The angels and demons are in the middle of a war for humanity’s souls. The angels call it the Great Struggle, and the demons call it the End of Days. I’ve sworn to help the angels and have already fought my fair share of demons at this point. The angels use me as an investigator of sorts. When they have something dangerous and nasty to sort out, they turn to me. It turns out they’re not fond of getting their own angel hands dirty, and they’re happy for me to scrounge around in the garbage. So far, I’ve cleaned two messes for them, and barely survived each one. Hank calls me a Seeker of Truth. Cleaner is a more accurate term.

Did Father Paul send you? Father Paul is an angel and my go between, but I haven’t seen him for months. Things between us are complicated and messy right now. It’s not all his fault, though.

Personal. Check this out. Hank removes a viewer from his front pocket, unfolds the screen, and plays a recording.

The image flickers to life—the face of a thirty-year-old male, thin but strong-looking, with straw-colored hair and eyes. He’s wearing a somewhat soiled red and white flannel shirt and brown work pants. His eyes look clear, but a touch of panic lights around the white in the edges. He’s scared, even though he’s trying to hide it.

"Hank, it’s me, Cassius. How long has it been, Hoss? Too long, that’s how long. When you joined the Order of the Present, I thought you’d give it up in a few months, and it’s been... what, two years? I know we had our differences when we last talked, but you’re still my best friend. Always was and always will be. Whether you wear the Order’s ridiculous brown sweater or not.

You’ll be happy to know things between me and Jen went south a few months ago. She moved out. He smiles and shrugs. "Just saying. Although she’ll come back in time.

Anyway, I need you to contact me right away. I tried to call you but your phone number doesn’t work. I thought that’d be the case, with you joining those monks and all, but it was worth a shot. I guess if you’re living in the present, you can’t be bothered by phone calls on smart phones. I found this monk from your order who was traveling through town, and he said he’s heard of you, so I’ve asked him if he’d pass this viewer to you. He agreed. I guess he saw how desperate I was, and the fifty bucks didn’t hurt.

Cassius pauses for a second and leans toward the camera. I’m in a touch of trouble and I could use your help, Hoss. I’ve stumbled upon quite a situation. At least, I think it’s a big deal. Right now, the details are fuzzy. I’ll do some more snooping while I wait for you. You’ll want to know about this for sure. I’m not spilling any details until you come down here. It’ll be like old times, the two amigos together again.

He goes silent for a second and then smiles a wide grin, the grin of someone who’ll help others at his own expense. You can’t fake an honest expression like that. It’s easy to like him. Man, I’ve missed you, Hoss. Call right away, or better yet, just come down here. You know where to find me. Casey out.

The video fades to black.

I look up at Hank. Did you call?

He nods. He’s not answering. I called a few people back home, and Casey has gone missing. Something bad has happened to him. I don’t know what, but I don’t like it. He’s my best friend.

And this has nothing to do with Father Paul?

Not that I know, Brother. I haven’t seen him since you vanished. That was over six weeks ago. Father Paul was worried about you back then. We all were, including Riann and Joe, but Father Paul hasn’t returned since, although I suspect he knows you’ve returned. Three weeks is a long time for him not to know. You can never fully tell what things end up as Father Paul things. It’s always built on faith. Besides, would it be so bad if this involved angels?

Not everyone has your faith in Father Paul and the angels. Some of us are a little more... uncertain. Each time I get involved with him, it’s always my ass on the line. He never offers any help or guidance, and never tells me the full story. I’m not a fan of his half-truths. They’re starting to irritate me.

So far, this situation with Casey is free of angels and demons, but I can’t promise it’ll stay that way. There’s always the chance of the unexpected.

How come Casey didn’t just tell you what he was looking into, I ask. Why the secrecy?

He loves riddles. He never comes out and speaks plainly. It’s always a game with him.

Puzzles suck. I sigh. When did he record the message?

Over a week ago. He gave it to one of my brothers in the Order. He was traveling through my hometown about then, and he gave it to another brother, who gave it to me in Peterstown tonight. If I’d kept my phone, this wouldn’t have happened. I’d have answered Casey’s call, and I would’ve left right away.

And now that you’ve left the Order, you wonder if whatever has happened to your friend is your fault?

I haven’t left the Order. I’ve only gone on a sabbatical of sorts. Either way, this is my fault. Hank tosses the viewer on the bed. He was always there for me when I needed him, and now I’ve failed him. I want to find out what’s happened, save him if there’s a chance.

And if there’s no chance to save him? I’m a jerk for asking, but Hank needs to think about the likely possibilities. A week is a long time, and going dark doesn’t sound like the actions of a guy reaching out for help.

Then I want to stand up for Casey, seek justice for him. I—

I’m not going to let him ask me for help, so I volunteer it before he can finish the sentence. "We’ll get to the bottom of this together."

He beams a smile at me and looks a little more like his normal self. I knew you’d help.

"Damn right, and then you’ll owe me. In fact, let’s leave right now. No time like the present, right?"

I’ve parked a pick-up on the next block over. It’s has a full tank of gas.

Great. I reach under the bed, pull out my duffel with all my possessions, strap it over my shoulder, and head for the door.

He grabs the viewer and strolls after me. I thought we’d leave in the morning, maybe grab a few hours of sleep before we go. It can get dangerous on the highway at this time of night.

We’ll be fine. I’ll drive. You can sleep.

I don’t think so. You smell like a brewery.

Suit yourself.

We march down the