They come at us with bats and tire irons. One of them swings a tire iron into the windshield with a thunderous slam that makes me jump in my seat.
The glass turns white with a million cracks around the impact area but leaves the rest intact.
Baseball bats pound on the hood and doors. The gang spreads out to attack the other cars. The shiny perfection of our antique Rolls-Royce is turning into a demolition derby car.
The passenger window of the car in front of us rolls down before the men can reach it. The black barrel of an Uzi submachine gun sticks out of it.
I duck my head just as the gunfire begins. The rat-tat-tat of the Uzi is deafening even with my palms against my ears.
When it stops a few seconds later, all I can hear is the ringing in my ears. A train could be rolling by outside my window and I wouldn’t know it right now.
I peek my head up to see what’s going on. Two cult members with shaved heads and sheet dresses – one man, one woman – stand beside our car, holding matching Uzis and scanning the area.
Three men lie bleeding on the road. One fell beside a spontaneous roadside memorial. These street shrines have cropped up all over since the Great Attack. Photos of lost loved ones, dried flowers, stuffed animals, handwritten notes pouring out words of love and loss.
Fresh blood glistens on a framed photo of a smiling girl with a missing front tooth.
I had always assumed the roadside memorials were for people who died because of angels. Now I wonder how many of them died because of other people.
The other attackers are nowhere to be seen.
After a few seconds, the cult members hop into the two largest cars in the roadblock. They drive slowly into the dead cars, shoving them out of the way like tanks to create a path for us. When they finish, they jump back into their classic cars, and we keep driving.
By the time we arrive at the aerie, I can feel the fear rolling off the driver. He’s more afraid than I am, which is saying a lot.
We pull up to the side of the hotel’s main building. It looks more like a country estate than a hotel, with its sprawling mansion, golf course, and large circular driveway. There are guards posted there, looking official.
My stomach turns icy at the thought of being in this place again. The last two times I was here, I barely got out alive.
The cars stop, and the cult members get out. One of them opens my door like a chauffeur, as if he expects me to step out like a lady attending a party. I slide to the far side of the car and crouch in the corner. It’s pointless to run with so many angels, but I don’t have to make it easy for them.
I kick the guy who leans in to pull me out. Now they’re starting to look embarrassed as well as scared. Eventually, though, they open the door I’m leaning against and drag me out kicking and screaming.
It takes four of them to do it, and I’m glad to see that my driver is not one of them. The guy holding me is trembling, and I don’t think it’s because he’s afraid of me. Whatever it is their new religion tells them about the angels, they must know that they’re violent and merciless.
‘We’ve brought the girl to be exchanged for your promise of safety,’ says Tan Head.
The guards assess me. Their eyes look like they were chiseled out of stone – emotionless and alien. The feathers on their wings ruffle in the breeze.
One of them motions for us to follow him to the main entrance.
‘You can either walk or we can drug you and drag you there,’ says Tan Head.
I put my hands up in defeat. They let me go but stand only an inch away, blocking my path in every direction but toward the aerie. We walk along the circular driveway to the main entrance, with every angel posted on the rooftop and balconies watching us.
We stop in front of the double glass doors. One of the guards goes inside. We wait in silence under the predatory gaze of far too many warriors. The cult people rush to the trunk of one of the cars and heft the sword out. It takes two of them to drag it across the driveway toward us.
Then the glass doors open, and several angels come outside. One of the newcomers is Uriel’s footman, the one who helped him get ready for the last party.
The men bow deeply to the angels. ‘We’ve brought the girl as promised, masters.’
The angel lackey nods at the guards who then grab my arms.
When they lay the sword in front of Uriel’s footman, he says, ‘Kneel.’
The men kneel in front of him like prisoners awaiting execution. The angel marks their foreheads with a black smear.
‘This will ensure your safety from angels. None of us shall harm you so long as you have this mark.’
‘And the rest of our loyal group?’ asks Tan Head, looking up at the angel.
‘Bring them to us. We’ll mark the rest of you. Let it be known that we can be generous to those who serve us.’
‘Let it be known that they tore apart their last set of servants,’ I say to the cult members.
The men glance at me fearfully, looking worried. I wonder if they knew about the massacre that happened here.
The angels ignore me. ‘Continue the good work, and perhaps we’ll allow you to serve us in heaven.’
The men try to bow deeper, pressing themselves onto the ground. ‘It is our honor to serve the masters.’
I would make a gagging noise if I wasn’t so scared.
They shove me into the building. My sword scrapes the pavement as an angel drags it behind us.
28
Inside, the lobby is crowded and roaring with noise, every inch of standing space bursting with angels. Either they’ve all come indoors or their numbers have swelled overnight.