He kept going.

David passed half a dozen shops, a handful of restaurants, a bar. At the last, his steps slowed.

McKillan’s read the sign over the doors. Samantha despised bars, couldn’t stand the noise and the smoke and the sticky floors.

David went in.

The world got smaller. The people got closer. He tried not to think about how easily the wooden shell of the place would burn as he made his way to the counter and climbed up onto the stool, lacing his fingers in front of him. He ordered a gin and tonic. And then another. And a third. He went to the bathroom. When he came back, a fresh drink was waiting at David’s stool. A beer.

“From the lady at the end,” said the bartender, pointing to the edge of the counter. “Said you looked like you could use it.”

David twisted in his seat to see the woman. She had red hair and redder lips, and the darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Everything about her seemed … warm. David hesitated. And then he took his drink, and went to join her.

Her name was Christa. She touched his arm when she talked, and he leaned into her heat. After the first beer, he’d forgotten about the crowded bar. After the second, he’d forgotten about the days—weeks, months—of meticulous planning. After the third, he’d forgotten about his fear, and his power.

By the time David left, he could barely see straight enough to read Christa’s number on the napkin. On the way out, he thought he recognized the young man in the corner booth. But he couldn’t place him.

He ambled down the sidewalk, feeling better than he had in 297 days. The bar had been loud, but in the relative quiet of the street, David heard his phone beep. He had a message. He tugged the cell gingerly from his pocket and pressed the button, holding it lightly to his ear as he walked.

“Hey Dave,” Jess’s voice said, “just your baby sister here. I hope you made it past the driveway. Don’t forget to check in. Love you. Be safe.”

When he put the phone away, and looked up, he realized his feet had carried him down a side street. He turned back and made his way toward the main road, and was halfway there when he snagged his shoe on a bit of alley debris and stumbled forward. Without thinking, he threw out his hand, and caught himself against a restaurant’s back door.

It only took a second. The surprise of the fall and the pain of the impact caught him off guard, and his control wavered. He pulled back as quickly as he could, but by then he’d singed a handprint into the wood.

Clumsy, growled David to himself as he straightened. He’d been doing so well.

He took another step toward the main road before he realized someone was standing in his way. The light in the alley was lower than that on the main street and at first the figure was nothing more than a fuzzy silhouette in David’s far-from-sober vision. And then the shape moved toward him, sharpening, and David frowned.

It was the young man from the corner booth. And the street corner, David realized. He was dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He barely looked old enough to drink.

“Can I help you, kid?” asked David.

The stranger continued toward him with slow, measured steps, and David found himself retreating, even as he said, “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

The young man reached the burned door, and stopped.

“The son of man,” he said softly, bringing his hand to the wood, “shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all that offend.” His hand fell away from the door. “And cast them into a furnace of fire.”

The stranger’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“What the hell are you talking about?” said David.

“David Lane,” said the stranger.

David’s blood ran cold. “How do you know my name?”

“You have sinned against God.”

“Who are you?”

A knife appeared in the stranger’s hand. “One of his angels.”

David stumbled backward several feet, but his shoulders fetched up against a trash bin, and before he could get away, the stranger was there. “Wait, please—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. The knife slid between David’s ribs. Pain, bright and hot—hotter than anything he’d felt in 297 days—tore through him as his knees buckled.

He grasped at the stranger’s arm as he sank, tightening his fingers around the man’s sleeve. The fabric burned instantly, and the flesh beneath began to char, and the stranger gritted his teeth, but didn’t let go. David’s grip began to weaken, until his fingers finally slipped from the stranger’s arm. The knife slid free. Everything got quiet. Even the sound of his own body falling forward to the street seemed far away. He felt the cold then, not blistering as it had been beneath the snow, but steady, spreading through him as he lay there.

Warm up, he thought, but his hands rested uselessly against the pavement. Warm up, he willed, but only the cold was there to meet him. The cold and the quiet. They took hold and dragged him down, and the last thing David saw was the stranger crossing himself, the ruined flesh of his arm knitting back together.

And then the darkness came, and buried David Lane in a blanket of ash.