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“He never was mortal.”
“He was born that way?”
The eyes—which suddenly have pupils now, majorly dark blue ones—are starting to roll again. “What do you think? Son of You-Know-Who—who’s not exactly happy with the traditional wine and wafer thing, but likes the idea of blood and immortality.”
“Makes sense,” I say, eyeing the narcs,
who are eyeing two Fairfax High girls, “but why does God need someone to kill him if he wants to flip?”
He takes a breath. What an idiot, the pupils say. “Remember when China tried to give Taiwan a pair of pandas?”
I’m impressed. This guy’s up on earthly news. “No.”
“Taiwan couldn’t take them.”
“Why not?”
He takes another breath and I hear him counting to ten.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “I get it. If they took the pandas, they were in bed with China. They’d have to make nice with them. You accept cute cuddly creatures from someone and it looks like love, right?”
“Basically.”
“If You-Know-Who’s son flips—goes mortal—God has to accept him.” “Right.”
“And that throws everything off. No balance. No order. Chaos and eventually, well, Hell?”
The angel nods, grateful, I can tell, that I’m no stupider than I am.
I think for a moment.
“How many arrows do I get?”
I think he’ll laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Three.”
“Three?” I don’t like the feeling suddenly. It’s like some Bible story where the guy gets screwed so that God can make some point about fatherly love or other form of sacrifice. Nice for God’s message. Bad for the guy.
“It’s a holy number,” he adds.
“I get that,” I say, “but I don’t think so. Not three.”
“That’s all you get.”
“What makes you think three will do it—even if they’re all heart shots?” “You only need one.”
The bad feeling jumps a notch.
“Why?”
He looks at me and blinks. Then nods. “Well, each has a point made from a piece of the Cross, Mr. Pagano. We were lucky to get even that much. It’s hidden under three floors and four tons of tiles in Jerusalem, you know.”
“What is?”
“The Cross. You know which one.”
I blink. “Right. That’s the last thing he needs in the heart.”
