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Samael reaches our table.
“Too late now,” I say.
“Too late for what?” says Samael.
“For her to avoid you. Now that you’re here, please be nice.”
He beams down at Julie and puts out his hand.
“Hello. I’m Samael.”
“Another one-name guy. Like Stark.”
He pulls up a chair and sits down.
“We do share that affectation, I’m afraid.”
I point at him.
“For me it’s an affectation. For him it’s just his name. He doesn’t have a last name.”
“Everyone has a last name,” says Julie.
“Not angels.”
She looks at me, then Samael.
“Is this another one of your tall tales? Going to Hell? Hanging around with God?”
“This is your new employer?” says Samael. “She doesn’t seems to have a lot of faith in you.”
“What we are and what we do is hard for sane people to accept.”
“You’re serious,” says Julie. “This man is an angel.”
“Why is that so surprising?” he says. “It’s Christmas. L.A. must be full of angels.”
Samael reaches into his coat and pulls out a bottle of Aqua Regia and sets it on the table.
“You are a God,” I say.
“No. But I’ll do in his stead.”
Julie looks at us.
“You two are so full of shit.”
Samael says, “This man fights monsters for you. He fought a serial killer who couldn’t possibly be a mere human. He killed ancient evils and is sitting here right now with bullets in his chest, and you can’t take his word for it that I’m an angel?”
Julie blinks.
“No one’s ever asked me a question like that before.”
Samael gives her his ten-thousand-watt smile.
“Of course we’re joking, my dear. There’s no such thing as angels. They’re an old folktale, like leprechauns and virgins.”
He gets up from the table. Puts his finger on top of the Aqua Regia bottle.
