Gregory Yates

"This is the place?" Jacob asked. He turned to Mickey and raised an eyebrow. "It sure don't look like the type of joint an angel hangs out at."

"You ain't got no faith, mate," the man replied. He glanced around nevously, rubbing his hands to keep warm, and pulled his jacket on a little tighter. Then, with a cocky grin: "Would I lead us astray?"

Jacob considered that for a moment, taking a drag from his cigarette. Sure, Mickey had saved his life - but did that really make any difference, in the long run? From what he'd seen, there was no sure guarantee that it meant anything,. In fact, it could even be a worse portent; the audacious little man could be leading him into a well structured trap. It looked like he was going into the club, either way. I don't have a choice, he thought with resignation. He glanced across the street.

The 'hideout' was one of those new subculture clubs in town: goth, punk or something on that thread. The hard, throbbing beat eminating from inside was evidence enough of that, as well as the dingy lighting on the entrance and the posters hanging around on the grey-brick walls. Security was pretty lax, too; there was just a stringy guy in his twenties on the door, clutching a clipboard in one hand and glancing up occasionally to make sure all was in order.

"Totally sure?" Jacob asked sarcastically, as someone shoved past the guard. His eyes followed the man as he picked himself up, shuffling backwards and staring at his guest list as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Mickey nodded quickly. "Sure as sure,"

"How do you know?"

"Because it stinks to high heaven, Jacob," Mickey started. His beady brown eyes darted from the club to the road quickly, then he leaned in, whispering: "and we can't miss that kind of shit. Angels, I mean. We know when another of our little gang has been fuckin' up."

Jacob laughed a little, coldly. "I thought God was all-lovin'?"

"He may be, but his blessed followers ain't."

"You people lost 'Thou shalt not kill' along the wayside, huh?"

Mickey shrugged. "That's for humans, mate."

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed. Both men glanced up, frowning - then turned away again, as they realised it was just the wind carrying the sound on. Excluding the man at the door, the street was deserted; just a few cars, and one or two stray cats occupied the cracked road surface.

"Whatever," said Jacob. He looked down to his cigarette again, then turned his gaze up to watch the smoke curling lazily from it into the air. Angsty fucker, he mused acidly. And there was Melpher saying that angels were dignified things.

Looking at the man now, Jacob certainly couldn't believe it. Standing there in his cheap raincoat and ripped jeans, he hardly looked respectable - let alone 'majestic' or 'dignified'. He just looked... well, out place, Jacob reasoned. Something to do with his posture, or body language; either way, he didn't look right, standing there...

Why am I even here? Jacob thought suddenly. Why am I here, in the cold at three in the morning, on a seedy old backstreet god-knows-where? And why am I doing it with a guy who looks like he'd be better suited to peddling cheap watches than fighting holy wars? If it wasn't for what that old man said...

Jacob shook his head a little, to clear the thought. Of course he'd still be there. It was Jess, wasn't it? He'd do anything for her. Anything.

Or at least, he thought he would. A part of him still wasn't so sure.

"Are we goin' in then?" Mickey asked, cutting into the man's trance.

Jacob turned away from Mickey, flicking his cigarette onto the floor. It smouldered there for a moment, before he crushed it under heel.

"Yeah, whatever."

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