Columns of smoke rose into the fading twilight. Fires in and around the crumpled remains of the war machines roasted and roared. The lieutenant's triumphant grin soon faded. "We won the bridge, but there are two other roadblocks. Who-knows-what's happening over there."

Dr. Friel said, "Perhaps we three should fly over and look before it gets too dark."

"And possibly help out," Trixie said. Unradiant at the moment, slouching casually in her button-down shirt and jeans, nevertheless her eyes shone.

Something nibbled at the edges of my sixth sense. I tuned in to the spirit world. Photropolis seemed smaller and not as bright, but Dad and Mom were there. "Son," Dad said. Worry colored his thought-stream. "You're fading."

"Sure, let's go," Robert said.

Trixie waved at me. "Bye, Rik. Before you say it, I'll be careful."

My divided attention made me stutter, "Oh, y-yeah. You'd b-better be careful."

Dad said, "Thought I'd better say goodbye while I had the chance."

"Don't worry." My sister gave me a reassuring smile before she turned into dazzling fountains of light. Like three Independence Day rockets, the radiant angels zoomed into the sky on gentle arcs.

My face scrunched up as I absolutely did worry, despite the awe-inspiring flight. "Dad? I'm fading?" I whispered.

I felt his nonphysical hug and wise smile. "Well, not as fast as I thought, for a minute, there. But you are. Returning to your own realm, I mean."

A chill clutched at my heart. His words slugged me with the heavy weight of truth. "Oh, man," I whimpered.

"Rik? You all right?" Father Brent's warm hand settled on my shoulder.

I found it to be a very difficult question to answer. A triangle of wandering stars drifted across the twilight. One star represented Trixie. Father Brent's face had taken on a noble appearance, with placid mouth and steady, wise eyes. "I'm basically all right," I said. "Just that Dad's saying goodbye. I guess I'm ... getting better."

He pursed his lips, then lifted an eyebrow.

My throat tightened. My lips numbed. "Recovering from the angel virus. I'm ... starting to lose sight of the spirit world."

"No shit?" Father Brent's eyebrows arched high. "Whoa." His surprise faded and his eyes roved.

"Well, I guess," I blathered. "I mean Photropolis seems dimmer and it's harder to feel Mom and Dad."

"Hush."

My brows knit together. Furiously, I blinked tears back. "No, it's not my imagination, Brent. I'm pretty sure it's getting harder to see and I'm actually—"

Brent held up a hand to stop my gushing. "No. Hush! Stop talking. Can you feel that?" His head roved this way and that, questing.

My mouth compressed to a straight line. My eyes roved, too, but I only saw smoking wrecks down the bridge and a small collection of police officers muttering about what sort of tow truck would be required to remove multi-ton tanks from the roadway.

Father Brent drew his daggers. His eyes narrowed to steely slits staring out over the jagged line of wrecked machines. And then I felt it. Growing oppression. Dread. A sort of thickening of the air that clogged the throat and sat heavily upon the lungs like a giant toad.

"Hoo, boy. This is it. Get your bad boy gloves on, Rik." Father Brent's voice strained past teeth clamped tight together.

After a few moments, my eyes gradually adjusted. Translucent shapes materialized. A parade of clawed aberrations snaked through the metal obstacles on the bridge. Most scuttled along, smaller than Kezzias, but a few bulked even larger. A background of clicks and scrapes of claws on asphalt sounded like demonic rain. Amid the gray skins and yellow eyes, a small blue figure brightly bobbed. It resembled a six-year-old girl. A blue dress, white socks, and saddle shoes clad its lower half, and blonde curls bounced atop its cherubic face.

They numbered dozens, and the horde of them flowed around and over the police cars. I slipped into my protective meditative state. I latched onto the clarity of mind it offered like a thirsty cowboy holds his canteen close.

The few policemen around milled in uncertainty, perhaps seeing bland men in blue suits rather than clawed nightmares. I bleated, "Run, you guys!" to the officers.

Father Brent said, "Stay close to me, Rik. Back to back. They will surround us."

My own feet wanted to fly, too, but my brain slammed on the brakes so fast I could almost hear an audible screech. Father Brent had slimmed down, but he still packed at least a hundred extra pounds. There was no way he could run. And there was no way I was going to leave him.

The cute kindergartner stood on the hood of a police car, legs spread like a conquering hero. She flapped a hand in the direction of the humans and piped, "Kill them."

Dark, humped shapes vaulted the police cars or scuttled around the bumper ends on all fours. Some of the police officers opened fire with their pistols. A few of the police officers took my advice and pelted away, but I lost sight of that immediately. The lead devil arrived and swung its claws at my face.

I ducked under the swing, then punched. My spike-knuckled blow connected with a chitinous crack. The shock jarred my wrist and elbow, and the monster howled and staggered back. Father Brent grunted. I could feel his air and occasionally caught glimpses of his flashing daggers.

Elsewhere on the bridge, human screams of agony ripped the air, only to be cut short. All too soon, only the gusts, grunts, and clacks of the monsters could be heard.

A claw caught my elbow, and pain bloomed up and down my arm. Brent's dagger whizzed, and the brute that had scored paid for it with a slashed belly. Hot blood spattered my face, and it stung. I roared, "Thanks, Father!" and punched wildly.

For a few moments, triumph roared in our ears. The aberrations seemed cowed and shuffled back into a ragged circle. Father Brent had downed two, and the bodies mewled and contorted in puddles of their own steaming internal fluids. "Heh," wheezed Brent amid panting breaths. I will remember him in that moment forever. His eyes shone with the wisdom of one who knows fully the value of life, and knows fully its fleeting nature. He was Joan of Arc. He was St. George. He was Sir Galahad.

The human screams had ceased, but the injured devils emitted rattling moans. My attention jerked away from Father Brent as a scythelike appendage swept several devils aside. In the gap, I saw the child in the blue dress. Dimly coexisting with the kid, I also saw a creature that towered three times the height of a human. A mix of tentacles and sleek-muscled appendages supported a supple crocodile body and three horned heads on three prehensile necks. The little girl's voice chirped, "Let me."

The nightmarish creature raised an arm almost ten feet long, tipped by a glistening black blade. The blade slashed forward. Father Brent emitted a yell worthy of a Viking berserker and parried.

But the attack was a feint. My peripheral vision caught blurred movement behind me. In the next instant, a terrible blow caught me from behind, at mid-back. Airborne, I pinwheeled forward into the twisted metal remains of the lead tank. The impact brought pain beyond anything I had previously experienced. My vision filled with the fireworks of shattered nerves, and I crumpled to the scorched pavement.

For a few moments, I fought to breathe. With a gasp, my eyes flew open. I lay prone, but twisted. I could see Father Brent crumpled against the rear wheel of a police cruiser. His own red blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and around the curve of his jaw to soak into the collar of his shirt. His eyes seemed glazed. A pang pierced my heart. "Father Brent?" I whispered. Was he dead?

His eyes rolled to meet mine. No other part of him moved.

"I grant your request, Kezzias." The little girl stood near, a realistic mannequin with a cartoon voice.

The man in the dark blue suit next to her bowed. "I thank you, Lord Vhoor."

He stepped toward Father Brent. I squeaked an impotent protest. I struggled and flailed. My arms moved, but weakly. I couldn't feel my legs at all.

The man in blue swiped a claw hand through the air. Father Brent, as if animated by marionette strings, flopped over. Horrid rips tore through his side, slashed by claws I could no longer see. Brent's face pressed into the pavement and he made no sound. I can't bear to describe the details. The brutality paralyzed me even more than the violence had.

The man in blue, face bland, rotated. He faced me and raised his hand, fingers in a claw shape.