Hell's Detective

Chapter Twelve- The Saviour

Zadrian led Follows down a street the rest of the world seemed to have forgotten about. The shops were bordered up, street signs and bus stops were decorated with graffiti. It was as if they were walking through a ghost town. Zadrian stopped at a padlocked iron gate.

"It's down here," he said

He retrieved a key from his shirt pocket and unlocked it.

"You'd best prepare yourself, Reverend. An evil lies in this place unlike anything you've ever seen before."

Follows didn't much like the sound of that.

"Listen," he said. "If this going to work, you need to stop calling me 'Reverend.' You said God used fishermen to do his will, yeah? Well, consider me a fisherman. I'm not a reverend. Never will be."

"Then what shall I call you?" Zadrian asked. "Fisherman?"

"Follows is fine."

Zadrian didn't look particularly happy about it, but he nodded all the same.

There was a stairway that led underground, lit by blinking neon lights. They reached what looked like a steel prison door with a little slot in the middle. Zadrian knocked, the sound reverberating around them. The slot opened.

"The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them," Zadrian said. There was a click as the door opened.

A man wearing a cassock and a very irritated expression ushered them into the foyer. The walls were all despairingly grey, free of anything even remotely personable like posters or pictures. Or wallpaper. It was like the place was trying to look as depressing as possible.

"Where the hell have you been?" the man muttered to Zadrian.

"I had urgent business to attend to. How many more?"

"Five," he said. He brought his hand through his chestnut hair. Lines that looked like they had been etched into his skin from overuse creased his forehead.

"There's something different about these ones. Markings on their chests, arms, foreheads, almost like..."

"An invitation," Zadrian finished for him.

"Exactly."

"Sorry," Follows interrupted them. The man looked at him like he had just realised he was standing there. "Somebody mind telling me what's going on here?"

But the man didn't tell him. Instead, he ran over to him, put his hands on his shoulders and stared straight into his eyes. Follows blinked. He was entirely sure what to do. No one had ever greeted him quite like this before. He shot Zadrian a helpless look.

"But...it can't be," the man whispered. "Is it him?"

"Yes," Zadrian said.

"Are you sure?"

"Am I who?" Follows asked before the two could start one of their private conversations again.

"The one. The one they've all been talking about."

"Who?"

The man's eyes widened, and he said as if he were in some sort of trance, "The angels."

Follows raised an eyebrow at Zadrian, who said, "Follows, this is Father Briar. Father, I brought Follows here to show him our work."

Briar shook himself. "Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. I'll get the keys."

He hurried out of the room, and when Follows was sure he had left, he asked, "What does he mean, 'the angels?'"