In the Beginning

In the beginning was an angel, a church and a knife.

I had hunted down the angel, Remiel, in Barcelona. He was working as a living statue, one of those street performers whose job it is to separate tourists from their money before someone else does. His office was a wooden pedestal on La Rambla, the pedestrian boulevard by the harbour that every visitor has to hit before they start exploring the real city. He was tucked away among the kiosks that sold everything from postcards and magazines to live birds. A silver robot stood on a box to the left of him, while a clockwork man dressed in gears, wheels and pistons was on his right. Remiel was made up like a demon with golden skin, bat wings and two tails, holding a leather tome bound with three locks. He looked like just another out-of-work circus performer vying for tips. Apparently even angels have to make a living these days.

If you’ve been to Barcelona, or any other city with a tourist district, you know the scene: people with cameras and sunburns wandering around while living statues, jugglers, magicians and pickpockets compete with each other to earn a few of the local coins.

And me.

You wouldn’t notice me. I’d be just another passing face, another man from somewhere else with a hat, sunglasses and backpack. I’m a pretty convincing nobody, thanks to centuries of experience.

But Remiel turned his head and scanned the crowd as soon as I caught sight of him. Angels have a sense for each other. He was looking for me. Trying to find me like I’d found him.

The problem was he was looking for the wrong thing. I’m not one of them. I can never be one of them. I’ll let you worry about whether that’s a curse or a gift.

I ducked into a kiosk and pretended to look over a selection of fridge magnets depicting La Sagrada Familia, the city’s famous Gaudí church, while keeping an eye on Remiel in the mirror on the sunglasses stand. He fluttered his wings and lashed his tails, which prompted people in the crowd to applaud and toss money onto the mat at his feet. But he wasn’t acting for them. I knew his demon form wasn’t a disguise – he wasn’t wearing makeup and using props like all the other performers. He wasn’t even using a sleight to hide his real form. This was actually one of Remiel’s incarnations. And he was genuinely agitated at sensing my presence but not being able to find me. I would have been amused by the situation if I wasn’t so damned desperate for grace.

He hopped off the box and gathered up his mat and money in one smooth motion. He looked around some more as he put them in a shoulder bag he draped off one of his wings. Then he made his way through the crowd and into a side alley. I followed him, careful to keep clear of the people filming his exit. You never know when some enterprising law enforcement officer will think it’s a good ide