“The Adversary?”

“The Foe. The Enemy. The Devil.”

“There ain’t no Devil.”

“There assuredly is. I have seen him and I have battled him many times in his many forms. I have known him for many years, as have we all. In our own ways we rage against the Night. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”

Tinker nodded.

“Keep trying to raise Babel to let them know what kind of hell this place has become. But for God’s sake—get out if things get too dicey.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Tinker said.

She remembered the spider pack from the day before. “Here’s something important to tell HQ if you can get through. Tell them that I’ve seen things in Talas that I saw when Billy, John Fortune, and I had taken our ride with the Highwayman. Can you remember that?”

Tinker nodded. The Angel glanced at Bugsy, who was eyeing the stack of food on the ground. “Bugsy?”

“Yeah. Got it.” He snagged a package from the bigger pile and Tinker reached down and smacked him in the head.

“Hey!”

“Don’t eat it all,” the Angel warned. “You don’t know how long that’ll have to last.”

The Angel packed the smaller portion of supplies into her belt pockets. It didn’t take long, because there wasn’t very much. She stood and hooked her last full water canteen on the belt next to the food. Food was one thing, but there had to be potable water somewhere out there in Talas. After all, millions of people inhabited the city only a couple of days previously.

“Take care, mate,” Tinker said.

She smiled, said her prayer, and her wings came upon her. She smiled her good-bye and rose slowly and majestically into the air and was gone, as if borne away on a gentle wind.

After they arrived at the UN, Agent Ray herded Mollie to an office with a view of lower Manhattan from many stories up. The window faced south; the East River flowed to her left. A misty night, but she could make out the spotlights on Jetboy’s Tomb in the far distance. The shingle on the office door read BARBARA BADEN.

Baden and Ray stepped out for a moment, so Mollie tried to rack out on Baden’s leather sofa while they went to round up whomever it was they wanted Mollie to meet. Nice couch, but the anxiety had her curled into such a tight fetal ball that her back and neck ached like somebody had tried to use her vertebrae for a xylophone.

Somebody’s executive assistant (“I’m Juliet, but call me Ink.”) poked her head in to ask Mollie if she needed anything. Nobody seemed to care or notice it was the middle of the night. Working at the UN must suck if it meant keeping such hours.

“I’d lick a spider for a decent cup of coffee.”

She expected it to come in a paper cup, like from a vending machine. But she got an actual ceramic mug. It even had a logo: THE UNITED NATIONS COMMITTEE ON EXTRAORDINARY INTERVENTIONS.