"He's, uh, a strange guy, isn't he?" Father Pine said as the boxy black Prius peeled away from the curb to haphazardly jam itself back into the heavy lines of New York traffic. 

"Strange is putting it lightly." Ira corrected, shaking his head with a scoff. There was definitely something off about that devil. And Ira was about to traipse off behind him--straight down into Hell. There was so much wrong with the plan that Ira chose to ignore it, deciding instead to sink himself fully into it. It wasn't as if he had an alternative. The fate of the world depended on his success, which mattered much less to Ira than the other part of the plan: finding Melchior.

"Does he. . ." Father Pine frowned, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. "Know?" 

Ira flinched and then wished he hadn't. Father Pine blew a sigh from his nose and placed his palm on Ira's shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. The weight of his hand was almost greater than the volcanic glass weapon clasped in Ira's trembling arms. 

"It'll be fine." Ira said. "He doesn't know. Or, he doesn't. . . seem to know? It's not as if he's ever confessed to me before."

He couldn't. According to Mayvalt, humans weren't meant to know if they'd been reborn. A secret which Ira himself had been keeping from the rest of the Progeny. How could he be the one to tell them? To ruin their belief in angelic reward. There was no pearly gates, there was only the next attempt. There was no end to the merciless hamster wheel. The angel's promise--give your life in service of a world free of demons and find eternal reward--was a lie. Ira couldn't even imagine the damage that particular truth would deal. Would the Progeny surrender if they thought themselves immortal? Would they fight harder to save the world? Ira didn't know. He didn't want to find out either. 

Lead them to their death. Ira shuddered. Maybe he was exactly as the Cardinal had painted him to be. A snake in the grass, a poised viper. He didn't know. All he knew was that he was glad Father Pine didn't dream of his death at night. Mourn his losses all day. Like Ira had. Like Ira still did. His past lives were stained on the interior of his skull. It wasn't a fate he wished on anyone. Not even the Cardinal, who had subjected Ira to testimony and ridicule for the crime of his past lives. 

There were still so many missing pieces. Ira wasn't in purgatory, he wasn't being looped like a favorite song just for kicks--no, it would have happened anyway. So, why could he remember? Why had he been placed in the path of the Progeny? Why did the Prince not recognize him? Why did the Prince still seek him? What possible advantage could his existence serve? Was that all that he truly was? A pawn in a sibling rivalry? Who's pawn? What invisible master did he serve? Mammon? Angels? It was all so terribly confusing still. His entire life was spread out on different colored yarns, pinned and threaded along the corkboard. And he just couldn't see it. 

 "Are you sure?" Father Pine pressed. "Why else would he help you?" 

That was, Ira had to admit, a very fair question. One not even he could figure out--but he was sure the Prince didn't know him. It was as clear as spring water in his cold golden eyes. The Prince was on edge around him, tied up in his puppet strings. It was a sort of skin Ira had never seen him wearing before. "Father, please. Just trust me."

"Angels, kid." Father Pine exhaled. "Of course I trust you! Do you think I would have done all this if I didn't? I'm so terrified I feel like my heart could just stop any second now--but I believe in my kid. I know you're going to come back." 

"I will, I swear." Ira nodded. He dropped the Vestige to his side, letting it hang there from one clenched fist. He used his free arm to draw Father Pine into a hug, holding him as tightly as he could without placing him beside the black glass blade.

Father Pine gave into the embrace for a moment before detangling himself. "Come on, your ride will be here any second." 

"My ride?" Ira repeated, quirking up his eyebrows in confusion. "Father, there's no cab in the city that would let me in with the Vestige. I think it goes against their weapons policy." 

"You severely underestimate what the average city driver sees in a day, kid." Father Pine chuckled. "But, no, this isn't a cab. I called in a favor." 

He raised his finger, directing it towards the street beyond the Cathedral's stone slab steps. From the cloud of smog the Prince had left, a new car was pulling in. They ran parallel to the sidewalk, stopping just a few feet shy of Ira and Father Pine. It wasn't a vehicle Ira recognized, a beat-up old khaki-tan sedan. Ira scrunched up his eyebrows and turned to face Father Pine. 

"You know someone with a car?" He asked.

"So do you." Father Pine corrected. 

Ira leaned down, leveling his face with the darkened passenger side window as it slid down. The driver leaned over, offering an eager wave. He seemed much more familiar than he truly was. His lips had been pulled back into a childish grin, a humor which spread to the brown eyes behind his glasses. His hair had grown longer, coming down in curls to frame his sharp face. Ira's heart flinched in his chest, pummeling the inside of his ribs with unforgiving fists. He shoved down the painful yearning blooming to life inside his fragile organ. It wasn't his fault that he looked so much like Melchior. It was just genetic. 

"Ishmael?" Ira called. He forced his voice to crack, letting out a wave of affection from its hardened shell. 

"Hey," the eldest Brisbane greeted in return. "I heard you needed a ride?" 

"Apparently." Ira laughed. "I have no idea where we're going." 

"Don't worry, your dad gave me the address." Ishmael dismissed, shrugging up the shoulders of his beige cardigan. 

Ira glanced back at Father Pine. He nodded his head, offering a weak smile of encouragement. The sound of Ishmael's engine filled the inside of Ira's skull, making it impossible to focus on anything else. He took a step towards the back passenger door and pulled it open. Ira carefully--as carefully as one could have navigated a four-foot long blade--placed the black glass sword against the tan seats. He scooched in beside the weapon, allowing the gnarled hilt of it to lay across his lap. Father Pine popped open the passenger side door and saddled into the seat besides Ishmael. 

"How did it go?" The Archbishop asked, his fingers tight around the steering wheel. 

"Ira will go to Hell with the Vestige." Father Pine answered, his voice as tight as Ishmael's grip. "When he comes back, he'll take Absalom's position." 

Ishmael didn't seem surprised. He just nodded, his gaze locked onto the surface of his own hands. 

"And, uh," Father Pine coughed awkwardly. "I accidentally left your book in the courtroom." 

"Jethro!" 

"It got chaotic in there!" Father Pine shouted in defense, raising his hands in a gesture of meak surrender. "I'll pay you back, or I'll get you a new one."

"That was a first edition!" Ishmael sighed. "There's no better record of the Progeny's laws. I had to use half of the baby's future college fund and now that the little guy is really here I only got eighteen years before Leah finds out. Why did you even need it? I know you've been happy to float along among the lower ranks but even Bishops know the basic rites." 

Father Pine pressed his shoulders up around his neck in a humble shrug. "Stage presence." 

"Sta-" Ishmael choked, "you lost one of my most precious collection items for stage presence?"

"Okay, alright! I'm sure Esther snatched it up, greedy little bookworm. I'll visit her before she flys back to Augusta." Father Pine surrendered.

"Jethro, you-"

"Leah had the baby?" Ira interrupted, his voice hardly more than a whisper. It was hard not to feel like an intruder on the family matters of the Brisbane's. He glanced down at the volcanic black glass positioned over his lap, the jagged teeth that Melchior had died on--for him. What right did he have at all? He bowed his head, almost wishing he had never asked. 

Ishmael's anger seemed suddenly abandoned. He twisted in his seat, leaning his elbow against the center console. His eyes found Ira, full and sparkling. A father clearly excited to find any opportunity to talk about their child. "A boy! Hieronymus Brisbane--don't give me that look. Leah insisted we name him after her grandfather. I think he'll probably get into an Ivy, if that's what he wants. We're trying not to pressure him. Or maybe he'll be the next Cardinal. Who can say right now-"

"Ishmael, your son is hardly a month old." Father Pine interrupted with a laugh. "Let's wait until he masters sitting up on his own, then we can talk about him usurping Ira." 

Ishmael cringed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply my son would take your spot. It's hard to think that the little kid in my car is the Cardinal. It's been Absalom for as long as I can remember." 

"I'm not the Cardinal." Ira shrugged. His fingers drifted along the rough leather pinched and sewn to the hilt in his lap. "Not yet." 

"But you will be, Ira Rule." Ishmael said. He twisted the steering wheel, gently guiding the tan sedan out into the crowded streets. "I believe in you. I believe in Melchi, too."

Ira squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "How can you say that? After what I did? I failed. Because of me Mel-" Ira's voice shattered in his throat. He choked on the broken pieces and fell silent. 

Ishmael's eyes darted up to the red light hovering above the windshield. A sigh eased from his nose, words followed in a volume suited to prays and wishes. "You think you failed him? Ira, no one knows how that feels better than me. Every terrible thing that happened to my brother came from the choice I made. It was my mistake that turned Melchi into the Cursed Boy. If I hadn't taken him with me on that hunt that night, if he hadn't been attacked by the Ze'ev I failed to kill, then he would have never been the angel's target. He would have never been placed opposite to you. You tried much harder, and for much longer, to keep my brother alive than our own father would have. Ira, I sent him away. I locked him up. I said it was to protect him. From our father, from the Cardinal, from his fate--but those were just excuses to avoid taking responsibility. You went before the Progeny with the Third Prince of Hell to try and save him. And it worked. My brother fought on his own two feet. He didn't kneel before the execution ax the way they wanted him to. And that was because of you, Ira. I'm grateful. More than words can truly express." 

"But it didn't matter." Ira scoffed bitterly. "The Vestige-" 

"Is still a Vestige, right? Like you said when you first told me of your plan. I believe in that, too. You have no clue how stubborn my baby brother can be. He's out there, I know he is. And I know that you're going to find him." Ishmael said, nodding his chin with a stiff jerk. 

"We're almost there." Father Pine said, his eyes fixed towards the window and the city crawling by on the other side of the glass. 

Ira tensed his throat to force down the tears threatening to form a blockage there and twisted in his seat, leaning forward to inhale the sights of New York city at twilight. The sun was slowly dripping down, melting like wax to fall behind the skyscraper skyline. The last echoes of its pinkish light lit up the silver buildings, chasing a rainbow through the grayed streets. Ira's stomach rolled with apprehension. The streets were at a different angle from how he'd always walked them. They seemed miles away from the inside of Ishmael's car--but it didn't change that he knew where they were headed. 

"Wait, I know this part of the city." He said. 

"The Meatpacking District." Father Pine echoed Ira's thoughts, forming the words into something terrifying tangible. "Eden is about a block from here." 

Eden. Far from the paradise Ira was seeking. That word became a mallet which slammed along the inside of his skull, rattling his brain. "All that fanfare just to drive me to the same place the Prince was going? Why?" 

Ishmael and Father Pine exchanged glances. Sending some telepathic link, one Ira didn't very much like. Maybe that was a skill that came with fatherhood, like the ability to fall asleep anywhere. Ishmael nodded and pulled off the street, running along the sidewalk into a very stringently marked no parking zone. He popped open the front door and stepped out onto the street. Father Pine followed suit, stepping off onto the sidewalk. Ira shuffled the Vestige aside and climbed out into the heavy New York air. 

"What's going on?" He asked. 

Ishmael walked along the back of the tan car. He fixed his key into the trunk door and cracked it open, lifting it up onto squealing metal hinges. Piqued by curiosity, Ira followed. He peered forward into the crowded compartment. He looked past the clutter of sheets, clothes, bottles, and books. Nestled into the middle of the chaos, laid across a red and white picnic blanket, was the largest leather harness Ira had ever seen--not that he was an expert. He raised his eyebrows and stared up at Ishmael. 

Ishmael lifted his palms. "Okay, it's not what it looks like. Here."

He detangled the black leather and pulled it out, handing it to Ira. He took it into his hands, feeling the near-zero weight of it. He twisted it, flexing the dried cow skin. There was one long strap attached to a flat pouch. Ira slipped it over his shoulder, wearing it in similar fashion to a sling bag. He had never carried a weapon on his back, but he knew how it looked when Melchior had slung his quiver over his shoulders.  "Is this a scabbard?" 

"For the Vestige. You can't carry it in your hands through Hell." Ishmael shrugged. "Sorry if it's a little rough. I couldn't measure the sword, I just had to go off of others recollections." 

"You made this?" Ira asked, his fingers running down the smooth surface of the strap. 

"Weapon making is a favorite hobby among the Brisbane's. From a young age we're expected to gather and make our own arrows." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. 

"Bows too?" Ira asked. 

"Yes, bows too." Ishmael agreed. 

Ira smiled softly. He remembered that Melchior had disassembled his bow, unstringing the wire from the polished black pine body, for ease of transport between the laity-heavy city to the quiet woods. Each time it had taken him half a minute, his fingers dancing along the spine of the weapon as if it spoke in plain English to him. 

"Which is, uh, why," Ishmael stammered, his aura suddenly overrun with childish embarrassment. He seemed stricken. Ira imagined himself a tough professor, stood over Ishmael's final project, "Your dad gave me your old hilts." 

Ira's eyes widened. His hilts? From his sister daggers? It pained him to admit how much he missed the weight of them in his palms, the security they offered. And the memories. Before Ira had dissolved them in Lake Seneca during a moment of panic and poor planning. Ishmael leaned back into the trunk and shoved aside a box of doggy-eared history books. He pulled out the knives, each blade wrapped delicately in white silk with only their old hilts revealed. The pale white cedar against the black polished pine. Ishmael handed them to Ira hilt first. He accepted, half expected to feeling the hauntingly thin weight of them, but they tipped. Filling his hands with the full restored heft of their blades. Ira glanced up at Ishmael, maybe to thank him--not that his tongue could muster up the courage to move--or maybe to delay the moment when he peeled the fabric back from the Ossein bone. 

He began with the cedar knife, it was easier. He peeled off the thin cover to gaze down at the glimmering pearl edge. The bone had been filed down into a flat box, in the tanto-style Ira had grown familiar with. Father Pine came around the edge of the car. He leaned his hip into the metallic flank and crossed his arms over his chest. Ira turned to face him, his cheeks heated with shame. "You didn't have to do that. I destroyed the last one you gifted me. I feel unworthy."

"Occupational hazard, kid." He shrugged. "I need you to carry that knife. Remember that you've got someone waiting for you here, and don't take too long. Okay?" 

Ira nodded, his throat too tight for anything else. He turned down to the black knife, his heart slammed against his ribs even harder. He pulled back the scrap of silk. It was too much the same. The blade was one single jagged tooth, unpolished and uncarved. The last knife had been made of Melchior's fang. His stomach twisted. His eyes drifted shut to deny the water that ached to flow forward. 

Ishmael stepped forward, placing his palm on Ira's shoulder. "I'm sorry--I thought you'd want another. Here, I can find a replacement if you just give me an hour." 

"Another?" Ira croaked from between his clenched teeth. 

Ishmael blew a forced laugh from his lips. "Of Melchi's fangs. I'm sorry, again. Maybe that is too weird. It just always comforted me to have him close like that. Oh, no! We didn't hurt him for that. His teeth and claws break off naturally, we have boxes of them. Uh, he knows about that, by the way! He didn't seem to mind. Angels, I should stop talking."

Ira's heart pitter-pattered against his ribs. His fingers tightened over the wooden hilt. "This is Melchior's tooth? Not just some replacement? This is his?" 

"Yeah," Ishmael nodded. "What a messed up family tradition, huh?"

"No," Ira whispered. "No, it is nice. . . to have him so close." 

"He would want it that way." Ishmael agreed. "To feel like he's there to protect you." 

"He is." Ira nodded, holding the black wooden hilt so tightly in his fist he worried it might splinter. 

"And I just brought this from home." Father Pine pitched in. He held out the tanned belt with his flat palms, presenting it rather dramatically considering the worn and frayed state of it. 

Ira laughed, accepting his old holsters with a sense of ease. He slipped the tool around his hips and quickly sheathed his sister daggers into the two pouches on the sides of his waist. His fang-toothed blade settled against his right hip-bone. He wanted it close, where he could reach it. Ira was right-handed with a pen but he'd trained both for the knife. It didn't change that feeling--the itching to hold him with his better arm. Father Pine popped open the back passenger door and dragged out the four-foot tall sword. Ishmael winced, pressing his thumb in-between his teeth. 

"My seats." He whimpered. 

As the volcanic glass caught the last streams of pink light from the city's skyline, the eldest Brisbane turned his eyes away. Father Pine gestured at Ira, twisting his pointer finger into a spinning circle. The Bishop obeyed, turning to give his back to Father Pine. The man stepped forward, lifting the hulking blade over his head. Ira knelt, and he pressed the weapon down into its new casing. Ira wondered, if swords could feel, which it would prefer. A pristine glass box prison, or the leather harness across his spine? The weapon was both the weight of the whole city--and nothing at all. It settled like cement against his body, melding his spine into a rigid, upright pole. Ira stood, legs holding steady under the burden he carried. 

"I don't know what to say." He admitted, his cheeks flushed as pink as the sunset. "You've all helped me so much. I just-" 

"Stop, kid." Father Pine breathed, shaking his head. "No thanks necessary." 

"He's right," Ishmael nodded. "This is just what family is for, right?" 

Family, he thought, his insides fluttering. For a long time, Ira had searched for that. An orphan plagued by nightmares of past mothers, he'd assumed himself alone. Beyond anyone's comprehension or mercy. But then, there it was. In such an odd shape, he'd nearly overlooked it. And now he had to leave if he ever wanted to make it whole again. Angels, what a bitter pill to swallow.

"I wish we could do more." Ishmael said. "I'd go to Hell right alongside you, but I can already hear Melchi scolding me for leaving Leah and the baby." 

Ira laughed his agreement. "He wouldn't want that. Take care of the Brisbane's for him, so he's got a family to get back to." 

Ishmael nodded, his lips pressed down into a grim half smile. "Good luck, Ira Rule." 

Ira pressed the sides of his fingers to his forehead, jerking them swiftly down in mock salute. The weariness broke from Ishmael's face, releasing his smile into something less full of sadness. Father Pine stepped forward next, pulling Ira into a rough hug. His arms went over the Vestige, pressing the blade into his back. The cold stuck there, coating Ira's skin beneath his black bishop robes. He leaned into Father Pine's chest to escape the frost. 

"You'll be okay." Father Pine whispered. "I know you'll be okay." 

"Yeah." Ira agreed, his reply hardly loud enough to escape the sound of his own thumping heart. 

"Just hurry back." Father Pine begged, the edges of his stoic voice cracked and frayed. As worn as Ira's holster belt. "Peter needs you, y'know?" 

"Just Peter?" Ira teased, stepping back to ease from the hold of Father Pine's hug. 

The ex-priest shook his head, bringing his palm up to wipe away the wetness collecting along his lashes. "No, not just Peter." 

Ira forced himself to laugh, to break apart the mournfulness of the moment. "You tell Peter I'll be home soon--and I'll bring souvenirs." 

"Sure thing, kid. Now go on, or I won't be able to let you go." Father Pine whispered in his hoarse voice. 

"See you later, Father." Ira murmured. 

Father Pine nodded, his arms fell to his sides and stayed there. Ira turned on his heels, taking one step towards the Hudson river. It wasn't a long walk--maybe he wished it was. He didn't know if he was ready. How much of him was pretending? That he was brave? That he was the hero? That he could pull any of this off? Ira wanted to go home. To where Peter was waiting on the couch, National Geographic playing on the static TV. And yet he couldn't stop. His feet fell in line, dragging the rest of him forward. Behind him, Ira could hear Father Pine and Ishmael climb back into the small brown car. The doors slammed behind them, the engine roared, and the tires crunched along the city street. His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of the Vestige across his back. Ira was alone, with nothing but the city around him. He could feel something inside of his hardened shell crack. A fissure that formed from the release of pressure. The departure of the brave-face he'd glued on for the sake of all those around him. 

With trembling legs, he slipped into the first alleyway he could find. Ira braced his flattened palm along the brick walls to either side of him. He limped forward, sinking into the dark and damp. He walked until he couldn't hold the strength in his legs any longer. He collapsed, falling to his knees on the concrete. The Vestige clanged against a trashcan to his left, sending up a small shower of sparks. Ira leaned forward, pressing his palms to his ears to drown out the buzzing. 

He didn't know how long he sat there, his breaths coming in gasps, but when he finally blinked the last tears from his eyes, the city was black. Lit from the full silver moon, hardly visible from his place hidden between the buildings. Ira wiped his red eyes on the sleeves of his garment and forced himself to his feet. His trembling fingers sank to his belt, pulling free the jagged tooth he had placed there. 

"I'll see you soon." He promised. Ira recognized that he had said those words a lot in the last few hours. But he knew who he had promised first. He inhaled one heavy breath of cooling midnight breeze and began traveling east, towards the river. To where he would find the Third Prince of Hell.