"Oh, Danny." I tugged on his trench-coat collar lovingly, as if to beg him not to go. "I want you to know: I believe you; it wasn't your fault. None of it."

"Hmmmm," he said, and I prayed to God that he heard me, because the next thing that came from his mouth was a dry, unearthly rattle.

Still rhythmically smoothing the collar of Daniel's coat, I shut my eyes and bowed my head. It wasn't right; I'd just gotten him back. He couldn't be gone.

"Danny?" I whispered, even though I could smell the loosening of his bowels. "Danny?"

I opened my eyes, only to see death's touch relax and blur the features of the face I knew so well. It wasn't fair, I fumed silently, as tears rolled down my cheeks.

But, like so many things I tried to deny over the last few days, my protests failed to change the truth: Daniel was dead. With a trembling hand, I closed his eyes.

Police lights flashed against the wall of the stadium, red and white. The glare reflected by the glass hurt my tear-tired eyes. Footsteps echoed in the stairway. The police would be approaching soon, now that the Malachim had retreated. Touching Daniel's chest, I whispered, "I have to go."

I pulled on my helmet and tucked the Bible under my arm. As I stood up to leave, I took one last look at where Daniel lay. He slumped against the wall like a sleeping drunk. His ill-fitting prison trousers and ratty trench coat only added to the illusion. Such an ignoble death for such a brave heart, I thought, as I headed down the stairs. "Maybe I was wrong," I whispered. "Maybe Saint Peter will let you in, after all."

I burst into the open air. The parking lot appeared deserted, except for a lone, crystalline streetlamp. I felt horribly exposed; I could hear the distant whir of a helicopter's blades. The muscles of my back itched with the expectation of a flechette sting. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and ignored the rest. My vision focused on the alleyway in front of me, and I headed for the relative safety of the glass buildings.

Adrenaline propelled me deeper and deeper into the glass city. At random intervals I turned corners, hoping to shake any possible pursuers. The pads of the armored boots made a sucking sound as I ran, the soles automatically adjusting to give extra traction on the slippery glass surface.

Rebeckah had instructed us to regroup at Jerome Avenue near what was once Highway 87. From there, the survivors would make their way back to a new Malachim headquarters. Though the original HQ had not been compromised that she knew of, Rebeckah was unwilling to take the risk of leading someone there. Given the ease with which the police had located me, I had to agree with her logic. However, that meant if I didn't make the rendezvous, I'd never find them.

The moonlight threw brittle shadows at my feet that mocked my sense of direction. I looked around for street names or landmarks, but I didn't recognize any of them. I was lost.

This place was a ghetto of radiation for the Gorgons; most humans, even the police, stayed out. Thus, I wouldn't know a landmark if one hit me in the face. Even the shapes of the buildings seemed strange and squat to me. The Bronx was a city from another lifetime, preserved forever in glass.

I'd slipped on the helmet before entering the city, wanting protection from any surface radiation. My breath came in ragged spurts and my side ached. Daniel's Bible felt heavy in my hand. The deserted emptiness of the glassy streets was eerie. I missed the usually pervasive hum of traffic. Leaning against the hulk of a glittering taxicab, I gulped the night air. Though my hair itched horribly under the helmet, I didn't dare take it off, as that would disable the radiation armor.

The squatness of the Bronx disturbed me. Unlike Manhattan, moonlight fell easily to the streets here, unobstructed by traffic tubes and mile-high buildings. Tubing became popular after the war, as a solution to the continuing problem of the city's expansion, and the borough seemed foreign with only one level for all modes of traffic. Next to a Chevy decades older than mine, a glass-covered bicycle rested against a lamppost, secured for all eternity with a glittering, icy chain.

I began to realize that I was very, very lost. I couldn't even LINK into a global locating system, since I was afraid that I'd tip off the police. At the sound of a howling yell, I dropped to my knees. Peering over the hood of the cab, I searched for the source of the yelp. I heard nothing over the short, raggedhuffs of my breath, which were amplified in the helmet. The street remained quiet and empty. Glass brownstones glinted dully with reflected starlight. I waited.

When the howl came again, I instinctively hunched lower and clutched the Bible to my chest. A series of short, staccato yelps echoed through the glass valley. The noise was joyful and defiant, like a Rebel yell. Then I saw them coming around the corner – Gorgons on the prowl.

Mutated by generations of radiation and inbreeding, the Gorgon temperament was considered unstable at best. As a cop, I had been instructed never to engage them hand to hand or when they were in a pack. I had seen the body of a fellow officer mauled by Gorgons: he was hardly recognizable.

The boisterous pack moved closer until they were nearly to the edge of the cab that I was crouched behind. I felt over the armor for a weapon, anything I might be able to use against them if need be. My fingers found a thigh pocket. Clumsily, I ripped open the flap. My hands closed around ten small coins. Through the gloves, I could feel their distinctive size and shape. I had an idea.

I hesitated only a moment before pressing the off switch on the armor. Despite my bravado, my knees shook as I stood up, and I nearly dropped the Bible.

It was a crazy gamble. I knew that Rebeckah kept Gorgons in her employ, but even if these particular ones knew where the new headquarters was, they could just as easily lead me into a cul-de-sac and rend me to pieces.

I tossed the coins at the Gorgon's feet. With a clattering, the copper skidded along the smooth glass street in all directions.

"There's more where that came from if one of you is willing to lead me to the new Malachim headquarters."

Four pale faces stared at me. White hair shone in the moonlight, giving the Gorgons an ethereal quality. None of them moved. I thought for a second that maybe they were ghosts or a mirage.

One of them, his greenish blue eyes locked on me, dropped to a crouch slowly. His body flowed like quicksilver along a tabletop, beautiful and chaotic. When his fingers brushed the coin, things exploded. In a flurry of fangs and sharpened fingernails, the rest of the pack launched themselves at him and the remaining money.

The first Gorgon hit the pavement with a smack. Straddling him, his attacker elbowed his face into the street. Glass shattered. Blood seeped into the cracks on the street. A groan of pain mingled with a growl of violence. In a smooth recovery from the blow, the first Gorgon drew his hand back into a fist and undercut the jaw of his attacker. One of the remaining two Gorgoiis collected coins. Seeing that, the two who had been fighting each other descended upon him.

Like a mirror image of myself, a female stepped back a pace from the others. Her eyes were also riveted to the savage tangle of men, but, unlike me, she smiled to herself like a child enjoying a game.

Noticing my stare, she said, "If this is the beginning, what's the rest?"

Blood spotted the street as the Gorgon's blows continued to break the glass sheathing of the ground beneath them. "I don't know," I said, my voice wavering in shock.

"You don't know? How come you said there was more where this came from?" she asked calmly, as her friends fought each other between us.

"Oh." I shifted my focus to her eyes. I concentrated on ignoring the sounds of battle around us. "I meant credits."