Paradise Made

Thirty-Seven: Lost Future

"What are they protesting?" I asked Pen, leaning out the window of our cab to peer at the sign carrying crowd ahead of us.

I'd never been to London, and I had for some reason not expected the cabs to really look like they had on the BBC. But here we were, riding in one with the cool backwards seats. The stress of the apocalypse and the disorientation of being teleported across the Atlantic had been slightly pushed aside by my tourist's excitement. All the buildings in this part of town were so old, so close together.

"You'll see," said Pen, rolling down his window as well.

And I did. Driving through them there were many more than had appeared from a distance. They had been kept off the road with barricades, and seemed to be abiding by them, focusing their anger on one building in particular.

No Police State, was the most common sign.

Held by a woman who had to be at least eighty, one read, Exorcisms not bullets.

"Oh, oh!" Pen got my attention. "Look at that one." He was pointing at something in the sea of shifting colour. "Lucas Dejan is the Anti-Christ! Human are quick, I love it."

I shot Pen a look to remind him we were not alone in the cab. He shrugged, seeming not to care, but I still found myself checking the taxi driver for some sort of reaction. He'd probably heard much weirder.

Our hostel was not far from the protests. It was like I was getting the gap year I'd never taken: hosteling through the worlds greatest cities with my friends, fighting demons, trying to kill God. The room Pen and I were assigned had two other bunk-beds. It was empty when we entered, aside from one scruffy looking man reading a book.

"Listen," Pen said, in a fairly quiet voice. "I'm going to go out for a bit. Hang out here, or don't. Just do your best not to get killed. When I come back I'll have some luggage for us."

"Where are you going?" My brow furrowed, I'd thought we were past this stage.

Pen opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. "Alright. I'm going to find Azazel. I need to know what Hell is up to. You'll understand why it's best I go alone."

The anger didn't really fade, but it was as much at myself as at Pen, as much at Sara as at Lucifer. I didn't argue, which was why I found myself sitting on the top bunk, staring at the wall. This hostel was cleaner than the one in New York. The walls seemed freshly painted; a burgundy colour. The sheets seemed clean, and it was warm enough I would not need to use the scratching blanket at the foot of the bed.

Suddenly something hit the window and shattered. The din of voices outside had been getting progressively louder, but now they could not be tuned out.

The room's other inhabitant was on his feet. "What was that?"

"I think someone threw a bottle," I answered, jumping down from my bunk.

We both walked to the window, gazing out onto the scene. So many people, blocking the roads, extending all the way back to where we'd first driven past them, and who knew how much further. It was dusk, and in the distance I saw the red and blue of police lights.