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think that Antares’s men really could have harmed him?” I asked.
    Beezle scoffed. “Those two miscreants? Not a chance. And remember, Baraqiel was with him.”
    “Baraqiel was injured,” I pointed out.
    “And if it was so easy to handle Antares’s men, where are Gabriel and Baraqiel?” J.B. asked.
    Once worry was given free rein, I could conjure any number of scenarios in which Gabriel and Baraqiel could disappear. They had been attacked by Samiel. They had been attacked by Focalor, one of the Grigori who hated Azazel. They had been attacked by some other horror that I hadn’t thought of yet.
    Horrors that you cannot comprehend. That was what Antares had said. He was a braggart, and most of the time I was inclined to ignore what came out of his mouth. But there had been truth in his voice. He knew something about what had happened in that alley. He knew, and he was obviously planning to use that information to his advantage. In the meantime, Gabriel was missing, J.B. was horribly burned, and I was bleeding out on my back porch. And Beezle was driving me crazy by fluttering around and muttering imprecations about Gabriel.
    “Beezle, why don’t you make yourself useful and find some Band-Aids?” I said.
    “And possibly some kind of burn cream,” added J.B.
    Beezle flew around the house to the window that was always open on the east side. As he went, I was sure I heard him say something about needing a doughnut.
    “No doughnuts until I stop bleeding!” I shouted after him.
    J.B. snorted a laugh, then grabbed his side. “It hurts to laugh.”
    I had enough sense to realize that J.B.’s injuries were worse than mine. He might be hemorrhaging internally or have a broken rib from when Antares blasted him across the yard. The burns on his back had to be causing him incredible pain. He needed medical attention, and I needed to get my bleeding self together and provide it.
    I didn’t have the knack of healing that Gabriel and many other angels seemed to possess. Or if I did, I couldn’t yet access or control it.
    But I could call an Agent Medi-Team. They were specially trained to deal with supernatural injuries that occurred on the job. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have called them already. I groped in my coat pocket for my cell phone and couldn’t find it. I patted all of the pockets in frustration and realized that it had probably fallen out during my skydiving attempt.
    “Do you have your cell phone?” I asked J.B. as he watched me curiously.
    He looked kind of glazed, like he was drunk. I probably looked the same way. I felt myself getting more lightheaded as the minutes passed, and it occurred to me that Antares must have some kind of anticoagulant in his claws. I was still bleeding as heavily as before and the wounds showed no signs of clotting.
    J.B. was slow to respond, so I started patting him all over, looking for the telltale bulge of the phone.
    “Is this really the time?” J.B. asked as he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes while I searched. “You haven’t even taken me to dinner yet.”
    I checked the inside and outside of his ruined jacket, and even the pockets of his jeans, but there was no phone.
    “Might have fallen out when I was blasted. Or before that. Who knows?” J.B. murmured. He sounded like he was falling asleep.
    That was bad. I knew enough about medicine to know that if he went to sleep now, he might never wake up.
    “Beezle!” I shouted, heedless of the hour and my sleeping neighbors. “Beezle, come here now!”
    I heard the scrape of a window against its frame, and looked up to see Beezle shooting out of the kitchen with a small first aid kit clutched in his claws.
    “What’s the fire?” he asked, tossing me the kit.
    “Go and get the portable phone from the house. J.B.’s barely holding it together and I need to call a Medi-Team for him.” I patted J.B.’s cheek and he grunted. “Don’t go to sleep.”
    “I don’t know if the portable phone