1632 (Ring of Fire Series) by Eric Flint

Author:Eric Flint [Flint, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Baen Books
Published: 2000-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Hans watched the angels of death for several minutes before he spoke. He was puzzled by the difference between them. It was not the fact that one was male and one female. It was simply that Hans had always thought of angels as being . . . ageless. So why should one of them resemble a young woman, and the other a gray-haired man?

Their hair seemed strange, too.

But he was not frightened. He knew they were angels of death because of their black color, but he could detect no evil in their faces. Only a sort of calm concern. They seemed to be watching over several souls.

Not Hell, then.

Hans’ eyes ranged through the room. That, too, was odd. He would have thought a divine antechamber would have been better constructed. Or not constructed at all. Simply— spoken into existence. But he could see the nail heads holding the wooden framework together. Very sloppy workmanship, actually.

His eyes studied the filmy substance separating him from the dimly sensed soul of another. The other soul, like his own, seemed to be lying on some sort of cot. Hans admired the filmy substance. Very ethereal, he thought. But he was a bit nonplussed by the cot. It did not seem at all heavenly.

He was not dead yet, then. His soul was simply suspended somewhere, waiting to be reaped.

The filmy substance was suddenly brushed aside. One of the angels of death entered into his space. The young female one.

Hans studied her face. Her features were not what he would have expected on an angel. Very large, broad. But he decided she was quite beautiful. He liked the way her tightly coiled black hair framed her forehead. And her dark eyes seemed very warm.

He cleared his throat. “I am ready,” he whispered.

The angel leaned closer, turning her head slightly to present an ear. “What did you say?” she asked.

Hans was puzzled. Why would an angel speak English? But he accepted the divine will, and repeated himself in English.

“Take me, angel,” he repeated. “I am ready.”

The words seemed to register. The angel’s eyes widened. Her lips curved into a smile, the smile became a laugh. Hans got his next surprise.

“ ‘Take me!’ ” she mimicked. Another laugh. “I’ve heard of one-track minds before, but this—(strange idiom; something about a cake being taken).”

But English it surely was. Hans was quite familiar with the tongue. The only member of Ludwig’s band that he had genuinely liked was a young Irishman. The Irishman was also dead, now. Hans had seen his brains explode.

The angel was still laughing. “You may be ready, honey,” she exclaimed, “but I’m not!” Another laugh, quite gay. “Aren’t you the randy one!”

She patted his cheek. “Welcome back, Hans Richter. I’ll get your sisters.”

* * *

They arrived within an hour, and Hans discovered that he was still alive. Alive—and healing well. But he had spent many weeks on the edge of death. It was now the month of August .

Other changes had taken place, he discovered, and still others were in the offing.

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