Abigail

The search for one Mr Harold van Bommel made clear to Abigail how unique the Fitzpatrick heritage was. When Ramiel had said nephilim were rare, she had imagined he meant perhaps a ratio of one to ten thousand or one hundred thousand people. If the experts were to be believed, genes had the potential to spread throughout the bulk of the population with ease. Wasn't half of Europe descended from Charlemagne and something like the third of Asia from Genghis Khan?

Yet Harold, geographically the closest nephilim around, wasn't to be found in Sydney — a city of five million people. He lived in the wine country, on the bank of one of the many tributaries of the Hunter River. Elias and Abigail had to fill the petrol tank of the family car, then make Ramiel as comfortable as possible in the back seat. A two-hour drive through country roads was no great cross-country trip, but it was a long time for an injured person to rattle about in a car designed for city driving.

"It's just to the left, I think," said Abigail.

She had a set of printed instructions spread out on her lap — a good forethought as it had turned out. Reception was patchy out here.

Elias slowed down the car and carefully drove around a murky puddle in the middle of the road. It had rained earlier. The roads were soaked and water still dripped from the trees. Elias drove below the speed limit for this entire stretch of road, which allowed Abigail to get a good look at the house numbers, but she had to wonder if Elias didn't entirely trust himself on these roads.

"Here." She pointed to the sign that read Five Pines Winery.

Beyond the sign, the paved road ended and they had to follow the dirt track that ran between the vineyards. The rows of grapevines were a desolate sight. The branches were bare and trimmed back. Abigail imagined during harvest the fields would be bursting with seasonal workers, but now there wasn't even a rabbit to be seen.

On a low hill beyond the fields stood a large, one-storey house with a blue roof and white walls. Elias pulled up the car by the gate in front of the house and shut off the engine.

"Let's walk the rest of the way," he said. "I don't want him to see Ramiel yet."

In the centre of Harold's front yard stood an ornate, marble birdbath surrounded by well-kept bushes. Despite the season, every single plant bloomed. There was a multitude of small white and purple flowers, but the majority had petals the size of Abigail's palm and seemed to bloom in every shade of pink.

"I wonder what fertiliser this guy uses," Elias mused as he rang the doorbell.

They heard nothing for a long while. Elias was about to try again, when they heard laboured footsteps. The door swung open to reveal a balding man of about Elias' height. He tucked his cane under his arm and offered his hand.

"Harold van Bommel, how do you do."

The round, thick-rimmed glasses and the tawny cardigan were the same he had worn in the photo Abigail had dug up on the internet. He might have lost a few strands of hair since then, but that was it. Not bad, that article was from five years ago.

"Elias. This is Abigail," Elias replied, shaking the elderly man's hand. "Thank you for making the time to meet with us."

Harold smiled. "No trouble at all. Come, come inside. Where should we begin?"

Abigail and Elias exchanged a troubled look. Harold had been an easy person to find. He had founded a successful winery and after retirement had dedicated his time to growing the largest and most photogenic vegetables in the state. Google had pages of results listing him as a prizewinner for his pumpkin at the Royal Easter Show and similar local events. Since trying to explain about Ramiel and the nephilim over the phone seemed like a poor strategy, Elias had pretended to be a journalist after an interview on Harold's gardening success and negotiated a face-to-face meeting with the man.

"Why don't we talk first, then you can give us a tour and we'll try to get a few shots," Elias said.

The old man seemed to approve of the suggestion. His walking stick thumping against the wooden floorboards, he led them to an enclosed terrace at the back of the house. A table large enough to sit ten stood in the centre of the room. Dozens upon dozens of potted plants had been placed against the walls, all carefully arranged so that every pot would get its share of sunlight.

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Harold switched on the heaters suspended from the roof and motioned for Abigail and Elias to sit. "Would you like some tea or coffee? Or perhaps some wine? A robust red is good for this weather."

"Tea, please," Elias said and Abigail echoed his words.

While Harold organised drinks, Abigail took a chance to glance around. The heaters were a lifesaver. With three walls and the ceiling constructed from glass and metal, in winter the room could serve as a second fridge. The plants seemed to be doing well though. They were different to those in the front yard. Succulents dominated the left side of the room, while on the right Harold had a collection of herbs. Basil, mint, thyme. Abigail was just a little bit proud of herself that she could at least identify the common herbs.

"Wait," she said, bending down to get a better look. "Check this out."

Each pot bore the same mark in white paint. At its base were three semi-circles, each inside the other and a peculiar, spiralling shape rose out of the innermost semi-circle. On some pots the mark was fresh, on others, the paint had begun to fade, but not a single one had been missed.

Elias' eyebrows threatened to merge into his hairline. "I suppose it could just be some personal mark of his to make sure no one steals his pots."

"Rather too intricate, don't you think?"

Before Elias could reply, Harold was back with a tray in his hands and the cane tucked under his arm. Abigail swallowed a wince; they should have offered to help him.

"Any sugar or milk?" Harold asked.

The tea set looked like something Abigail imagined Charles and Camilla drinking out of. While Harold shifted the various pieces about without much care, Abigail was careful not to exert any unnecessary pressure on the sugar bowl. Everything looked far too fragile for her liking.

"Have some of the scones too," Harold said.

Elias started to reach for one, then sighed. "I must admit to you, Mr Bommel —"

"Harold, please."

"Harold, then. If I'm honest with you, we're here under false pretences," said Elias. "Are you a religious person?"

"Are you here to proselytise?" Harold asked, his voice turning cold.

"No, not at all."

Elias caught Abigail's eye. He made no effort to hide his panic. Their main worry had been about how they could get into a room with Harold and they never did agree on how they would explain to the man what he needed to hear.

"My brother and I are nephilim and so are you, Harold," Abigail said. "We need your help for a particular ritual that requires three people. After that, we'll be out of your life forever."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Abigail waited for Harold to burst out into laughter or ask if he ought to call someone who would be able to help out with their delusions. The old man did neither. He took a sip of his tea, then set the cup down onto the saucer.

"When you say nephilim, do you mean children of a human and an angel?" he said.

"Yes."

Harold scratched the bridge of his nose. "What makes you believe I'm a nephilim?"

"An angel told us," Elias replied.

"Ah. Do you often converse with angels?"

"Until very recently, not at all," said Abigail, her voice beginning to shake under the weight of the incredulity in Harold's expression. "I... I realise this is very hard to believe, but bear with us. A week or so ago, an angel, well, a seraph by the name of Ramiel approached us and informed us that angels apparently had their way with some of our relatives back up the family tree. He said he wanted our help. We were as shocked as you must be now."

"Did you hear about the destroyed monastery in Italy?" Elias asked.

Harold reached for his cane. "What of it?"

"We were there. We were attacked by a rogue angel and demons. The angel we were helping was injured quite badly and is now unable to communicate with Heaven. There's a method for nephilim to contact Heaven on his behalf, but it requires three of us."

"Where's this angel now?"

Abigail bit her lip. "In our car."

"I'll get him," Elias said.

He hurried out of the room, leaving Abigail to suffer Harold's scrutinising gaze alone. The silence was painful, but Abigail didn't know what she ought to say.

It must have been only a few minutes later, although it felt like an hour had passed, when Elias returned with Ramiel in tow. "Harold, meet Ramiel. Ramiel, meet Harold. Let's step outside so Ramiel can do his thing."

Harold said nothing as he motioned for them to follow him, then led them out into the garden behind the house. As he walked, he gripped his walking stick so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

"Go on then," he said.

Ramiel shifted a few paces away from them and took a deep breath. Abigail had thought the wings huge the first time she had seen them, but within the confines of Elias' apartment Ramiel hadn't been able to unfurl them properly. Her breath caught as she looked up at Ramiel — the wingspan of the largest pair had to be over ten metres.

At the same time, her stomach churned in horror. Feathers were bent, blood-stained. A patch on the left side was missing altogether. Elias had done what he could about the injuries on Ramiel's torso, however, neither Elias nor Abigail had thought to ask about the damage to the wings.

"My God. This is amazing," Harold muttered.

Elias cleared his throat. "Is this proof enough for you?"

"Yes, so very much so yes." Harold shook his head, grinning. "I'm... I'm unworthy of this blessing. When I was a child my mother told me we were descended from angels and taught me we were capable of extraordinary things. Through all these years, though I'd hoped it was true, I always had my doubts. When was the last time a sane man saw an angel?"