Learning my mother was a mythical being should have probably given me a crisis of faith. I suppose it was a testament to my mental fortitude and life experience that it didn't.

In truth, I hadn't really though much about my mother, because I had so little to think about. Of course, there had been nights when I had been unable to sleep, when I had twisted and turned in my bad, thinking what could have been so bad as to drive my father to drink himself to death. What kind of being had he married to cause that reaction? And, more importantly, was I really human, if my mother wasn't?

In my childhood, my father had avoided me when sober, giving me uncertain glances, like I was an animal that only pretended to be tame.

After him had come Walker, and the Collector-my uncles Henry and Mark. Always in the background, watching and judging. Charles Taylor's best friends, looking after his son out of...what? Obligation? A promise?

Guilt, more likely, given what Walker had recently revealed to me. When they were young-younger than I am now-Charles, Henry, and Mark wanted to change the Nightside for the better. And for that, they needed power. My father, long-interested in the arcane, found the knowledge and resources necessary to perform the Babalon Working, to summon and bind a powerful being or force from Outside. Instead, they opened the door for something far worse:my mother, Lilith.

I have to admit, I had never expected such...lofty parentage. Not when I was sleeping in Rats' Alley, gawking with the rest when Razor Eddie passed, nor when I worked with old Carnacki, learning to look for the supernatural.

The three friends thought their experiment had failed. Nothing came through the door they opened-as far as they could tell. The gathered knowledge, the long, exhausting ritual, had all been for nothing. And, a little after that, Mark presented my father to a young, lovely, human woman.

As far as they could tell.

Lilith looked at me, eyes widening, mouth opening into an inhumanly wide smile. 'Jo-!' She began.

Then, the Walking Man kicked her through a wall.

He followed her in a flash, moving through the newly-created hole in the wall and into the sreet below faster than I could see.

For just a moment, we looked at the wall, maybe expecting them to return any moment.

'The fuck are we waiting for? Let's go light her up so that he can kick her ass!'

Obviously, it was Stark who broke the silence. However, as much as I wanted to do what he'd said, Chris was still on the floor.

'Can you heal him?' Harry asked, looking from the Crownthorn to Hadleigh. Before either could answer, Stark stepped forward, sighing.

'Stand back. I'm gonna jumpstart Mr. Jekyll over here.'

Stark did  something that left afterimages in my Sight, like the flash of a camera, and suddenly, there was another version of himself, superimposed over his body. The other Stark was transparent, younger, with no scars and bright eyes.

I raised an eyebrow, and Stark pointed a warning finger at me.

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'Not a word outta you, cuz.'

The transparent Stark smiled apologetically at me. Well, wasn't that interesting.

Then, a gleaming sword appeared in Stark's hand. Sparks flashed in and out of existence around its edges, and some instinct told me it should have been covered in flames.

The group looked skeptically at Stark, some of them walking forward, as if to stop him. It was Suzie who asked what they were all thinking. 'Stark? How the hell are you gonna heal him with a sword?'

Stark walked towards Chris. Standing over the fallen man, he turned his head to grin over his shoulder. 'What's he gonna do if he dies? Complain?'

And he stabbed Chris in the heart.

For a moment, we all held our breath...then noticed Chris wasn't bleeding at all.

Stark was now kneeling on his chest, pushing his sword deeper and deeper:through Chris' body, then through the floor beneath. A little red appeared on the blade, and it burst into flame.

Pale and wavering at first, then a deep, vital red, before finally becoming a brilliant white. The white glow of the flame spread over and through Chris' body, healing his wounds even as it turned him into an indistinct silhouette, like a glowing nuclear shadow.

And, from beneath the silhouette, wings spread.

Sweating and breathing harshly, Stark rose to his feet and stepped back. His sword was gone now, and his mouth, nose, eyes and ears were bleeding, but he was grinning.

'It's done,' he said with a voice choked by blood. Then, solemnly, 'Rise, Malahidael.'

The angel that had been Chris-or was it the other way around- rose without seeming to move at all. It floated above the floor, standing on air, wings held around him like a mantle. A shimmering sword, made of light, appeared in his right hand, and a sphere of white fire in his left.

'Yes...it is time, Stark,' Malahidael said. 'I am diminished here, as I was meant to be...but I can still do my duty. I know. My brethren told me, when I was falling between worlds.'

'Good for you,' Stark said. 'Now, how about you forget those halo-polishers and think about your real family? Remember 'em? The missus and the twins you're always talking about?'

Though faceless, the angel seemed to smile. 'It is alright, Stark. I have seen what we must sacrifice, for us to be born, and how little we have to give up, to return to God's embrace. Lailah knows as well, though she remembers it not.'

I didn't like this new version of Chris. But, before the exchange could continue, or turn into something else, a subdued, almost shy knocking filled the room.

Madman knocked once more on the wall outside, then stuck his head through the room.

'Hello?' Madman said, sounding confused. 'Is this the part where I use my powers to strike and distract Lilith?'

We all looked at him. It was Walker who spoke.

'I am afraid Lilith has left the building. And it seems only proper we should follow. Shall we?'

And we left.