A/N: Hello! This is Angel of Truth #5. If you have been following the series, welcome back! If you've stumbled upon this by accident, why don't you read a bit and see if you're interested. Then, go back and read the first four. Things will make a bit more sense if you do. Start with "Little Girl Lost."

My thanks to the readers who have been patient with me since #1. You guys have been a great source of encouragement. And a huge shout-out and much gratitude to CFEditor, who has been my beta since chapter 17 of #4. Applause and virtual cake!

On with the motley!

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It wasn't really that large of a room, tucked in the back of the Smithsonian Institute Building. It was filled with old and rare books, available only to those with some academic goal and express permission from the Institute. For the daughter of the philanthropist who made sizable yearly donations, however, every accommodation was made.

None of the others using the library ever talked to Mal, and she was fine with that. In fact, the only person she interacted with at all was the conservator who worked in the tiny library, a young man named Wendell. She didn't even know his last name.

She'd been making daily trips to the library for two months now, and had even had several books shipped there from around the world. Today she was working through a sixteenth-century German tome, the musty pages staining the fingertips of her cotton gloves. She skimmed over the hand-written words, easily translating in her head. One of the advantages of her new powers was that she could speed-read in any written language.

She stopped halfway down the page to reread the last sentence, lips moving slightly. A frown briefly creased her forehead, and then she pulled her notebook over. With careful, precise strokes, she copied the line down, translating it from German to Enochian. She tapped her pencil against her lips and set the German volume aside.

There were two stacks of books on the desk in front of her, and she ran her fingers down the spines until she found what she wanted and pulled it out. The book was little more than scraps of parchment in a leather folder. She opened it with extreme care, making sure not to bend the brittle pages.

A drop of bright red splashed on the back of her white glove, a bright stain against the pristine surface.

Mal blinked at it for a moment, frowning. Another impacted next to the first, throwing tiny red beads onto the surrounding fibers. Mal looked up.

The ceiling had vanished into roiling, green-black clouds. A man hung from a web of chains by ugly, metal hooks, one of which pierced his throat. Mal screamed and shoved backwards from the table, nearly falling when her chair tipped over. Regaining her feet, she cast her eyes around the library.

The light had turned crimson and the air was choked with the smell of hot metal and blood. The other scholars were all staring at Mal, their eyes inky-black and their features inhuman. Mal's first instinct was to summon her sword, but try as she might, she could not get it to materialize. She choked on the scent coating the back of her throat, and stumbled backwards.

She turned to flee but crashed into someone's chest. A hand closed over her bicep. She wrenched backwards. Abaddon stared down at her, his malevolent grin not reaching his cold, dark eyes. The red rose in his lapel blossomed like a bloodstain, the scent of it cloying and sickly.

"You can't run from me, darling," he purred at her. "You can never run from me."

A hand touched Mal's and it took everything in her power not to blast its owner across the room. She blinked and suddenly she was back in her chair, the light clear and industrial, the air clean and pure. Wendell was beside her, peering down at her with concern.

"Ms. Graves, you all right?" he asked, a slight West Virginia drawl in his voice. "You've been staring at the wall for a quarter of an hour."

Mal looked up at him and then quickly away. "I'm fine," she tried to say, but her voice broke. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. Just tired."

That only made him look closer at her. "You don't look so well. Are you sleeping at all?"

Truth be told, Mal hadn't actually slept in over two months. Not more than an hour a night. But she wasn't going to tell him that and she resented him for prying. "I'm fine," she said again, a bit harshly, and pushed quickly to her feet. "I should get going." She grabbed her notebook and dodged around the bewildered Wendell.

"Oh, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said, but she was already to the door and beyond.

She paused as soon as she was outside, surrounded by the familiar sounds of DC. She could see the Washington Monument not far away, one of the easiest landmarks of the city. The sun had long ago set and there was a chill to the breeze, but Mal felt no discomfort. Her skin burned uncomfortably hot like it always did these days. She hugged her notebook to her chest and waited.

It didn't take long for her minder to arrive. Stephen appeared in front of her, taking care not to startle her. The last time he had, she'd nearly put her sword through his chest. "Are you finished?" he asked.

Mal looked up at the angel. He was tall, a bit taller than Cas, but not as tall as Sam. He was dressed all in black, from his cargo pants to his knee-length coat, which made Mal wonder who his vessel had been.

"Yeah," she replied softly. "Take me home."

Stephen stepped closer to her, laying a hand on her shoulder, and spread his wings. They were tan and black, barred like an owl's. A moment later, Mal was in her bedroom, in her mother's penthouse condo. She shivered briefly. The cool glass and metal had nothing of the warmth of Bobby's home.

"Do you wish me to stay?" Stephen asked, dropping his hand from her shoulder.

Mal shook her head. "No, it's okay. Cas needs you. I'll see you in the morning." Stephen nodded and vanished again. He was a combat medic, his powers geared to fast-and-dirty healing, and his abilities were sorely needed on the battlefields.

As soon as he left, however, Mal felt his absence acutely. He was her only contact with her other life, those brief months she'd lived in the supernatural world. There were moments she was glad she was here, and safe, but they were few and far between. Mostly there was an ache of loss and betrayal at even the memory of those five months.

He'd called, once. Three weeks after she'd arrived in DC. But she'd still been too angry, too hurt, to speak to him. He hadn't called again.

There was an unfamiliar voice coming from the living room, female, so Mal sighed, placed her notebook on her desk with the others, and trudged out into the hall. The walls were adorned with sigils and symbols, some of them drawn in blood. There were even Enochian seals carved into the glass of every window.

The TV was on, the only light in the living room, its flickering luminescence lending an eerie look to the darkness. Mal paused in the doorway. She could hear the sound of soft breathing and she could smell the faint remnant of her mother's favorite perfume. She circled the couch to see Irene stretched out and fast asleep. Mal shook her head and reached for the remote, but when she belatedly realized what was playing on the TV, she froze.

"...The grand jury hearing for Mallory Graves reached a verdict this morning on the six deaths caused by the young woman during her mysterious disappearance. After testimony from several witnesses and Graves herself, the jury found the deaths to be in self-defense and ruled them justified. Though Ms. Graves and her family have declined our requests for interviews, Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the FBI, who was lead investigator of the case in Boston where Graves was found, has issued the following statement."

The image on the TV switched from the journalist to the profiler, who spoke with a solemn expression. "Mallory has been through a series of traumatic events that forced her to fight to survive. We all wish that our children would never have to make the decisions that she did, but she was strong, and she made it through."

The TV image fuzzed out for a moment before clicking off. Mal looked down at the remote that she hadn't used and put it back on the side table. No doubt the power in the whole apartment had gone out. Mal would have to reset the breakers—again. She was really going to have to get this EMF thing under control.

"Mallory?"

Mal looked down to see her mother stirring. She put her hand on Irene's shoulder. "Yeah, Mom," she murmured. "It's me."

"What happened?" Irene asked, blinking around at the living room. "Why is it so dark?"

Mal could see just fine, every detail as sharp and clear as if it had been broad daylight. Irene, however, was limited to human vision, so Mal stretched out her other hand and concentrated for a moment. Her fingertips gradually began to glow. The light spread down to her palm and brightened until it was enough for Irene to see by.

"It's okay," Mal assured her mother. "I didn't mean to. I'll just go throw the breakers. Wait here." She took her mother's wrist and, concentrating once more, transferred the light from her hand to Irene's. It immediately started to fade, but Mal knew from experience it would last long enough for her to get to the breaker box. Sure enough, Mal was back just as the glow faded completely. She turned on the lamp.

Irene looked up at her daughter. "Oh, sweetheart. You look terrible."

Mal snorted. "Gee, thanks, Mom. Just what I needed to hear."

Irene got to her feet and crossed over to Mal. She cupped the young woman's cheek with one hand. "Are you sleeping at all?"

Mal shrugged one shoulder. "Not really," she replied flatly. "The nightmares come when I'm awake, now."

"Maybe if you would take something," Irene tried to suggest, but Mal's expression darkened and she pulled away from her mother's touch.

"No drugs," Mal said firmly. "I've told you that before."

"Yes, but I'm sure we could find something that won't affect—"

"Good night, Mom," Mal interrupted, and turned on her heel. When she reached her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it. Her mother didn't deserve that sort of treatment. Mal knew that, but she couldn't help herself. Irene just simply couldn't understand what it was like. Drugs were not going to help her at this point.

Mal pushed away from the door and headed toward the bathroom. Her mother had tried everything. She'd even convinced Mal to see a therapist. That hadn't ended well. The whole city block had been without power for six hours. She turned on the bathroom light out of habit rather than need and was confronted by her reflection in the mirror.

Her white-blonde hair was finally long enough to look like a normal, if boyish, haircut. She'd also gained a few much-needed pounds to soften the bony edges of her body. But her skin was as pale as ever, and now had an almost translucent, ashen quality. Purple shadows hung under her silver-gray eyes and her face was drawn and weary. Mal gripped the edge of the sink and let her shoulders slump, head lolling forward.

Seven and a half months ago, she had been normal. Average. Boring. Then a convicted rapist had kidnapped her from her college campus. It had gotten worse from there. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have ever dreamed she would be the vessel of an angel, veteran of the Apocalypse, embroiled in a celestial war, ally of Heaven, and survivor of Hell.

Oh, and over three months pregnant.

Mal's fingers tightened on the sink until the ceramic began to creak in protest. She raised her head and met her own gaze in the mirror, her eyes now storm-dark. "Abaddon is not getting me," she whispered. "He is not getting my child. I will kill him myself. He is not. Taking. My. Baby."

The mirror cracked suddenly, a spiderweb of dark lines fanning across the surface. Startled, Mal jumped backwards, pressing one hand to her mouth. Tears started in her eyes and she slid to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.

She stayed there the rest of the night.

XxxXxxX

The angel alighted just outside the old, empty motel, folding his rust-colored wings behind his back. He reached out with his senses. He detected a single heartbeat, no doubt the person who had performed the summoning. It was incredibly uncommon for a human to perform a summoning, so he had been dispatched to investigate. This was far from an ideal assignment, and he just wanted to get it done so he could return to the war.

With an expression of tight-lipped impatience, the angel strode forward, gesturing at the locked front doors. The chain snapped and the doors creaked inwards, allowing him entry. The interior of the foyer was dim and dusty. In the middle of the floor was a summoning circle, the bowl of incense still smoking. But the human was nowhere to be seen. The angel frowned and reoriented himself. The human—male, mid adolescence—was a few rooms over. He could not have performed the summoning.

The angel nudged the bronze bowl with the toe of his shoe. If the human boy hadn't summoned him, then who had? Then a shiver of shock ran down the angel's spine.

His power was gone. Before he had even noticed, before he could stop it, his power had simply vanished. He tried to pull from his Grace, but couldn't reach it. Even his wings were limp and still on his shoulders.

A faint click at his back made him whirl around, instinctively calling for a sword that didn't appear. A woman stood in the now-closed doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She was of average height and appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, her skin olive and her curly hair dark. Her mahogany-colored eyes stared evenly at the angel, neither fear nor surprise in their depths.

"Who are you?" the angel hissed angrily. "What have you done?"

"Just what I do best," the woman replied, not moving from her post by the door. "And I think you know what I am."

It took the angel a little longer to make the connection. His face darkened with horror and contempt. "Abomination," he spat. "How did you survive?"

"Quite well, thank you," the woman replied easily. "And for simplicity's sake, I prefer to be called Miriam."

"Release me at once, or I will smite you where you stand," the angel ordered imperiously.

"We both know that's a bluff," Miriam said, unfolding her arms. "You're completely helpless. I could kill you with this if I wanted to." She hefted a hunting knife in one hand.

The angel's eyes narrowed. "What do you want with me?"

"Information," Miriam said. "Answer my questions, and I'll let you go."

"Why should I believe you?" the angel sneered.

Miriam shrugged. "Not like you have much of a choice," she pointed out.

The angel drew himself up proudly. "I would never make a deal with the likes of you."

She sighed. "Okay. I tried to play nice." She strode forward and the angel, immediately rethinking his words, backed away warily. "You know, torturing information out of demons isn't all that easy," Miriam said casually. "They are born in agony, so they have a pretty high tolerance. Angels...not so much." Her hand flicked out and the angel cried out in surprise and pain.

The handle of the hunting knife protruded from his shoulder. It hurt far worse than it should, a red-hot, throbbing pain that demanded all his attention. He grabbed the knife and tried to pull it out, but that only intensified the pain. Then Miriam reached him and she yanked the knife out roughly. The angel cried out again and stumbled backwards. Miriam helped him along with a jab to the breastbone. He collapsed onto the ground, flat on his back.

Miriam pressed the heel of her boot on the injury and leaned her weight forward. A scream ripped itself from the angel's throat. She leaned down. "Who commands the host?" she demanded. "The Apocalypse is over, Michael is in the Pit. Is it Raphael? Did Gabriel return? Who is it?"

The angel writhed, trying vainly to pry her foot from his wounded shoulder. He cursed her in Enochian and she ground her heel down harder. "Answer the question," she growled.

"Raphael," the angel finally admitted through clenched teeth. "I serve Raphael."

Miriam considered that for a moment. "Then why haven't Michael and Lucifer been released? Raphael would not have allowed them to fall, nor to stay captured."

"As if you don't know," the angel sputtered.

Miriam grimaced and kicked her heel against the knife wound. "I stay out of angel business, you know this. Tell me what is going on."

"War," hissed the angel. "There is war in Heaven between the archangels. Are you pleased, Abomination? You may yet witness our downfall."

Miriam was taken aback by his words. "War? Between Raphael and Gabriel?"

"Gabriel is dead," the angel told her scathingly. "It is Castiel who leads the rebels."

Miriam's eyes widened and her jaw fell slack for a moment before she recovered herself. "Castiel," she whispered, barely audible. Then she shook her head and stepped back, releasing the angel. He got to his feet laboriously, pressing one hand to the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

"You have what you need," he growled. "Release me."

Miriam's eyes flicked to his face. "I can't have Heaven knowing I survived," she said.

"You gave your word!" the angel protested.

"I lied," Miriam replied flatly, and lunged. The blade of the knife slid smoothly through the angel's throat. He didn't even have time to react before he was dead. The body crumpled to the ground, empty and lifeless. There was no detonation of Grace, no charred wing prints. It was no more than a human corpse.

Miriam grimaced in distaste and cleaned her knife off before sliding it into her boot. Then, without looking back, she left the foyer and headed down the line of doors. She had an appointment to keep.

XxxXxxX

It was a testament to his upbringing that Sam was able to block out all distractions and focus on his work. He shared his booth table with his laptop, bag, and four or five empty beer bottles (not all his). Elsewhere in the bar, he knew that Dean was hustling a couple of bikers at poker while Jo rigged the deck for him. All Sam had asked was that he be left alone for a couple of hours.

The computer program he was working with had originally been developed by a man of questionable sobriety and poor choice in hairstyles. But Ash had been a genius despite his shortcomings, and the program had ended up getting him killed. It had then been relegated to a disc in a forgotten pocket of Sam's computer bag until necessity had called it forth again.

More recently, a wheelchair-bound young man in Vermont had taken it up, adding and expanding it to suit Sam and Dean's current needs. Sam entered the new information he, Jo, and Dean had gleaned over the last week, and watched it run.

Two and a half months. It had been over ten weeks since they'd started hunting Abaddon in earnest, and so far, they hadn't come close. They'd cleaned out five demon nests, but they'd only been fringe dwellers, mooks, or neutral trouble-mongers. Nothing that would give them a lead on Abaddon's whereabouts.

While their respective children were chasing down the king of Hell, Mary and Ellen were searching for any information they could find on Purgatory. They were currently in a tiny monastery in the French Alps, transported courtesy of whatever angel happened to be available at the time.

Sam tried not to be impatient. He tried really, really hard. But every time they tracked down a lead and it turned up dead ends again his frustration ratcheted up another notch. He glanced away from the computer screen to his cell phone.

He'd tried calling her once. Exactly once, three weeks after her mother had taken her to DC. She hadn't answered, and hadn't returned his call. He hadn't tried again. After all, what he'd done was unforgivable. Yes, Castiel had been the one to actually knock her out so her mother could get her on the airplane, but Sam had been there and he hadn't stopped it. So he was the one she was going to blame. He grimaced. And Mallory really had been kidnapped enough in her lifetime.

A full bottle of beer landed on the table in front of him, carried by a hand that was neither Dean's nor Jo's. "No, thanks," Sam said without looking up.

"You haven't even heard my offer," replied a dry, female voice.

Sam sighed through his nose and lifted his gaze. Middle Eastern, medium height, black leather jacket, intelligent eyes. Perhaps tempting once, but not anymore. "I'm sorry, but I'm really not interested," he said firmly.

Ignoring him, the woman slid into the booth opposite Sam and propped her elbows on the table. "I've been watching you for the last hour," she told him frankly. "Do you realize that at least four of the women in this bar are literally drooling over you?"

Sam met her gaze coolly without blushing. "Still not interested," he repeated.

"Good, 'cause neither am I," the woman said. "Did you know you've been followed for the last five days?"

Sam stared at her for a moment. He dropped his hand below the table, reaching for the gun concealed under his jacket. The woman's eyes darted down and then back up. "I wouldn't, if I were you," she said. "There are cameras here. And bullets aren't gonna do much to me."

"Who are you?" Sam demanded harshly.

"Miriam Zahavy," she replied. "And I've been tracking the things that've been following you. Couldn't figure out what the hell they were doing until I ran across you and your friends by accident." She tilted her head, staring at him with her dark eyes. "Not surprised they were interested. I could smell the angel on you a mile off."

Sam glanced over at Dean to see if he could get his brother's attention but he was focused on his poker game. He returned his gaze to Miriam. "What the hell are you?"

"A hunter, just like you," she said easily. "Little older. Little wiser. I've been on the trail of a pair of demon assassins for nearly a week now. But I lost them last night. Just vanished. Thought I'd give you a head's up."

Sam didn't relax, one hand still on his gun and his gaze wary. "Fine. Thanks."

Miriam pushed to her feet. "Watch your back, Sam Winchester," she said, and sauntered away. Sam waited until she left the bar before slamming his laptop closed, shoving it into his bag, and crossing over to where Dean and Jo sat. He grabbed Dean's shoulder and leaned in to tell him in a low voice, "Let's go."

Dean frowned up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Demons," Sam murmured back. Dean immediately threw down his cards, announced he was out, and beckoned Jo with a jerk of his head. The three of them retreated back to the Impala.

"Where?" Dean demanded tersely, getting ready to open the trunk and get to their weapons.

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Close."

"How d'you know?" Jo asked, checking the parking lot over her shoulder.

Sam briefly described his conversation with Miriam.

"Fantastic," Dean said feelingly. "Just what we need. You leave anything important back at the motel?"

"Just my lucky socks," Jo replied wryly.

"A book," Sam said.

Dean shrugged. "Leave it. Let's get outa here."

"Can't leave it," Sam shook his head. "It's the only book on Purgatory Mom and Ellen have found so far."

"Shit, Sam," Dean burst out. "Come on!"

"I thought it'd be safer than dragging it all over the Goddamn place!" Sam snapped back.

"All right!" Jo yelled, raising her hands. "We gotta go back for the book. We'll just have to be prepared."