"But it's a shed."

Drake shrugged. "Yeah, I said that at first too."

War's beard appeared round the doorframe, followed by the rest of his face. "You getting in or what?"

Zac looked from the giant to Drake, and then into the dark interior of the shed. He shrugged, sighed, then stepped inside. Drake pulled the door closed and they all squeezed into the narrow space.

"This is cosy, isn't it," breathed Pestilence.

Zac was too stunned to reply. He was looking beyond the Horseman at the chair behind him.

Something immensely fat slouched on the seat, wearing nothing but a sleeveless vest and a distressingly tight pair of flannel shorts. Sweat soaked his skin and dripped down on to the wooden floor. His face was red and blotchy and his breathing came in big, heavy gulps. Something brown was smeared across his blubbery lips.

Chocolate, Zac thought. Let it be chocolate.

"That's Famine," Drake explained. "He's, uh, having a rest."

Zac watched the fat man's chest wheezing up and down. "The game must've taken a lot out of him."

"What? Oh, no," Drake said. "That's just from getting changed. He hadn't started playing yet."

"Right," said War. "We're here."

Zac looked up at him. "We're where?"

The door swung open and Zac found himself gazing out at the vast palace Gabriel had taken him to earlier.

"How... how did you do that?" he asked.

"Techno-magic mumbo jumbo," War grunted, and then he shoved Zac out of the shed and slammed the door behind him. There was a muttering from inside it, then a whoosh. By the time Zac looked round, the shed was gone.

He waited a moment to see if it came back. When it didn't, he turned, pulled the straps of the backpack higher on his shoulders and strode purposefully towards the house that God built.

HE ORNATE FRONT door opened without a whisper and Zac stepped on to a marble floor.

"Gabriel?" he called, and his voice echoed around the cavernous hall. "Gabriel, you there?"

Almost immediately there came the sound of hard footsteps clopping across the polished floor. Gabriel entered through one of the many arched doorways at the back of the room. He appeared surprised to see Zac there, but his politician smile didn't waiver once.

"Ah, there you are," he said, spreading his arms wide. "We lost track of you and rather feared the worst. It is good to see you are in one piece." He stopped in front of Zac and the smile grew larger. "I trust you were able to retrieve the book?"

"I've got it. But they've kept Angelo."

Gabriel's smile slipped smoothly into a frown. "Have they? Have they indeed?" He gave a solemn nod, then the smile returned. "May I see it?"

"See what?"

"The book. May I see it?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? They've got Angelo. We have to do something."

Gabriel's eyes twitched. "All in good time. The book, please, Zac."

The force of the sudden realisation made Zac take a step back. "Wait... you knew. You knew they were going to keep him," he mumbled. "You made him wait outside the door. You knew I'd choose him over Michael. You knew I'd take him with me."

"The book," said Gabriel, his smile falling away completely. "Give me the book."

"So... what? You swapped him?"

"We made a deal," the archangel replied. "The boy for the book. His life for the lives of countless billion others. It was the right thing to do. It was the good thing to do."

"The good thing? You've sent him to Hell, and who knows what they're going to do to him? That's not good, that's evil! I thought you lot were supposed to know the difference."

Gabriel held out a hand. "The book, Zacharias. Give me the book."

"No," Zac said. "I want to see the Metatron."

The archangel's eyebrows arched, but he said nothing.

"The voice of God. He's in charge now, right? Angelo told me all about it. I want to see him."

Gabriel chuckled. "What a strange thing to say. You don't see voices, Zac. You hear them."

"Well, I want to hear him, then. I want to talk to him."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Gabriel said. "Now, while I appreciate your concern for Angelo, I am going to say this one final time. Give me the book."

Zac shook his head. "No," he said. He turned back towards the door. He barely caught a glimpse of Michael standing there before the fiery blade of the archangel's sword was across his throat. Michael's flawless features fixed into an ugly snarl.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't cut you down," Michael growled.

Zac felt his strength leave him. His shoulders sagged and his spirit sagged with them. "I promised him," he said quietly. "I promised him I'd get help."

Gabriel fished inside the backpack. He pulled out a small cloth bag filled with thirty or more little round balls. "Been playing marbles?" he asked, and Zac could hear the smirk on his face. Gabriel returned the bag to the backpack. A moment later, he took out the book.

There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by Gabriel's clipped tones.

"Is this some sort of joke?" he demanded, catching Zac by the shoulder and spinning the boy round to face him. Gabriel's blue eyes were dark, his chiselled nostrils flared wide. "What is this?" he asked, holding up the leather-bound volume.

"The book," Zac replied.

"No, it isn't! This isn't the book. Look!"

He broke the clasp and padlock without any effort and the book fell open. Zac watched as the archangel flipped through the pages.

"See? Blank. There's nothing there. This isn't the Book of Everything it's a book of nothing." He turned and hurled the book across the room. It struck a pillar and sprayed plain white paper in all directions. Gabriel stepped in closer to Zac, visibly shaking with rage. "Where is it? Where is the real book?"

Zac shrugged. "That's the one they gave me."

"And you accepted it?" Gabriel snorted. "You're a bigger idiot than I thought."

"Send me back down," Zac suggested. "I'll get the real book and get Angelo at the same time."

"Oh, Angelo, Angelo, Angelo," Gabriel cried. "Stop talking about Angelo. Nobody cares about Angelo! Least of all you, if I remember correctly. The book is all that matters. Besides, for all we know they don't even have it. We're back to square one. This whole thing may have been a trick right from the start."

"Right," said Zac. "Which would make you the idiot."

Gabriel glared down at him. His jaw moved from side to side, as if chewing over his next few words. At last, he glanced at Michael. "Dispose of him," he said.

Michael's face cracked into a smile. "Now you're talking."

"Do whatever you feel necessary," said Gabriel. He turned and walked back towards the archway. "Just be sure to have someone clean up afterwards."

"By the time I'm finished there won't be anything left to clean up," Michael said.

Gabriel paused, but didn't look back. "I don't want to know," he said, then he continued walking. He was almost at the archway when a voice made him stop for a second time.

"Problems, Gabriel?"

Zac looked for the owner of the voice, but found no one. Then he remembered. You didn't see the Metatron, you only heard him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Zac heard the silken rustle of Michael's sword sliding back into its sheath.

"Uh, no, sir," Gabriel said. "Or rather, yes, sir. We retrieved the book, but it was a fake."

"Bless it all," said the disembodied voice. It sounded to Zac like an old British military general. It was the type of voice that had a moustache and drank brandy and knew a lot about horses and cricket and impaling foreigners on bayonets. "So, what do we do now, then?" it asked.

Gabriel hesitated. "I... do not know, sir. We begin the search anew. Try to determine where the book is, then formulate a plan for getting it back."

Zac stepped away from Michael and looked into the centre of the room, as if that was where the voice was emanating from. "They're leaving someone down there in Hell," he said. "The boy, Angelo. Hell has him and they won't do anything about it."

Silence followed. Zac got the feeling he was being scrutinised. He stood his ground, waiting for a reply.

"Really?" said the Metatron at last. "Gabriel, is this true?"

"Yes, sir," Gabriel said.

"Was that your intention all along? Why wasn't I informed?"

"We, uh, thought it best to leave that part out, sir," Gabriel oozed. "In order to protect you from any fall-out. They wanted Angelo. We wanted the book. It seemed like a minor sacrifice to make."

"Ah, a sacrifice, eh? Haven't had a sacrifice in a long time. Ah well. Shame for the poor chap, of course, but these things have to be done, what?"

Gabriel's politician grin crept across his face. "My sentiments exactly, sir."

Zac shook his head in disgust. "You're just as bad as they are."

"Come on now, lad," spoke the Metatron. "The needs of the many and whatnot. Can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs." The voice addressed Gabriel. "What about him? What do you plan on doing with him?"

Gabriel glanced sideways at Michael. "We... weren't sure, sir. We had yet to decide."

"Send him back home."

"Sir?"

"You heard. Send him back home. Wasn't his fault the book was a fake. You know what they're like down there. Shower of wrong 'uns, the lot of them. Always up to no good. Not the lad's fault."

"But, sir, our concern was thata""

"I believe I gave an instruction, Gabriel," said the Metatron, and Zac felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. "The boy completed his part of the deal, so he shall be returned home just as he was. Is that clear?"

Gabriel nodded. "Crystal, sir."

"Good. And you, lad. I believe the arrangement was that your sins would be wiped clean. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Zac. "But I don't want it."

The Metatron snorted. "Pardon?"

"If being sin-free means coming here when I die, I want to keep them." He glared at Michael and Gabriel. "At least in Hell they don't pretend to be something they're not."

"Well... as you wish," conceded the Metatron. "Gabriel?"

Gabriel gestured to his fellow archangel. "Michael."

Zac recoiled as Michael's hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. He heard the man in the golden armour mutter, and then a burst of white exploded behind his eyes.

And then he was in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, looking out through the open curtains at the bright summer's day just beyond the glass. He blinked. There had been a thought right there in his head, but it was gone, floating just out of reach.

He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, stained with dust and soot and something dark and treacle-like. He was wearing a backpack he didn't recognise. He slipped it off and let it fall on to his bed, then he stood up, opened his bedroom door and went downstairs.

"Ah, Zac, you're back!" said Phillip as Zac shuffled into the kitchen. The old man smiled and gave his grandson a hug. "How was the trip?"

"Trip?"

"Yes, you know," said his granddad. "Your trip. You... you went on a trip."

Zac shook his head. "No, I didn't."

Phillip hesitated. His fingers pressed his stress ball against the palm of his hand. "Oh," he mumbled, his eyes glazing over, "didn't you? I'm... I'm sure you said something about a trip."

"No," replied Zac. "I don't think so."

His head felt full of fog, as if he'd just been woken from a deep sleep. His memory of the last few days was sketchy, but he'd have remembered going away. Wouldn't he?

"Sit down, Granddad, and I'll make you a cup of tea," he said, crossing to the kettle.

"Coffee would be nice," Phillip replied. "I was up half the night. I thought you'd come back. I was sure I heard that Albert's voice."