“What happened back there?” Madeline asked as a gust of warm wind came off the ocean, nearly stealing away her hat. She gripped the brim, tilting her head down to ride out the breeze.
Flecks of sand irritated his eyes, but he stared ahead at the roiling ocean slowly making its way up the beach toward them, toward the end of their days together.
“I’m not sure really,” he said. “The people who attacked me—they were missing their souls.”
“That doesn’t happen all that often, does it?”
“Not usually,” he said with a shake of his head that hurt way more than it should. “Something has taken their souls and left them angry, destructive shells of what they once were. Without a soul, they’ll just lose the will to live, and eventually waste away.”
“What about their leader?” Madeline asked. “He didn’t seem like he was going to be wasting away any time soon.”
“No, he didn’t,” Remy said, remembering the gray-haired man’s cold, lifeless eyes. “Something tells me he wasn’t using his soul all that much even before it was taken.”
They both fell silent for a while, staring out across the ocean. The pain of his body had started to subside, which meant he was healing; one angelic aspect that he’d never made any effort to suppress.
“This is nice,” he said finally, reaching to take her hand.
“It is,” she said, “but you know it’s not real, right?”
Remy sighed, not wanting to see the truth in her gaze.
“I know. But I really don’t care. I’ll see you any way I can.”
He felt her smile at him, and his heart did the same kind of acrobatics it had done when they’d first met.
“You’re sweet,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “But you really should get going.”
“You’re probably right.”
They kissed briefly, and then Remy stood up. He was no longer wearing his shorts; he was in his work clothes.
“Looks like I’m waking up,” he said, giving himself the once-over.
“Looks like you’re right,” Madeline said, leaning back in her chair as if to relax.
“See you later?” Remy asked.
“You bet,” she said with a smile, and closed her eyes.
Remy opened his eyes and found that he was laid out on an old, beat-up leather couch in the corner of a dark, filthy office.
He sat up with a grunt, flexing his fingers and moving his arms, just to be sure everything had healed while he and Madeline sat on the beach.
He could still smell the ocean.
Cautiously, he rose to his feet and looked around the gloom of the office. On the wall, in a dusty, crooked frame, was a certificate for a job well-done by Rudy Haberlin, from the home office of the Boys and Girls Clubs of America. He found the closed door and crossed the room toward it, surprised to find it unlocked.
He stepped out into a small corridor that took him to the lobby of the apparently abandoned Boys Club building, where he found a set of trash-strewn marble steps, leading to what looked like the front doors. He cautiously walked down, only to find that a thick chain and lock had been fastened between the doors, making his escape a little less probable. He thought about calling on the power of the Seraphim again, but decided against it. Maybe as a last resort; there had to be other ways out of the building, and besides, he was curious as to why he had been brought here.
He climbed the stairs back into the lobby and had a look around. Multiple doorways led farther into the darkened recesses of the building, and he was about to pick one at random, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of cheering from somewhere in the distance.
Navigating the darkness, he moved toward a particular doorway, finding another set of stairs descending farther into the belly of the Boys Club. That was where the sounds seemed to be coming from, so that was where he decided to go.
Holding on to the cold, metal railing, Remy descended, listening as the cries grew louder, and some truly unusual scents wafted through the air—expensive perfume, aftershave, liquor, sweat, blood, and the unearthly.
The emergency lights were functioning on this lower level, providing just enough light, as Remy followed the sounds and scents to a set of large swinging doors at the end of the corridor.
Carefully, he pushed open one of the doors a crack and found himself looking into an old swimming pool area. It was crowded, at least two hundred or so normal and paranormal beings circling the pool. Portable bleachers had been set up on either side, where it appeared that the more wealthy and influential were sitting.
Remy willed himself unseen and slipped into the room, maneuvering through the raucous crowd, trying to get closer for a look in the pool.
A demon in an expensive suit got a phone call and so moved aside, allowing Remy the opportunity to take his place for a look at what was holding the attention of so many.
The dry, Olympic-sized pool had been turned into a makeshift gladiatorial pit, and inside, locked in ferocious combat, were two beings, both showing the bloody signs of violence they had heaped upon each other. One appeared to be pretty much human, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. He was a big man, but older. The hair on his chest was white, resembling tufts of down from a torn pillow, and he wore his equally snow-white locks long and flowing past his powerful shoulder blades.
But the other fighter was anything but human. Remy wasn’t sure exactly what it was, guessing maybe some sort of troll descendant.
The troll raked a clawed hand down the front of the human’s chest, staining the downy whiteness a crimson red. The old man stumbled back away from the beast. He squatted down, his hands feeling around on the ground before falling on a wooden bat.
The troll bellowed, looking down and bending just long enough to recover its own club.
The old man charged, holding his bat high. The troll raised its own bludgeon to block the savage blow, but the old-timer had other plans. At the last moment, he bent low, bringing the bat down upon the troll’s bare foot.
The sound of breaking bones, followed by the troll’s bellow of pain, echoed in the chamber.
The crowd went wild. The man advanced on his opponent as it tried to back away. The troll limped, visibly impaired by the injury, but managed to bring its club back up. The white-haired man ducked beneath the swing that would have likely taken his head off if it’d had the chance to connect, and rose up to slam his own bat into the troll’s left side. Remy winced at the savagery of the blow as the troll bent forward in agony.
The old man was relentless, raining blow after savage blow upon his opponent.
Smelling blood, the crowd went wild. And across the room, near the ladder that would bring the victor up from within the pool, Remy caught sight of the man and woman who had driven their truck through the window of the Nightingale Motel and had brought him here. They were cheering madly, caught up in the frenzied excitement of the furious battle below.
The troll’s cry of pain drew Remy’s eyes back to the conflict.
The old man circled the beast that had fallen to its knees. The troll tried to keep its opponent at bay, but it proved impossible. Lashing out with his bat, the old man struck at the troll’s hand, causing it to drop its weapon, which went clattering to the pool floor. The man tossed his own weapon aside, and threw himself upon the back of the beast.
The creature tried to rise, but fell back, while the old man clung on, putting the troll in a headlock.
The crowd had begun to chant, sensing that the match was about to end. It took a moment for Remy to discern exactly what the crowd was repeating, over and over again, but once he did, it all made a twisted kind of sense; the long hair, the nearly superhuman strength.
Remy saw the man lower his head, speaking into the troll’s bleeding ear, before executing his final move.
The troll’s eyes slowly closed, as the old man let loose with a bellow of rage, savagely twisting his adversary’s neck, breaking it, and letting the limp body fall broken to the floo
r of the pool, where it twitched obscenely before going still.
The winner raised his hands and face to the crowd, and the place went wild with cries, howls, and whistles. Glancing across the room, Remy saw the man who had brought him there collecting large amounts of money. He was laughing, frantically counting as he was pelted with bills.
Somebody had made a small fortune on this bout.
The crowd was breaking up now; some heading toward the doors, others slipping into patches of shadow to disappear. Some had even conjured crackling passages of magickal energy that swallowed them whole before collapsing with sounds reminiscent of a slamming car door.
Remy remained where he was, watching as the woman descended into the pool to help the old man find his footing on the ladder. It was almost as if the man were blind.
They reached the top of the ladder, and the girl handed him a towel and a bottle of water.
“Thank you, little girl,” he said, his voice low and rough.
“Did good tonight, Daddy,” she said with a laugh, leaning in to kiss the side of his sweaty head.
Daddy?
“Excellent haul, Pops,” the young man said, waving an enormous stack of bills beneath the man’s nose.
“Is that what victory smells like?” he asked, and they all started to laugh.
A strange sound from the pool below distracted Remy, and he looked down. Things, about Marlowe’s size, were ripping at the troll’s body with razor-sharp teeth and a hunger that seemed insatiable.
Nose curling up in disgust, he could not help but watch the monster’s body disappear, bones, blood, and all. In a matter of seconds, it was as if it had never been there at all.
The voracious beasts skittered away into the shadows of the pool, and Remy returned his gaze to the only three left in the area with him.
“Would someone care to explain what’s going on?” Remy asked.
The old man jumped, his large head looking around.
“Who’s that?” he asked his daughter, who was cleaning the claw marks on his chest with peroxide.
“It’s the private eye,” the woman said.
“You know, the Seraphim,” the man added sarcastically.
The woman returned to dabbing the wounds with a cotton ball, when the old man gently moved her hands away. Slowly, carefully, he made his way toward Remy, and the milky film that covered his eyes told Remy he had been right. The old man was indeed blind.
“You’re Remy Chandler, right?” the powerful old man said, extending a large hand in greeting.
Remy moved closer, placing his hand in the old man’s calloused paw.
“I am,” he said. “And you are Samson.”
The old man’s lips parted to reveal a wide yellow smile as he pumped Remy’s hand enthusiastically.
“Yes, I am,” he said with a laugh. “The one and only.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Deryn began to awaken, thinking everything was all right.
She was back in Florida with her beautiful daughter, Zoe, and Carl. . Carl was just out of the picture.
Maybe he was dead.
That thought brought her closer to consciousness, swimming up from the deep darkness where she had gone when. .
She remembered the attack and awoke in a panic.
The room was set in a semigloom, rays of the sun creeping in from behind a sheet that had been placed over the window.
Deryn immediately sat up on the mattress, searching for her daughter. She hoped that at least one part of her dream was true, but it wasn’t.
She felt groggy, and as she bent her arm, she experienced a bit of pain and remembered that the men who took her had given her a shot of something. Deryn strained her eyes as she studied the crook of her right arm, rubbing the thumb of her left hand across the sensitive area where she’d been stuck.
Crawling off the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room, she stood unsteadily. The room was large, but empty. It had beautiful hardwood floors and high, vaulted ceilings. It was what she imagined the rooms in one of those fancy Holly-wood mansions would be like.
She held her hands out in front of her and crossed the room toward the white door that seemed to glow, suspended in the gloom. Her heart raced, and her thoughts were electric as she tried to figure out who would have done this to her—and why.
Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a single reason. . other than maybe something Carl had done to really piss off someone.
He could most certainly do that.
Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that it hurt as she gripped the crystal doorknob. She was certain it wouldn’t turn. But miraculously, it did.
Cautiously, she opened the door and stepped out into a long, carpeted hallway. A set of stairs was at the end of the corridor to her right, and she quietly moved toward them, past other closed doors, wondering whether Remy Chandler might be behind one of them, but afraid to find out. She stopped at the top of the stairway, listening, eyes darting about as she searched for signs of her attackers.
Seeing nothing but an elaborate entryway below her, Deryn carefully took hold of the dark wooden banister and slowly descended. Her heart began beating painfully fast again as she stepped from the final stair onto the black-and-white marble floor, and saw the front door before her. She lunged toward it, reaching for the knob and silently praying for the same kind of luck she’d had upstairs.
“Deryn?” a friendly voice called from somewhere behind her.
She froze, her hand gripping the cool metal of the brass handle. She almost answered but managed to stop herself.
“Deryn York, is that you out there?” the woman called out again. “Please, come join me in here.”
Deryn had no idea why, but she did as the woman asked, letting go of the door and abandoning her chance for escape. She moved toward the left of the stairs, and down a short hallway to a small room—a sitting room—on the right. Slowly she entered to find an attractive, dark-haired woman sitting in the center of a high-backed love seat and pouring from a silver tea set.
“There you are,” she said with a wide smile. “Would you care for some tea?”
A low moan followed the woman’s question, and Deryn noticed a man slumped in a floral wingback chair at the other end of the love seat. He was dressed in a navy blue jogging suit, his complexion deathly pale. He seemed to be staring off into space, emitting groans from time to time.
“Oh, pay no attention to him,” the woman said, waving with a bejeweled hand. “Come, sit beside me, and we’ll talk about your daughter.”
“My daughter?” Deryn asked, not sure she had heard correctly. “Did you say my daughter?”
“Yes, I most certainly did,” the woman said. “Come—sit—before I lose my patience.”
Deryn entered the room, her footfalls muffled by the elaborate oriental rug that covered the floor.
“What do you know about my daughter?” she demanded. “Who are you? Why was I. .?”
The woman interrupted her, laughing melodically. “There will be plenty of time for questions,” she said, pouring tea into a china cup, which she placed on the table in front of the love seat. “We’ll have a bit of refreshment first, and then we’ll get down to business.”
The woman smiled again, sipping from her own cup.
Silently Deryn sat on the other end of the love seat, staring. . waiting.
“Do drink your tea,” the woman instructed.
The man in the sweat suit shifted suddenly in his chair, bending forward to bury his head in his hands, softly screaming.
The woman ignored him, turning slightly to stare at Deryn with a powerful intensity.
And suddenly Deryn wanted her tea. She picked up her cup and took a sip, making a face as she set it back down on the saucer.
“Sugar?” the woman asked, setting down her own cup and picking up the sugar bowl.
“Who are you?” Deryn demanded.
The woman placed the sugar bowl close to Deryn’s hand.
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“My name is Delilah,” she replied. “And your daughter has something that I want.”
The man had begun to thrash, falling from the chair to the floor, his spastic movement nearly kicking over the coffee table.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Poole,” Delilah scolded. “Have a little bit of control.”
Deryn watched the man, feeling herself grow more and more afraid. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.
“Mr. Poole has a rather odd talent. . an affliction really,” Delilah explained. “He can read the psychic impressions left upon things, telling where they’ve been and, with the right incentive, where they are.”
She looked at the man who was still lying on his stomach at the foot of the chair. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Poole?”
Poole remained silent, twitching as he lay there.
“You said,” Deryn began, addressing Delilah, “you said my daughter has something you want?”
Delilah nodded, and she picked up the silver teapot and refilled her own cup. “I wasn’t sure at first, but after my trip to Florida, I’m certain it’s she.”
“Your trip to Florida?” Deryn asked. “Where. .”
“Never mind about that, Deryn,” Delilah said forcefully. “We have to find your little girl and get her back into your arms, don’t we?”
Just the thought of holding Zoe made Deryn smile.
“I–I would really love that, but. .”
Delilah held up one hand, bringing the teacup to her lips with the other. “No buts then,” she said, taking a sip and setting her cup down once more. “That is what we will do. And when we find her, you will have your daughter back, and I will have what I want.”
Delilah smiled so wide that Deryn imagined it must have hurt.
“What could she. . What does Zoe have that you. .,” Deryn started to ask, curious how her six-year-old daughter could have something that this fine woman so desperately needed.
“That is of no concern to you,” Delilah said. “I doubt she even knows she has it, and when we find her, I will take it, and she will be none the wiser.”
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