by Rachel Green
“And now it says witch. Prepare to die.” Uriel brought his sword down on her but a claw reached out to prevent the downward stroke. The dragon climbed out of the portal from the dead lands and breathed flame into the face of the angel. Uriel shrieked, the cue for the assembled ghosts to crowd in around him, punching and kicking, biting where they could.
Uriel flailed about with his sword until it was wrenched from his hand by the ghost of the dragon. Talons tore through his raiment and the car-park was flooded with light as the angel was torn to ethereal shreds.
With a flick of his great wings, the dragon was gone, back through the portal to the land of the dead.
“Who said ghosts have no use?” The old man winked.
“Thank you.” Julie looked down at her friends. “He would have killed us all.”
“And what good would that have done, eh?” The old man tutted. “A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t have to fight for her life.”
Julie let out a bark of laughter. “Why not? I hold the lands of the dead between my fingers.”
“Mebbe.” He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “These are the best thing about being dead. Coal dust got me in the end, and I could never have one without coughing my lungs up. Now I can smoke all I want.”
“Mason, isn’t it? I remember you. You were at the hospital last year. You had no family.”
“Aye, and you sat every day and held my hand. I never got the chance to thank you for that.”
“Do you want to go through?” Julie frowned, the strain of keeping the portal open beginning to show. It felt like claws digging into the flesh of her brain. If she didn’t let it close soon, she was sure she'd have her psyche stripped out by the roots. “I can’t keep it open much longer.”
He stared into the distance. “I can see my Maud beckoning to me.” He winked at Julie again. “Mebbes I’ll stay here a little longer and enjoy the peace.”
He grinned and sauntered off. One by one the other ghosts left. Some passed through the portal, relieved to be no longer confined to the mortal realm, but others chose to stay, returning to familiar haunts.
Julie let the portal collapse, the flow of air around her ceasing. She pulled out her seeing eye and hurried to Felicia, avoiding the gory mess that used to be Harold. Her sister was alive but unconscious. “Don’t die, Felicia. Stay with me.”
She hurried across to Gillian.
“I’ll be fine,” The vampire’s voice was a forced whisper. “He missed my heart. I just need–ooh–six pints of blood and I’ll be right as plasma.”
Julie waved her fetiche over the wound. “It looks nasty. Will it heal while it’s cauterized?”
“Yes, I’m not trying to regenerate living tissue.” Gillian caught her hand with cold fingers. “See to Harold, will you? He must be in agony.”
“Harold’s gone.” Julie grimaced. “He was cut in half.”
“No.” Gillian shook her head. “Call Jasfoup.”
“Jasfoup?” Julie looked around. “Where is he?”
“He was burned by the angel,” Gillian said. “He’ll be back. He needs to heal as well.”
“What do I do with Harold until then?”
Gillian tried to click her fingers. “Call Devious. He’ll know what to do. Where’s your imp?”
“He vanished when we saw the first angel.”
“Call Devious,” Gillian said. “Harold needs him.”
“Devious?” Julie clicked her fingers. “Devious! Where are you?”
“What?” The imp appeared a few inches from the ground and dropped the rest of the way. “I’ve got a horrendous headache.”
“It’s Harold. I think he’s dead.”
“I’ve seen him look better.” Devious stared at the twin halves of his master. “But I’d know if he was dead. I’d have felt the dissolution of my contract.”
He examined the body and clicked his fingers. Delirious and John appeared.
“Can’t it wait?” John took off a sequined headband. “I was at a disco.”
“Not really.” Devious pointed at Harold. “He needs patching up before we can take him home.”
“That’s an understatement.” Delirious vanished and reappeared with several needles and suture thread. “It’s a good job he’s unconscious. This would hurt like the devil else.”
* * * *
Harold’s eyes fluttered open when Gillian kissed his cheek. He smiled up at his dark beauty, catching the slight scent of blood clinging to her lips “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Dawn approaches. It’s time I was in my crypt.”
“Already?” He looked at the clock on the bedside table. “I won’t get up, if you don’t mind. It’s surprising how much saving the world and disposing of angels takes it out of you.”
“You can say that again.” Jasfoup, who took up more than half of the king-sized bed, was swathed in bandages.
“I can see myself out.” Gillian gave Harold a lingering kiss. “Perhaps we can have some time to ourselves soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Harold smiled. “I’ve been neglecting the shop a bit this week too. I really ought to get an assistant manager in for these odd weeks where I have to save the world. I bet I’ve lost business while I’ve been away.”
“You’ve got the internet site and mail order sales set up,” Jasfoup pointed out. “That should keep the earnings topped up.”
“Yes.” Harold squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll ask Dad to write a filter that directs people to me when they search for a book online then hijacks their virtual shopping basket and dumps it into my checkout. He’s a wizard with applets.”
“He would be, wouldn’t he?” Gillian smiled. “He’s always been good with apples, ever since he first met Eve.”
Harold frowned. “I don’t think that was him, actually. That was my Uncle Samael.” He looked around, but Gillian had already gone. He nudged Devious instead. “Wake up! I want a cup of tea.”
The imp groaned. “My poor head. Tell me the cure for a hangover, master!” He batted his third eyelids. “Please? I did save your life again last night.”
“He drank a whole pint while you were talking to Midnight in the club.”
“A pint? That’s not much.”
“Of creme de menthe?”
Harold sighed. “Very well. Three raw eggs, a pound of mustard, a sprig of fennel and a fluid ounce of salt.”
“Thank you, master.” Devious grinned and scampered off.
“A fluid ounce of salt?” Jasfoup raised an eyebrow.
Harold shrugged. “If I knew the cure for a hangover I’d be rich. If he manages to drink all that he’ll be sick. That’s halfway to a cure.”
“Have you ever seen an imp be sick?”
“No.”
“Nor have I.” Jasfoup eased himself out of bed. “Until now.”
Chapter 53
Harold slept in until elevenses the next morning, a much-needed and well-deserved rest after the night’s exertions, at least in his mind. Once bathed and dressed, he strolled downstairs to find Felicia and Jasfoup taking coffee on the terrace, while Julie sat in the kitchen looking through the situations vacant.
“Why are you looking for a job?” He poured a cup of tea from the pot. “I thought you had the insurance money from the house and your inheritance coming.”
Julie sighed. “That won’t last long. I was institutionalized at sixteen. What chance have I got of finding suitable employment? There’s nothing here for a black magician.”
Harold considered it. “I suppose not.” He helped himself to a bowl of toasted cornflakes and added milk and sugar. “Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.”
“Do you mean it?” Julie pointed her seeing eye at his face.
“Of course.” Harold tried to engage his enthusiasm for his now soggy cereal. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. How much salary are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. What’s the going rate?”
&nb
sp; Harold shrugged. “Twenty thousand?”
“Plus fringe benefits?”
“I suppose.” Harold grinned. “You can stay here until you get yourself sorted. It’s got to be better than the hospital.”
Julia grinned and folded the paper. “Thanks, Harold. Your generosity is appreciated.”
Harold nodded. “As it should be.” He stood in the open door, watching Delirious and Wrack give the herb garden a makeover.
Jasfoup shaded his eyes with his hand. “It’s a beautiful day. It makes you glad to be alive.”
“How are you alive?” Felicia looked over the top of her paper. “I saw you cut in half.”
Harold grinned and shrugged. “I have a sort of immortality. I can only be killed in one particular way.”
“What’s that?”
“Having a–” Harold laughed and wagged his finger. “The fewer people who know the better. How’s your wound?”
Felicia lifted the bottom of her blouse and shifted in the chair so that Harold could see. The wound looked no different to how it had been the previous night.
“Gillian said she’d see to it tonight. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to the process.”
“I’ll clean the electric drill.” Jasfoup was pinker than usual, but apart from the bandages on his arm, looked none the worse for wear.
“Why did you get so burned?” Felicia took off her dark glasses. “I’ve seen you closer to angels before.”
“It’s all in the intent.” Jasfoup peered over his own glasses, his red eyes glinting in the sunlight. “If an angel is beatific, I can chat to them freely but if one of us is out to kill the other, that’s where the danger lies. If I’d been stronger I’d have driven it off instead, but a seraph...” He shook his head.
“At least you’re healing without having to have the wound cut open.” Felicia took a sip of her coffee and made room for Harold and Julie to sit.
Jasfoup shifted his cup. “We’ll have to do something about your eye, Julie. Replace one or something.”
“I’m still not keen on that. What if I lose the sight altogether?”
“How about cybernetic transplants?” Harold sat in partial shade. “I read a book once about this woman assassin who had sunglasses implanted into her face. They gave her digital readouts on everything she saw.”
“I don’t want to go that far.” Julie frowned.
“It’s an idea, though.” Felicia folded the paper. “Do your fetiches have to look like marbles, or can they be another shape?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried any other shapes. What were you thinking of?”
“Glasses. You won’t look out of place with them on and you’ll be able to overlap the real world with the spirit one.”
“I like that.” Julie raised her coffee mug. “I’ll give it a try.”
* * * *
Gillian nodded to the guards at the front of the embassy and walked into the gilded reception hall. An aide marked her off on his appointments diary and wrote out a visitor’s badge before leading her up the marble staircase, his sandaled feet slapping on cold stone that bustled with people by day but was as empty as a ransacked tomb at night. He paused outside a set of double doors and knocked timorously.
“Enter.” The voice from inside sounded dry and weary, but the aide opened the door a fraction and stood aside for her to pass, closing the door behind her and scurrying away. Gillian heard his footsteps padding back down.
The ambassador was slumped against a pile of tapestry cushions but looked up as she approached. “Do sit down. I’d rise to greet you properly, but today has been Hell and I’m far too tired for professional courtesies. Will you take tea?”
Gillian shook her head and seated herself before Azazel, Fallen Angel and Lord of the Nephilim, Standard Bearer of the Ninth Legion of Hell. “No, thank you. I don’t imbibe.”
Azazel nodded. “Of course. You’ve gained self-confidence since we met last.”
“Indeed, lord.” Gillian offered him a tight smile. “Felicia said that there was a condition for your service.”
“You will always be in my service.” Azazel smiled and put down his bowl of green tea. “I don’t suppose you fancy being the vicar of Maidstone, do you? No? I thought not. Ah well...” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Any idea who I should make Bishop of Kent?”
Gillian waited for a decent interval before coughing to attract his attention. He looked up again, his eyes focusing on her.
“Oh, yes, sorry. My price. I want a child.”
Gillian shrugged. “You need me for that? One of your aides could have kidnapped one.”
“No, you misunderstand. I want you to bear me an heir.” Azazel’s smile was dazzling. “Don’t worry, though. You can tell Harold he’s the child’s father.”
“My lord? I can’t bear a child.”
“I’m told the new fertility clinics can work wonders. I can speed up the growth cycle so that it will gestate in one night.” He smiled. “Hand your pass back at the desk. I’ll be in touch.”
Gillian made no objection as the guards ushered her to the door. A child? Really? Did it not even occur to him to ask if she wanted one? She clenched her jaw, feeling the prick of her canines against her bottom lip. If she bore Azazel's child, would she love it or kill it? There were plenty of species that ate their young. She was certain vampires were one of them. She caught herself salivating and hurried out.
Chapter 54
“Is Jasfoup back yet?” Gillian brushed a crease from her velvet gown. “I can’t see him.”
“He’ll be along soon enough.” Julie lifted her glasses.
“I can’t believe how nervous I am. I’ve been painting for seventy years and suddenly I get an accolade?” Gillian shook her head. “Felicia remembered to say no photographs, didn’t she?”
“As far as I know.”
“'Cause that’s all we need, lots of reporters taking blank photographs.”
“There are plenty of publicity handouts with your portrait on.” Julie squeezed her arm. Here’s Jasfoup now. I can see the portal forming.”
Jasfoup materialized on the terrace at the manor, immaculately dressed in a white tuxedo. He sauntered inside. “Are we all ready then?”
Gillian tried to quell her nerves. “Near enough. Felicia’s already there, of course.”
“How’s Harold?”
Gillian rolled her eyes upward. “How do you think? He hates public events.”
Jasfoup raised an eyebrow. “Even for your solo show? Tell him to get a move on!”
“If I must.” Gillian picked up Harold’s bow tie from the table and went upstairs. “Harold? Are you decent?”
“Of course not. I consort with demons.” Harold, dressed only in y-fronts and sock suspenders, came to the door of his bedroom. “Ah! I knew you had my bow tie.”
“Actually...” Gillian saw Harold’s expression and elected not to pursue the matter. “Do you need help to dress?”
“No, I’m quite capable. I’ve been dressing myself since I was eleven.”
Gillian nodded. “So your mother said. You still wear your underpants backward.”
Harold scowled. “It’s the fashion.”
“Only for you.” Gillian gave a slight bow. “I’ll wait for you downstairs, shall I?”
“I’ll be five minutes.”
She returned to the kitchen, where Jasfoup was reviewing the three imps, each dressed for the occasion in tiny dinner suits. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate.” He glared at John’s red-sequined bowtie.
“All the rage in the city, sir.” The imp scrubbed at his ink-stained fingers with an eraser.
“He looks just fine.”
Gillian smiled at Julie. She wore a red sheath dress, and the new glasses suited her. Wrack, on her shoulder again now the angels were gone, was dressed identically and winked at John.
“You were right about the glasses. An elegant solution.” She stepped forward to kiss Jasfoup’s cheek. “You look very d
ashing.”
“May I have the pleasure of escorting you?” Jasfoup bowed from the waist.
She bowed in return. “You may, good sir.”
Gillian snorted. “Get a room.”
“Sod you.” Julie inclined her head. “In the nicest possible way.”
Gillian nodded. “I may take you up on that. I’ve never done sisters.”
“Very droll.” Jasfoup looked toward the stairs. “Here comes Harold.”
“Shall we go?” Harold looked very different in a suit instead of his normal working leathers. “You and Julie will have to ride in the back, Jasfoup.”
Jasfoup scowled. “Why couldn’t you have got a van with more than two seats?”
“It’s illegal for you to ride in the back. Think of it as sinning.”
Jasfoup nodded. “Fair enough, then.”
* * * *
Felicia excused herself from the mayor and greeted her new family. “It’s going well.” She waved a hand around the refurbished gallery. “I’ve sold three already.”
“Excellent.” Gillian shared a glance with Jasfoup. Her paintings were made over a long period of time, each of them crafted with an incorporated portal spell. It allowed him easy access to anyone who hung one on their wall. “There’s Linda, look.”
“Linda! Come and meet my grandfather.” Julie dragged her away to meet Taliel while the imps split up to whisper sales pitches to the assembled throng. Gillian led Harold off to see her latest work, The Destruction of Angels.
Felicia smiled, watching Jasfoup slip cards from local call girls into the breast pockets of respectable married men. It was good to get back to normality.
* * * *
In a frozen waste in the deepest pit of Hell, where icy winds twisted around the lone figure of an immobile angel, specks of sunlight dotted the ice, reminding Raphael of the freedom she’d lost.
Daisies even bloomed in Hell.
Rachel Green
Rachel Green is a disgraceful, red-headed Englishwoman who has far too many swords for her visitors to be safe, especially as she’s well versed in the use of every one of them. She also knows several methods to dispose of a body. Not that she ever would.
