Montagin looked at him incredulously.
“If he says that he or the Morningstar aren’t involved, I believe him.”
“The prince of lies, and you believe him?” Montagin asked with a disgruntled shake of his head. “Why did I ever bother coming to you for help?”
“Maybe it was my low-interest payment plan,” Remy suggested sarcastically.
“Good one,” Francis chuckled, still sucking on the end of his smoke.
“I don’t need any more help from you,” Remy told him, and the fallen angel shrugged.
“And what will we do when the angels return?” Montagin asked. “Another glamour perhaps?”
“You could have a drink,” Francis offered.
Remy gave him the hairiest of eyeballs.
“Go ahead and joke,” Montagin said. “We’ll see how funny it is when full-scale war is declared between Heaven and your master.”
Remy knew that Montagin was right. The angels would definitely return for their general, and Malatesta’s magick would only work for so long.
“We have to move him,” Remy said, thinking out loud.
“Who are we moving?” Francis asked.
“Aszrus. We need to move his body so there’s nothing for them to find when they return.”
“Move the body?” Montagin repeated.
“Do you have a better idea?” Remy asked.
The angel remained quiet.
“Do you have any suggestions as to where we put him?” Malatesta asked. “Perhaps the Vatican could assist.”
“No, that’s all right,” Remy said, the gears turning inside his head. He cast his glance at Francis.
“What?” Francis asked. “Why . . . ?”
And then the expression on the former Guardian’s face told Remy that Francis understood what he was thinking.
“I see,” he said thoughtfully.
“What?” Montagin asked. “What do you see?”
Francis finished the last of his cigarette, squeezing the flame from its tip before slipping the remains into the pocket of his suit coat.
“I’ve got a place.”
Remy looked at Montagin and Malatesta.
“He does,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring nod.
* * *
They’d been tearing the room apart for hours, but hadn’t found a thing.
“I’ve always wanted to see this,” Francis said, holding up a DVD case for the film Forest Hump.
“You’re not helping,” Remy said.
“And you have no appreciation for fine cinema,” Francis added, tossing the case aside and continuing to rummage through the stacks of magazines littering the floor.
Remy leaned back against the chair and again surveyed the room around him.
“We don’t have time for this,” he said, feeling his frustration rise. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“Nope,” Francis agreed, as he flipped through some magazines. “But I’m thinking we’ll know it once we see it—at least I hope that’s the case.”
Remy’s eyes drifted over areas that he’d already inspected numerous times, searching for something he might have missed. Then he noticed that Aszrus’ drug box had been returned to the table beside the recliner; Remy dropped his gaze to where Marley had swept it to the floor.
And that was where he saw it: a small corner of white sticking out from beneath the chair.
Remy bent down, pulling the item from where it had slid. It was a photograph—a Polaroid—and it showed a baby, probably a few months old. There was the impression of a thumbprint on the corner of the picture, where it had started to burn from being held.
“What do you have there?” Francis asked. He had found a beer in the dormitory refrigerator and had helped himself.
“I have no idea,” Remy answered, staring at the picture of the baby.
Francis took the picture as he drank from the bottle of beer.
“Cute kid,” the former Guardian angel said. “What’s it got to do with Aszrus?”
“I have no idea,” Remy said again, taking the picture back.
“You say that a lot.”
“Seems to be the go-to response for this case.”
“Think the one who brought you up here originally might know something?” Francis asked, having some more of his beer.
“Marley?”
“Yeah.”
“It couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Marley had retired to her room on the far side of the mansion. Remy and Francis found their way to it, knocked on the door, and waited.
“Come in, Mr. Chandler,” Marley called out.
Remy opened the door to find her sitting in a chair by the open window, the room rich with the scent of the sea. He could see by the way she craned her neck and positioned her head that she was reading his angelic aura.
“Oh, and you’ve brought a friend.”
“Yes,” Remy said as Francis entered behind him. “His name is Francis.”
“Hello, Francis,” Marley said. She had been reading the Bible and closed it as they entered. “You’re an interesting one,” she added, her blind eyes fixed upon where Francis was standing. “You’re dangerous, aren’t you, Francis?”
“And these are dangerous times, Marley,” Francis replied.
“Yes, I suppose they are,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if there’s anything else about Aszrus that you haven’t told me,” Remy suggested.
Marley smiled. “Like what, Mr. Chandler?”
“Secret things, Marley,” he said. “Things like his room that he might have kept from the others but may have shared with you.”
The servant gazed directly ahead, blankly.
“I’m afraid I have nothing more,” she said.
“I found a photograph,” Remy told her. He took it from his pocket, staring at it once again.
Marley smiled. “The master had many photographs,” she said. “Often of things he most desired.”
“The picture was of a baby,” Remy told her.
“Perhaps he was thinking of acquiring one in the near future,” the woman said.
“Like a pet?” Francis asked.
Marley moved her head from one side to the other. “Some treat their pets as if they were children,” Marley observed.
“So you don’t know of anything else that might be useful to us,” Remy said.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Chandler,” Marley confirmed.
Remy noticed that her hand went to her throat, where the flesh had become blotchy, as if she was suddenly nervous.
“Are you sure, Marley?” Remy stressed.
He stepped closer, and watched her become all the more anxious.
Francis seemed to sense it as well. “You’re holding something back, Marley,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. He reached down, brushing the top of her hand with his fingertips.
She gasped, and pulled her hand away.
“Where there is warmth in the others, you are incredibly cold,” she stated. “There’s something missing in you.”
“You’re right,” Francis agreed. “I’ve fallen, so the grace of God has been missing in me for quite some time.” He moved closer to the woman, allowing her a better sense of his presence. “And you know what?”
He leaned in close, his mouth mere inches from her ear.
“I don’t miss it one little bit.”
Marley began to tremble.
“Francis,” Remy started, not fully comfortable with his friend’s tactics.
But the former Guardian held up a finger.
“What are you hiding from us, Marley?” Francis continued.
“I told you,” she said. Her teeth were chattering as if the room had become incredibly cold. “I don’t . . .”
Francis leaned in closer. Her body was trembling even more violently as her hand continued to fumble about her throat.
“It’s nothing. He . . . he gave it to me before he stopped loving us,” s
he said, her voice shaking, not with cold but with emotion.
“What did he give you, Marley?” Remy asked, motioning for Francis to step back, which he did.
“I was only to wear it in his presence, but . . .” Marley reached into her blouse and withdrew a gold chain; a black key dangled at the end of it.
“A key,” Remy stated. “He gave you a key?”
She nodded vigorously. “He said that when I wore it, I would be his special one,” she said, tears leaking from her blind eyes.
Francis fingered the key about the woman’s neck.
“This isn’t just a normal key,” he said. “I can feel the magick in it.”
“What’s the key to, Marley?” Remy asked.
She shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said, as if finding it difficult to catch her breath.
“Marley, please,” Remy insisted. “This could be extremely important.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Chandler,” she said, flustered. “I was only to wear it when I was with him, but I so yearned to be his special one all the time.”
Francis gave the chain a quick yank, breaking it. Marley let out a pathetic scream and leaned forward, attempting to retrieve her prized possession with flailing hands.
“Catch,” Francis said, tossing it to him.
Remy caught the key one-handed and felt it almost immediately—an electric shock as the special magick contained within the black metal reacted to contact with him.
And Marley reacted as well, going completely rigid in her seat.
“Do you see this?” Francis asked, observing the stiffened woman.
“Yeah,” Remy said, noticing something else. He moved closer to the woman. A blackened hole had appeared in the base of her throat.
“That’s new,” Francis said. He reached down, ready to put his finger inside the hole.
“Do you mind?” Remy asked.
“What?” Francis replied.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that my contact with the key caused a hole to appear in this woman’s throat?”
“Coincidence?” Francis questioned with his typical wise-ass smirk.
Remy stepped closer to the woman. “Here goes nothing,” he said, carefully inserting the key into the fleshy hole.
He felt it immediately as something took hold of the key inside the woman’s throat. He felt compelled to turn it. To unlock something.
The woman shuddered, and looked as though she was about to gag.
“Now you’ve done it,” Francis said, stepping back just in case she was going to hurl.
Marley didn’t hurl. An expression came over her face as though the woman who they had just been talking with had left, replaced by another being entirely.
“Greetings,” she said in a masculine voice, a grin stretching her face from ear to ear. “How nice to hear from you so soon. Would you care to learn where Rapture will be manifesting itself next?”
“Yes,” Remy stated.
“Excellent,” replied the voice. “You are in luck. Rapture will be in your area tonight.”
“I can’t believe this,” Francis said. “This is some sort of prerecorded message about where the charnel house is going to appear.”
“Shhh,” Remy said, listening as the voice gave the location and address where the charnel house, called Rapture, would next appear.
“We look forward to again meeting your every, special need,” said the voice, before going silent.
Marley’s face went slack.
Remy reached for the key, pulling it quickly from the hole as the strange orifice began to gradually heal, appearing as little more than a red blotch in a matter of seconds.
Marley swooned, and he thought she might tumble from her chair.
“Give it back!” she screeched, completely recovered but appearing to have no idea what had just occurred.
Remy pulled back so that she could not take it. “Marley, I . . . ,” he began, but she wasn’t interested in anything more that he might have to say.
“I’m going to need to take this with me and . . .”
“I think you should both leave,” she said, slowly rocking in her chair, her clenched fist held close to her heart.
“Certainly,” Remy said, gesturing for Francis to head toward the door. “I’ll return the key to you just as soon as . . .”
“I want nothing from you,” she snarled. “Go.”
And having finally found what they had been searching for, Remy and Francis did just that.
Respecting the woman’s wishes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
England
1349
The Seraphim soldier was ecstatic to be free.
Remiel flapped his powerful wings, hovering over the marshland, in the midst of battle with the animated corpses that had once rested beneath the muddy mire.
They came at him in force, gliding atop the spongy surface as if insubstantial, but they were far from that. Remiel dropped down, snatching one up from the gaggle, and carrying it above the fray.
The mummified corpse struggled in his grasp, and Remiel stared deeply into sockets that had once held windows to the soul, but now only contained cold, oozing mud. He needed to be sure there was nothing there, that there wasn’t some fragment of God’s spark still residing within the animated corpse, before he unleashed his power.
Before he unleashed the full fury of the Seraphim.
There was nothing inside these things but dark magick, and Remiel felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him as he allowed the divine fire of Heaven to flow through his body and into his hands, to set the sodden flesh and rags of the struggling corpse aflame.
Remiel waited until the flailing body was fully engulfed, before casting it down to the other monsters below. The burning corpse exploded on contact with the others of its kind, God’s fire leaping hungrily from one bog mummy to the next.
Remiel dropped among them with a predator’s cry, ripping into the moving corpses with the zeal of a warrior long devoid of purpose.
There were far more of them than he had imagined; for every single one that the Seraphim destroyed, three more rose up from the wetland to come at him.
But Remiel did not mind, for it had been too long since his penchant for battle had been satisfied. He destroyed them with abandon, one after the other, animated flesh turned to so much ash by Heaven’s fire.
The marsh was alight with burning bodies, and Remiel gave an eagle-eyed search through the fog and smoke for the location from which the next assault upon him would come. He saw some of the Pope’s men struggling to pull themselves from the clutches of the mire, but they were not his concern. He turned his nose to the fetid wind; it stank of dark magick, making the hair at the back of his neck stand erect.
“Is it done?” asked the Holy Father from somewhere in the shifting fog.
“Stay where you are!” Remiel commanded, catching sight of Tyranus as he left the safety of the carriage.
He spread his wings to their fullest, readying to return to the Pope’s side, but the muddy ground began to seethe as something larger than a mummified human body surged up from beneath. His instincts at full attention, Remiel pushed off from the soft surface. But he wasn’t fast enough.
A massive vine unfurled from the bubbling mud, lashing out to entwine the angel’s ankle, preventing his escape. Remiel cried out as thorns like teeth punctured his divine flesh. Wings pounding the air frantically, he struggled in its grasp, but the thorns bit deep, holding fast to his skin. Remiel hacked at the unholy growths with his sword of fire, but another vine, and then another, shot up from the swamp to wrap around his wrist and arm, preventing him from swinging his burning blade.
The Seraphim strained against the multiple tendrils of biting vine. He let the fire come, oozing from his skin to burn away the intrusive vegetation, but the dark magick was strong, and even more of the vines whipped out from beneath the muddy ground.
Though he struggled mightily, the angel was gradu
ally pulled to the ground. Filth-encrusted corpses lifted their heads from the bubbling mud, waiting to aid the accursed vegetation in taking him down.
His wings restrained, Remiel had little choice but to fall, the frothing surface beneath him now opening like a hungry mouth to pull him inside. The viscous fluids hissed and bubbled with the intensity of the heat thrown from his body, but the bog knew no pain, steadfastly continuing its purpose of disposing of the angelic threat he comprised.
The muddy water was freezing against his white-hot flesh, and Remiel continued his struggle to keep his face above the swamp’s clutches, but his labors appeared to be for naught.
He was going down.
The sound that preceded the blast was like something emitted from Gabriel’s horn. The clamor moved the very air, and caused the mud that was attempting to draw him down to tremble. There was magick in that tremulous sound, and it moved across the swampland with purpose.
Remiel felt himself wrenched from the hold of the vines and mud, picked up like a child’s toy and tossed away. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did, he found himself lying upon solid ground.
Solid ground, dry and smoldering.
Through the dissipating haze, Remiel saw it before him, looming and ancient looking: a castle, once hidden by powerful magicks but now revealed.
The angel climbed to his feet, fluttering his wings to remove the dust and remains of the muck and vines. He turned to see those that remained of the Pope’s men also standing upon the solid surface. Pope Tyranus was there as well, stooped, and holding on to the side of his carriage as if tired.
“Go,” the Pope said, eyes fixed upon Remiel. “Go and bring me back what is rightfully mine.”
And the angel Remiel had no choice but to do so.
* * *
Malatesta’s question lingered in the air like an offensive smell.
“Did you hear me, Remy Chandler?” the Vatican magick user asked, his voice raised over the roar of the sports car’s engine. “I said, perhaps after this situation is remedied, you might reconsider the Keepers’ invitation to . . .”
“I heard you just fine,” Remy said as he shifted the fire-engine red Ferrari into a higher gear, the engine’s powerful whine growing louder as the car surged forward.
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