Conspiracy of Angels

by Michelle Belanger

  “Just proving my point,” she snorted.

  “We’re taking this one,” I said, pointing to the Sebring.

  They turned as one, regarding me with nearly identical expressions of incredulity.

  “Why?” they asked.

  Like that wasn’t creepy.

  “It’s closer. People are staring, and I don’t want to listen to you two argue anymore,” I responded irritably.

  Lil shot Remy a grin of pure triumph, then hit the clicker on her key fob. For a moment, Remy looked as if he was going to try to open her door for her, out of sheer habit. He stopped himself, stepping around to the front passenger door.

  On the way he ogled her backside.

  Really wishing I could unsee that, I folded myself into the back seat behind Lil, hoping I could get her to move her seat up. Remy had a point. Most cars weren’t made for people more than six feet tall. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for Saliriel, especially with those crazy heels she wore.

  Lil hit the ignition, threw the sporty convertible into gear, and peeled out of the lot, swinging onto Clifton at what felt like twenty miles above the speed limit. Remy cursed, belatedly strapping on his seat belt.

  “She has that effect on me, too,” I muttered, chuckling at his expense.

  White-knuckling the armrest, Remy asked, “Why are we getting onto the highway?”

  “We’re hitting the art museum, remember, dear?” she replied sweetly, gunning the motor as she caught the ramp and merged with traffic.

  “You can take Detroit the whole way over. There’s no need to get on 90.”

  “And deal with stoplights at every intersection?” She scowled at him like he was crazy. Good to know those looks weren’t reserved just for me.

  “Mile for mile, it’s shorter,” he said.

  “Mile for mile, it’s slower,” she replied.

  He scowled. “Fine.”

  “Fine,” she echoed mockingly with a toss of her head.

  “Would you kids settle down up there?” I demanded. “A freaking carful of immortals, and I feel like the adult? It’s just wrong.”

  That shocked them into silence, at least for the moment. When he wasn’t holding on for dear life, Remy drummed his fingers restlessly, and Lil did that maddening thing with her nails, pecking incessantly at the steering wheel.

  The peace was short-lived.

  “You’re taking him to the Thinker, right?” Remy said, twitching perceptibly as Lil crossed three lanes of traffic to get around a semi with its hazards on.

  “Why the Thinker?” she asked, blissfully oblivious to the blaring of horns in her wake.

  “It’s the closest crossing to the museum proper,” he replied.

  “Really?” Lil pecked harder at the steering wheel as she pondered this. “I was going to swing down MLK to Rockefeller Park. There’s one by the Cultural Gardens, isn’t there? Or am I remembering it wrong?”

  “Rockefeller Park? How close is that to the museum?” I asked. But Remy talked over me.

  “Are you trying to get my brother killed?”

  “No,” she said defensively. “Not really. At least, not this time.”

  “Then think about it,” he said. “Rockefeller Park to the museum—that’s a lot of ground to cover, once he’s on the Shadowside. In his current state—”

  “Hello!” I said, reaching up and waving a hand between them. “Right here, you know—unless the back seat’s an invisible dimension, and no one thought to tell me about it.”

  Ignoring my outburst, Lil glanced over at Remy.

  “The Thinker?” she said.

  “Or what’s left of it,” he replied, “after the terrorists tried to blow it up.”

  “Terrorists?” Lil muttered. “Like on 9/11?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Remy laughed with an elegant gesture of his hand. “It was that group calling themselves the Weathermen, back in the ’70s.”

  “Kind of missed the ’70s,” she responded. “Still dead, you know.”

  “Oh,” Remy murmured. “I thought you were just avoiding me.”

  Lil made an aggravated noise. “It’s not always about you, Remington.”

  I nearly died choking.

  “Remington?”

  “Please don’t call me that,” he said, glowering at her.

  “You’re still calling me Lilianna,” she chided.

  That shut him up, and he just looked out the window, sulking. We squealed around another curve, and I took the opportunity to try again.

  “This Addams Family reunion is entertaining and all,” I said, “but when you two are done arguing over ancient history, could you fill me in on what you think I’m supposed to be doing?”

  Lil looked up at me through the rear-view mirror. Eye contact. Holy crap. We were in the same dimension, after all.

  “Just slip in through the Shadowside,” she said, as if it was obvious. “Find your office, or whatever space they had you working in, and grab all the files you can. Piece of cake.”

  “If you need help finding your way,” Remy said, “you can just ask Terael.”

  “Terael?” I echoed.

  “Our local Rephaim,” he responded mildly.

  Lil almost swerved into the next lane.

  “There’s a Rephaim in the museum?” she choked.

  “Of course, when he’s not out on tour,” Remy replied. “Surely you knew that. He’s been there since the ’30s. The Wades kept him in their mansion, up until they donated him.”

  Lil seemed genuinely rattled. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me into that museum now,” she breathed.

  “Is there anything I should know about this Rephaim?” I asked cautiously, looking from Remy to Lil and back again.

  “Only that they’re bat-shit crazy—every last one of them,” Lil said. “Scary crazy,” she added with quiet emphasis.

  Remy frowned at her, fluttering his hand.

  “I wouldn’t say that. Eccentric, perhaps.” He turned to catch my eye, explaining, “He just has a very different perspective on things. If you were working in the museum, he must like you. He hasn’t let me set foot in the place since 1970, when I made an unfriendly comment about the extension they were adding. Apparently, I insulted him, and he doesn’t forgive easily.”

  “Right,” I said skeptically. “But if he’s in there a lot, he might know something about the break-in.”

  Remy made a thoughtful noise. “Now that you mention it, yes, he should know a great deal. He has a bird’s-eye view of the interior.”

  “Good luck getting him to make sense,” Lil grumbled under her breath.

  I glared at each of them in turn, irritated at the things they weren’t telling me. Either they withheld information as some kind of power trip, or it simply didn’t occur to them that I needed to know these things. Either way, it was pissing me off.

  “All right,” I muttered, letting it go for the moment. “I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it. How am I getting in? Back in the alley, the walls were just as solid on the Shadowside as they are in the real world. I can’t just poof through them like Casper, you know—or can I?”

  “Some of them are solid, yes,” Remy allowed. “It has to do with the age of the building, and the collective perception of humanity.”

  “Of course… that makes perfect sense,” I said, rolling my eyes. “If you’re trying to clarify, you’ll need to try harder, or—fuck!”

  With a muttered curse, Lil whipped the car across two lanes of traffic to catch an exit. Remy and I did our best to remain upright. It was like being on the command deck of the Enterprise during a red alert. The charms dangling from the rear-view mirror swung wildly, smacking into the windshield with a sound like castanets.

  When we were relatively stable again, she shot me a glance in the mirror.

  “It’s easy, Zack. People come and go through the main doors every day. That wears a path in the energy. The doors should have no substance at this point—they’re just part of the current. G
et yourself caught in the current, and you’ll be swept inside.”

  That sounded like something I could work with.

  “So, there is no door, and there is no spoon,” I muttered, knowing they wouldn’t get it. At that point I didn’t really care.

  It meant something to me.

  “Just remember,” Remy cautioned. “You can’t linger on the other side forever. It costs you power, and your power is your life. Wear yourself out, and you won’t have the strength to return.”

  “Almost found that out the hard way,” I muttered, feeling a cold stab of fear in my gut.

  “This is natural to you,” he added encouragingly. “Don’t think too hard about it, and it will come on its own. I have faith in you, brother.”

  I sighed, leaning my head back on the seat and staring at the ragtop of the car, fervently wishing I could say the same thing.

  30

  We turned off Euclid and parked the car on East Boulevard, then walked past the lagoon to the oldest portion of the Cleveland Museum of Art. The reflecting pool lay still and dark, like a mirror of black glass turned up to the vault of the sky. The gardens were devoid of flowers and all the trees stood stark and bare. Here and there, statues dotted the lawn, many placed to mislead the eye so that it seemed the gardens were alive with lovers, dancers, and children at play, even at this late hour.

  Aside from the statues, we were alone. Not even the ducks and swans that made the lagoon their home in warmer months chose to winter here.

  Sticking to the shadows whenever possible, we climbed the steps leading to the original entrance. The perfectly manicured lawns gave way to paving stones and concrete. We passed more statuary, a massive fountain drained to protect it over the harsh Ohio winter, and then the central piece of this promenade—the hunched and hulking form of Rodin’s Thinker.

  We could see the damage as we approached—portions along the statue’s base winged up and out where an explosion had turned the bronze to shrapnel. It had nearly obliterated the figure’s foot, like a still life with violence captured in the very substance of the metal.

  I could feel the crossing as we drew near. It manifested first as a kind of unsettled quality to the air. As we approached the tear between the two aspects of reality, my senses grew sharper, requiring no effort on my part. Around me, the character of the gardens shifted. Some of the shadows deepened, and these seemed to take on a kind of weight that they had lacked before.

  Other parts of the garden became easier to see, not because the darkness lifted exactly, but rather because the darkness became visible. All of this had little to do with my physical senses. Things were thinner here, or perhaps more entangled, allowing Shadowside and skinside to intermingle.

  This was the pull that had drawn me to the blind alley. There it had been subliminal. This time I was conscious of it.

  “Why here?” I wondered aloud.

  “You mean the bombing?” Remy asked, his eyes gliding appreciatively over the statue. He actually winced as he surveyed the damage. “It was the ’70s,” he said with a shrug. “The mortals did crazy things all the time—still do, more than ever. I’ve learned not to question it.”

  “No, not that,” I said. “I’m talking about the crossing.”

  “Oh, that?” he said absently. “It’s tied to the explosion, as well. Strong emotions. Traumatic events. These all can break down the barriers between the spaces. The terrorist attack was a perfect example.”

  “Boom, new crossing,” Lil supplied helpfully. “In this case, literally.”

  Suddenly I flashed on the flickering images of the dismembered woman in the alley.

  “What about murder?” I asked.

  “Oh, that would do it,” Lil responded—a little too eagerly, I thought. “Especially something really vicious. Crimes of passion, or torture. Something long, drawn-out and inventive—that would really ramp up the emotions, and leave a stain on the space. You could even do it on purpose, if you wanted to make one.”

  She was practically grinning as she talked about it. There was nothing sultry or attractive in the expression, just a kind of naked bloodlust that I didn’t really want to ponder. I folded my arms across my chest, taking comfort in the thick leather of the biker jacket.

  Remy lifted a brow at this.

  “You can’t be cold. Are you stalling?”

  “Kind of nervous,” I admitted.

  “Well, get over it,” Lil said flatly.

  It wasn’t an answer I liked, but I really couldn’t argue. So I stretched a bit, shaking out my hands. They tingled all the way up to my elbows. While it wasn’t exactly painful, it wasn’t a pleasant sensation either. After a while, it started feeling itchy on the wrong side of my skin.

  I mused that I probably looked like a runner, about to do a marathon—then recalled how I’d felt after coming back out of the Shadowside, earlier that morning. The marathon comparison was pretty apt. This was going to push the limits of my endurance. At least I’d had a chance to recharge my batteries.

  “All right,” I said, taking a step toward the Thinker. “Here goes nothing.” With that, I willed myself to move from the flesh-and-blood world to that realm Lil and Remy called the Shadowside.

  “We’ll be waiting here for you,” Remy said, his vaguely accented words already taking on a hollow and echoey quality.

  It happened almost before I realized it. There was an initial sensation of pressure that stole my breath and made my ears pop. Then I was through, as if I’d pushed past a curtain. Suddenly everything appeared in shades of gray, with hints of color blooming here and there.

  In front of me, the Thinker was caught in a state of perpetual explosion. The fire punctuated the soft monochrome, and even that was washed-out. Then it flickered, and was intact again, brooding upon its pedestal. In the next instant the pedestal was empty, with indistinct figures scurrying about, maneuvering the massive bronze casting atop its display. It was like the murder in the alley. Different snapshots of time jumbled over one another, vying for which was on top.

  Echoes of people moved around the statue, but they were just blurry smudges on the space—the memory of passing crowds. Mostly the statue shimmered between sitting there and shattering.

  Weird.

  Past the Thinker, the museum itself was an even stranger sight to behold. Multiple versions and extensions of the building angled together in the space, some appearing more solid than the others. It was as if someone had taken pictures from the different stages of the museum’s construction, cut them out, then pasted them on top of one another in a Cubist collage. The clearest was the 1916 original—its white marble façade and towering columns a soft gray on this side.

  “Tick tock,” I muttered to myself, and I started to move.

  As I walked along the promenade, the memories of people ghosted past, silent and insubstantial. At best they were fingerprints left behind by the passage of the living, though in the strongest of the echoes it was almost possible to get a snippet of a thought or a face. None of it lingered, however, and the echoes of different events constantly jostled, rearranging on top of one another.

  As Lil had pointed out, the repetitive movements of people on the flesh-and-blood side created currents in the Shadowside. The river of remembered footsteps parted around the Thinker, moving out toward the lagoon on one side, and in toward the museum on the other. The stream running toward the museum was the strongest, and I allowed it to guide my steps. It approached the main doors, but echoes of past construction flickered to life, blocking the old 1916 entrance. I veered sharply right, dodging the rise of partially imprinted walls as they faded in and out on the Shadowside. I followed the flow as it swept around the east side of the building.

  It was darker over there, clustered with memories of old trees. My instincts suddenly jangling, I moved forward with caution.

  It was a good thing I did. I wasn’t alone.

  Nothing jumped out to threaten me—not yet—but oddly shaped things slipped in and out
among the shadows. Not cacodaimons. Apparently, there were other denizens of the dark on this side of things. At least one of these proved to be the wan specter of a little girl. Her prim ringlets and dainty white pinafore, all faded to a uniform gray, tied her to a bygone era. She stepped out from behind a massive oak that held more substance than she did, regarding me in silence with big, soulful eyes.

  Not quite sure what else to do, I raised one hand and wiggled my fingers in what I hoped was a friendly wave. She continued to stare a few moments longer, then turned away.

  “Another angel,” she muttered as she disappeared into the towering echo of remembered trees. She sounded almost bored.

  Belatedly I realized that the transit had torn my cowl away. My wings were still tucked tight against my back, but they shone softly, trailing glimmers of blue-white power in my wake. That was when I realized how bright and colorful I appeared in comparison to everything else around me.

  Subtlety was right out.

  Keeping a wary eye on whatever else was moving within the ghostly arbor, I continued toward the eastern entrance which, I hoped, would be accessible. It seemed farther away than it should have been. I hadn’t been keeping track of how long I’d spent on this side—frankly, it was hard to do. Surrounded by past echoes, the very concept of time held a vague and distant quality. Still, the pressure of the space bore down on me, and while I wasn’t exactly sweating with effort, the strain increased the longer I moved through the shadowy realm.

  Spotting the glassed-in entryway that led into the museum on this side, I finally got to witness first-hand what Lil had tried to describe. There was the vaguest suggestion of doors along the entrance, but they blurred beneath the stream of perpetual images passing in and out of them. The closer I got, that well-established current exerted a pull that became impossible to ignore.

  “Resistance is futile,” I muttered to myself, though in my head the words were spoken by a Borg with Patrick Stewart’s face. Chuckling a little at my own random geekdom, I surrendered to the flow.

  And then I was inside.

  31