by Debra Dunbar
Grace was the gigantic cat who greeted us with a loud squawk and circled around our legs. I bent down and picked her up, estimating the creature’s weight at nearly twenty pounds.
“Does no one feed you? Is poor kitty starving with her owner gone? Aww, sweetie.”
Raven grinned and motioned to the automatic feeder in the corner. “Bliss wasn’t one to say ‘no’ when it came to her fur baby. I swear that cat weighs more than I do.”
I stroked Grace’s soft fur, feeling the vibration of her purr against my hand. “Who’s going to take care of her with Bliss gone?”
Not me. Not with the no-pet clause in my lease. It was bad enough that I was summoning demons in my apartment. A cat would get me tossed out on the curb. But… oh how I missed having a pet. Back home there had been cats and dogs and horses galore. We’d snuck them into the house every chance we got, even the ponies. I’ll never forget Mom’s face the day she walked in on our Sheltland pony in the dining room munching the flowers in their vases.
“Bliss’s sister is coming up from Florida.” Raven smiled wistfully as she reached out a hand to scratch Grace under the chin. “I’d take her, but Rocket would eat her alive.”
“She’s twice the size of Rocket.” I’d met Raven’s Frenchie several times and marveled that such a sweet, energetic dog could harbor such a profound hatred toward everything feline.
I set the cat down on a nearby chair, feeling rather bummed that I wasn’t bringing her home with me. Lease or not, I missed having something, or someone, for company in my apartment. But I doubted Raven had brought me here to meet Bliss’s cat. As cute and obviously loved as the creature was, the calico wasn’t a familiar. It took the right animal, the right bond, and a substantial amount of time to create a familiar—so much time that many mages claimed it couldn’t be done, that any familiar had to be a pre-existing magic-imbued animal that came across the mage and chose them rather than the other way around.
“See?” Raven waved a hand around the room.
That’s when I actually looked. And saw. “Bliss was an angel-worshiper?”
Raven winced. “No! She felt they were the more appropriate spirit to commune with and to ask guidance of. No one knew but me. The only reason I knew is because I was taking care of her cat and stumbled across one of her charms.”
“So she hid all this when she went out of town?” I walked around the room, amazed. The prints that covered the walls were all of museum masterpieces—and all featured scenes that included angels. None of that would have hinted at more than a slightly obsessive interest had it not been for the sigils. Worked into the embroidered pillows, the drapes that covered the windows, the lampshades were sigils of angels. It was crazy.
“No. We’ve all got some protective work in our homes, and it’s not like anyone in Haul Du would recognize an angel sigil. After I found the charm, I looked a few up and figured it out.”
“Was she summoning them or something? Why else would she hide this from the group?” The only difference between this and what the rest of the members of Haul Du did was that there were no lesser angels. They were all big dogs, and they were all dangerous. It wasn’t that summoning a demon was preferable, it was that summoning something that didn’t have the power to destroy a small city in the time it took to exhale was preferable.
“What do you think Dark Iron would do if he found out Bliss, the mage who wouldn’t even attend a Goetic summoning, was communing with angels?”
I winced. She would have gotten tossed out. I’m surprised she hadn’t been tossed out the first time she refused to attend a Goetic summoning. Dark Iron didn’t like it when people didn’t follow his rules.
“And Bliss would never summon an angel.” Raven continued. “She did communicate with them, but it was always through the veil.”
That was a relief. Most demons refused to give you the time of day unless you brought them over, but angels must be different. Well, more than the usual differences when compared to demons.
“Do you think she might have summoned one out of fear? Maybe she knew the Baltimore group was after her, and brought forth an angel to protect her?”
Raven gave me a look. It was the look she gave me when I was so far off base it wasn’t even funny. “Bliss wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t incapable of defending herself. If she was worried about those mages she would have stepped up her home and personal defenses. She would have charged a set of charms, or an amulet. She wouldn’t have gone nuclear and summoned an angel.”
Yeah. I guess not. “Would it be okay to look around?”
Raven nodded. “That’s why I brought you here. I’m hoping between the two of us we can find something to let us know why Bliss was killed, who specifically in Fiore Noir killed her, and what Araziel has to do with any of this.”
I was pretty sure the list of names we had would lead us to who did it but I knew what Raven meant. Again I thought about the Stranger. Sometimes the one holding the knife wasn’t the real killer.
Raven picked up a statue from an end table and walked purposely into the bedroom. The room was Spartan compared to the frill I’d expected. White, French country style furniture lined the room. The powder-blue comforter and throw pillows were unadorned with lace or the embroidered sigils that filled the ones in the living room. Besides the reading lamps, the only object on any of the bedside tables was a book.
Leather-bound. And covered with enough magic to blow my hand clear off my arm if I touched it.
Raven raised the cat figurine and brought it down on the cover of the book. “Aprire!”
I ducked as bits of porcelain exploded across the room. The black leather of the book shimmered, then turned white.
“Rock beats paper,” Raven commented. I laughed, thinking how much I’d missed her. She picked up the book, brushing the porcelain dust from the cover before she handed it to me. “Here. You look through this while I check her kitchen and the downstairs.”
I didn’t argue. Yes, I was a Templar and all that, but Raven had decades of magical knowledge. After my disastrous afternoon with not one but two demons, I was happy to let her face off against any magical protections while I read Bliss’s grimoire.
I settled down on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the pops, crackles, and occasional yelps from the rest of the house. Each mage composed their personal grimoire according to their own needs. For some, it was simply a reference book of spells with notations about changes and additions, successes and failures. For others it was more of a diary, a memoir of their magical journey. Bethany Scarborough’s grimoire was the latter. Early pages were filled with charms, dates, and notes referencing other books. The more recent entries started halfway through the volume. I hesitated, realizing that she’d color-coded her sections from that point forward depending on which angel spirit she was working with.
It was fascinating. Bliss was careful, opening a line of communication with an angelic spirit that only allowed the pair of them to message back and forth. Early communications were through dreams and synchronicity, which meant Bliss had to do a considerable amount of interpretation. Slowly she winnowed her list of spirit contacts down until she was opening her mind in meditation to only a few of them.
The last month she’d only communicated with one angel—Araziel. The last entry had me catching my breath. She’d trusted the angel enough to open the veil and allow him through. She’d invited him in, allowed him physical entry onto this plane.
Angels weren’t like demons. They couldn’t be bound. They couldn’t be constrained within a circle. That’s why no one messed with them. Bliss had. Her grimoire was full of entries of how she and the angel had conversed about the nature of divinity, the issues surrounding humanity. One evening they’d discussed the smell of leaves after an autumn rain, the beauty of a sunset, how soft Grace’s fur felt under Bliss’s hand.
I shut the grimoire, feeling lost, tiny, inept. I’d known Araziel was off his divine leash, had seen his victims, but what was I going
to do about it?
Bliss said she’d closed the veil leaving the angel on the other side, but not without a gift. When summoning demons, there was always an offering. Evidently there was similar protocol when inviting an angel into your presence. How had the angel remained? Everything in her grimoire painted Bliss to be a cautious mage. She wouldn’t have screwed up and left an opening for the angel to return. Or would she?
I rubbed the mark on my side, remembering how the smoke demon had appeared this afternoon. I hadn’t summoned him, and when I’d banished him last time I’d done it the Templar way. There were no loopholes, yet he’d been able to return today without my requesting his presence. He’d marked me, and evidently that gave him an opening through the veil so he could cross at will. I wondered if Bliss had been similarly marked?
Did… did angels do that? I know they were supposed to be spirits of good, full of God’s grace. But good was a rather subjective concept, and as a Templar we’d come to view angels with a wary eye.
I looked down at the white leather of the journal grimoire, smoothed my hand over the unmarked cover. Araziel. Maybe he’d marked Bliss with much kinder intentions than the demon had marked me. But even if he’d had good intentions, he’d killed. His role as a psychopomp, as a reaper of souls had taken a dark turn.
Or had it? Tremelay had said the two junkies had enough heroin in their system to have died anyway. And maybe Ronald Stull had been struck by lightning. That would make Araziel less of a murderer and more of a… I don’t know, a Kevorkian angel. Not that I condoned that sort of thing. At least not in all cases. And there was something else. I got the feeling there was something I was missing in these three deaths.
“Kite? Aria?”
“Yeah. Still in the bedroom.”
“Can you come down here? I want you to see something.”
I put the grimoire back on the bedside table and made my way down to the basement of the house. Unlike Tempest, Bliss hadn’t converted hers into a magical space. At least, not a traditional magical space. There was carpet on the floor, a huge sofa with chocolate brown plush upholstery and crimson accent pillows. A flat-screen television hung on the wall, a bookshelf piled high with movies under it. Across from the television sat a giant fluffy pillow. It was the sort of thing I’d expect someone to buy for a Great Dane bed. And in front of the dog pillow was an altar.
Altar was the only way I could describe it. There was an oak cabinet a foot high with a ring of candles on top. In the center was a mortar filled with fragments of burned paper and herbs. She’d meditated here, communed with her angel spirits here, sent her prayers heavenward on wings of smoke and ash here.
“Look.” Raven reached down in front of the altar and picked up a shining object. It was a gold filigree chain, a series of charms dangling from the end—one a wing, one a half-moon, one a scythe.
“Angels of the night,” I murmured, taking the necklace from Raven to examine closely. “She had an affinity for reapers.”
“I also found this.” Raven pushed a piece of paper in my hand, her voice choked. “I didn’t know. I don’t think anybody knew. Bliss never told.”
It was a report. Along with five paragraphs of medical mumbo-jumbo was the diagnosis—cancer. Bethany had stage four bone cancer. Six months to a year even with treatment. The test results were dated two months ago; which was the exact time she’d ended communication with all angels except Araziel.
“She willingly took his mark,” I said softly. “She wanted him to be the one who took her soul when the time came.”
He was the angel she knew best, the one she’d developed a connection with. Some people made their wills, took care of final arrangements, decided what to prioritize on their bucket list. Bliss gave an angel what amounted to a proxy. When her death came, she wanted a familiar face by her side. I felt for her. I felt sad that I hadn’t known her.
And I felt angry that she hadn’t had the death she’d wanted. Instead of giving her soul unto an angel’s care, she’d had it forced from her dying body and used to power a spell. Tremelay might want to bring these fuckers to justice, but I was suddenly filled with a desire to lop their heads off with my sword.
And Araziel. I thought about my demon mark, about the venom in Innyhal’s voice when he spoke of humans taking souls that weren’t theirs for the taking. Angels and demons had differences, but at their core were surprising similarities. Fiore Noir had killed Bethany Scarborough and taken her soul—a soul that had been claimed by another. A demon would have been furious and hell-bent on revenge. Angels were supposedly beings without emotion, but even if Araziel hadn’t felt the same gut-wrenching anger of a demon, he would have seen the injustice. What is promised to one should not be taken. Thou shalt not steal.
I thought of Ronald Stull lying dead in the park and revised my theory that he’d been hit by lightning. There had been nothing killing him beyond an angel looking to right a wrong. Maybe Araziel had reaped the two junkie’s souls a bit early, but I was convinced that Ronald’s death had been an angelic form of justice.
And if I was right, Tremelay wouldn’t get his arrests and I wouldn’t get the satisfaction of beheading these mages with my sword. Because vengeance would belong to an angel.
Chapter 22
WE’D DRIVEN ALL the way back in Baltimore, so I could show Raven my apartment and brainstorm at my favorite local on ways to rein in an angel when Tremelay called. As expected, they’d found signs of magic ritual at Dead Run along with several bodies.
“Know where Dead Run is?” I asked Raven.
“Uh, no?”
I grinned. “Wanna come with me? I could use both a navigator and an experienced mage.”
Raven leaned back in her seat, slugging down the rest of her beer. “Nope. No way. I heard you say bodies. I’ll face down an angry demon any day rather than get within a hundred feet of a corpse. There’s a reason I don’t do death magic. I cry over roadkill, Aria. I avoid funerals at all cost. Dead bodies are gonna send me right over the edge.”
I didn’t blame her one bit. I’d seen my share of dead bodies in the last few days and wasn’t looking forward to a repeat experience this evening. Still, I’d seen Bethany’s body. This couldn’t be any worse.
It was.
Thankfully Tremelay met me in a parking area, because I wasn’t sure I would otherwise have been able to find the site. Dead Run paralleled Security Boulevard, a swath of green on either side of a meandering creek. There were other parks and even a few cemeteries nearby, turning the entire area into a small bit of solitude. Well, solitude aside from the sounds of traffic on the well-traveled road that was hidden by a thick line of trees and briars.
The ritual spots were well hidden. We sloshed through the creek and scrambled up a muddy bank, then nearly crawled under a thick cover of vines to reach them. Once through the brush, I saw a clearing with the remains of several magical circles. They’d squeezed them in, five in this tiny space.
“They moved.” I muttered, waving my hand toward the numbered crime-scene signs. “Mages can’t do this sort of ritual in the same place without a huge cleansing. It’s easier to shift ten feet over.”
I’d never performed this type of magic, but I understood why they’d done this. When creating charms or amulets, or even summoning Goetic demons, a magical space soaked up some of the energy from each use. That was normally a good thing—a mage wanted to be able to rely on an extra punch of energy if needed. But death magic was like a sort of strip mine. The murder, the soul, the energy of the site, it all went into the intended storage device. Which left the area bare and battered, and somewhat vulnerable.
Unusable. Just walking across the abandoned spaces made me feel tired. It was as if the ground itself were trying to leach the life-force from my body. It was one more thing that would have made the Baltimore group inelegant, unsophisticated, and brutish in the eyes of their DC counterparts.
“What do you think?” Tremelay asked. There were several other officers, ones
in uniform, who looked at us curiously.
Here’s where I pretended to be an expert. “These sites were clearly used for death magic. The symbols may have worn away or been removed, but there are still signs of the magical space. There were sacrifices here, one in each spot. No more than one, though. So five people died here, unless there’s another clearing with additional sites.”
The two dudes in blue looked impressed. Tremelay less so. “Is there anything here that can tie the ritual areas to a specific victim? I want your take on it before I get the CSI guys in here to rip up grass and stuff for DNA.”
I shook my head. “Honestly the techs will do a better job than me at pinpointing who died where. The victim doesn’t change the method of the ceremony.”
Different victims had different levels of energy to give, though. It made me think of Bliss with her cancer and her angel mark. Would her energy have been less than ideal? Was her soul less potent because of its mark? Had her death, as horrible as it was, yielded a disappointing result for the mages?
The thought enraged me. As much as I wanted Tremelay to bring them to justice, part of me hoped that Araziel did catch them. I hope the angel took his time about it, too. Although with angels that wasn’t likely. Justice was justice. An eye for an eye. Personal suffering as punishment wouldn’t mean as much to an angel as it would to a human.
“The bodies are over here.” Tremelay’s voice was soft. He’d walked over to me, careful to avoid smudging the circles further. I felt his hand on my arm, gently urging me forward.
I didn’t want to go. I’d been grossed out and intrigued when I’d seen Ronald’s body. I’d been horrified when I’d discovered Bethany in the sacrificial tub. But this… Somehow in the last few days this whole thing had burrowed through my academic interest in demons and magic and landed in the freak out zone. I’d been in Bliss’s house. I’d petted her cat. I’d read her journal. These weren’t just bodies. These were people whose hopes and dreams had come crashing down with the stab of a knife. And with soul magic, they didn’t even have the promise of an afterlife to look forward to. It was the worst of wrongs, and I couldn’t look dispassionately upon their remains.
