Mortal Sins (Conspiracy of Angels short story)

by Michelle Belanger

  “Where—where did you get that?” he gasped. His face—already veiny and pale—went a starker shade of gray. He staggered back from the door and for a heart-skipping instant, I thought he was going to pass out.

  “Long story,” I answered. “Can I come in?”

  He wetted trembling lips and nodded, fumbling at the chain on the door. He backed into the crowded entryway to make room for me, nearly toppling an empty tank of oxygen tucked in the corner. Jerking a hand to catch it, it looked again as if he was going to fall over. Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him.

  My whole hand prickled at the contact. Dominick’s head snapped up like it was fixed on a spring, pupils narrowing to pinpricks as he stared at me.

  “What are you?”

  Uh-oh. I yanked my hand back. In the absence of support, the old man tottered, but kept his feet.

  “Just a messenger,” I insisted.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded. Tattered fireflies of power sprung to life around him. The lines of his face deepened with the strain.

  “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself,” I cautioned. “I’m not a threat. I promise.”

  He wavered a moment, not yet convinced.

  “She didn’t tell me her name. She couldn’t,” I whispered. Between us, I lifted the ring so its single jewel could catch the yellow light streaming from his living room. “She’s the one who died because of this.”

  The instant I said it, his features collapsed under the weight of his grief. He seized the wall beside him for support, but even that wasn’t enough. He slid slowly downward, until he sat crumpled in a heap of awkward joints and skinny limbs. His forehead dropped against his bony knees and the sputtering motes of power winked out, one by one.

  “Nadine,” he breathed.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured hastily. I wasn’t sure if I should risk touching him again or just keep the hell away. His shoulders shook as he wept soundlessly, and his desolate bereavement saturated the apartment until my own eyes stung in sympathy. “I haven’t had a lot of practice with messages like this,” I managed, “but she needed someone to tell you. She never left you, and she never forgot.”

  “Give me the ring,” he rasped. He reached out blindly.

  I squatted down close to him and placed it in his upturned palm, taking care to keep our fingers from touching. I really didn’t want a front-row seat to his grief, courtesy of my abilities. This close, it was bad enough.

  “Tell me everything,” he demanded.

  So I did. The restaurant, his family, how the spirit first appeared to me. I left out as much as I explained—the details of my bargain with his mother, the unsettling way the witch had unmasked me, anything that tied back to Lil. Especially Benny and the construction site. By the end, he was starting to recover, lifting his head to peer curiously at me. The motes of power sparked into view again, and I was reasonably certain he was trying to see me for what I was.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I cautioned.

  “You remind me of someone, though,” he murmured.

  “I know the taste of your power.” Momma Tuscanetti’s words rang in my mind. If I’d tangled with her and Benny-boy before, chances were Dom had been in the mix, too. Before the split over his choice in lovers, the trio had come as a packaged deal.

  “Who knows? I have that kind of face,” I responded with a casual shrug. At least, I hoped it was a casual shrug. Over the past few months, I’d learned that I made a terrible liar.

  Dominick gave me a long and speculative look. He rocked a little, trying to get off the floor. I put my gloves on, then gave him a hand up. It was hardly a subtle gesture, but I sucked at subtle as much as I sucked at lying. Soon he was upright and relatively stable.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  He nodded, heading for the easy chair in his living room.

  “Why didn’t you move away?” I asked. “Your family’s based in Cleveland. If you wanted out, why not go further?”

  “I always held out hope,” he responded, looking down at the ring. “If I stuck around long enough, maybe I’d hear from her.” He turned his gaze to me. “And it worked out, finally. Not exactly the way I’d hoped, but it’s better than not knowing.”

  My eyes started stinging again and I swallowed hard against a tightness forming in my throat. Not my emotions, I told myself.

  “You lost someone, too.”

  He didn’t ask it as a question, but I refused to answer anyway. What was the use of crying over a woman I couldn’t remember? I’d done everything I could for Lailah. She was free. I needed to be content with that. Suck it up, buttercup, as Lil would tell me. I needed to change the subject.

  “I wish I could let you see her—your Nadine.” The one thing I hadn’t gotten when I freed Lailah. Maybe I was projecting my own issues after all.

  If Dominick divined anything from my expression, he made no comment on it. Instead, he got creakily to his feet.

  “I gave up a lot when I left the family,” he said, his voice a bit steadier, “but I still have a few tricks. You want to see?” He headed toward a small room tucked at the end of a short hallway.

  I hesitated, then followed, too curious to resist.

  Dominick held the door open for me, a brittle sort of pride peeking out from beneath his grief. The room beyond had started life as a decent-sized walk-in closet, but shimmering bolts of black fabric had transformed it into something more exotic. Tacked to the walls and the ceiling, the dark drapery hung in rich cascades around a central table. A silver bowl—broad and bell-like—rested on the table. Water kissed its brim and a bed of smooth, black stones covered the bottom. Above it hung a single lamp of ruby glass, cut so the many facets sent little prisms of light from its flickering votive.

  “A psychomanteum,” I said.

  Dominick’s brows shot up. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “I get that a lot,” I joked. “It’s the biker jacket, isn’t it?”

  He tottered into the room, then gestured for me to stand opposite him, across the little table. There was just enough space for the both of us. I had to stoop to avoid bumping the lamp with my forehead.

  “I built this to look for her,” he explained. “If she was dead, I’d hoped she’d come to me.”

  All the intricate spells that had been etched across the walls of Nadine’s makeshift tomb, they were aimed at Dominick. The family had known—or at least suspected—that he could build something like this. To maintain the lie that she’d simply run away, all they had to do was hide her ghost from him. And if some stranger happened to see her spirit, with the spells that silenced her voice, she could never explain.

  Assholes.

  Then in a stroke of luck, Nadine had found me—the guy who could walk through walls. Brushing up against her immured corpse had been the only thing that let me hear her voice.

  There was a clack as Dominick pulled the door shut, and I jumped. Lines of power snapped into place as he sealed the little room, leaving afterimages burned into my retinas.

  “There’s more to this ring than you can see,” he said, holding the relic poised between us. His dark eyes fixed on mine, the lamp kindling in them a new life. He winked. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he dropped the object into the water. Gold gleamed in the lamplight as the ring drifted to the bottom, coming to rest on the bed of polished black stones. An answering light glimmered in the shadows. First one and then ten and then a hundred flickering motes of energy coalesced in a lazy spiral above the silver bowl. They were reflected back by the still waters.

  Dominick gestured for silence, then began a sibilant chant under his breath. The spiraling stream of power ebbed and flowed in rhythm with his words. Like little stars, the specks of power glinted in the shadows of the psychomanteum. And then—in the space between the stars—an image began to form. A wide, dark eye. The curve of a cheek. A strong, broad nose, and beneath that, full
lips, curled wistfully at one corner.

  Dominick’s breath quickened, each exhalation underscored by a subtle rattle deep in his chest.

  “Nadine Williams,” he whispered. He gripped the sides of the table fiercely, steadying himself over the silver bowl. The fairy lights rippled like petals set adrift on the sea, but the image held. “Wrapped around your finger, dear. That’s my heart,” he said. “Even now.”

  The voice that answered rode on subtle music, soft and on the very edge of hearing.

  “I never left. He begged. He bargained. He threatened, but I wouldn’t walk out on you, Dom. Not ever.” The syllables floated midway between presence and absence, each word resonant with a sound like trickling water.

  Dominick wept freely, whispering broken lines from a song or a poem, though his throat was so tight it refused to give most of them up. I cast my eyes downward, unwilling to intrude with even my attention on such an intimate exchange.

  That was how I saw it—another face captured in the dance of shadow and magic—except this one appeared only in the depths of the bowl. I’d never seen more than a few scattered photos, but recognition was instant—her high, smooth brow, long, graceful nose with just a little hook at the tip, lush lips like the bud of a flower promising to bloom. And her eyes. Huge, dark eyes angled slightly at the edges.

  Eyes that could swallow you whole.

  My breath stumbled in my throat and her name left my lips without a sound.

  Lailah.

  The subtle music rose behind Nadine’s spirit-voice until the whole of the little chamber seemed alive with chiming bells. Dominick didn’t notice it—he still whispered urgently to his ladylove, pouring a lifetime of sentiment into a few stolen moments.

  Through the music came an echo of Lailah’s voice. Even forgotten, I knew it.

  “I’ll come back, Zaquiel.”

  The message shivered through me. My thoughts were drowning in her eyes.

  “I’ll come back. I promised.”

  And while I couldn’t remember when she’d made it, I felt that promise resonate, deep as the syllables of my Name. The satin curtain of her midnight hair fanned out across the bowl. For a moment it looked as if she was really floating there, just beneath the water. I wanted to call out, call her back. I reached out reflexively.

  “Lailah!” I cried.

  This time the word erupted from my lips, thunderous in the close and shrouded room. Dominick fell silent. Strands of Lailah’s hair swirled around her image, extending like great, black wings, and then the image changed until all I could see were those wings. And her eyes.

  Those eyes became a swirling darkness that drank the light.

  “What’s happening?” Dominick demanded.

  The darkness on the face of the water burst forth in the shape of a bird—a massive owl with huge, dark eyes, a pale heart of a face, and feathers the color of soot. A great wind rose in its wake, scattering the fading motes of power. The spirit-beast wheeled once around the tiny room, rustling the curtains in silent passage, and then it, too, dispersed in a whirl of shadows.

  For a small eternity, we were both too stunned to say anything. Dominick broke the silence first.

  “That thing. It came with you?”

  I nodded.

  His mouth collapsed into a harsh, unsteady line. “I think you should leave.”

  Mutely, I nodded again, then picked my way around the little table, careful not to jostle the central bowl. I held onto my cowl as if my life depended on it. I didn’t want to explain that to him. Not any of it.

  Crossing to the front door, I slipped through and pulled it quietly shut behind me. Then I sat at the top of the stairs with my head in my hands until my racing thoughts settled to a pace I found tolerable.

  9

  Lil waited in the Sebring, her face uplit by the glowing screen of her smartphone. She didn’t look up when I got in.

  “About time, flyboy. I was getting ready to send out a search party.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Slow, fat flakes of snow drifted onto the car, melting into rivulets that streamed across the windshield. I stared at the branching pattern without really seeing it. My head whirled with images from the psychomanteum—Lailah’s face, the owl—especially the owl. I’d seen spirit-beasts like that before, creatures of shape and shadow, with no true physical form. They were always creatures called up by Lil—the Lady of Beasts.

  What did that mean?

  Lil turned her attention from the phone long enough to elbow me in the ribs. “Hey,” she said. “You’re broodier than normal. Things didn’t work out?”

  “Kind of the opposite, actually,” I responded.

  Lil put the phone down. “What happened?”

  I started to ask if she could call an owl—and if that owl’s name might be some variation on Lailah.

  I couldn’t get the words out.

  “Zack?” Lil pursued.

  Shaking my head, I made a sound that was a non-answer.

  I felt her eyes on me, questing for some indication of what was on my mind—if not in my expression, then my body language. Maybe something more esoteric, like my energy. I held tight to my cowl, unwilling to yield. After a few moments, she let it go, turning her attention back to the smartphone.

  Snowflakes fell and melted and trickled from the car, repeating the process endlessly.

  “How good are you at tracking someone from their website?” Lil asked, breaking the silence. I shrugged, glad for a chance to change the direction of my thoughts.

  “Depends on the website. Why?”

  She held up the smartphone. The browser was still set to the conspiracy theorist’s blog. In miniature, I saw a black-and-white glamor shot of a lounge singer. She had long, thick waves of hair and wore a darkly spangled dress that hugged her sinuous curves. Recognition drifted like smoke through the ruined halls of my memory.

  “I want to meet this guy,” Lil purred. She wore a look that threatened mayhem.

  “How about we trade?” I suggested.

  Curiosity flickered across her features. “What do you have in mind, flyboy?”

  “I make with the computer magic, and you tell me a few things.”

  Cautiously she asked, “What kinds of things?”

  “Tell me about Lailah.” The words came out in a rush.

  Lil stiffened and I could practically see the walls slam up around her mind.

  “I’m not asking about any of the weird stuff,” I continued. “I know you wouldn’t tell me, even if I did.” I drew a breath, feeling my heart rise to the base of my throat. My eyes were fixed on the shadows beyond the windshield where—perhaps—a great soot-covered owl wheeled beneath the bellies of the clouds. I swallowed hard, fighting to find my voice again. “What was she like as a person? Who was the woman that I loved?”

  Lil’s brows ticked up to her hairline, and then she gave me the strangest smile.

  “Oh, Zack,” she said. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

  “So, you’ll tell me?” I asked, more shocked by her assent than I’d expected to be.

  She regarded me from beneath heavy lashes. “A little.”

  I nodded, then stretched against the curving back of the bucket seat. Every muscle in my neck felt determined to compress my vertebrae down to powder.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said “I’m done chasing ghosts.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michelle Belanger is most widely recognized for her work on television’s Paranormal State, where she explored abandoned prisons and haunted houses while blindfolded and in high heels. A leading authority on psychic and supernatural topics, her non-fiction research has led to more than two dozen books such as The Dictionary of Demons, Walking the Twilight Path, and The Psychic Vampire Codex, and has been sourced in television shows, university courses, and numerous publications around the world.

  Her first novel was Conspiracy of Angels, introducing Zaquiel, Lil, and the Shadowside. The second novel in that seri
es, Harsh Gods, pits the duo against an ancient power seeking to possess an autistic girl.

  She has worked as a media liaison for fringe communities, performed with gothic and metal bands, lectured on vampires at colleges across North America, and designed immersive live-action role-playing games (RPGs) for companies such as Wizards of the Coast. Her research on the Watcher Angels has led to both a Tarot deck and the album Blood of Angels. She has appeared on A&E, Fox News, Reelz, and the History Channel.

  Michelle resides near Cleveland, Ohio, in a house with two cats, a few friendly spirits, and a library of more than four thousand books. More information can be found at

  www.michellebelanger.com.

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  “The vengeful holy and unholy are hot on your heels…”

  —Rob Thurman, New York Times bestselling author of Nightlife

  CONSPIRACY OF ANGELS

  By Michelle Belanger

  A NOVEL OF THE SHADOWSIDE

  When Zachary Westland regains consciousness on the winter shores of Lake Erie, his memories are gone. All he has are chaotic visions of violence and death… and a business card for Club Heaven. There Zack finds the six-foot-six transsexual Nephilim known as Saliriel—and hints of a previous life drenched in bloodshed and battle.

  Details emerge of tribes trapped on Earth and struggling in the wake of the Blood Wars. Anakim, Nephilim, Gibburim, and Rephaim—there has been an uneasy peace for centuries, but the truce is at an end.

  With the help of his “sibling” Remiel and Lilianna, the Lady of Beasts, Zack must stem the bloodshed before it cannot be stopped. Yet if he dies again, it may be for the final time.

  “[Belanger] launches herself into myths created from her own imagination… a singular reading experience.”—Laurell K. Hamilton, New York Times bestselling creator of Anita Blake, vampire hunter

  “A rattling good tale…”—Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, award-winning author of Hôtel Transylvania

  TITANBOOKS.COM

  “A darkly vivid world… Her characters are intriguing, her pacing swift. More, please!”