Sinners and Saints

by Jennifer Roberson

  Mary Jane Kelly crossed her arms and pressed them against her chest.

  My turn. “So okay. This guy—this demon—masquerading as Jack the Ripper got his hands on the actual letter. How?”

  “Many things were lost,” Remi explained. “Police files at the time were sketchy, and they were dealing with quite a few hoax letters. It would have been easy for someone knowing what to look for to waltz in there and dig out the actual letter.”

  “Who would know it was there?” I asked. “Was that letter publicized?”

  Remi nodded. “A diary was found purportedly written by one of the Ripper suspects, a James Maybrick, and in it Maybrick refers to the From Hell letter and the cannibalism.”

  Mary Jane Kelly stiffened. “Cannibalism? Jack the Ripper ate people?”

  Remi nodded. “Seems like. In the letter he says he ate part of the kidney. And the kidney wasn’t intact when it was delivered to the police.”

  “Oh, this is disgusting!” she cried, face screwed up. “Some nutjob masquerading as Jack the Ripper is killing women because their names match those of the original victims, and now a kidney is involved?”

  Grandaddy’s tone was quiet. “He is not human, this killer. It may be that Jack the Ripper also wasn’t human.”

  Kelly stared at him, then walked away stiffly. She found a chair nearby, dragged it over and sat down heavily. “I can’t wrap my head around all of this. I mean, Jack the Ripper is bad enough on his own, but a demon, too?”

  “Demons possess hosts,” Grandaddy told her, “and pervert them. Whoever he was, the man may have been perfectly ordinary until the demon took him.”

  “Or he was a perfectly ordinary psychopath,” she said. “Men don’t have to be demons to do terrible things.”

  “If it was a demon inhabiting the Ripper,” I said, “it means he’s been here awhile. He didn’t just pop out of hell when the vents opened a couple of months ago.”

  Remi folded his arms, nodded. “Yup . . . and maybe has been here for decades. Possibly even centuries.”

  I raised my brows. “And he’s running around grabbing innocent hosts for the hell of it, turning them into murderers?”

  “Chaos,” Remi said. “That was your suggestion: chaos demons.”

  “What’s in a name.” Kelly was a combination of concerned and annoyed. “And I’m on his list because he’s decided to mimic Jack the Ripper. How cool is that?—not.”

  “Revisiting infamy?” I asked Grandaddy. “His greatest hits, so to speak?”

  “Mary Jane Kelly was his last victim, so far as we know,” Remi said, “but that doesn’t mean she was. Other women were murdered after Kelly.”

  “Do we know their names?” I asked.

  “Three of them,” Remi said. “One was killed before the five who are Ripper canon, two after. Their names are known. Could be others, though.”

  I looked at Grandaddy. “The other pictures that came, the ones with the names matching the Ripper’s victims written on the back—we don’t know that those victims are all local, do we? They could be from anywhere in the state, the country—hell, even the world. I mean, it would make sense if this were happening in London. But why here?”

  “Opportunity?” Remi asked.

  I looked harder at Grandaddy. “The demon that came onto me that first night, then tried to strangle me . . . we know it’s the one sending the photos. Or, at least the notes said so.” Legion, it had named itself, for we are many. “So we’re to assume the Big Bad who terrorized London in the late 1800s is here in Flagstaff? Is he assigned to the so-called Southwestern Division, like Lily? Are demons that organized?”

  Grandaddy looked down at Kelly. “I’m sorry, but the truth is hard in this matter. The demon‘s not here because of you, precisely. It’s using you, yes, and it will kill you, because that’s all part of the game. But the demon is here for Gabriel and Remiel.”

  She looked at me, at Remi, then met Grandaddy’s eyes, blue to blue. “Why is it here for them?”

  Grandaddy answered simply. “Because they’re not human, either . . . and it has an affinity for them.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kelly stared at Grandaddy for a long moment, then shifted her attention to Remi and me. “Okay. We’ll go with that for the moment, just because. So what are they, then? Aliens? Lost mermen of Atlantis?”

  “They are between,” Grandaddy told her. “Language comes in many forms, including the language of the angels, but it might be easiest to say they are se metávasi. Or ángeloi se metavásai. Neither is entirely accurate—it’s modern, not ancient Greek, but it will do.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll avoid the cheap joke, but I don’t speak Greek.”

  I looked sharply at Remi, because he did speak it. “Well? What are we? Because God knows that’s more than he’s ever told us.”

  Remi held up a hand. “I know the one word. I was studying religion, not colloquial Greek. Or colloquial Koine Greek, assuming there was vernacular in ancient Greek. Ángeloi means angels. I think se means ‘in.’ But I got no clue about metávasi.”

  “You’re in transition,” Grandaddy said, as if that explained everything.

  Kelly’s brows shot up again. “Both of you?”

  “Not that kind of transitioning,” I pointed out, even as Remi’s grin stretched wide. “Apparently it’s some kind of proto-angel thing. We’re apprentices. But Remi and I are pretty much being treated like mushrooms, so who knows? I guess tomorrow we might start sprouting feathers.”

  Remi was puzzled. “Mushrooms?”

  “Kept in the dark,” I explained, “with fecal matter for fertilizer. Or maybe grown in the dark, since we’re but baby ‘shrooms.” I plucked my tee from my chest, looked between Grandaddy and Ganji. “Look, I’m damp, sore, and tired, and I’d really like to take a shower, change into dry clothes, get something to eat. I’m sure Remi feels the same. So why don’t you guys talk all this out, then tell me exactly who—or what—I am when I’m clean and dry.”

  “Maybe we oughta flip for it,” Remi suggested.

  “What?”

  “Flip for first shower. Only one bathroom upstairs.”

  I grinned at him. “Alpha trumps beta.”

  Remi scowled prodigiously, and I headed for the stairs.

  Then he called, “I’m going to play country on the jukebox and crank it up high!”

  I hit the first two steps. “Fine by me. Shower will cover it!”

  And as I went up the stairs, I heard Mary Jane Kelly’s raised voice saying, “I need to know more.”

  * * *

  —

  The hot shower was damn near orgasmic. The stiffness from the bike accident—coupled with the physical activities on the mountain in the middle of a torrential downpour that became a hailstorm—began to ease. The road rash wasn’t too bad, thanks to my leathers, but impact is impact, and I’d hit hard enough to raise some pretty spectacular bruises. Could have been a lot worse, though.

  I downed three analgesics, dug through my limited supply of clothing: jeans, heavily-pocketed military BDU pants, couple of t-shirts, long-sleeved Henley shirts. I donned fresh underwear, navy tee, and black BDUs—loose over bruises and road rash; wet jeans had added insult to injury—worked a comb through my towel-damp hair and left it unbound to dry, pulled on boots over socks and headed toward the stairs.

  But I stopped when I heard Remi’s voice coming from the common room just down the abbreviated hall, speaking on his phone. I paused, poked my head in to let him know the shower was open.

  He nodded and gave me thumbs up, thanked someone, disconnected, and stuck the phone into a back pocket. “I thought we could go rescue your bike. I found a Harley shop and arranged to rent a flatbed bike trailer with all the tie-downs, got a bunch of furniture blankets and ratchet strapping, and for forty extra bucks a guy’s willing to meet us ou
t there with a winch-truck to give us a hand. Grandaddy’s gone again, but Mary Jane is being entertained by Ganji and has no interest in going, which is just as well. She’ll be safer here.” He headed past me toward his room, then paused. “She’s gonna spend the night on the sofabed in the common room. We’re trying to sort out what to do going forward about keeping her safe, so if you’ve got any ideas, throw ’em out.”

  I was impressed he’d gone to all the trouble, and thanked him. “She’s got a job,” I said. “Are we supposed to be bodyguards while she does her work?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  Remi disappeared, and I headed down the narrow staircase. The jukebox was playing country music; I heard the twang, the nasal whine. Something about Ruby being mad at her man and not taking her love to town. I was pretty sure every country song featured cheating in some form, possibly even cheating on someone’s pickup truck.

  I smelled food as I hit the bottom of the steps, and my stomach sent up its own form of music. Ganji came out of the back bearing a plate featuring a burger and fries, handed it to me along with a beer. We did have a cook for evenings, but Ganji handled food now and then during daylight, tended bar after dark.

  Not many people were served alcohol by an African god who sang volcanoes awake. Or to sleep. The sleep part was certainly preferable.

  I found Mary Jane Kelly at a table and joined her. Saw ketchup, but no mustard, which reminded me all over again that Remi considered mustard the forgotten condiment.

  She’d pushed her plate aside, and now planted elbows on the table to cradle jaw in palms as I sat down and dug in. “So, do you think that mountain lion was meant for me?”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Because if I’m a target, it’s predictable that I might rush out to the trail system to check on people and terrain. It’s my job.”

  I thought it over as I chewed, washed burger down with a slug of beer. “Possible,” I said. “But I think it was tracking Remi and me. Remi swore he heard his daughter calling for him. It’s why he went up the mountain. So more likely you were collateral—except that I took out the demon before you arrived. I’m sure, had it succeeded in killing us, it would have gone for you.” I considered that a moment. “Or maybe not—with us dead, what’s the point in playing Jack the Ripper with victims bearing the same names? Though . . .” I trailed off, roll-tapped fingertips against the tabletop as I thought further. “I don’t believe the demon in the cat is the one who’s gaslighting us. There seem to be any number of demon worker-bees. But the other victims I think were the doing of Legion.”

  “Legion?”

  “My name is Legion, for we are many. That’s what she/he/it said.”

  Her face was stark, stretched taut over the bones. “And me?”

  I scooped up ketchup with multiple fries. “With us in the mix it’s possible it won’t go after you anymore.”

  She brightened. “In which case I’m safe and can go back to my own place, back to my job.”

  “Give it a couple of days.” I used a last fry to draw designs in the remaining ketchup. “We don’t know enough yet. Let’s not take any chances. As for your job—well, Grandaddy’s good at taking care of mundane things like that. Settling troubled waters, so to speak.” Such as springing me from prison early, but I didn’t mention that to her.

  She looked at me thoughtfully. “Remi says neither of you had any idea about what you are.”

  I shook my head. “Grew up like perfectly normal kids. Well, perfectly normal kids who have a literal guardian angel popping into their lives now and then, though we believed he was just an old family friend.”

  “I thought you were brothers. You’re very similar.”

  We did indeed resemble one another in hair color, general build, similarities in facial bones. But I opted to forgo explaining the whole two-sparks-born-of-celestial-energy routine and continued. “I don’t feel any different. Never did.” Except for, well, the primogenitura, and sussing out demons and evil in places. I didn’t mention that, either. “We really are learning as we go.”

  “Pretty steep learning curve.”

  I picked up the beer. “Everest. And we’re climbing it without bottled oxygen.”

  Her smile was faint and fleeting. “The descent’s the worst part.”

  From what I knew of Everest, yup. More people died climbing down than on the way to the summit.

  And I wondered . . . was Ganji, an Orisha, acquainted with Chomolungma, the Tibetan goddess known as Holy Mother of the Universe whose mountain bridged the border between Nepal and Tibet? Everest wasn’t Everest to the Tibetans, or to the Nepali, either, who called her Sagarmatha.

  Ganji knew Lily, Ireland’s Morrigan. Did he know what other gods and goddesses had joined the angels’ battle? Did he know which gods and goddesses sided with Lucifer?

  The latter information certainly would be handy to have, and I resolved to ask him.

  “I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” I told Kelly. “I don’t know if this surrogate actually is Jack the Ripper and has been body-hopping for centuries, or something else riding the coattails of the stories. Borrowed glory, if you will.”

  Her gaze was serious. “And if you two hadn’t found me, I’d be dead?”

  I answered her truthfully. “I don’t know. Maybe so. Since he’s very recently killed women by the names of the original victims, it seems likely.”

  She nodded, but seemed to have moved on from that answer. She stretched, leaned back in her chair. “So, tell me what you can do. What are your super powers, as you called them. Remi says he can figure out who’s a demon, but your ability is something else.”

  “Remi is supposed to be able to figure out who’s a demon by sensing them. But so far his ability is intermittent, which is unhelpful. That’s why he had to try the exorcism on you.”

  “And why he changed up the lyrics to Ave Maria to the exorcism ritual the other night.” Kelly grinned, nodded. “Gotta admit, that was pretty clever. So, did you catch yourselves a demon?”

  I smiled back. “Nope. Thought so, but it turned out to be an angel. One of three. They dropped by to underscore that we couldn’t afford to be stupid about all of this. That we’d better believe what we’re told.”

  Though that did remind me of the Grigori, Ambriel, whom I called Greg. She’d dropped by to inform us we shouldn’t necessarily trust all angels, which muddied the waters something bad. But she’d also exploded a surrogate’s body for us, when Remi and I had no clue how to “clear a domicile.” Basically, how to sanitize a formerly infected area.

  The next body we’d exploded ourselves, all over the side of a massive volcanic cinder cone.

  I wondered, now, if Greg knew Shemyazaz. Both were Grigori, watcher-angels. Though, of course, Shemyazaz had colored outside the lines centuries ago by actually having sex with a human woman.

  “Do you still have the baggie of demon remains?” I asked.

  Kelly nodded. “They’re in my pack.”

  “But you didn’t sweep up all of them.”

  “No. You didn’t exactly give me time, remember? But I wound up with a fair amount. Enough for a specialist to examine.”

  “So the rest is still up on the mountain.” I ruminated on that for a moment. “I wonder if Remi and I should go gather them up. I mean, I don’t know if partial remains can be reconstituted into a full-blown demon.” Kelly’s expression suggested she was utterly grossed out by that picture. “Who knows?” I asked. “Maybe we should gather up the rest that’s still on the mountain, add them to your baggie, then drop all of the remains off with that entomologist you know at . . . ?”

  “Northern Arizona University. NAU.”

  “ . . . and see what he has to say once he’s examined them.”

  She reached down below the table, lifted her daypack and pulled the baggie from
it, placed it on the table. The brown bits glittered through the plastic. “I thought you were going to get your bike out of the crick, as Remi put it.” She smiled, dropped her voice deeper and assumed a Southern accent. “I do appreciate a fine Texas drawl.”

  Okay, then. Like that. And she was spending the night upstairs in our apartment. Hmm. A wingman might be overkill.

  And then Remi came down the stairs in a boot-thumping staccato, singing something along with the jukebox about sky-high Colorado and tasting tequila. Which reminded me that while Grandaddy had gifted me with a bottle of fine Talisker single malt, it had been Patron tequila for Remi.

  I scootched the chair back and rose, carrying plate and bottle to the bar. “I think we ought to go back up the mountain,” I told him. “Take a baggie and scoop up the rest of those demonic bug bodies, add ’em to these, then drop them off with the scientist she knows.” I picked up her baggie. “We need to learn more about these remains. I mean, has anyone actually studied them? Then we can go get my bike.”

  Kelly had pulled her phone from her daypack and was texting. “Remi, I’m sending you the name and directions to Dr. Hickman’s office at NAU. He’s got office hours this afternoon. I’ll text him, too, so he’s expecting you. It’ll probably take him a few days, if he doesn’t have to send them to Phoenix.”

  “And there’s another reason we ought to gather up those remains,” I told him. “The mountain isn’t a domicile, and they can’t set one up, but they could still go after one of their fallen and reconstitute the bug bits later. Then we can go get my bike.”

  Remi pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, I ate and I’m all scrubbed up behind the ears, Mary Jane’s safe here with Ganji—let’s light a shuck and go.”

  He’d used that saying before. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means we should put our asses in gear and get the hell gone.”

  “Okay. That I can do. Just remember that I don’t speak Texan.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN