by Rachel Green
“So they survived and prospered. Why would the angels be killing them now?”
“Contract hits?” Jasfoup narrowed his eyes and paused.
Felicia shook her head. “God hiring hitmen? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Jasfoup rubbed his fingers on the rosemary again. “Not God. Someone else, who doesn’t want to alert God to the presence of all the nephilim, but has enough sway with seraphs to get the job done.”
Felicia was at a loss. “Who could that be?”
Jasfoup stared out over the garden. “I can only think of one. The Prince in Darkness and Lord of the status-quo. Lucifer.”
Chapter 18
Felicia searched the demon’s face, trying to tell if he was joking. Either way, she was having a hard time trying not to laugh. Mirth snorted down her nose, despite her attempt at self-restraint. “Lucifer? You’re having me on, surely?”
Jasfoup raised an eyebrow. “Why would I?”
“Yes, but...” Felicia searched for the appropriate word. “Lucifer? He’s a child’s fairy tale, designed to scare people into doing what they’re told.”
Jasfoup shrugged. “Why would you think that? You’ve met two seraphs, a grigori, a demon, several imps and a bunch of nephilim. Why can’t you believe Lucifer exists?”
Felicia bent down and picked a cornflower. “I don’t know. The Lord of Evil? All I really know is what I’ve experienced and what you’ve told me. It takes more of a leap to imagine him real.” She laughed. “I don’t even believe I’m a werewolf. I keep hoping to wake up to find it’s still last Saturday and this was all a bad dream.”
“Believe it. It’s not even a nightmare. Lucifer exists.”
“So the priests were right about Hell?”
Felicia sat back down on the bench. She’d grown up with the concept of Heaven and Hell only to reject it when one realized they were based on much earlier principles of pagan religions. It was disconcerting to have the living proof offering tea and crumpets.
“Yes, although it was their belief that made it a reality. If you don’t believe in it then you don’t go to either place when you die, but to whatever you do believe in.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” Jasfoup shook his head slowly. “You have to really, really believe in it, though. If in the deepest, darkest bit of your heart you still believe in Hell, that’s where you’ll go.”
“I have to ask. Do most people go to Heaven?”
Jasfoup laughed. “Not on your nelly. If you’re lucky, you only have minor stains on your soul and you go to Purgatory, otherwise, it’s straight down to the fiery pit. The gates of Heaven are rusted shut.”
“What about me? I’m a lapsed Catholic werewolf.”
“What about you?” Jasfoup looked out at the multitude of cats, sunning themselves and ignoring the ghost dog baiting them. He looked up at the encroaching clouds. “Do you believe in Hell?”
“I don’t really have a choice, do I? The proof is sitting right here stretching his wings. I knew there was something odd about you.”
“If you believe in Hell, then that’s where you’ll go, but if you’re more nephilim than human, you’ll become a devil instead of a tortured soul.”
“I thought devils were fallen angels?”
“No, that’s demons. Devils are converted humans and nephilim.” Jasfoup held out his arms. “We love this world. You provide our every recruit.”
“What about Harold? Is he a demon too?”
“Good gracious, no.” Jasfoup laughed. “He wouldn’t have half his hang-ups if he was a demon. Harold is nephilim, roughly human on his mother’s side.”
“Roughly human?”
“Human-ish, anyway. Three-eighths.”
“What about his father’s side?”
“That’s all demon.” Jasfoup grinned. “That’s another reason why you should believe in Lucifer. You’ve met his son.”
Felicia gasped. “Harold is the antichrist?”
Jasfoup grimaced. “Bugger me, no. He has a conscience and everything. It’s pathetic, really.”
“Don’t be horrid.” Felicia looked at her watch and picked up her coffee cup to take back into the house. “I like Harold. He’s always been good to me.”
“My point exactly.” Jasfoup handed her his mug as well. “Pathetic.”
“What about the other eighth?”
“Other eighth?”
“You said Harold was half-demon and three-eighths human. What’s the other bit?”
“Oh. Fae, on his mother’s side.”
“Really? No wonder he’s a born magician then.”
“He’s not. He learned it from a book.”
“A book?” Felicia followed him into the kitchen, pausing when she saw both Harold and Julie.
“It was a book of magic, but still...” Jasfoup blinked. “Good morning, Harold. I was just telling Felicia how useless you are.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me,” Harold replied through a mouthful of corn flakes. “What does that make you?”
“An opportunist.”
Felicia laughed and embraced her sister. Wrack, in his customary position on her shoulder, gave way begrudgingly. “Freedom suits you.”
“It’s good to be out. Where’s Taliel?”
“He left last night.” Harold opened a cupboard. “He had some business.”
“Talking of which.” Jasfoup took out a notebook. “I researched what nephilim were in the area. Laverstone, being inherently magical, has a higher percentage of nephilim per capita than any other place in Britain.”
Felicia was surprised. “Even Glastonbury?”
“Tch.” Harold was dismissive. “Glastonbury.”
Julie frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”
“We don’t talk about Glastonbury.” Harold looked to the demon. “What did you find out then? Can we mark them on the map?”
“Probably.” Jasfoup leaned over and pointed to the open circle. “They got Jonathan Metcalfe last night. There are six more.” Jasfoup read from his list. “Gary Hughes on Staple Row.”
Harold trailed his finger across the map until he located the street and drew a ring around it. “Who else?”
“Jennifer Keller on Callow Hill and three more we know.” Jasfoup found the hospital on the map. “Joshua, of course. Julie Turling, Felicia Turling–” he pointed to her flat “–and Harold Waterman.” His finger finished on top of Laverstone Manor.
Harold drew circles around them. “There must be a pattern. If we can find it, we can work out which they’ll attack next.”
“Why isn’t Gillian on the list?” asked Felicia. “She’s nephilim as well.”
“She is on the list, but as her last known residence was on the Rue Saint-Denis in Paris, they’re not going to find her in a hurry. They’re not very good on those who ‘walk without the light of God’.”
“You have all this information in Hell?”
“Nah.” Jasfoup grinned. “I know someone who knows someone. Have you come across the phrase ‘God sees all’?”
“Of course.” Felicia shuddered. “It always unnerved me a bit, wondering if He was watching me masturbate.”
“Watching? He sells the DVDs.” Jasfoup laughed. “Only kidding. It’s not actually Him that watches everything but a team of angelic auditors. We just get the information from their database.”
“What patterns do you see?” Julie craned over the map, as if her blindness could be mitigated by proximity.
Harold frowned. “Nothing yet.” He connected several lines. “Let me try another way.” He connected every other point, then every third and finally connected each dwelling to every other.
“There is a pattern.” Jasfoup’s voice trembled.
Julie looked toward his voice. “What?”
Felicia frowned. “I don’t see one.”
“Can’t you?” Jasfoup traced an outline using the lines Harold had drawn. “It’s a little rabbit.”
Harold thre
w his pen down. “That’s no help at all.”
“At least we know the houses he’ll strike at next.”
“Which is what we wanted the pattern to show in the first place.” Jasfoup beamed. “Harold, you’re a genius. All it took to find the address of the next victim was a map, a ruler and the address of the next victim. Astounding.”
Harold scowled. “Very funny.”
“We need to warn this Gary Hughes and then stake out the place,” Felicia said. “It’ll have to be twenty-four hours, though, because he strikes during the day as well.”
“Easily done.” Harold clicked his fingers and waited until a small imp appeared. “Devious, old chum? I’ve a little job for you.”
* * * *
Felicia drove Julie to her flat. In the three years Felicia had lived there, Julie had never been. Now she walked up the steps as if she’d visited a hundred times, the imp on her shoulder warning her about stairs and threshold lips. She looked at the imp’s scaly tail hanging down Julie’s back. Did imps break wind? Defecate?
She was non-committal about moving in. “I’m sure it’s lovely but I can’t really tell, can I? It feels nice and this room will get the sun in the morning. I’d like that. My room in the hospital was shadowed by the boiler house.”
“Didn’t you ask to move rooms?”
“Only once.” Julie gave a rueful laugh. “They gave me that room because I was blind so it wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“The buggers.” Felicia hugged her, enduring Wrack’s glare. “Now, I need to make a phone call to the funeral directors about Mum. Do you have any thoughts about that?”
“Such as?” Wrack guided her to a chair. “Can they arrange to have her rot in Hell?”
“I doubt it.” Felicia wasn’t offended. Their mother had treated her very badly. “Anyway, according to Jasfoup, dead nephilim become devils.”
“That makes sense, I suppose.” Julie took a brush out of her bag and began to brush her hair. “Why change your nature after you’re dead?”
“That’s cruel.” Felicia shook her head. “Is there any special arrangements you’d like made? I thought we could skip the funeral and just have a stone erected somewhere.”
“How about Battersea Dogs home with all the other bitches?”
“I don’t think so.” Felicia closed her eyes, trying to think of something to temper Julie’s animosity. Her mind was a blank. “I’ll just get the stone carved for the time being. We can think about where to place it later.”
“Whoop.” Julie’s face showed no excitement. “We could have a party and invite all the other devils.”
Felicia laughed. “Do you want anything while I’m on the phone?”
“Thanks.” The smile was genuine. “I’ll have a green tea, please.”
“Oh.” Felicia gave a hiss of annoyance. “I don’t have any, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right.” Julie reached up and tickled Wrack under the chin. “Wrack will get me one, won’t you?”
“I suppose.” The imp burped a cloud of chocolate-scented gas. “Should I get her coffee too?”
“That would be nice.” Julie gave his tail a light squeeze.
Felicia left them to it and went to use the telephone. The message light was flashing and she played it back.
“Miss Turling?” She barely recognized the voice. “It’s DS Peters here. Just to inform you, we’ll be taking no action against you regarding the death of your mother, Mrs. Patricia Turling. You can collect the notification of death from the coroner’s office, open Monday to Friday, ten ’til four. Thank you.” The message beeped and Felicia deleted it, glad that at least her mother’s death wasn’t going to be pinned on her.
She opened the telephone directory and dialed the funeral director’s.
“Morton and Sons. Can I help you?” The voice was a deep baritone and Felicia could imagine a middle-aged man in a somber suit.
“Hello? I want to arrange a funeral.”
“Certainly. May I ask when the deceased passed away?”
“Monday. It was my mother.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that Ms...”
“Turling.” Felicia felt that her heart was twice its normal weight.
“May I inquire where your mother is now?”
Felicia shrugged. “Hell, if there’s any justice.”
The man coughed. “I meant, which hospital.”
“Oh.” Felicia was glad that he couldn’t see her blush. “There isn’t a body. She was caught in a house fire. No remains.”
“Tragic.” The man hesitated. “What sort of service do you require, madam? Empty casket?”
“God, no.” Felicia almost laughed. “What a waste of money. I just want a stone carved.”
“I see.” She could hear him turning pages. “I have a ten o’clock slot tomorrow available for an appointment.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“To choose a suitable stone and wording.”
“Oh. Right.” Felicia opened her diary. “That’d be fine. I’ll see you then, Mr...”
“Briggs. I look forward to meeting you, Ms. Turling. Goodbye.”
Felicia wondered if seeing her mother’s name carved in stone would convince her that her mother was dead.
“Cheer up.” Wrack handed her a latte. “You look like your mother’s come back.”
Chapter 19
Felicia flicked through a catalog of stone monuments. Even though there was nothing left of her mother, it might be nice to have somewhere to go to feel she was near. At the very least, it would ground the idea of her to a specific place. Thoughts of dead relatives watching her from Heaven had kept Felicia from masturbating until she was nineteen. She looked up as Julie came in, tossing the catalog aside.
“How’s it going?” Julie’s hands were constantly moving, touching walls and surfaces to map her surroundings.
“All right.” Felicia carried her mug to the kitchen. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow morning to choose a memorial stone. Do you want to come?”
“An undertaker’s?” Julie grimaced. “I’d rather avoid the recently dead, if I could. They all want you to pass messages to their relatives.”
“What sort of messages?”
“Anything, really. Some want to reassure their loved ones they’re happy, some want to tell them where they put the will, or the cat food, or the keys to the lock-up where the bodies are and others want me to tell someone about their death.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like those. Suicides, mostly.”
“You must meet some horrible people.”
“Not really.” Julie came farther into the kitchen, her hands still fluttering over the worktops. Felicia moved the open dish of butter. “Ghosts look like they expect to look. Their self-image molds their appearance.”
“That’s fascinating.”
Julie reached the sink and played with the taps, letting the water spill over and through her fingers. “How do you change your form?”
“I’m not very good at it.” Felicia handed her a tea towel to dry her hands. “Gillian’s trying to teach me but I can only do it when I’m angry.”
Julie stroked her arm. “It’ll come.”
“Thanks.” Felicia gave her a hug.
Wrack took the opportunity to investigate the fridge and removed a block of cheese.
Right.” Felicia stepped away. “I’ve got to pick up the death certificate and see the solicitor. Do you want to stay here? I could drop you off at the shop with Harold and Jasfoup if you prefer. That’s probably the safest place.”
“That sounds good.” Wrack guided her out of the kitchen, opening the cheese as he pointed out objects in her path.
* * * *
“This is where we work.”
Felicia led her sister into Alexandrian Gold which was empty, as usuausual. “They’re probably in the kitchen. The gallery’s downstairs, if you want to take a look.”
“I’d rather not. Standing in front of paintings that I can�
�t see doesn’t really do much for me.” She turned her head, giving the appearance of looking round. “I can’t say I’m all that keen on bookshops, either, though there are vibrations here in the spirit realm.”
“Probably from the books. Some of them are really old. Harold told me he had a fragment of the Rosetta Stone–one the British Museum would kill for. Apparently it’s the key to the whole thing.”
“Oh?” Julie smiled. “What does it say?”
“‘Shopping list’.” Harold came from the kitchen passage. “Would you like to see it? Feel it, I mean?”
“Sure.” Julie smiled. “It’s not often I get that sort of offer from a man.”
Harold laughed. “It’s this way. I keep it locked up, usually.”
Julie moved her hands across the surface, feeling the shape of the hieroglyphs. “You’re right, it is a shopping list. Eight bushels of wheat. Three hands of chicken. A palmful of saffron.” She moved her hands farther down. “This is different. There once was a king from Amun, Who came at a touch far too soon. With three virgins fair, he hadn’t a care, but... and the rest of it is missing.”
“The British Museum has the punch line. They think it’s a notation of dynasty.”
Julie laughed and closed the case. She walked around the rest of the room, her fingers leaving prints on the glass Harold would have to ask an imp to clean.
“What’s this?” She stopped in front of a locked glass case that displayed a single book.
“It’s the Codis Ressurecti.” Harold stood at her side. “Supposedly an ancient manuscript of magic, but I can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s not written in any language I’ve been able to research.”
Julie bent over the glass. “The Ritual of Resurrection,” she read. “Pay no heed to the tales that this can only be achieved by the will of God. It’s actually fairly easy, as long as you put in the legwork to assemble the right components. It must be performed on the full moon, during the daylight for preference when there are less malevolent spirits about.”
Harold’s mouth dropped open. “How did you read that? It looks like lines and squiggles to me.”
“It’s written in the tongue of ghosts. I’ve only ever heard rumors of this tome. Each page is a spirit bound to the book in order to keep the letters there.” She grimaced. “Not all of them went into its making willingly, either.”