“And?” Malatesta persisted.
Remy did not answer, hoping that his silence would speak for him. But from the corner of his eye he saw the sorcerer smile slightly, nodding his head.
Besides, there were far more important things that required his attention. And who knew, within days there might not even be a Vatican—or a world, for that matter—to work for.
Finding the charnel house that Aszrus had visited the night before his death was a piece of the puzzle that they desperately needed.
“This place we are going to,” Malatesta began. “This . . . charnel house, did you call it?”
“Yeah,” Remy said, keeping his eyes on the road, as well as the speedometer. The Ferrari Enzo was probably the fastest thing he’d ever driven, the ride so smooth that it was easy to go over the speed limit without even realizing it. Since he had never been to the address that Marley had given them in her trancelike state, he’d had to borrow one of Aszrus’ many cars, the Enzo being the fastest choice.
“Charnel houses,” Remy explained. “They’re like houses of ill repute—whorehouses. This particular one is named Rapture.”
“Why would a place of pleasure be called a charnel house?” the sorcerer questioned.
“I’m no expert, but from what Francis tells me, these houses exist on multiple planes. The magick that keeps them hidden attunes to a specific kind of negative energy in order for them to manifest themselves in a specific place, and that energy happens to be the kind left behind in locations where pain, sadness, and misery were the norm.”
Remy glanced over at the sorcerer.
“Places of hopelessness and death,” he said. “Metaphorically speaking, charnel houses.”
Malatesta stared straight ahead.
“And why would a creature of Heaven feel the need to frequent one of these sad places?”
Remy wasn’t sure if he wanted to open that can of worms—especially to someone in the service of one of the largest religious organizations on the planet.
“Let’s just say your perception of divine beings, and what they are like, might be a tad off,” he said, hoping to leave it at that.
“What is there to mistake about beings who serve the every whim of the Lord God Almighty?”
Here we go, Remy thought. He was going to have to maneuver this one carefully.
“That they might be a bit more self-serving than you realize,” he explained carefully. “That the Lord God might not always fit into their plans. They might say that He does, but that’s just a good excuse to do something they want to do.”
“Are you saying that God might not be aware of what His divine creations are doing?” The sorcerer chuckled with disbelief.
“I’m saying that He has a tendency to be a bit lax when it comes to holding on to His dogs’ leashes.”
Malatesta looked horrified.
“What can I say?” Remy said. “From what I’ve observed over the millennia I’ve been here, He really doesn’t appear to be paying attention a lot of the time.”
The sorcerer fell silent then, likely pondering Remy’s words and their meaning for the faith that he served, wondering whether the angel could be believed.
And wasn’t that what it always came down to? What to believe, and what not to.
Remy watched the speedometer climb past ninety, and took his foot from the gas. He was tempted to turn on the radio, but was afraid he might hear that the war between Heaven and Hell had begun.
Instead, he focused on the things that were currently in motion, things that would prevent what he feared most from transpiring.
“Why did you need me to come with you?” Malatesta asked, breaking the silence. “I would think that your fallen friend, Francis, would have been a far superior choice to enter a charnel house than I.”
There was no one on Earth, or any place else, that Remy would rather have watching his back than Francis, but the former Guardian had special skills that were best used elsewhere.
“Aszrus’ body needs to be watched over by somebody who can handle a potentially explosive situation,” Remy explained. “Francis is the right choice for that job.”
“And I am the right choice for this one?”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Remy said. “You’ve handled yourself quite well. And that glamour you pulled to send those angels looking for Aszrus packing is exactly what I’ll need once we reach Rapture.”
“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head. “Hopefully I won’t disappoint.”
“I hope so, too,” Remy said, steering toward their exit.
It was going to be interesting, especially when the imposter Aszrus tried to bring a guest to the party.
* * *
The Bone Master sat quietly in the tree across from the brownstone on Pinckney Street, watching the front entrance for signs of his prey.
He was cloaked in patches of black, having used the existing shadows from the trees to weave a quilt of darkness to hide in. The Master had been up there for quite some time, witnessing only the comings and goings of his prey’s female and his four-legged pet.
The angel had not yet returned.
The Bone Master rested his weapon across his legs, gently running the tips of his fingers along the curves of its ribs. A psychic response of pleasure vibrated in his mind, telling the assassin that his weapon was content, but would not know its own full potential until its current task was fulfilled.
Until death was delivered to their quarry.
He’d heard that one of the other Masters had met their fate—that the angel was proving to be a far more competent adversary than originally believed.
The Bone Master recalled his meeting with the client who wished the angel Remy Chandler killed. There was much rage in that one, and when asked why the angel needed to die, the client simply explained that the angel had insulted him, causing him to lose face.
Remy Chandler’s death would be an attempt to reclaim this honor. And the amount of honor lost must have been great indeed, for this Master knew that others of his assassins’ clan had been hired by this same client. But it was no matter, for he knew that he would be the one to take the angel down.
The Bone Master had accepted this venture, not really caring why he was killing the angel, only that he and his weapon would be allowed to do what they had been born to do.
Memories of his youth, when his weapon was still a living and breathing thing, flashed through his mind. Even then he knew that their bond was something special, that there would be nothing to stop them from achieving a special place in the history of the Bone Masters.
He wanted to be the greatest of them all, as did his weapon. They would be legendary in the annals of their demon sect. Their number of kills would be in the multitudes, and they would remember each and every one, each death a step in achieving the greatness for which they had been born.
But the Bone Master was getting ahead of himself; there were still many kills in his future, and his journey would continue with this latest.
There was movement from the dwelling, and the Master quickly changed his position, weapon at the ready.
The female stepped out from behind the door, the four-legged pet on a leash, tail wagging excitedly as they headed out on another walk.
The Bone Master’s eyes were following the pair, when the animal suddenly stopped, turning his snout to the air and beginning to sniff. It growled and barked, trying to pull the female across the street toward the tree where the assassin waited, concealed.
The Bone Master tensed, his weapon vibrating with the potential to deliver death. He reached up to his mouth, gripped one of his pointed teeth, and with a vicious twist and pull, removed the ammunition. He did this, again and again, loading the weapon. Finally he slid the last tooth into the weapon, and feeling its acceptance, waited to see whether its use would be necessary.
The woman spoke harshly to the animal, yanking him back to the other side of the street and reining him in. They then continued down t
he street, the dog trying to turn back, until they rounded the corner and were gone.
The weapon’s disappointment buzzed in his mind, and he reassured it that the chance to inflict death would be awarded soon enough.
It was just a matter of time, and patience.
And to achieve the greatness that was to be their destiny, they would have to have plenty of both.
* * *
Remy moved farther away from the car so he could have some privacy.
“I don’t have a clue. Maybe he saw something in the tree?” Remy suggested into the phone. He was speaking to Linda, who was complaining about Marlowe’s bad behavior on their walk.
“Well, tell him that you’re going to bring him to the pound if he gives you any more trouble,” Remy told her jokingly. “And tell him that I told you to do it.”
Remy chuckled as he heard her do just that, and then heard the sound of Marlowe barking wildly in protest.
His eyes wandered around his surroundings, and he felt his momentary lightheartedness quickly dispelled by the grim pall that seemed to hang over the dilapidated factory structure.
Linda then told him that Marlowe was mad, laughing as she did this. And then came the inevitable question of when he was coming home. Remy wanted to be there with her and Marlowe right then, would have loved to say fuck it to the whole current situation, but he knew that he could do no such thing.
A timer was ticking away, and it was attached to something akin to an atomic bomb, only worse. At least an atomic bomb would be quick.
“I’m really not sure,” he told her, glancing over to the car, and at Malatesta, who was leaning against it, watching the building with an unwavering eye, waiting for something to happen.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”
Suddenly they weren’t alone. More cars approached, headlights blazing as they carefully made their way down the severely damaged stretch of road that would bring them to the factory.
Malatesta had turned, and was looking toward him. It must have been time.
“Listen, I have to go,” Remy told Linda.
She told him to be safe, and not to worry about them, that they were doing just fine.
He then joked about what might have been hiding in that tree. They had a good laugh, and she told him that his dog was likely insane.
“All right, I gotta go,” he said, not wanting to, but knowing that he must. His only consolation was that the quicker he figured out who was responsible for killing the general, the faster that he could get back to her.
They both ended the call with “I love you,” and Remy tucked those feelings away for when he could appreciate them. For love would be seriously out of place where he and Malatesta were going.
“Everything all right?” Malatesta asked, standing beside the car.
Remy opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and placed his phone in the glove compartment. He doubted that he would need it where they were going, and didn’t want to lose yet another phone.
They had parked in a deep patch of shadow, away from the fence that had been erected around the abandoned factory grounds.
A quick Google search back in Rhode Island had shown that Prometheus Arms in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had been one of the biggest producers of guns on the East Coast for at least twenty-five years before eventually shutting down in the early eighties.
The place had a history of safety violations that spanned most of its existence. The old place had seen a lot of death and pain in its day.
It was no wonder that it was the chosen location for the charnel house to appear.
“It seems that we are not the only ones to use this particular entrance,” Malatesta said.
They watched from the shadows as figures left their vehicles, walking toward the fence that surrounded the abandoned building.
“We might want to get ready,” Remy said, watching as the first of the individuals reached the padlocked, chained gate. Within moments, the rusted chain had fallen with a loose jingle to the ground, and the gate had swung wide to allow all of them access.
Malatesta had closed his eyes, and was mumbling something entirely alien sounding beneath his breath. Remy took notice of the fact that the flesh of his face had begun to tremble violently, so violently that the movement created a kind of blurry aura that began to spread from his neck, to his shoulders, and downward.
Within minutes the Vatican sorcerer had transformed himself into the angel, Aszrus.
“Impressive,” Remy said, walking around the sorcerer to see the entire package. “It would fool me.”
“Let’s just hope that it’s good enough to get us inside,” Malatesta answered, straightening his suit coat, and adjusting his tie.
“We’ll never know until we try,” Remy said, gesturing for the magick user to proceed.
The two of them walked toward the doors of Prometheus Arms, and into the arms of the unknown.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Prosper could barely recall what he had once been, and was the happier for it.
He vaguely recalled Heaven in faded fragments, visions that would come to him in tattered images when he had imbibed to excess.
But what followed Heaven were the memories that proved more distinct—the tortures of Tartarus, the prison where angels who had sided with the Morningstar were incarcerated, forced to relive their sins against God until deemed worthy of release. But once freed, Heaven was still denied those angels; instead they were forced to continue their penance on the world of God’s favorite pets, humanity.
Penance, Prosper thought with a grin as he walked into the howling winds and rain that tried to push him back. He doubted there was a single thing he’d done since arriving on Earth that could be considered penance.
He had found the world of man to be cruel and decadent, but he’d managed to build a life for himself far away from the fragmented memories of Heaven. Prosper had built his own paradise in the hundreds of years he’d been exiled, and gladly let the recollections of God’s kingdom slip away.
It was the vices that he learned to exploit, the twisted pleasures enjoyed not only by man, but the other supernatural beings that had found themselves upon the Earth. His places of forbidden pleasures—his dens of inequity—were the bane of his rivals. None could offer what he did, and the human, as well as the unearthly, sought out his establishments with vigor.
Fighting the wind-swept rain, he paused long enough to realize that he was being watched. He shielded his eyes against the stinging downpour and looked at the gray, concrete buildings around him. Prosper wanted to know which of them had chosen to skulk in the shadows, watching him, reveling in the idea that he had been summoned here now.
Eager to see him punished as he often punished them.
If he had his way they would all be dead, and the current situation that was causing him so much grief would never have transpired.
Prosper scowled as he gazed at the seemingly empty windows, hoping that they saw the displeasure upon his face.
He reached the building that housed his office, and found one of Simeon’s demon lackeys waiting for him in the entryway.
“Prosper,” Beleeze said with a courteous nod.
“He’s already here?” Prosper asked, moving toward his office door.
“Oh yes,” the demon replied. “He’s been waiting for quite some time.”
Damn it all, Prosper thought, managing to appear cool on the outside. He had been hoping to reach his office before Simeon arrived.
He knew the forever man would have one question after another and had wanted time to prepare.
Damn it all to Hell.
“Simeon,” Prosper said with a smile as he threw open the door. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I was in the middle of—”
“I’ve been waiting longer than I care to,” Simeon interrupted. He was sitting on a leather couch in the darkest part of the office.
“I’m sorry about that,” Prosper said. “There were some loo
se ends that needed cutting.”
He made his way to his desk, pulling out the high-backed leather chair. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked before sitting down. “Maybe a snack?”
“I should be snacking on your still-beating heart,” Simeon snapped, standing bolt upright, seemingly without bending his legs.
“Now, Simeon,” Prosper said, attempting to soothe the man. “There’s no need for that.”
“No need?” Simeon asked, slowly walking toward the desk. “One of your charges slips away and commits murder, shitting on plans that I’ve had in motion for years, and you don’t think I have reason to be upset?”
“Honestly?” Prosper asked. “No, I do not.”
Prosper didn’t even see him move. Suddenly he felt himself lifted from his seat and thrown viciously over the desk to the floor beyond. He lay on his back, stunned, with the grinning visage of Simeon looming above him.
“Do I look like someone who enjoys being fucked with?” the forever man asked, his eyes bulging so wide that they looked as though they might pop from his head.
“I meant no disrespect,” Prosper began, offering no attempt at retaliation. He was smarter than that.
“Too late,” Simeon said, stepping back and allowing him to stand.
“I didn’t want you to worry needlessly,” Prosper explained. “Yes, this is a bit of a glitch, but I’m dealing with it.”
Simeon’s back was to him now as the forever man stood in front of a window boarded up tight to keep the frequent wind and rain from coming inside. “You’re dealing with it,” Simeon repeated with a laugh. “If this is the best you can do I shudder to think of how bad things would be if you weren’t paying attention.”
Prosper bit his tongue, the desire to flaunt his achievements nearly overwhelming. Simeon stood quietly, perfectly rigid, the potential for violence exuding from him in waves.
“Has news of the murder gotten out?” Simeon finally asked.
“No,” Prosper said, climbing swiftly to his feet. “From what I understand it’s still pretty much contained.”
He made his way around to his desk and pulled open a side drawer. There was a good bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses there.
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