Conspiracy of Angels

by Michelle Belanger

  He held the paper out to me, folded to an inner page. I took it and looked. My own face stared back at me—and it wasn’t a police sketch. Standing next to me was a woman, and she looked way better than I did in a suit. The caption read, “Two Missing. Former CWRU Professor Zachary Westland and Dr. Lailah Ganjavi.”

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s the museum incident you came into the club shouting about—not yesterday. The last time—Tuesday. The article was buried in a back section of the Plain Dealer.” He scowled. “There’s no way we could have known. I swear to you. There were no reports on this until today.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Monday. Just as you claimed.”

  Lailah’s face stared out from the photo, beautiful and accusing.

  “This makes no damned sense,” I said, slamming the newspaper onto the desk. “This says I went missing that night, along with Lailah. We both know that’s not true. And there’s nothing about the Rockefeller Park shooting. How can I be a missing person and wanted for murder?”

  Remy’s brows ticked a notch. “Are you talking about the police bulletin you mentioned at Heaven last night? You didn’t say it was for murder.”

  I faltered, uncertain how much I should share. Fuck it, I thought. Remy’s eyes tracked my face, as if reading the thoughts as they played out. He shifted slightly at the door, leaning once more against the jamb.

  “I left messages for Lailah at my apartment,” I admitted. “One about the shooting. I didn’t say murder, exactly, but I sounded guilty as hell. Is that what I do? Shoot people that get in my way?”

  “Not every time,” Remy responded. His tone was light-hearted. I found no humor in it.

  Venting a wordless growl of frustration, I smacked the desk. The crack of my palm against the polished wood echoed through the room.

  “Whatever you did, the incident at Rockefeller is easily handled,” Remy soothed. “I’m surprised the sketch made it as far as the television. Your people are getting sloppy.”

  “My people?” I opened my mouth to launch an argument, then remembered the rest of the message on the answering machine. I’d mentioned someone named Bobby, exactly as if I’d expected him to run damage control on the shooting. I thought uneasily about Lil’s shocked expression when I’d objected to her proposed mercy killing of the battered couple in the alley. What kind of guy was I?

  “Read the article,” Remy suggested gently. “Perhaps it will jog your stubborn memory.” With exaggerated nonchalance, he fussed with his hat—it was, indeed, a fedora.

  With an irritable huff, I reclaimed the paper.

  “Two guards dead, another in the hospital,” I murmured unhappily.

  “Head trauma,” Remy confirmed. “I made some inquiries. He’s not waking up any time soon. Otherwise I’d suggest that we go question him.” He paused, and then added, “This woman, Dr. Lailah Ganjavi. Odd that you’ve never mentioned her. It’s clear from the article she was your colleague at the museum. Is she why you quit Case to work with the art recovery agency?”

  I thought back to the things at my apartment—the photos, the toothbrush, the bra.

  “I think we were dating,” I said.

  Remiel made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Even stranger, then, that you said nothing about her when you barged into the club on Tuesday. The only thing you concerned yourself with at the time were the demon jars you accused our tribe of stealing.”

  “Demon jars?” I choked.

  “Oh, come on, it’s right there—second paragraph from the end.”

  I skipped ahead, frowning. “According to this, they were forgeries—early 1800s,” I replied. “Why would anyone steal bogus artifacts?”

  “You know better, Anarch,” Remy said pointedly, and he leaned in. “You were keeping demon jars at the museum. Why didn’t you share that information before the break-in?”

  “I don’t remember, and you know it,” I said. He gave me a significant look, like there was more I should be saying. “Come on, Remy,” I continued. “Demon jars? Don’t tell me they had real demons in them. Unless you mean the cacodaimons…”

  Remy looked disappointed. Then the stern line of his brow softened.

  “No, when you came to see Saliriel on Tuesday, you insisted that the cacodaimons had been sent into the museum. Two of them in fact, and you claimed they were working with the Nephilim who also broke in.” He sniffed. “It’s an impossible allegiance. That’s why we were so… disinclined to believe you.”

  “What are you saying?” I countered. “That no Nephilim would ever attempt a museum heist?”

  Remiel bristled. “No, that we would never work with the cacodaimons.”

  We locked eyes again. I was the first to look away—this was getting us nowhere. I read back through the article, but it didn’t have much else to offer.

  “Cacodaimons, forged demon jars, and thieves dumb enough to steal them,” I said. “Something’s not adding up. And why would they take Lai… Dr. Ganjavi, and leave me?” I rubbed my eyes, grumbling, “Dammit. Why can’t I remember?”

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” Remy prompted. “You’d do better if you took care of a few basic needs.”

  “That again?” The idea repulsed me.

  But Remy wasn’t giving up. “Get dressed. There’s a great little Italian place down the street,” he said. “We’ll catch dinner, and I’ll walk you through it. Just like old times.”

  I stared at him without moving. “You know I’ve got the police after me—right?”

  He sighed with the air of a martyr. “If you’re so bent out of shape over it, I can have my people handle it. I could call Roarke right now.”

  He reached for his cell phone, pausing with his thumb over the call button. I watched him warily. I had no idea what such a favor might cost me.

  “No,” I said.

  Remy piqued a brow but after a moment, he tucked the phone back into his suit. With a little sniff, he said, “Well. Tell me if you change your mind—but you shouldn’t have to worry at the restaurant,” he assured, plopping his fedora atop his head. “If the local Dons can eat there, I’m certain you will pass unremarked.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, then clapped it shut again.

  Remiel knew the local Mafiosos.

  Why the hell would that surprise me?

  “For the record, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Have you got a better one?” Remy inquired. “What are you accomplishing here, playing computer games?”

  I turned back to the computer. Crash Protect had gone into some kind of inactive mode, leaving a screen that looked suspiciously like Plants vs. Zombies.

  “Hunh,” I grunted as a manically grinning daisy swallowed a shambling green monster. “What the hell—I’m kind of hungry anyway. Give me just a sec,” I said, then I purged the browser history.

  It isn’t paranoia if they’re really out to get you, right?

  26

  It was almost five thirty on a Friday, so the restaurant was thronging with people, and from Remy’s expression, this was just what he wanted. As we wove our way to the hostess stand, he slipped off his John Lennon-style sunglasses, stowing them in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Then he greeted the hostess with a winning smile that somehow managed to hide his unnaturally pointed canines. I was guessing that he practiced.

  “The usual table open, Maria?” he asked, nodding toward a back corner of the restaurant.

  The petite brunette practically swooned as he held her in his cerulean gaze. I did my best not to roll my eyes while he flirted effortlessly.

  “Of course, Mr. Broussard,” she tittered with a little bob of her head. “Right this way.” Maria scooped up two menus and conveyed us briskly to a cozy back table set up for two. There was a crowd of people in the lobby, still clutching their pagers, and they glared at us as we passed.

  Remy took a seat, gesturing for me to do the same. Maria laid out our menus, then hovered blu
shing near my brother. He dismissed her with such courtesy, she seemed flattered to be walking away.

  “I still think this is a bad idea,” I grumbled. “Everyone’s staring.”

  “Relax,” he responded, feigning interest in the menu. “They’re only staring because you’re uncomfortable. Besides, I know the owner—or at least, his grandfather. This is a safe place. People know to respect certain rules.” With practiced nonchalance, he added, “You should take advantage of the crowd in here.”

  I looked around, feeling squirmingly uncomfortable. Not to mention under-dressed. Remy looked right at home in his sleek black suit. Me in jeans and a biker jacket, not so much.

  “Yeah, about that…” I hedged. “I’m not really sure how I feel about this whole ‘feeding’ thing. It seems really… awkward, and kind of wrong.”

  Remy sighed wearily, eyes gliding among the various couples and families. “It’s like you’re fifteen all over again,” he murmured.

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I glanced over the menu, trying not to go into sticker shock at the prices. Most of these dinners cost more than my boots—the good ones.

  Holy shit.

  Wistfully, he continued. “It does bring back some pleasant memories, though. I rather miss the days when you called me Uncle Remy. Things were so much less complicated then—at least between the two of us,” he amended.

  “Uncle Remy?” I repeated incredulously. “I thought you were my brother.”

  “So I am,” he said, and he chuckled. “But we’ve had an arrangement, you and I, at least these past few times, and I always start out older than you.”

  “Arrangement?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  He nodded, “Ever since that business in Providence. What was it, a hundred and fifty years ago? Maybe a hundred and sixty,” he murmured with an elegant wave of a hand. “So hard to keep track.”

  “Hey,” I objected. “Johnny Amnesia here, remember? You’ve got to use small words, and stop talking about ancient history like it happened yesterday. I’m out of the loop.”

  He pressed his pale lips together in a pensive expression that wasn’t quite a frown.

  “All right,” he agreed, “but I wish we knew what happened to you, so we could remedy it. Memory is rather… integral… to your sense of self.” After a pause he added, “If you don’t mind my saying so, it’s a little difficult seeing you like this. At the club, I almost didn’t believe it. To tell the truth, I don’t know how you’re managing.”

  That stopped me for a minute.

  I tried to tell myself that the sudden stinging at the backs of my eyes was just the perfume rolling off of an octogenarian two tables over. I wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t have time for that shit. Taking a deep breath, I answered as firmly as I could manage.

  “I don’t need your pity, Remy. I need answers. So start with this arrangement thing. You said the ‘past few times.’ I think I’m beginning to see what you mean, but spell it out, OK?”

  A waitress came over to bring us water and a basket of warm dinner rolls. She could have been Maria’s older sister, and given the family-owned vibe of the swanky little bistro, she probably was. Remy dazzled her with his carefully revealed smile, murmuring something about needing more time with the menu. Then he waited till she was well out of earshot.

  “We’re all immortal,” he said succinctly, making a point of meeting my eyes. “Surely you’ve figured that out by now.” He waited for me to nod, then went on. “But each of us—each of the tribes, I should say—has a different method to cleave our immortal souls to vessels of flesh. Given the ties to the blood, mine’s not appropriate to polite dinner conversation.” He flashed me an almost apologetic grin, this time showing enough teeth to expose his pointy canines, albeit briefly.

  “Got the memo,” I muttered.

  “Well, you die and get born the old-fashioned way. Believe me, I find that thoroughly unsettling. Infancy? Diapers?” He shuddered dramatically.

  I tried not to glare as I waited for him to go on.

  “Well, while the Nephilim stay together in our proper ranks and order, the Anakim are scattered. They have been for a while now. There’s no structure, no support for you as you start over, and begin remembering.” His expression spoke of disapproval. “It doesn’t all come right away to you, either. You need guidance.”

  There was a huge gulf between “scattered” and “missing,” but this wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  “So you’re my Ben Kenobi,” I supplied.

  His brow furrowed. “Is that from the movie with the starships, and the pointy-eared fellow?”

  I groaned.

  “You made me watch it with you,” he said helpfully. “Claimed it would curb some of my anachronisms, through immersion in popular culture.”

  “Clearly it didn’t work,” I muttered. “Moving right along…”

  “Right,” he said, yet a slight crinkling of the laugh lines around his eyes suggested that he might have been making fun of himself. “There’s not much to explain beyond that, really. Each time around, I help to confirm your memories, and help you get a handle on the things you can do.”

  “Like stepping through to the Shadowside?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And one of the most important lessons involves how to take the power that you need.” He glanced again at the dinner crowd. “In our own ways, we all rely on humanity.”

  I frowned at this, still unwilling to tackle that issue.

  “Is there anything you get out of this arrangement of ours? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who helps someone out of the goodness of his heart.”

  Remy crinkled the edges of his menu, regarding me icily.

  “Don’t presume to judge what is good in me, brother,” he responded with a quiet fury.

  Well that touched a nerve, I thought, then I redirected my attention to my own menu. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t mean it that way.”

  He gave a little exhalation that wasn’t quite a sigh.

  “I’ll believe you,” he murmured, “for the moment—but if you must know, I made a vow to you about a century and a half ago. You’ve not released me from it yet.”

  I looked back up, studying his bloodless features. “You say that like maybe I should’ve done so by now,” I observed cautiously.

  It was his turn to shift awkwardly in his seat. In the tense silence that followed, something else occurred to me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you even find me? I mean, don’t I end up some place different each time? And I can’t possibly look the same.”

  Remy loosed a nervous chuckle, clearly relieved at the change of topic.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how much influence the spirit has over the flesh. Certain traits always come through. However,” he added, “I never need to look for you. Without fail, once you reach your teenage years, you find me. It probably helps that I’ve lived here in Cleveland since 1883. Or was it ’82?” His gaze grew distant as he debated with himself.

  I fought to picture my fifteen-year-old self seeking out a vampire as a sensei. Pat Morita with fangs. What kind of excuse had I cooked up to explain that to my parents?

  “This is too fucking weird,” I said, rubbing my temples.

  “I wish you would watch your language in public.” He wasn’t joking. “Now pick something out on the menu. We’re going to be sitting here for a while.”

  He motioned for the waitress.

  27

  It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, though I still wasn’t convinced that it was right.

  Remy guided me into opening my senses—unclenching that fist in my mind. Control was tricky at first. If I opened things too much, it felt like everyone was shouting, just like that first time I’d walked into the Pub n’ Sub. It was easy to get overwhelmed by the resulting barrage.

  If I held my senses open just enough, though, I could feel everyone around
me—not their thoughts, exactly, but the constant, thrumming buzz of their existence. Power came off of every living human, whether they were aware of it or not, and before long I could see it drifting in subtle currents on the air, like a mist rising from hot pavement after a cool rain.

  When I looked deeper, the currents of power were punctuated with color, and sometimes texture—all of which seemed tied to emotion. The octogenarian two tables over was having a birthday celebration with what looked like three generations of her family gathered round. Bright yellows and greens leapt out among them in flashes. The lady herself gave off waves of contented warm colors—muted shades of orange, mostly. I couldn’t be sure if there was a set meaning for each of the colors, or if the shades were influenced by my own expectations.

  Deciding it was too complicated a topic to ponder just then, I let myself relax into the process. The rigatoni I’d ordered sat largely untouched.

  Guided by Remy, I pulled wisps of the shimmering stuff into myself. At first it took an effort of will, but before long it was just like breathing. I could feel it warming me all the way down to the tips of my wings. Actually, that was a downside—it was nearly impossible to concentrate on pulling power, while simultaneously maintaining my cowl.

  On the upside, I felt worlds better—clear-headed, focused, and strong. Even better, despite my initial trepidations, it didn’t seem to be hurting anyone. Remy watched me closely as he cut tiny forkfuls of his veal picatta, a curiously intense expression making his eyes glitter.

  “Be careful not to focus too much on any one person,” he murmured, gesturing discreetly with his fork, pointing in the direction of a well-dressed older man who seemed to be on a date with a woman nearly half his age.

  I felt a hint of panic.

  The steely-haired gent’s eyes were fixed on me, and he wore an expression of bewildered offense.

  “They might not know exactly what they’re feeling, but some of them will notice you, regardless,” Remy explained. “Their responses can be… unpredictable.”

  There was an awkward moment where the stranger and I accidentally locked eyes. He met my gaze with an open challenge, and I looked away as quickly as possible—but not before I got a detailed impression of exactly how passionate he felt about the young lady.