“Will you be ready, child?” Armaros had asked her.
And Angelina had answered yes, meaning it with all her heart and soul.
It was no wonder that she didn’t want to sleep. What if God and the angels came again? What if they found her asleep and decided to pick some other little girl?
She’d voiced these concerns to Armaros and the other angels as they’d prepared to leave her. They had laughed at her, and it had sounded like church bells on Sunday morning. Then Armaros had told her that no one else could do what she had been created for.
That she was so very special.
Angelina smiled as she remembered the angel’s words.
“Did you hear that, Dolly?” she asked the baby doll that was her favorite toy and confidant. “They said I was special.”
And she hugged her doll to her chest, secure in the idea that no one could replace her-the angels had confirmed what her favorite Uncle Algernon had always told her.
No one else could do what she was created for.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Francis had no desire to be back in Louisiana so soon after laying his wife to rest.
His wife.
The words still felt wrong in his mind, but so much had been wrong there already. He figured he should be grateful for remembering Eliza Swan at all.
The former Guardian had decided that it might be wise to follow Angus Heath. He’d watched from the shadows as the fat sorcerer let himself into his New Orleans home, and was considering making a call to Remy when anguished cries from somewhere inside cut through the silence of the Louisiana night.
Francis studied the old home for a moment, then closed his eyes and imagined what it would look like on the inside. It was a talent that he’d once put to much use while serving the angelic Thrones, but it was a muscle that he’d allowed to wither-until now, in his service to the Morningstar.
The house had three stories, so he imagined a passage opening before him that would place him at the foot of the stairs on the second floor. The air rippled and the existing reality grew thinner, weaker, until Francis tore it apart and stepped through to the darkened house.
The passage closed with a whoosh of air behind him. He drew his pistol, listening for any sound that would tell him where he needed to go.
Then, as if in answer to a prayer- fat chance of that — another, weaker cry echoed from upstairs. Francis took the steps, two at a time, bounding onto the third-floor landing. He paused again, the few angelic senses he had left since the fall searching for clues.
There.
There was no mistaking the smell of death and magick wafting out from the behind the wooden door to his left. It was like dirty socks and gasoline, only not as pleasant.
Francis charged straight for the door, putting all his weight into it as he slammed his shoulder against the wood. He could feel the resistance as he struck, then bounced back into the hall- magick.
He aimed the Pitiless pistol and fired at the lock. Bullets made from the divine energies of the Morningstar tore into the enchanted wood, obliterating the magick, and a solid kick gave him access to the room. Francis stormed inside, eyes darting from left to right, searching for Angus.
He didn’t have to look far at all.
Angus was standing in the center of the room. A yellow-haired man with dark, bottomless eyes stood before him, holding Angus’ fat face his hands.
“Drop him,” Francis cried out, firing a single shot from the Pitiless pistol, striking the blond man in the shoulder. The attacker stumbled back, a look of shock on his face, as Angus slumped to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man snarled.
But before Francis could even come back with a pithy retort, the man unleashed a blast of magickal force that screamed like a banshee as it traversed the room toward him. Francis dove from the path of the wailing supernatural energy, tripping over a naked leg sticking out from beneath a pile of dead bodies. Falling atop the fleshy mound, he turned to see the power arcing to the left, coming around in search of him.
Like a heat-seeking missile, he thought, scrambling to his feet.
The magickal spell was louder now as it zeroed in on him. He didn’t see much of a chance of outrunning it. Instead he reached down and hauled up the naked body of a woman, tossing it into the path of the oncoming magickal force. The body exploded, and the spell dissipated as Francis again withdrew his weapon to fire on Angus’ attacker.
The offending sorcerer was quick, however, erecting magickal shields that absorbed the impact of the bullets, sending the kinetic force of the shots back toward Francis. The floor and wall around him were chewed into splinters as he ducked for cover behind a threadbare chaise longue.
The shriek of another magickal spell filled the air, and Francis was on the move again, crawling across the floor just as the longue that he had been hiding behind went up in flames.
Scrambling to his feet, he saw that Angus was staring at him through hooded eyes.
“A little help here?” he suggested, firing his weapon on the off chance that he might hit his target.
“I doubt you’ll be receiving much help from him,” the sorcerer said with a snarl, as a magickal construct of pure energy resembling an enormous hand snatched Francis up from the floor, lifting him into the air.
The sorcerer then lifted his own hand, clenching it into a trembling fist. The magickal fist holding Francis squeezed, as well, and he felt the air forced from his lungs. Hungry darkness began dancing on the periphery of his fleeing consciousness.
“So, who might you be?” the sorcerer asked, striding closer as the Guardian fought to breathe.
“That…would…be telling…Deacon,” Francis grunted as the giant hand continued to squeeze.
The sorcerer seemed startled. “Deacon? You have me confused with someone I killed a very long time ago,” he said.
The sorcerer was looking up at him now, studying Francis’ gasping face as the grip intensified. Slowly the man raised a hand toward him, and that was when Francis saw what looked like tiny mouths on the flesh of his exposed palm, opening and closing hungrily.
Who the fuck is this guy?
Francis tried to avoid the sorcerer’s approaching hand, but it was soon clamped on his face, the eager mouths attaching themselves to his flesh.
The mouths started to feed, suckling on Francis’ life force.
The fallen angel moaned aloud, thrashing in the grip of the giant hand of magick.
“Oh, my,” the sorcerer said as the life energies of the angel flowed into him.
Francis’ question of the powerful magick user’s identity was suddenly answered with a scream. “Stearns!”
Francis forced his eyes open to see Angus swaying on weakened legs, and a large ball of flesh hurtling toward the sorcerer standing below him. He fell to the floor as Stearns let go of him, the magickal hand that had held him high dissipating in a sizzling flash.
Stearns turned to defend himself and was struck squarely in the chest by the ball of dead. He was hurled backward and pinned to the wall on the other side of the room.
Getting quickly to his feet, Francis ran toward Angus. “We’re getting out of here,” he told him, already beginning the process of weakening a space between here and somewhere else.
There was a deafening clap of thunder, and a gory rain of torn flesh and body parts fell down on them.
“If we’re leaving, it might be a good idea to do it now,” Angus suggested, eyes widening with terror as Stearns headed toward them, hands crackling with unbridled power, some of which had come from Francis himself.
“Give me a fucking second, will you?” Francis said, realizing that he was much weaker than he thought.
He had to think quickly, and the first place that popped into his mind appeared before them through the gossamer curtain separating one location from the next.
“Jump,” Francis said, grabbing Angus by a flabby arm and pushing him through the curtain.
Francis glanced over his shoulder to see Stearns raising his hands to unleash another blast of magickal force. But this time, Francis was faster. He flipped the sorcerer the bird, then fell backward through the curtain, firing the Pitiless pistol to cover their escape.
The doorway from one place slammed closed as he tumbled through to the next.
Stearns could still taste the interloper’s essence coursing through his body.
And it filled him with rage and concern.
The magickal force flowed from his splayed hand, passing harmlessly through where the passage had been to strike at the wall behind it, blasting away ancient plaster and wooden slats.
Stearns gazed down at his hand. The mouths were still there, yearning for another taste of their last prey.
What he was distressed the sorcerer. The piquancy of Angus’ rescuer was still fresh within him. He could taste a trace of divinity but the flavor was muted, tainted.
Even still, there was no mistaking what he was.
Stearns spun on his heel, walking through expanding puddles of gore as he left the room, wondering if his partners were aware of this wrinkle. The idea of his plans being disturbed was like a kernel of sand stuck in his eye: merely a bother, but irritating nonetheless.
Almost as annoying as being mistaken for Konrad Deacon. Nearly seventy years dead, and still his old adversary haunted him. The thought of Heath believing that it was Deacon who was stalking the cabal forced the hint of a smile to appear at the corner of Algernon’s mouth, but it was quickly gone as he recalled the origin of the one who had attacked him.
He threw open the door to Heath’s home, descending the steps to the limousine now waiting at the curb. He did not speak to Aubrey as he got in; his living-dead driver already knew that a private flight awaited them at the airport.
Stearns remained lost in his thoughts throughout the entire flight to Boston and the short drive from Logan International Airport to Back Bay. Carefully, he reviewed every detail of the plan he had formulated over the years, a plan that had not been fully realized until he had met his new business associates.
They had made his plans a reality with their knowledge of arcane magicks…magicks that they had, in fact, been responsible for introducing to humanity so very long ago.
Finally, the limousine pulled into the underground garage of the Hermes Building, Boston’s newest, tallest skyscraper and the jewel in Stearns’ vast telecommunications network. The building remained primarily empty, except for some rented office space, his own living quarters and the living spaces he’d allowed for his associates, and a state-of-the-art broadcasting studio that was the key to his plan.
The car stopped in front of the doors to a private elevator, and the ever-faithful Aubrey opened the door for him. Stearns pulled a key card from his coat pocket as he exited the limousine and slid it into the illuminated slot to the right of the stainless steel elevator door.
The door slid open with a cheerful ping, and Stearns stepped inside, pushing the button that would take him to his partners’ floor. He knew they would be awake in spite of the early-morning hour, standing, as they always did, perfectly still in a row in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a spectacular view of Boston.
He also knew that they were seeing far more than just the city. They were seeing beyond it.
Perhaps to Heaven itself.
The doors slid open and he stepped out. The floor had never been completed even though he had told them he would do so. Bare walls, exposed wiring, and ceiling beams enclosed the spacious area. They had refused anything else.
He found them exactly as he knew he would, dressed in their fine, dark suits, watching over the city on the precipice of waking.
“We might have a problem,” Stearns stated, without preamble.
The leader slowly turned, having some difficulty pulling his gaze from the view, but finally focusing on Stearns.
“Problem?”
“I was attacked tonight…by one of your kind.” Stearns reached up to his left shoulder, rubbing at the hole in his jacket and the healing wound beneath. It itched.
“One of my kind?” the leader asked.
“An angel,” Stearns replied. The sorcerer sifted through some of the trace memories he’d acquired while feeding on the being. “His name was Francis…or Fraciel… I’m getting both names, and much more.”
“Fraciel.” The leader slowly nodded.
“I believe he could be dangerous,” Stearns said, watching as the angel turned his gaze back to the view beyond the windows. “Dangerous to my… our plans.”
The angel did not respond.
“Did you hear me, Armaros?” Stearns asked, knowing full well that the leader of the Grigori host had. There wasn’t much they didn’t hear.
“I heard you,” Armaros said without turning. “Now leave us… We have much to contemplate.”
The sorcerer was about to argue, but who was he to argue with an angel of Heaven?
Especially one who was going to help him feed upon the life force of millions.
Marlowe missed his Remy.
He zigzagged through the grass of Boston Common, taking in all the scents that had found their way there since the last time he’d visited.
“Don’t go too far, Marlowe,” Linda called after him.
He looked up, making sure she was safe before going back to work sorting out all the amazing smells.
Remy had told him to watch over the female, and that was exactly what he had been doing since Remy left. Marlowe was a good dog, and he would do anything his master-his Remy-asked of him.
And besides, he loved this female. She was quite nice and let him sleep on her pillow, and gave him treats every time he asked-and even sometimes when he didn’t.
The smell of squirrel urine was particularly pungent in one area, and the Labrador buried his nose in the spot, sniffing until he was satisfied that he could find that particular squirrel if he had to. He moved on to a much more pleasant scent-crackers left from a family picnic. He could smell the family members, each of them with their own distinct aromas: a female, a male, and a young female. The girl’s smell was all over the crackers that he gobbled up with ravenous abandon.
“You better not be eating garbage,” Linda warned, and Marlowe ate faster so she would have nothing to take away from him.
After all, he had worked hard to find these crackers.
Linda was getting closer. He could hear the jangle of the metal clip on the leash as she swung it in her hand. He wolfed down the last cracker and quickly darted away.
He wasn’t ready to leave.
There had been many people on the grass of the Common since the last time his Remy had brought him here; so many different smells stamped into the ground by the soles of their shoes.
And then he caught it-a whiff of something that made him stop at once.
It was a special smell. It was how his Remy smelled, and Francis, his friend.
An angel smell.
Marlowe looked up, tail wagging, already moving toward the familiar scent, until he saw the man standing there very still. Watching him with unblinking eyes.
The dog froze, head tilted back slightly as he sniffed the air. He did not know this one…this angel.
The angel stepped closer, eyes locked on his.
Marlowe began to growl, low and menacing. He quickly looked over his shoulder to see where the female was. She was a ways back, talking on her phone, swinging his leash to and fro.
Baring his fangs, Marlowe warned the unknown angel that smelled of sweat and desperation not to come any closer.
“You are his?” the angel asked in a tongue that the dog could understand. “You belong to the one called Remy Chandler?”
“Back!” Marlowe barked, charging ahead threateningly to drive the angel away.
The angel took two steps backward, holding out his hands to show that he meant no harm. “Answer me, animal,” he commanded. “Does Remy Chandler own you?”
“Yes,” Marlowe barked.
The angel appeared to grow excited, eyes darting around the park.
“Where is he? Show me… It’s very important that I speak with him, or…”
“Not here,” Marlowe answered with a series of barks.
“Then where?” the angel asked. “Where is he? There isn’t time to…”
Marlowe saw the angel’s eyes suddenly look above his head, and the Lab turned to see the female, Linda, approaching.
“Marlowe?” she questioned, hurrying along. “What are you doing?”
He ignored her, locking his eyes again on the angel, making sure that he did not make a move toward the female.
He felt her hands suddenly on the chain about his thick neck and heard the sharp click as Linda attached the leash to it.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized to the angel. “He’s never done anything like this before.” She began to pull the dog away as Marlowe struggled to keep his eyes on the angel.
“Do you know him?” the angel called out.
Linda stopped, turning around. “Excuse me?”
“Do you know him?” he asked again.
“Do I know who?”
“Remy Chandler,” the angel said.
Marlowe began to bark wildly as the angel reached into the pocket of his clothing.
“Marlowe, no!” Linda yelled, forcing Marlowe to sit beside her. “Yes,” she said to the angel. “I’m his girlfriend.”
The angel had removed a pen and a piece of scrap paper from the pocket and quickly wrote something down. He inched closer to the female, and Marlowe growled again.
“When next you see him, and I pray that it is soon, please give him this.” The angel handed her the scrap of paper. “Tell him that I must speak to him about a matter of grave importance.”
The female took the paper and looked at it.
“He’ll know what this is?” she asked. “What’s your name? Just in case he doesn’t-”
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