Of course, that’s when Jason decided to poke his head out and say hi. His gaze took in my split lip and the shiner I was sure blossomed between my eyes, then moved to Claude and Nick, grouped behind me like bodyguards. I don’t think he saw the gun, as Nick had it pressed into my back, but he suddenly drew back into the shadow of his doorway, looking a little stunned.
Surely, he’d guessed something was up. If my face wasn’t enough, I rarely have men up to my place, and never two at a time. I needed help, but if he confronted Claude or Nick directly, he’d be shot. He looked at me uncertainly, and I stared back hard, willing him to call the cops, not try to be a hero himself.
“What’re you up to?” he asked at last, still keeping back, as though hoping no one else would notice him.
“Nothing.” I slowed, but Nick wasn’t having any, and pushed the gun harder into my spine, scowling at Jason.
For some reason, neither Jason nor the gun bothered Claude. He smiled casually at Jason and walked alongside Nick, neither helping nor hindering his quest to kidnap us.
We were at the top of the stairs—I had to do something. Desperately I twisted around. “Jason! Thanks again—for dropping that package off at the shop.”
His eyebrows rose, and I’m sure Claude knew what I was up to. But whatever his plan, he clearly thought he had it in the bag. Nick ignored my outburst, using his whole body to herd me onto the stairs.
“No problem,” Jason called as we disappeared into the stairwell. I didn’t know if he got that I wanted him to call the cops, but surely he knew I’d tried to tell him something.
Now that I had two badasses, instead of one, dragging me all over Marseille, there was no way we’d fit in the Peapod. In theory, it’s a four-seater, but in reality, the only person who fits in the back is Geordi, and at seven, even he’s getting too big. Luckily, Nick had a decent-sized BMW. Not as nice as the Maybach, but big enough for Claude to sit in the back while Nick drove one-handed, training the gun on me in the passenger seat. Mr. Macho.
Of course he’d popped for the leather interior. Besides not eating meat, I also don’t wear animals, or support making them into furniture. Nick’s coat was bad enough, but at least I wasn’t forced to touch it. Luckily, the trip was short, and I didn’t get too nauseous. Unluckily, no flics with lights flashing and sirens blaring magically appeared along the route, so either Jason didn’t get the message, or the cops didn’t believe him.
Which left me with…nothing.
I got out of Nick’s car, retrieving the rock from the floor, and Nick and Claude followed me into the shop. Jacques looked up when he heard the bell, his impassive black gaze immediately going to the canvas bundle clutched in my hands. As near as I could tell, the two drivers were in the exact same positions as when we’d left thirty minutes ago, but Lily and Geordi had moved, now huddling against the front of the counter, quiet if not calm. Relief washed over Lily’s face when she saw me, and Geordi sat up straighter, trying to be brave.
My heart broke to see them. Surely the Rousseaux could let us go—I hadn’t witnessed anything illegal and wouldn’t call the police if I had. But my limited knowledge of “evil” was that it annihilated first and asked questions, well, never.
“We found it,” Claude announced. “And something else.”
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Nick growled, hot on Claude’s heels.
Apparently, he was stupider than I thought. He walked right into the shop, with no idea what the situation was, gun out, thinking he’d grab Lily and Geordi and go. Lily had other ideas. She took one look at him, screamed louder than the rock had, then grabbed Geordi and dove behind the counter.
Nick roared and dove after them as they scrambled toward the back of the store. Neither the Rousseaux nor their thugs seemed disturbed by any of this. Jacques walked to me and gently removed my burden. He shook the covering loose, careful not to touch the rock’s surface with his thin, elegant fingers, then exhaled sharply.
For my part, I felt a strange regret—an emptiness that the rock was no longer mine. I thought I heard it give a faint wail, as though it missed me.
Lily and Geordi rounded the counter, Nick close behind, and without looking up, Jacques murmured to no one in particular, “Tuez-les.”
Kill them.
The truck driver aimed and fired at Nick’s head, killing him instantly, his body dropping to the floor. Lily screamed and hid Geordi’s face, and I ran to them, shouting, “Go—out the back! Now!”
I pushed and shoved, herding them forward, knowing the driver must be taking aim again. If I could get them out the door, maybe they’d be safe. Lily wrenched the knob open—improbably, Jason was on the other side.
“Take him!” she shrieked, shoving a frantic Geordi into his arms.
Jason took one look at us and scooped Geordi up, then hauled ass down the alley and around the corner. Lily was out the door, me right behind, and still no other shots were fired.
We started to run, and I realized why we weren’t shot inside. There, it was crowded and dark. Out here, even in the waning light, we were sitting—or running—ducks.
We’d made it about halfway up the block when I finally heard the gun’s silencer go off. A bullet whizzed past my cheek and hit Lily’s leg. She started to fall, and another went into the back of her head. I screamed and then something hit my own back, between my shoulder blades.
I’d like to tell you what I felt or saw or thought in that instant, but I don’t remember much. I don’t think there was any pain, but I did know I was shot. I might even have seen the bullet exiting through my chest, but I could be imagining that part.
All I know is suddenly my legs didn’t work. They felt heavy and rubbery, and no matter how I focused, I couldn’t control them. My arms were next, then my vision dimmed. Then all thought started to drain away like liquid from a broken vessel. I crumpled to the ground but didn’t feel the impact. I lay there a moment, maybe two, while my heart pumped blood through arteries that could no longer contain it.
And then…
I died.
Chapter Four
“Call no man happy’til he is dead.”
~Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 458 BCE
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. I use that term because now I know it applies to Death as much as Life. Apparently, you can be dead and still conscious. But I wasn’t for a while, and when I came to, I was seriously disoriented.
For one thing, everything was white. Bright white. So that part’s true, at least. Except it wasn’t a tunnel. It was a square room. Floor, ceiling, walls, all white. So white, it hurt to look at, and I had to shut my eyes again.
Plus, my head throbbed with a nauseous, pounding ache made worse by a sweet fragrance in the air, a floral scent I couldn’t place. It wasn’t exactly heavy or unpleasant, but in my current state, anything stronger than plain air cloyed my nostrils and made me gag.
I thought when you died, physical suffering stopped.
Guess not.
I pushed up onto my knees, then wished I hadn’t. Bitter, hot bile burned up my throat, my head swam, and my limbs wobbled, and I dropped back onto my stomach, forehead on the floor. My mouth was so parched, I could barely force the bile down, and I curled into myself, burying my head in my arms, trying to shut out the buzzing in my ears.
Eventually it receded, and I became aware I wasn’t alone. Voices murmured nearby, one deep, one higher, a man and a woman. Slowly I lifted my head, blinking hard against the searing brightness. I forced one lid to stay open, and when that eye quit burning, tried the other.
Two forms stood a few feet away, facing each other. The first was clearly male, and larger than the second—not just taller, but broader, built like a souped-up American wrestler.
Or, based on his costume, an ancient warrior. He wore a gray metal chest plate, dull and dinged-up from use, extending around his back and leaving his enormous arms bare. Underneath was a sleeveless tunic that might have been white once, but now was only marginally les
s gray than his armor. It ended midway down his tree-trunk thighs, above brown leather sandals whose straps snaked up around his hard calves. A heavy leather belt completed the ensemble, sporting a massive sword and various other nasty-and-sharp metal objects. His mass of curly brown hair hung loose down his back, crowned by a thin metal band at his forehead. Except for his thick beard, the whole effect was vaguely Roman, but somehow, I knew it was far older.
Despite his violent getup, he spoke in a low, soothing voice to the other figure, a woman with blonde hair, wearing a white blouse and jeans.
Lily.
Memory flooded back, and I sat up, ignoring the pain in my head, like a shovel pounding the back of my skull. Lily was dead—shot right in front of me. I was dead. I knew that, but seeing her here made it much more real. On the heels of that realization came another.
Geordi.
If Lily and I were dead, the Dioguardis would get him. With Nick gone, Geordi was now the only son of the deceased only son. Without him, the Dioguardis would die out and be replaced—by the Lefevres, or the Buonfiglios, or whoever. They’d never let that happen—in a fast five minutes, the Rousseaux had turned my nephew into the Holy Grail of Dioguardi-dom.
I would not let them get him, no matter how dead I was.
The unknown warrior said something to Lily. It had a ring of finality, like heavy swords clanging at the last stroke of battle, and she smiled and took his hand. They moved away as bright light began leaking through chinks in the far wall. Eventually these linked together in small chains, then larger ones, until finally, the edges of two white doors were carved out by clear, golden light. The one on the left opened of its own accord, showing a white metal staircase leading up, up, as far as I could see. Still holding Lily’s hand gently in his gigantic one, the warrior led her through the door.
“No…” I croaked through dry, cracked lips, but they didn’t hear. I tried to crawl after them, but my limbs wouldn’t support me, like a vine too weak to bear its own fruit. “Lily—Geordi—”
The room swallowed my voice, and Lily’s gaze was focused away from me, on whatever waited above. Was that the door to Heaven, then? And did the other lead to Hell?
Wherever they led, I knew that once Lily passed through, she’d never be back. I had to stop her—we couldn’t abandon Geordi. My stomach woozed, and my head throbbed, but I inched forward, trying to make her hear me. It was as though I wasn’t in the room with them. I felt a happiness resonate from Lily, a sense of peace and understanding.
It was useless. I lifted a hand, but they were through the door. The room felt diminished without her in it, smaller, the light less bright, the air less sweet. Lily gazed up as she stepped onto the first stair, the warrior holding her hand, his own gaze trained lovingly on her face. Another step, then another. The door began to close. I wanted to cry.
Geordi—nooooo…
The door shut. My head sank to the floor. Lily was gone.
****
The next time I became aware of myself, I knew immediately I wasn’t alone. I smelled him first, the metallic scent of him, crisp and tangy and not at all nauseating. The floral fragrance was gone, perhaps pushed out by his heavy presence, which enveloped me. His energy seemed to caress my skin, and his breathing was a soft hum, like a lullaby. A golden glow warmed the backs of my eyelids, and when I tried to swallow, my tongue tasted dirt and minerals and the iron-metal blood of ancient battles. It was as though I felt him with every sense I had, if you could call them “senses” when, technically, there was no brain to interpret them. Yet I still processed everything as though I had a brain.
And a body. I lifted my head, waiting to see if the nausea came back. When it didn’t, I pushed up onto my knees, willing my limbs to cooperate.
“You will get used to that,” said a voice, deep as cast iron, behind me.
I twisted in a crouch to face him. He stood several feet away, stance casual, hands clasped in front of his tools-of-torture belt as though waiting on something. Probably me.
“Or rather, you will get used to your new form, its limitations and advantages. But it will take time.”
Time. Geordi—
I scrambled up, swaying, and planted my feet wide to keep from falling. “No.”
His brown eyes widened, gaze dropping to my trembling legs. “I am impressed. Most souls take much longer to regain the use of their non-corporeal limbs.”
“No,” I repeated. “I can’t die—I can’t be dead. You have to send me back.”
He stared like I’d sprouted horns. Then he burst into loud, booming guffaws that cannoned off the walls of the small room.
“Child,” he said at last, wheezing with mirth, “you are already dead. ’Tis not a choice. Come. We must decide where you are going.” He indicated the two doors still outlined behind him, and I shook my head.
“Neither. I have to get back.”
I turned and sure enough, the edges of a single door shone bright in the wall opposite the other two. I ran to it, but there was no handle. I slid my fingers around it, scrabbling to find the mechanism that would open it and let me go back to Earth and my terrified nephew.
The creak of worn leather, the jangle of armor and weapons, came from behind me, and his gentle voice said, “Child.”
The sound compelled me to face him. His expression was sad and glad and understanding all at once, and I saw how Lily could have been reassured and gone with him. Though his skin was as battle-scarred as his armor, he exuded Peace, the warm brown of his eyes calming me and pulling me in. I felt myself letting go, forgetting my life on Earth, the people there, turning my thoughts to whatever came After.
“No.” I shook my head, blinking and backing up until I bumped the door. “I won’t go with you—I have a nephew, a little boy who’s seven. You can’t make me leave him. You can’t.”
He seemed surprised by my outburst. Or maybe by the fact that I’d resisted his wiles. “Child. He is not alone. There is his father’s family.”
“Exactly! Do you know what they’re like? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to him? They’ll raise him to a life of hate, to kill and steal and cheat, to beat women, to crush anyone weaker, until someone crushes him.”
My gaze landed on the right-hand door in the far wall. I stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders—they felt surprisingly solid to my touch. That I could feel his skin through his tunic—feel it as though through my own skin—was even stranger. His muscles rippled with tension and his dark brows rose in shock. I don’t think many souls touched him.
“Geordi’s father,” I said, gripping him harder. “He was here, wasn’t he? Nick Dioguardi. You sent him through the right-hand door—I know you did. Without me, that’s where Geordi will go—down, not up. After a lifetime of hate and cruelty and torture. You can’t let that happen—you have to send me back.”
He disengaged himself, expression patronizing. “Do you know who I am, child?” His voice was soft but commanding, filling me with the urge to obey, to comply, to make him happy.
Sadly, I’d have to disappoint him. Though our parents were Catholic, and Lily’s adoptive family raised her to be as well, my religious education was spotty at best. Too many foster families, from too many religions. I made it through First Communion and have vague notions of Heaven and Hell. But my travels have exposed me to so many different cultures that I’m not sure any one group has it all locked down.
I shook my head, and his smile warmed. “I thought not. Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Michael.”
It took a moment to take root, and then I got it after all. “The Michael? Archangel Michael? Highest of the high, defender of the universe, and all that?”
His laugh rang out richly again. “The same. Although you’ve laid it on a bit thick.”
I’m glad I entertained him, at least. I frowned at his armor and weaponry. “I thought angels had wings. The paintings always show them—you—with wings.”
“Some do have wings, yes.” He shrugged. “
Angels, especially archangels, have a different function than the Living understand, and we cannot control how we are portrayed.”
I thought of the museums I’d haunted during my early years in Europe. The paintings and sculptures and illuminated manuscripts that formed the heart and soul of my self-education. “You drove Satan out of Heaven. You have a lifelong battle with him—older than Christianity—older than almost anything.”
He inclined his head. “That is one of my jobs, yes. Satan and his minions walk the Earth, and I do what I can to defeat them.”
“Then you understand—the Dioguardis must be stopped.”
“I am sorry, child. You are right. The Dioguardis are evil. But they are human. I can do nothing against them, until they die.”
“But you said—”
He looked suddenly tired. “Come. We have a few moments.” He lowered his massive form to the floor, the heaviness of his gear weighing him down and making it hard for him to bend. Once settled against the wall, he patted the space next to him.
I shook my head. “Geordi—”
“Is in no immediate danger.”
He indicated the floor again, and since I didn’t have a lot of other options, I joined him. But my heart or soul or whatever I still had cried out for my nephew, and if there was a God—which seemed likely, under the circumstances—I prayed harder than I ever had in my life that Jason had gotten Geordi to safety and would keep him there.
“There are bad people in the world,” Michael said. “They do terrible things, often at Satan’s bidding. But I have no power over the Living. Think, child. What do they call me?”
Feeling like this was a pop quiz, and unsure what I’d get if I passed or failed, I said, “Saint Michael. The Angel of Death.”
“Precisely—although in truth, I was never canonized. And I am certainly no saint. My primary function is to lead souls from the Earth, to deliver them to Heaven, and Saint Peter, or to Satan’s door in Hell. But only once they have died. I try to be at every sick bed, every fatal accident, to reassure and guide them from the moment they have passed on.”
Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1) Page 4