He did his best to ignore the fact that now he had something to live for, he also had a weakness. There was the troublesome feeling that he was going to lose that, and more, by the end of the day.
Chapter Fifteen
Pete stopped the car at the front steps of the church. The shops had closed for the day, leaving the street deserted. There was a dump of a car with a flat tire parked on the opposite side of the street with numerous parking tickets stuck between the grimy window and the windscreen wiper. It looked as though the tickets were worth more than the car and the owner had left it there for the wreckers to pick up.
The wind tossed some dried leaves and loose trash into the air. An empty foam coffee cup hit the side of their car with a light, papery thump before being driven into the gutter below the car.
“Tell me why Father Joseph wants to live here again?” Pete muttered.
Daman hooked his gaze out at the church. With the front door shut, the leaves had pocketed in the alcove, leaving the entrance looking as uncared for as the car. He knew for a fact that on Saturdays, Father Joseph opened the church for a local youth group, and he would never leave the front of his church looking so unwelcome.
“To save his congregation,” Daman replied.
“Has he? Saved any of them, I mean?”
“I think he’s just saved me,” Daman muttered, before opening the door and unraveling his long legs from the front seat of Pete’s compact car. A good shoulder push at the church door had the old oak swinging on squeaking hinges.
Daman waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the church. Usually on Saturday afternoons, music would be blaring from the large hall located off to the side of the main church and every light bulb would be switched on. The only light inside was let in by the intricate stained glass windows that adorned the sides of the church.
When Pete and Angel came behind him, Daman snagged his gun from his shoulder holster and stepped cautiously inside. The church was oppressively silent. Even the wooden benches refused to tweak in the lowering temperature. Daman’s cop sixth-sense switched on. This scene was not right. He sidestepped to the right hand aisle of the church that would take him to the priest’s private quarters.
“Father?” Daman called out. His voice fell flat, as though there was no air to carry it. He remained still, listening for any slight noise. When there was no response, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The tight feel of perspiration heated and prickled his skin.
Daman kept his back to the wall, looking into the shadows. He waited for movement, anything that might catch his eye. When he was sure there was nothing to find, he maintained his course to the priest’s door.
It was half open. Daman carefully poked his head around the doorframe, half expecting to be struck or the door to smash into his face. The gun remained still and steady in his hands, finger ready on the trigger.
The inside of Father Joseph’s quarters was dark and cold. There was no fire in the fireplace, nothing to welcome anyone inside. It was uncharacteristic of the priest to leave his quarters not ready for company. Daman opened the door and stepped inside, eyes tracking around the room.
His desk was a mess. Daman went over to it and around to the chair side. The chair had been thrust backward so that it had landed on its back. Its steel legs stuck upwards like a rigid dead insect. Drawers had been upended on the floor, papers rifled through. Whoever had done this had been thorough.
The shelves behind the desk had been emptied. Books were strewn across the floor, landing half open, pages scrunched and crumpled where they fell at odd angles. Daman felt a twinge, looking at those damaged books on the floor. Even the hard covers hadn’t been enough to keep their insides intact. Seeing books like that showed a total disrespect for knowledge as well as the owner.
“Coffee’s cold,” Pete said.
Daman jumped, forgetting for a moment that Pete had followed him into the room. He looked to where he stood and noted the partially eaten plate of toast on the table and the cold cup of coffee next to it. The wooden kitchen chair was pulled out from the table.
“Looks like he was disturbed,” Daman said.
“Someone’s done a good job in here,” Pete replied, studying the room.
Daman didn’t answer, knowing a room left like this didn’t bode well for the person who lived here.
“Where do you think he’d be?” Daman spoke aloud, more to himself, needing to hear a voice to fill in the screaming silence.
There was no trace of him in here. Daman went back into the main body of the church, looking for anything amiss among the shadows. The rows of pews picked up the flickering candlelight in the church’s sanctuary where people lit them for remembrance. All else was still. He moved quietly down the center aisle, keeping his senses tuned for noise or movement. Anything that would give a clue away.
He sensed Angel behind him, rather than turning to see her. His body seemed to be tuned so well to her. The heat from her body warmed his back, her now familiar, wholly feminine scent enveloped him. He stilled for a moment, closed his eyes, recognized how totally he responded, before concentrating back to the task at hand.
The altar area was in shadow. The only light came from the candles quietly burning to the side. Angel stopped abruptly, a soft gasp escaped her mouth. Daman immediately tensed, raising his gun to shoulder level. Angel came to his side, lifted a trembling finger at the altar. “He’s behind there,” she whispered. Her words hitched. Adrenaline punched his veins at the dread-tone her voice carried.
Daman’s feet flew over the cold tiles. He ran to behind the altar and saw at once the sprawled body of the priest. There was too much blood on the floor to suggest he would still be alive, but Daman knelt beside him and felt for his pulse. All he needed was a slight movement, a hiccup of a beat. He pressed trembling fingers to ashy-gray, pale skin. There was nothing. The priest had died long enough ago to be cold.
Hanging his head, he cursed silently. He heard Pete and Angel’s fast steps coming toward him and stopping behind him. The clutter of their feet echoed into the far reaches of the building.
“Alive?” Pete asked.
Angel bent and stroked the priest’s arm, compassion flooded from her. She gazed up at Daman, unshed tears making her eyes bright. “His body has finished with this life,” Angel said.
Daman sat back on his haunches. Pete pressed his fingers into Daman’s shoulder.
“Looks like he took quite a beating. Bruises on his face. Right arm’s at a strange angle. Poor guy,” Pete said.
“Why? He hurt no one,” Daman said, his voice tight. He kept a stranglehold on his crashing emotions. Smashing anything within reach wouldn’t do any good at all. He clenched his hands into fists, trembling with the effort to keep himself under control.
“Judging by the mess in his rooms, there was something someone wanted. Looks like he kept his mouth shut enough to endure what he was put through.”
Daman rose to his feet, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets. “Vincent.” Daman spat the name out like phlegm. “He knew we were here after I chased Haki. Angel saved his life. He knows what you can do.” Daman quickly added up the results and didn’t like the outcome. “But what could he have been looking for.”
“The book he showed us,” Angel said. “The Book of Angels. It must be. He had it hidden for years until he took it out and showed us.”
Daman spun around, reeling and lightheaded, to the mantle behind the altar. He pressed the mosaic panel. It slid silently open, revealing the empty cavern. “They’ve been taken. All the books here. All gone.”
“They have the book. Vincent can learn the same things we have from it.” Pete said what Daman didn’t want to hear.
“Look,” Angel said. She leaned over the body of Father Joseph and moved his sleeve. “I can see something on the ground. A ma
rk.”
Daman knelt next to the priest and gently lifted his arm. Blood oozed, caught in the fabric of his sleeve, black and solidifying where it had dried.
“There. Do you see it?” Angel pointed to an arrow that had been painted with blood on the tiles next to the priest’s hand.
Daman flattened the priest’s hand. His pointer finger was stained with blood. A message. His last thoughts had been for them. Even facing death, Father Joseph had thought of others before himself.
The fire in his head spilled into his gut, burning there with a heated passion brought on by pure hate. This was what he needed to feel, this pain, this anger was what he needed to ride. There was going to be retribution, there was going to be justice. He was through with Lepski. He was nothing but scum that needed to be eradicated from the face of the earth.
“Look where the arrow’s pointing to,” Angel said.
Daman knelt with his head touching the floor, looking in the direction of the arrow. Squinting against the dark shadows, he made out a white rectangular shape beneath the mantle and the stone of the floor. It was only about five millimeters wide, but wide enough to hide something that was never to be found.
“Got a flashlight, Pete?”
Pete unclipped his light from his belt and handed it to Daman. He knelt with his head resting on the cold stone and shone the beam of light beneath the altar. “There’s something there. Hand me something I can lever this out with.”
He felt a pen pushed into his hand. Carefully sliding the pen under the crack, he felt the tip come against some resistance. Coming closer to the crack, he swiveled the pen so that he revealed a sheet of white paper. It crackled as it slipped over the floor. He finally managed to slip a corner out from under the crack and leveraged out the paper.
It was more a discolored sienna color than white as he’d first thought, very dry and very old. Three edges were gilt gold, the other was rough, as though it had been torn. The writing was not mere letters, each stroke was a work of art, made with the beautiful patient strokes of a master craftsman. In the middle of the writing was the image of an angel painted with bright blues, reds, ochre yellows. Here and there, a flick of gold had been added to highlight the raw beauty of the image.
It was of an angel, relaxing with people surrounding and conversing with her. Some were laughing, others drinking from plain ceramic cups. The people and the angel were dressed simply in long, flowing robes of differing colors, cinched at the waist with matching, plaited cords. They wore sandals on their feet. They were grouped, eating from an ample spread set before them. The Angel had been drawn with wings, but they were very faint. Just the whisper of a shadow.
Daman wondered what the writing said. It held no meaning to him, but Angel might recognize the ancient script. “Angel, can you read this?” Daman handed the sheet to Angel. The parchment crinkled as she he passed it to her.
Her eyes widened as she read, her fingers encircled her throat.
“What does it say?” Daman asked. This page was obviously hidden by the good priest. He’d died to protect it. He stood behind Angel, watching the page over her shoulder as she finished reading. He was aware how shallow her breathing had become as the more she read, the more engrossed she’d become. She was lost in thought.
He couldn’t contain himself. “Angel, tell me. What does it say?”
She shook herself and turned to face him. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, glowing a deeper shade of blue in her pale face. “It’s a warning. It says that as long as man had been here, so have angels roamed the earth with them. Angels have walked with men and woman, lived as flesh and blood humans and have chosen to live and die with them.”
Daman nodded. “The Book of Angels had that stated in the chapter we read.”
“Yes, but this tells … ” Her eyes were large and round and all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and protect her from the information she’d read. A lick of dread kicked in his guts. Judging by her reaction, this was not going to be good.
“Just tell us and we’ll work around it.” Daman moved beside her and wrapped his arm around her. He kissed her temple. “It’s okay. Just tell me what it says.”
She swallowed, darted a gaze between Daman and Pete. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Three days and three nights. That’s all we have to walk the earth as flesh and blood angels. If the — ceremony — isn’t completed within that time, we will be bound to the earth for eternity. Our bodies will be neither angel nor human.”
The horror in her eyes reached his gut. His fingers that held her, now clutched. She caught Daman’s gaze, “If I can’t return to the eternity I came from, I will be caught here. I won’t be an angel. I won’t be human. I’ll see people live and die with each turning year.” She choked off a heart-wrenching sob. “You’ll die and I’ll still be here. Without you.” Her eyes glistered.
“Does it say any more?”
She shook her head. “That’s the end of the page.” She turned it over. “There’s nothing on the back that identifies with the information on this side.”
Daman took the page from her. “There has to be more. It can’t end like that. Where’s the Book of Angels? We need to find it!” He took the torch and shone it into the crack, sliding the pen up and down the crack. Hope faded when it didn’t strike anything. He sat on his haunches, head bent.
She pressed her hand on his shoulder. Solid and warm, he felt her strength pour into him. “There will be a way.”
He folded his fingers over hers. “This is the end of the third day. If there is no flesh and blood sacrifice tonight, you will be stuck here.”
“The years I’ll have with you will be worth it,” she said.
Growling, he stood, taking the top of her arms in his fists. “Unless we can be together, love together, grow old together, this is not an answer. Living on earth for eternity, that is the true hell and I will not have it. There has to be more we can do. It can’t end like this. I won’t let it.”
A small, melancholy smile touched her mouth, turning it up at the edges. The gaze in her eyes was aged and wise, and for the first time he glimpsed how ancient she must be. “Your passion is something I’ve always loved about you. The way you say things and they sound like the absolute truth, that you’ll always stand by them.”
That was a surprise. “You’ve only known me for a handful of days. How could you know that about me?”
He felt the tension in her arms. The smile dropped from her mouth. “That was what I was trying to tell you before. I’ve known you … for longer than the time I’ve been in this body.”
His forehead crinkled into a frown. “How … ”
Her hesitation made him drop her arms and stand back. Heat prickled his skin. “What do you mean?”
She opened her mouth, made to speak to him. Hesitated. He knew that whatever that came next between them hinged on her next words. Words, judging by the strain on her face and the tense line of her shoulders, that same stress that radiated from her to him, could fracture or cement what they’d shared.
The door to the church flew open. Dark figures charged in, yelling, threatening, running toward them, guns aimed straight at them. There were six men in total. Two took the left hand aisle, two in the central aisle, and the last two in the right hand aisle. They didn’t waste any time. Daman recognized their professionalism. They knew what they were doing. It left him with little time to think, only to react.
From the corner of his eye, Daman saw Pete draw his gun. A boom echoed in the church. Smoke spat from one of the guns. Pete immediately dropped. Daman might have called his name, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Red on the stone, brighter than the priest’s cold blood. Spreading from beneath Pete’s unmoving body.
A harsh breeze broke around him and Angel soared through the air. Daman couldn’t peel his eyes from her. Her wings were fully extende
d as she arched through the air and over the altar. Flames flickered from them, oranges, reds, yellows sparked and twisted. Each flame was tipped with bright blue with the intense heat. She soared over the pews, flames bending and leaping with her movements and swooped at the men.
Angel screamed as she rose back to the roof of the church. An unearthly, ear-splitting sound that set his nerves on edge and reverberated through his body. Daman’s legs folded beneath him. He dropped to his knees, pressing his hands to his ears in pain. The fine hairs on his arms stood erect as the chilling sound ripped through his skull.
Angel hurtled at the men in the center aisle, striking one of the men’s heads with the high arch of her wing. His head whipped backward, sending him hurtling to the floor, blood splattering over the tiles. The front row of his teeth had been knocked out. He stayed where he landed, his head lolling to the side, limp and motionless, blood draining from his open mouth. His partner dropped to the floor onto his stomach, swiveling his head to the side, eyes glued to Angel as she swooped over his head. Daman saw his round white eyes filled with terror. Angel dove onto him, clutched his shoulders and with two quick beats of her wings was at the roof of the church with him in her hands. His arms and legs flailed, grasping at nothing. His clothes caught fire from Angel’s wings and he panicked, screaming and brushing at the flames. She let go.
The man screamed in a terror-filled high-pitch. He hit the stone floor, folded to the ground, cutting the sound with ominous finality. He stayed where he landed, both legs at an awkward, unnatural angle.
Daman’s limbs were numb and limp. All he could do was lie on the ground and stare at Angel, awed by her strength, her gritty determination and now the way in which she ended the lives of these men. Without remorse, with serious intent. His mind worked feverishly. Angel had only shown herself to be made from love and compassion, but this new Angel, the one who fought like she was born to it was an utter shock. She moved with fluid grace, beating the air with her huge wings. He’d seen only the best cops who wore looks like she now wore when they were in the heat of battle. The blaze in their eyes, the chilling intensity with which they moved. Each action was a move to position themselves so they could hit or strike their enemy. A calculated decision. The total awareness in which they read the situation. Their intent to end with the finality of death.
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