In the House of the Wicked

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The passage that Francis had summoned brought Remy to the small backyard of his Beacon Hill brownstone, giving him enough time to zip into his house for a change of clothes. He doubted it would be wise to show up at his girlfriend’s place covered in blood.

He’d already called Linda and found out she and Marlowe had returned to her apartment that morning to do some laundry. Remy had sensed a bit of tension in their conversation, and he’d guessed that it had something to do with the mysterious stranger she had met in the Common. When pressed, she had said that the guy had been kind of weird, but when she mentioned something about the Watchers going to do something terrible and that it was all because of him, Remy felt his blood go ice-cold.

In his calmest voice, he’d told her that he would be there in a few minutes and ended the call. A familiar dread gripped him. It was that same horrible feeling he’d experienced when he’d realized that Ashley had been taken because of what he was.

Now Linda had been touched, as well.

Remy made amazing time from the Hill to Brighton, taking the first parking space he could find and sprinting to her building. She buzzed him in, and he took the steps two at a time, banging on her door perhaps a little too eagerly, hearing Marlowe’s barking response on the other side.

Linda opened the door, an ecstatic Marlowe by her side.

“Hey,” she said with a stunning smile, coming into his arms for a hug and kissing him on the neck before planting a noisy one on his lips.

She pulled away, arms still around his neck, and looked at his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it Ashley? Is she all right?”

“I don’t really know,” he answered in all honesty. Linda let him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Still no luck?”

“Some nibbles,” he said. He would have loved to explain more but was unable. Marlowe was trying to get his attention, jumping up to lick at his face, flipping his hands to be petted. He could see the dog was eager to communicate with him as he always had, but Remy found that he was now deaf and dumb to his best friend’s language.

He looked deeply into Marlowe’s eyes, attempting to reach him on an emotional level, but all he could see was panic in the Labrador’s gaze.

“What are you going to do?” Linda asked, as they sat side by side on the sofa.

“I haven’t a choice, really,” he told her. “I’m going to keep flipping over rocks until I find something.”

He didn’t want to alarm her any more than he already had, so he tried to be casual with his next question. “So, somebody approached you in the Common? I wonder who it could have been.”

“I have no idea, but Marlowe certainly didn’t care for him,” Linda said.

Remy was frustrated that he couldn’t talk with Marlowe, but the fact that his friend didn’t care for the mystery man was very telling.

“He gave me a piece of paper with a phone number on it and said what I told you on the phone.” She stood up. “That he needed to speak with you…that it was an emergency and…”

“That the Watchers were going to do something terrible,” Remy finished.

Linda nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “For something that you did. What the hell does that mean?”

He shrugged, trying not to show any emotion, pretending to be as perplexed as she. “Do you have that piece of paper?”

“Sure,” she said as she headed for her bedroom. “It was in the pocket of my jeans. I took it out before I put them in the wash.”

Marlowe was sitting at Remy’s feet, staring up at him with great intensity in his dark brown eyes.

“I know that you can sense something is wrong with me,” Remy said softly, taking the dog’s blocky head in his hands. “And you’re right. Something has happened to the angelic part of me… Something has made it so that I can’t talk to you… I can’t understand you.”

Marlowe barked and then began to whine, shifting himself closer in a panic. Remy could only guess that his basic message was getting through to the Labrador.

He was still holding the dog’s heavy face in his hands, and Marlowe leaned his snout over to lovingly kiss his wrist.

“We’re going to be okay,” Remy tried to reassure him. “I’m going to get better. All right? We’ll be able to talk to each other again very soon-I promise.”

There was a twinge in his heart then, a feeling that told him that maybe he shouldn’t have made such a promise to the dog. He had no idea if what he was experiencing was only temporary.

The dog jumped up, licking his face with his thick pink tongue.

“You’re a good boy,” Remy told Marlowe, hugging the dog to him. “We’ll be chatting up a storm again in no time.”

Linda returned from her bedroom, reading the piece of scrap paper, before handing it to Remy. He read, with zero recognition, the phone number that had been scrawled there.

“He said it wasn’t my place to understand,” Linda said, as Remy read the number again. “But you would. Do you?”

Remy shook his head slowly, not wanting to lie but having no choice. He and the Watchers-the Grigori-had a long, sometimes violent history, and they couldn’t have picked a worse time to start something new with him. He got up, slipping the paper into the pocket of his slacks.

“Aren’t you going to call?” she asked curiously.

“Not from here,” he answered. “I have to get back out there, follow up on a few things about Ashley.”

Linda nodded, but he could see that she was disappointed. She was better off in the dark. He just couldn’t have anyone else he cared for being dragged into the unusual world he frequently lived in.

“I’ll give you a call the next free minute I get,” he told her, leaning in for a kiss. “You and Marlowe still getting along?”

She pulled him close for another peck on the lips.

“He’s a bed hog, but we’re doing all right,” she said, eyes shifting to the animal who sat before them, tail wagging.

“Talk soon,” he told her, eyes then dropping to Marlowe. He hoped that the statement was true on many levels.

“Hey, Remy,” she called out just before he shut the door.

He stuck his head back in.

“You be careful, all right?”

“Only because you asked,” he told her with a smile that he tried to make reassuring before closing the door and heading on his way.

Deacon felt as though he could change the world. And wasn’t that what he had always wanted?

As a child he had feared the dark-not so much the nighttime environment, but what he feared was lurking there, just beyond his vision.

It was the fear that had fueled his desire to pursue the art of sorcery-that and some gentle urging from a Romanian housekeeper who had looked after him. He had shared his secret with her, how he feared the darkness, and she had shared with him the knowledge that his fears were justified, that there were things out there waiting for the opportunity to claim a life, a soul, a world.

She had shown him real magick, and his world had been changed forever. In the mystical arts he had found a way to beat back the darkness, to protect himself and his loved ones from the sinister forces that lurked in the shadows. He became voracious, using his family’s wealth to pursue his hunger for the arcane, but also using that newly found power to increase his fortune exponentially.

The more he learned, the more knowledge he acquired, the safer he could make the world. When he had first met the cabal, he believed that he had found like-minded individuals, that they all shared responsibility for protecting the world from encroaching supernatural threats-from the things in the dark.

But he had been wrong, and the lesson had been a painful one.

What he had learned as a result of his ill-placed trust was now the distant past to him, the power that coursed through him directing him only toward the future.

Spells and incantations that had been fading from his memory as the years raced past during his banishment here in the shadow realm were now ever present at the forefront of his thoughts.

The divine power of the Seraphim had changed him, making him so much better than he had ever hoped to be. Now he had the power not only to continue his prolonged existence, but to at last return to the world of his birth, where those who had betrayed him would pay the cost for their treachery.

Konrad.

Deacon paused in the hallway of his home, listening. Not hearing it again, he continued on his way, preparing himself and his home for the journey they were about to undertake.

Konrad.

He was sure that he’d heard it now.

“Who’s there?” he called out. “Scrimshaw, is that you?”

Konrad, it’s me, said the voice. And now that he was listening, it seemed so very familiar.

He thought that it might be coming from farther down the hall, and proceeded forward until he reached the dining room, doors still hanging from their hinges.

In here, said the voice.

“Who is it?” Deacon asked, stepping fearlessly inside. For what would dare challenge him now?

The dining room had yet to be cleared. It looked as though a war had been fought there, and in a way it had.

“Hello?” Deacon called out, but found nobody inside.

Deacon, said the voice, and suddenly he knew from where it had come.

“Veronica?” he asked, moving farther into the room. “Is that you?”

Who else would it be? she answered, her voice raspy and dry. You left me…you left me in here alone.

He found her withered body lying on the floor under broken pieces of the dining room set.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Deacon apologized, gently picking her up. “Things have become a little crazy.” He found an unbroken chair at the back of the room and set his wife down on it. Stepping back, he allowed the divine fire that pulsed through him to light up his new body.

“Things have changed,” he told her as he spread his arms to show off his magnificence.

Have they? she questioned, her skeletal form slumped to one side in her seat.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Can’t you see how much has changed…how much I’ve changed?”

I see the same man that I courted and married, she said. A man striving to be better for a world that barely realized he existed.

Deacon was stunned by his wife’s hurtful words. Even after all this time, her opinion of him had still not changed.

“But now I can…”

You can what? she asked huskily. Show how powerful you are, only to have one more devious than you steal it all away?

“That was then,” he muttered. “I would never allow Stearns to…”

Stearns will smell your new might like a shark smells blood in the water, Veronica uttered harshly. And then he will come and he will take it from you.

The power of the angelic now dwelling inside him surged with his rage, wings of fire unfurling at his back.

“Stearns will do no such thing,” Deacon roared, body humming with the power to level cities in the name of God.

I wonder what he will do with all that power, she pondered.

“He will not have it!” Deacon raged.

Perhaps after taking it from you, he will seek out others of a divine nature and take away their power, as well.

“I won’t let him!”

Maybe when all the power of Heaven on Earth courses through his veins, he will pay a visit to God.

“He will not have it,” Konrad Deacon repeated, tendrils of living fire lashing out, setting the room ablaze…setting the corpse of his wife afire.

“That power will be mine,” he told the woman he’d loved, whose dry flesh was burning away to reveal a yellowed skeleton beneath. “Algernon Stearns and all the members of the cabal will pay for their crimes…

“And then I will make my way to God.”

And even though Veronica’s skeleton had become blackened with the intensity of his fire, burning so hotly that the bone was gradually turning to ash, Deacon could still hear her inside his head.

And she would not stop laughing.

Remy called the number on the piece of paper, and the phone was picked up immediately. A voice that sent a slight shiver down his spine quickly asked who it was, and when Remy told him, it gave him an address and abruptly ended the call.

He wished he could have been a little more surprised when he pulled up in front of the former Saint Augustine Church in West Roxbury. Saint Augustine was another one of those churches that everyone in the Commonwealth had read about, closed down by the Archdiocese because of poor attendance and even poorer contributions to the Catholic Church’s coffers, despite it having been a fixture in the old neighborhood for well over seventy-five years. The church had been deconsecrated, and now it was just an empty building waiting to be sold.

Remy closed the door of his car and crossed the street to the steps leading up to the old building. There were two older women sitting in collapsible lawn chairs in front of the entrance.

He knew why they were there; many parishioners of the closed churches had been sitting vigil twenty-four/seven, hoping that somebody with some power would take notice of their protest and eventually reopen their place of worship. Their faith in their cause was admirable, but it had all become matters of dollars and cents to the monolithic church; Saint Augustine, he guessed, wasn’t even a blip on their radar.

One of the women was knitting furiously and looked up as he approached, reaching out to nudge the other beside her, who had fallen asleep, a hardcover book in her lap.

“Good morning,” Remy said, placing a foot on the first step leading up to the entrance of the church.

The one who had been napping eyed him with suspicion. Remy could have sworn that he felt her eyes boring into the top of his shoe.

“Good morning,” the old woman who continued to knit said with mock friendliness. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”

“I don’t think so,” Remy said with a smile and a shake of his head. “I’m supposed to meet somebody.”

The old women shared a cautious look.

“I don’t know who you’d be meeting here,” the knitter said. “There’s only us until we’re relieved at two thirty.”

“There’s no one else around?” Remy asked, suspecting that the old girls knew more than they were letting on.

“Just Clara and me,” the knitter said, as Clara continued to practice her death stare.

He was about to retreat to his car when he caught the sound of a lock being turned, and one of the large wooden doors opened a crack.

“Let him in,” a voice whispered from inside.

“Are you sure?” Clara asked, her beady eyes going from Remy and back to the door.

“I’m sure.”

The knitter dropped her needles for a moment and gestured for him to approach. Remy climbed the stairs.

“Can’t be too careful,” she said, retrieving her needles and picking up where she had left off.

Remy took note of how quickly her hands manipulated the twin needles, and also the fact that they were quite thick and golden in color. He also noticed sigils that he recognized as markings of power etched upon them.

The knitter looked up, realizing that he was staring. She smiled, pulling one of the thick needles from her work in the blink of an eye and pointing its sharp end at him.

“Can’t be too careful,” she repeated, and, having made her point, returned to the blanket she was making. It was then that he chanced a quick glance over at Clara to see her adjusting her book over the pistol in her lap.

“Are you coming in, or do you plan to sit vigil with the girls?” asked the voice from behind the door.

Remy took the heavy wooden door in hand and opened it enough so that he could enter. It was dark and cool inside, and he had to blink his eyes repeatedly to adjust to the gloom.

“Where the fuck have you been?” an unfamiliar voice asked as the figure hurriedly walked away from the door into the empty church. “We don’t have much time.”

“I’ve been on a case,” Remy said, following the man. “Would it be too much to ask why you bothered my dog and scared my girlfriend?”

The figure turned and Remy recognized him as one of the Grigori. “Believe me, I didn’t want to get you involved. It’s just that when I realized how big a cluster fuck this was, and that it likely had something to do with you, I figured you might as well get involved.”

“You’re one of Sariel’s,” Remy said, watching a steely reaction come over the fallen angel’s face.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you recognized a face in the background. I’m called Garfial.” The angel quickly turned around again, motioning for Remy to follow him.

Remy followed Garfial across the deconsecrated church. He was surprised how bare it was; even the wooden pews had been removed, leaving only a large, empty room where the faithful had once communicated with their God. There was a sadness to the space but also something more, and since his senses were still numb, Remy couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

Garfial climbed the stairs to the altar, disappearing through another doorway and then down a set of stairs to more darkness.

Even though his senses were practically dead, Remy could still feel the preternatural energies that filled the air in the cool chamber below the church altar. It was like some kind of strange laboratory filled with tables upon which beakers and test tubes sat. There were stacks of books everywhere, and a number of jars sweaty with condensation, their contents a mystery.

“What is all this?” Remy asked.

“This is what I do,” Garfial said. “I was kind of like the biologist of the Grigori. I was to keep tabs on the various life-forms that the Almighty had seeded the planet with, making sure that everything was going along as planned.” The angel paused, looking around his makeshift lab.

“Which it was. Which is why I became bored and…”

“You did something stupid,” Remy finished.

Garfial snarled. “You should talk. I’m not the one who killed Sariel and got us into the mess we’re currently in.”

Remy leaned against a table.

“Why don’t you fill me in on what my stupidity has supposedly done,” he said.

Garfial was staring at him now.

“There’s something off about you,” the angel said. “You’re different… There’s usually a scary vibe that isn’t there now.”

“Let’s just say I’m a bit under the weather.”

“Well, let’s just hope you’re functioning with all cylinders firing by the time things hit the proverbial fan,” Garfial retorted. He went to one of the steamed jars and carefully picked it up.

Remy watched as the fallen angel unscrewed the top of the jar and reached inside.

“I should have known killing Sariel would come back to bite me,” Remy said.

“And then some,” Garfial agreed, pulling something from the jar between his fingers. Whatever it was hung limply for a moment, dripping with a slimy substance, and then it began to move.

“This is one of the stupid things that I did when I got bored with the world of man,” the fallen said. “I learned how to create life.” The object dangling from Garfial’s fingers started to struggle, tiny arms and legs thrashing about, a faint squeal drifting in the air as the life-form showed its displeasure. “And then teaching humans how to do it was my next big mistake.”

Garfial placed the squirming, artificial life-form back inside the jar and screwed on the lid. “That one isn’t even remotely ready,” he stated. Setting the jar back down beside at least ten others, he wiped his hands on his black pants.

“You’re losing me,” Remy said.

“Believe it or not, this all has something to do with what’s going on,” Garfial said. “I learn how to produce artificial life, I teach some humans, the Lord gets pissed about that and some of our other dalliances, and the Grigori are condemned to Earth. And here we’ve been ever since.”

Remy had started to walk around the lab, only half listening as the Grigori continued to speak, until he noticed a large pile of damp-looking clay on a nearby table, and something clicked into place.

“Artificial life,” Remy said aloud, looking at him.

“You’re gonna have to keep up with me,” Garfial chided.

“You showed them how to make golems.”

“I did at that.” Garfial nodded. “And they got pretty good at it, too… Not as good as me, but still not so bad. Many human magick users put their own spin on these creatures.”

“Life-energy collectors,” Remy stated flatly.

Garfial smiled. “Now you’re catching up. So here the Grigori are, living among the humanity they corrupted, trying to make amends for what they did so they could someday go home.”

Remy would have smiled at the perversion of the facts, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“We were doing everything we could to get Heaven to notice us again, trying to make things right,” Garfial went on. “Sariel promised us that one day God would see us and how sorry we were, and welcome us back through the pearly gates with open arms.”

Remy couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“You guys worked with widows and orphans, right? Helped the homeless and unwed mothers? You make it sound like you were all playing on Mother Teresa’s team. I’ve seen some of the parties you guys threw.”

Garfial chuckled. “They were pretty intense, weren’t they?” He smiled at the memory. “Some of us really did believe that we were going to be forgiven… Personally, I like it here and couldn’t care less if I ever see the Golden City again. The Golden Banana on Route One was just as good to me, if you know what I mean.”

Sadly enough, Remy did. Living among humanity had done pretty much the same thing to him, minus the perversity and decadence.

“But like I said,” Garfial continued. “Some of us were actually working toward going home, but all that got thrown into the wood chipper when Sariel was killed.”

“He murdered Noah,” Remy said.

“Yeah, I know,” Garfial said. “But he was still our leader, and without him, many of us were lost.”

The fallen angel grew quiet, starting to move beakers of strangely colored fluid around, seemingly neatening up the space.

“After Sariel’s death, I kind of lost track of you guys,” Remy said.

“We became lost,” the fallen said. “More lost than we had ever been. You thought the parties we had before were wild… Days blended into weeks, into months… Without Sariel, we lost our purpose…our direction.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t last,” Remy said.

“No, it didn’t,” Garfial agreed. “A new leader rose in our ranks, and his name was Armaros…Sariel’s lover.”

Remy sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a table.

“And let me guess: He wants revenge.”

Garfial brushed off his table with the side of his hand. “You killed our shining star…our guiding light…”

“He was a murderer,” Remy stated.

“And Armaros loved him.”

“So now he wants the world to suffer for what I did?”

“Armaros wouldn’t admit that, but I’m sure it’s there, writhing beneath the surface,” Garfial said. “What he’s telling us is that he wants to make God notice the Grigori again…to really recognize how sorry we are.”

“And how does he intend to do that?” Remy asked.

Garfial’s eyes drifted to the television in the corner of the room, distracted by the frantic movement of what appeared to be The Price Is Right.

“I love this show,” the fallen angel said dreamily.

Remy waved a hand in the air. “Hello? World on the brink of something disastrous?”

“Sorry,” Garfial apologized, collecting his thoughts once more. “Sariel always believed that humanity was in such a state because of the path we led them down, and Armaros shared that belief.”

Remy waited for all the pieces to present themselves, forming an image he could understand.

“He believes that most of humanity has become godless, forgetting who’s responsible for their very existence. Armaros has concocted a plan to make humanity remember God…to fear Him as we know He should be feared.”

Tension started to form across Remy’s brow and at the back of his neck; a sign that he was about to learn something that wasn’t going to make him the least bit happy.

“This is where I come in to the picture,” Garfial said. “Even though I gave them the knowledge, it was the human magick users that perfected the artificial-life process, nudging and tweaking their creations to a whole new level.”

Remy waited silently for the head butt he was sure was coming.

“Armaros wanted me to join with one of these sorcerers, the most powerful of them all, to design and create a flawless piece of work-a tool to drive the faithless back into the Lord God’s arms.”

“A tool,” Remy repeated, confused.

Garfial snatched up a leather-bound journal, opening it and holding it out toward Remy. He saw exquisite drawings of two human figures, older women, and recognized them as the knitter and Clara.

“Golems.”

“Tools,” Garfial corrected. “Like the ladies upstairs who protect my workshop from prying eyes. Tools with a specific purpose and function.”

Remy felt the band of tension across his forehead grow so tight that he imagined his skull imploding.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Algernon Stearns?” Remy asked, a piece of the puzzle looking to be placed.

“Very good, Remy,” Garfial applauded. “You must be a detective.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

Remy had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly where this was going. Francis and Angus had both talked about Stearns’ plans that could harm millions, and Remy dreaded this connection.

“This golem…this special tool,” Remy fished. “What was it created to do?”

Garfial grabbed the notebook and flipped to another page. He was about to show it to Remy when the fallen angel froze, his eyes on the television again. “Oh, shit,” the Grigori said.

“What?” Remy asked, turning around to see that The Price Is Right had been replaced by a special news report.

The anchors seemed to be very serious as they talked, the image of a smiling little girl projected behind them. A little girl that Remy recognized as Angelina Hayward.

Confused, he looked back to Garfial. “What’s going on?”

“You wanted to know what the special golem was created for?” Garfial asked. “I think the world is about to find out.”

“Who does this car belong to again?” Angus, sitting beside Francis in the front seat of the pristine 1960 Lincoln Continental, asked.

“A friend,” Francis answered, cruising along Boylston Street, searching for a place to park.

“It smells like blood,” the sorcerer said, moving his large bulk uneasily in the passenger’s seat as he tried to get comfortable.

“Yeah, I know,” Francis said casually. “But beggars can’t be choosers. My friend Richard agreed to do us a solid as long as we didn’t take her out of the city. Right, girl?”

Angus could have sworn that the vehicle responded, the low murmur of a talk show on the radio suddenly changing to a syrupy pop song from the seventies.

“That a girl,” Francis said, still looking for the perfect space as he reached a hand out and rubbed the black leather dashboard affectionately.

Angus could not get comfortable. The tangy, metallic odor of the car and the warm, almost fleshlike feeling of the leather beneath his ass made him feel as though he were inside the mouth of some large predatory beast.

“There’s something wrong about this vehicle,” Angus flatly stated.

“You might want to keep your opinions to yourself,” Francis warned. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“Then you admit this ride is…different?”

“She’s different, all right,” the former Guardian agreed.

The steering wheel suddenly jerked roughly to the right, startling Francis as the car pulled itself into a space just vacated by a UPS truck.

“Good one,” he said. “I would have driven right past it. Thanks, Leona.”

“Is that its name?” Angus asked.

“That’s her name,” Francis quickly corrected as the engine turned off without his hand being anywhere near the crowded key chain that dangled from the ignition. “Relax. She has this kinda effect on a lot of people,” Francis explained. “Actually, you should be honored that she’s letting you ride inside her.”

“I feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale,” Angus stated, every instinct that he had on full alert.

“Look, we needed a ride to check out Stearns’ headquarters, and my business associate was nice enough to allow Leona to take us,” Francis said. “So, let’s do what we came here to do.”

Francis got out of the car.

Angus pulled on the door handle, but the door would not open. He was about to motion to Francis for assistance when the handle suddenly functioned again and the door swung wide.

For a moment he could have sworn that he heard a sinister chuckling over the car’s speakers, but he decided that it was likely only the pinging sounds made by the car’s engine as it started to cool.

“Will this be all right here?” Angus asked Francis.

“She’ll be fine,” Francis said crossing Boylston Street. “Richard fed her just before we called.”

Angus followed the fallen angel to the small plaza and the eighty-story skyscraper that he recognized from his contact with Algernon Stearns. A large sign read HERMES TELEVISION NETWORK.

Angus stared up at the impressive building of smoked glass and polished steel, feeling a queasy uneasiness pass over him. He turned to speak to his partner, but the angel was gone. Looking around the crowded street, he found Francis at a food truck.

“What are you doing?” Angus asked, walking over.

“Getting a bite. Want something?”

“No, I do not want something. We need to report back to-”

“They have American chop suey.”

“They do?”

“Two American chop sueys,” Francis told the man behind the counter.

“The building is quite fortified against the likes of us,” Angus said, looking back to the front entrance.

“Figured as much,” Francis answered, going through his wallet. “Gonna need to come up with a way of getting inside without making too much of a ruckus.”

“I’m sure the magickal barriers are only the first line of defense,” Angus stated, watching the building. He caught sight of multiple security officers, and from the vibe they were giving off, he doubted very much that they were human.

“Here,” Francis said, handing Angus a heaping Styrofoam container. “What do you want to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Two waters,” Francis added, as the counter person brought the remainder of his order and he paid.

“Let’s sit over here,” Francis said, leading Angus to the short concrete wall that bordered the plaza.

It was lunchtime in Back Bay on a beautiful fall day, and the area was humming with activity. A perfect time to go unnoticed, Angus thought as he enjoyed his meal.

“So, what do you think?” Angus asked after awhile.

Francis had eaten in silence, staring at the formidable skyscraper before him, as if committing every detail to memory.

“I think we have a problem,” the angel assassin said. “There are wards scrawled everywhere. Every brick fifty feet or less from the main entrance has been scrawled with some mystical hoodoo to keep the likes of us from passing through the front doors.”

He took a bite of chop suey and slowly chewed.

“I hate it when somebody tries to keep me out,” Francis stated. “It makes me feel so unloved.”

“There will be even less in the world to love you if Stearns succeeds,” Angus reminded the angel. “And by feeding on that level of death energy, I hate to think how powerful he might become.”

They had finished their lunches and stood to throw away their trash in a nearby barrel when there was a flurry of activity from the building. Security guards-large, powerful-looking men that probably weren’t men at all-spilled from the building and took up positions around the entrance.

“Something is happening,” Angus said, as they made their way back to the waiting Leona.

“I’m guessing somebody caught wind of our visit,” Francis said.

“Or whatever it is that Stearns is up to,” Angus added, “is about to begin.”