Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (7 page)

The sky was mottled with thick clumps of cloud swatches of deep blue peeping out in spots. Simon shifted the van into park on the side of a long stretch of highway, scanning the tree line. This felt like the right spot. Mack's angelic GPS was usually right on.

Chiara squinted in the same direction. "What are you doing?"

"Watching. Mack said he'd be here." He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. Okay, more than watch. Also had compass orientation: the usual N-S-E-W, latitude, longitude, planetary positions.
You know
, he'd say.
The basics.
At any rate, he was in the right place at the right time.

A shaft of sunlight suddenly pierced the cloud cover, sending down a broad, shining stream.

"Ah, knew it was coming." He grinned. "You can smell it."

She sniffed experimentally. "I don't smell anything out of the ordinary."

"Of course, you can't. You're a divinity. It would be like trying to smell your own breath. Now, come on."

He hopped out of the van, lighting a stick of chicory and tossing the smoking twig over his shoulder. Without even a glance behind him, he jogged across the grass toward the trees, heading toward the spot where the shifting beams of sunlight pulsed and shone down like a shimmering curtain.

"Where are you going?" She called after him, carefully stepping through the grass behind him.

"You wanted to see what Mack's all about," he said. "This is the perfect explanation."

He led her through the thin scrub of birch and laurel bushes, using the bright sky as a compass.

"I don't understand." Chiara stooped to avoid the thin branches that picked at her, snagging her hair like nasty little fingers. "We're following the sunshine?"

"Not just any old sunshine," Simon called over his shoulder at her. "That's a Jacob's Ladder. Quaint Bible story, you'll remember; Jacob fell asleep on a stone and dreamed of a great golden ladder, upon which angels ascended and descended. He called it a Gateway to Heaven. Later on, the Christ recognized the brilliance of the imagery and referred to himself as the Divine Ladder."

They emerged from the woods at a patch of meadow, open field. Less than a hundred yard away, the sunbeams fell upon the grass in a sunny puddle. Quite like finding the end of the rainbow, gold and all. He glanced over at her, interested in seeing her reaction.

Chiara's mouth made a tiny O of wonder.

Grinning, he dug a cigarette out of the pack and crumpled the wrapper. "Thing is, it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a ladder. Jacob was the son of Isaac, son of Abraham. Living descendant of the man who made a covenant with God. As such, he was aware of the existence of a real, living god and that knowledge causes the ability to see divinities. Angels. What he saw was a shaft of light, just like that one, and the angels that traverse it."

"Mother talked about angels, the stories her ancestors told. The Ladder is the only connection between Heaven and Earth, just as a hell gate is the only connection between Hell and Earth."

"Hell gates have never been proven to exist." He raised a lecturing finger toward her. "I have it on good authority."

"You need proof to believe in something?"

"Actually, I do." Simon nodded. "We'll agree to disagree on the gate thing but you're right about the Ladder. It's how earth-bound angels communicate with the boys upstairs."

"So Mack can get up to Heaven on that shaft of light?"

"Mack? Nah, not him. He's literally earth-bound. A Watcher. That's why you can't really see his wings. His job is to keep an eye on us wretched mortals and report back. He's over there, right now, talking to one of the messengers, who will slide back on up to get his next orders."

She squinted and wrinkled her nose. "So, right over there, there's an escalator to Heaven? I don't see anything."

"Not yet, you don't. We need to cross the circle. Follow and stay low."

They hunched down and skulked closer.

"And angels are just sliding up and down and delivering heaps of divine information?" She lost the wondrous expression and lowered her brows. "That sounds very much like interference, doesn't it?"

"Hey, now. I didn't bring you here to cause trouble. Just—try not to antagonize him, will yeh? He's usually a bit rammy after one of those things. I think it hurts him, you know, being stuck down here like some common mortal. He's obedient to the Will…but he misses home."

"You mean…" Chiara grasped his arm, half-turning him toward her. "He doesn't want to be here?"

"He's a Watcher. This is his deployment." He shrugged. "Trouble is, it's not a simple 18-month tour of duty and there's no leave. I always thought it sounded like a prison sentence but I try not to make him feel worse than he does. It's his place to be here. It's his duty. Who am I to judge or to criticize? It's the Will of God. I'm just a puny mortal, a pawn in this great and terrible game."

They crept toward the swatch of sunlight in the field. No ordinary sunlight…the grass glittered with life, the air held fragrances usually sullied by traffic and pollution. Birds were drawn to the area, filling the air with their songs. Even the wildlife seemed to congregate in the area. All was a sense of peace and serenity.

The air rippled around them, similar to the wards he'd placed around his vehicle. An invisible line. This one took a hell of a lot more than burning chicory.

Once they crossed the border into the sunlit space, that serenity vanished. It went from a pastoral picture to the trading floor on Wall Street, the inside of a war room on high alert.

Urgency was a flavor on the tongue as Simon pulled in the first lungful of tight, charged air. The atmosphere had become a buzz of voices and motion. Watchers, dozens of them with their stunted ghostly wings, gathered around the base of the Ladder, calling with hands cupped around their mouths, shouting and greeting the travelers.

The travelers didn't gracefully float up and down the ethereal ladder—they shot like they were rocket-launched, speed making them a golden blur. When they got to the bottom, they hovered over the ground to communicate with the Watchers, never touching the wretched earth, held aloft by the spread of their wings—

Oh, their wings. Simon rubbed his mouth, trying to hide his expression from Chiara. It was impossible to not be affected by a sight like that. The sight of an angel's wings made mortality seem like a petty, crude thing. All a man's concerns and triumphs and tragedies crumbled to mere nothings when faced with that breathtaking sight.

It stole a piece of a man's soul, seeing those angels. Definitive proof that God exists. It destroyed the very essence of faith. No longer can a man
believe
there is a God; no longer can he choose to do the right thing, the good thing, in the hopes that he will secure a place in Heaven. No longer does the concept of free will even exist.

Seeing angels, seeing the proof—it dropped like stones in a garden path, no twists, no turns, no forks in the road. Just a predetermined measure of steps that go from where a man currently stood to the feet of an unavoidable judgment.

Knowledge and belief were two totally different things. The main difference was the absence of the most vital nutrient a soul received: hope.

Simon and Chiara spent many long moments watching the angels. Eventually, the clouds shifted and the light shrank upwards, the Ladder dissipating. The Watchers each zapped out of sight, winking out, leaving no sign that they'd even been there.

Sound returned, too, normal waves of breeze and birdsong and traffic from the highway farther off.

"Well, that's it for tonight's episode, folks." Simon pushed to his feet, brushing the grass from his pants. "Thanks for your patronage and we look forward to you joining us again next week when we present another episode of The Celestial Prophesy show."

A crunch on gravel behind them made them both spin. Mack stood serenely behind them, hands folded in front of his waist.

"Jesus, Mack. I hate when you do that."

The angel clucked his tongue at the blasphemy. "I have a message."

"I figured as much. Well. Go on with it."

Mack remained silent, shifted his gaze toward Chiara.

"Oh, what? Her?" Simon scoffed. "Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of her."

"That's not how this works."

Simon heaved an exasperated sigh. "Sorry, kid. Mack here is shy in front of girls. They make him nervous, if you know what I mean."

"And that isn't what he means," Mack intoned.

Chiara raised her hands. "Hey. No worries. I'll just be over there, admiring the view of—actually, I'm not sure what that is."

"A gopher hole, from the looks of it. Enjoy." Simon watched her walk out of earshot before swinging a pissy look at Mack. "Satisfied?"

"Not my rules."

"Yeah, yeah." He took a tissue out of his pocket, ripped it in half, and wadded it, stuffing it into his ears. "Try to leave me in one piece this time, 'kay?"

Mack closed his eyes a moment.

When he opened them again, the pupils were gone, lost in a uniform metallic sheen. They glowed a magnificent brightness, like gold in the sun, just this side of painfully bright.

That was a beautiful thing. Always was. There was never a time that Simon took a message that he wasn't left feeling scoured and scrubbed by a gentle holy hand. It was like the sun shone only upon him, that he alone was worthy of the warmth. He'd never actually admit it, but it was a brief return to complete innocence, of being utterly worthy of the Creator's attention.

But, as with everything, there was a downside. The racket.

Mack's mouth opened impossibly wide, a veritable megaphone, the herald of God. The brightness streamed forth from his lips, that same golden glow. A cacophony of trumpets sounded in a blast that was not exactly meant for mortal eardrums.

The voice that thundered from Mack's unmoving lips was not his voice.

"
Light's scion, tarnished…Love's betrayer…A crushing blow will deliver to the lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls.
"

The light and the voice faded and Mack closed his mouth and eyes, falling in on himself a little before regaining his posture. It was the only time Simon ever saw a weakness in him. When he opened his eyes again, he was himself.

Simon squinted, pulling the tissue out wiggling his pinkie finger into his ear to soothe it. "Really, Mack? Another riddle?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Simon. Metatron follows time-honored traditions."

"He also thinks I'm hard-of-hearing." He rolled the tissues between his palms and stuffed the wad into his pocket. "And a poet, too, apparently. Does he think I can interpret sonnets? Or that I even want to?"

Mack grabbed Simon's shoulder as he tried to turn away. "Don't be foolish. This message came high priority for your ears only. You were meant to know this. You are expected to stop this."

"It can mean anything, anyone. You know what I think it means? The Metatron gets a real charge out of delivering vagueness."

"I watched your face as you took the message." Mack took a step toward him, his face alight with eager empathy. "I saw your expression. What does your gut say?"

"You think it's me." He took a step back and rubbed his mouth. "Nah. Too poetic to be me. The lone-heart? Savior of souls?"

"You're a terrible liar. You resonated with the message. It's all in your eyes."

"Which reminds me," Simon said. "I need a new pair of shades. I'm still seeing Metatron retina burn."

"Do the right thing, Simon. Please. And…be careful."

"When aren't I?"

"I have to answer that?"

"Yeah, yeah. Off with you."

Mack turned as if he might walk away. The ghost of his wings thickened around him in a velveteen fog and he vanished with it.

Simon wished he could do the same. Just poof, vanish, bye-bye, leave a problem behind. Not that he could ever believe that prophesy was about Chiara…but nothing Mack had relayed in the past wasn't personal. Every pronouncement had somehow involved him.

Light's scion, tarnished…Love's betrayer…A crushing blow will deliver to the lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls…