Fallen Angels 05 - Possession (31 page)

To have him aggrieved?

Bad. Very bad.

“Shall I serve the tea?” Bertie said by way of reply. “I shan’t think we’ll be joined.”

After all, when he’d arrived initially and found only Byron seated, he had gone in search of the other two … Nigel, who was their leader; and Colin, who was their warrior. Alas, however, there had been no answer when he’d approached the closed flap of Nigel’s beautiful silk tent, and likewise, Colin’s camp by the river had been empty.

Now, in Colin’s case, it was not unusual for him to disappear without commentary, but Nigel never departed without checking in. And he had not been inside the manse, either. Indeed, as Bertie had searched therein, he had found nothing located but the souls of the righteous passing a peaceful eternity within the protected walls.

Which was as it should be—but might ne’er be again if this war was lost.

He supposed it was possible that Nigel had gone to see the Maker. That would be the only reason he would break away without word—

“Bertie? I indicated yes, please?”

Refocusing, he found that the other archangel had his porcelain teacup held outward. “Oh, right, terribly sorry.”

He picked up the silver pot and poured out a fragrant amber stream with practiced ease. Then he did the same for himself, accepting the sugar cubes when they were offered to him and declining the scones.

“Perhaps a sandwich, then?” Byron inquired.

Stirring with a silver spoon, Bertie glanced over the perfectly constructed deviled-ham squares and circular cucumber-and-cream-cheese delectables. There were tiny
petits fours
, too, and little pieces of fudge, and orange slices as well.

He could not eat any of it.

“When this started,” he said quietly, “it never occurred to one that one’s side might lose. One never considered that possibility.”

“Yes.” Byron added some milk out of a delicate pitcher. “I feel much the same.”

In fact, Bertie tried to imagine an existence different from this and could not. His most enjoyable job was to be a gatekeeper, along with the others, to welcome the new arrivals and to help smooth the way for them—after all, Heaven could be a shock to those who had left the Earth conflicted or in grief, and further, even those who had been prepared to go could mourn the loss of their family, their friends, their life. Fortunately, any such strife ne’er lasted as soon as they understood that time here had no meaning, that moments and millennia were interchangeable in the manse—and thus they would be reunited in the blink of an eye, even if it took fifty years.

He loved his work. Interacting with the souls had brought out a dimension in him he had lacked, in spite of the fact that his role, out of the four of them, was to be the heart: Although he was not alive in the human sense, and never had been, he had found, over the ages, that he had embraced on a personal level humans’ need for comfort and companionship, for love and security.

And that commiseration made any impending loss in the larger war so much more upsetting. He could not bear to lose his colleagues, his purpose, his home.

“I feel rather helpless,” he murmured, as he looked over the undulating lawn.

Green, so very green, yet it was not a chromatic one-note. There were blades of every shade in the verdant carpet, from shamrock to emerald to chartreuse and sea foam. And in that sense, what was the very foundation of Heaven was like the souls below: different variations of the same thing making a glorious composite—

Far off in the distance, there was a flash of movement—and even though he could not see what it was quite yet, he knew precisely the cause.

Tarquin, his beloved Irish wolfhound, had gone off for a runabout, something the dear old boy did on a regular basis, sure as if he were watching his lean waistline: streaking over the ground, body stretched out long and lithe, tongue hanging out as he charged for the tea table, he was clearly enjoying his exercise.

It was only when the dog, which was not actually a dog, got closer, that it became obvious joy was not a part of the approach.

At the table, Tarquin skidded to a halt, his panting loud and frothy. He did not sniff around in hopes of a snack, however: He stood there meeting Bertie’s eyes, sending out some kind of an urgent message.

Bertie put his teacup down and wiped his mouth. “What is it, darling one? Whatever is wrong?”

As Bertie cradled that massive head between his hands, Colin’s voice intruded upon the scene.

“Nigel’s gone.”

Bertie wrenched around. “I beg your pardon?”

The other archangel came forward from out of the very air, and dearest fates, he looked absolutely wretched, his skin as pale as his white clothes, his dark hair ragged as a torn cloth. “He’s not coming back.”

Byron stiffened. “Do not say such a thing.”

Oh, no, Bertie thought … no…

Colin’s voice cracked. “He did it himself.”

All the blood drained out of Bertie’s head. “Surely you do not mean—”

Colin stared out over the landscape and yet his eyes focused on nothing. “I went to get him for tea, and I found him. So when I say he’s gone—it’s not because he decided to go for a long walk. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go get drunk.”

“Colin,” Bertie breathed. “Dearest fates upon us, no.”

“Fates upon us. Yes, quite.” The archangel put his palm out as both Bertie and Byron began to get to their feet. “No. No compassion. In fact, no response, please. I’m going to deal with this in my own way, thank you.”

The archangel Colin turned away as if in a trance, and in contrast to his sudden appearance, he ambulated away in halting, uneven steps—stumbling and tripping now and again as he went down toward the river.

“No …” Byron moaned. “Surely this cannot be.”

Bertie grabbed onto Tarquin’s neck and held the great beast to him. No, this was not supposed to be how it all went. When they had begun this war, there had been … rules. There had been the understanding that Devina was the enemy. There had been the expectation of victory and peace e’er after.

Never, ever this.

Shifting his eyes over to the two flags on the parapet, he knew why, however.

“Whatever shall we do now,” Byron whispered.

That was the question, of course. The war was going to rage on—it was just going to do so without Nigel … and Colin. For one without the other, when it came to that pair, meant that both were lost.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Byron said. “I did not foresee this a’tall.”

As tears welled in Bertie’s eyes, he had to agree—

A cold warning trembled across his shoulders as he measured the stout walls of the castle, and the moat, and the drawbridge.

As much as he mourned his dearest friend, there was a larger worry, a far, far more emergent problem. One of Biblical proportions, as they might say upon the Earth.

“Byron.” He rose out of his seat and took the collar of the great dog. “Byron, get upon your feet.”

The other archangel lifted his distraught eyes. “Why?”

“Come hither.” Bertie began to back away from the table, leading Tarquin with him. “Now.”

“Bertie, whate’er is wrong with you—”

“We must needs get inside the castle, and lock it up tight.” Bertie pivoted and started to walk faster, calling over his shoulder. “We are all that is left to protect them.”

At that, there was a loud clanging noise, as if the archangel had burst up and caught the underside of the table with his legs.

Byron had clearly extrapolated to the same conclusion Bertie had: Assuming Colin had not misinterpreted whatever he had found in Nigel’s tent, Nigel was well and truly unreachable now, and Colin not far behind. And that meant Heaven was weakened.

It had long been a fact that the souls were behind those fortifications for good reason. All it would take was an infiltration by Devina, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the war’s resolution.

She would determine that herself.

Bertie fell into a flat-out run, and Tarquin, as if sensing their predicament, loped alongside him, his gait growing longer and longer until he broke free and became the first of the three of them to cross the drawbridge.

Bertie was the second, and as his fine leather-soled shoes encountered the thick wooden boards, he looked overhead, praying that he didn’t see shadows forming in the sky above. Skidding to a halt by the gear and cable system that would raise the planks, he was relieved to find Byron shooting across the moat at a dead run.

Together, he and the other archangel placed hands on the massive crank and threw their weight into a pumping rhythm as Tarquin splayed his massive forepaws and scrummed down, growling deep in his chest in warning as he backed up inside to allow the drawbridge to raise.

Devina had yet to arrive. If she had, her presence would have been sensed.

But Bertie knew she would come—and likely, soon. She and Nigel were required to meet on a regular basis with the Maker, and they were not allowed to forgo the sessions. If they did not attend? They were penalized.

The instant Nigel didn’t appear at the scheduled time?

That canny demon would suspect something dire had happened, and it was in her nature to investigate the cause. And if she infiltrated the grounds? The manse was the only safe place to be—and even then, it had never truly been tested.

As the planks found home, locking in up top, Bertie went to one side, and Byron went to the other and together, they completed the final step: Tremendous forged iron bars thick as a torso slid across into deeply carved compartments in the twelve-foot-thick walls, hitting home with a resonant, echoing thud.

He couldn’t remember the last time these precautions had been taken.

Collapsing back against the cool stone, all Bertie could think about were his dear friends—his family, indeed—stuck on the far side.

“God save them,” he whispered.

Tarquin whimpered and nudged his hand. As he stroked that regal head, he said, “Darling one, we shall be safe herein.”

At least until Devina tried to enter. Then? He did not know.

With a wave of despair, he looked over at Byron … and watched as the archangel slowly drew off his rose-colored glasses. His hands were trembling so badly, he dropped them.

Landing on the stone floor, the lenses shattered into countless pieces.

As Sissy stared up at Jim from her crouch by the bathtub, his face was drawn and pale. And that answered her question, didn’t it.

She turned back to the porcelain expanse and felt her stomach burn. “It must have happened here, then.”

God, her voice sounded funny to her own ears.

It seemed so weird to think that something as traumatic as her own death could be lost in her head, the experience hidden like that furniture back at the old house, obscured even as the contours filled out the draping cloth of her amnesia—because she sensed she
had
been in here, in this loft, in this marble-floored room … in this tub.

But that was all she got.

Letting her weight fall back, she sat on her butt, drawing her knees up to her chest. Surely something would come forward if she stayed here long enough. Some image, the memory of a sound, a smell, a sensation … and that would unlock the door.

Or burn the sheets, as it were.

But all she got … was that fire in her gut. On the other hand, why wouldn’t she be getting pissed off again.

“Looks like you’re going to have to tell me anyway,” she said. “The show part of this isn’t working.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

When Jim didn’t say anything further, she looked up. He was no longer standing. Instead, he was against the wall by the door, sliding down slowly until he, too, was sitting on the hard marble. As he draped his arms on his knees and rubbed his face, she was struck by how visibly upset he was.

Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off. Especially in her old life. “Tell me.”

There was a long pause before he replied. “I don’t know how she brought you here. I don’t know whether she stuffed you in a trunk or tied your arms and legs and threw you in the back of a van. I don’t know if she had you in a trance, or drugged you, or incapacitated you in some way I can only guess at.” Jim swallowed hard. “I know that you were sacrificed because you were a virgin, and it was to protect her mirror. I know that I found you here … and you were gone—”

Jim’s voice broke at that point.

He cleared his throat, like he intended to go on. But nothing came out when he opened his mouth.

With a rough hand, he scrubbed his jaw.

Still nothing.

His inability to speak reached her on some deep level. This was a tough man, a hard man, and she knew without being told that he did not waste time with emotional stuff. And yet here he was…

As he blinked hard, Sissy was drawn out of her own drama. Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm. “It wasn’t your fault, you know. You were—”

“I should have gotten here sooner—”

“—not to blame for this—”

“—could have saved—”

“Stop it,” she barked. “Listen to me. Not your fault. Not at all.”

And then he began to weep.

Oh … my God, she thought. It was the last thing she expected.

And it was not like a girl would. Not with some high-pitched hysteria. He wept soundlessly, those huge shoulders quaking, his breath ragged, his face hidden behind his palms as if he didn’t want her or anybody to see him like this.

“You were gone…”

Sissy crab-walked over to sit beside him, but then didn’t know what to say … do. “It’s not your fault,” she told him again roughly.

“I was too late … You were already gone. Jesus Christ, you were … gone. And the truth is, ever since I found you, every time I close my eyes, every time I try to sleep, the image of you hanging over this goddamn, motherfucking tub tortures me.”

Sissy reached out and pulled him to her. It was an asinine thing to do—he was twice her size, and anything but a boy. Except he fell against her sure as a rootless tree, landing in a sprawl that pushed her closer to the tub.

Cradling him in her arms, she felt rather than heard his sobs, and strangely, offering him comfort eased her. It made her seem … strong, and that was critical in the midst of this scene of her greatest powerlessness.