Sons of Angels (45 page)

With a flick of his great wings, the dragon was gone, back through the portal to the land of the dead.

“Who said ghosts have no use?” The old man winked.

“Thank you.” Julie looked down at her friends. “He would have killed us all.”

“And what good would that have done, eh?” The old man tutted. “A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t have to fight for her life.”

Julie let out a bark of laughter. “Why not? I hold the lands of the dead between my fingers.”

“Mebbe.” He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “These are the best thing about being dead. Coal dust got me in the end, and I could never have one without coughing my lungs up. Now I can smoke all I want.”

“Mason, isn’t it? I remember you. You were at the hospital last year. You had no family.”

“Aye, and you sat every day and held my hand. I never got the chance to thank you for that.”

“Do you want to go through?” Julie frowned, the strain of keeping the portal open beginning to show. It felt like claws digging into the flesh of her brain. If she didn’t let it close soon, she was sure she'd have her psyche stripped out by the roots. “I can’t keep it open much longer.”

He stared into the distance. “I can see my Maud beckoning to me.” He winked at Julie again. “Mebbes I’ll stay here a little longer and enjoy the peace.”

He grinned and sauntered off. One by one the other ghosts left. Some passed through the portal, relieved to be no longer confined to the mortal realm, but others chose to stay, returning to familiar haunts.

Julie let the portal collapse, the flow of air around her ceasing. She pulled out her seeing eye and hurried to Felicia, avoiding the gory mess that used to be Harold. Her sister was alive but unconscious. “Don’t die, Felicia. Stay with me.”

She hurried across to Gillian.

“I’ll be fine,” The vampire’s voice was a forced whisper. “He missed my heart. I just need–ooh–six pints of blood and I’ll be right as plasma.”

Julie waved her fetiche over the wound. “It looks nasty. Will it heal while it’s cauterized?”

“Yes, I’m not trying to regenerate living tissue.” Gillian caught her hand with cold fingers. “See to Harold, will you? He must be in agony.”

“Harold’s gone.” Julie grimaced. “He was cut in half.”

“No.” Gillian shook her head. “Call Jasfoup.”

“Jasfoup?” Julie looked around. “Where is he?”

“He was burned by the angel,” Gillian said. “He’ll be back. He needs to heal as well.”

“What do I do with Harold until then?”

Gillian tried to click her fingers. “Call Devious. He’ll know what to do. Where’s your imp?”

“He vanished when we saw the first angel.”

“Call Devious,” Gillian said. “Harold needs him.”

“Devious?” Julie clicked her fingers. “Devious! Where are you?”

“What?” The imp appeared a few inches from the ground and dropped the rest of the way. “I’ve got a horrendous headache.”

“It’s Harold. I think he’s dead.”

“I’ve seen him look better.” Devious stared at the twin halves of his master. “But I’d know if he was dead. I’d have felt the dissolution of my contract.”

He examined the body and clicked his fingers. Delirious and John appeared.

“Can’t it wait?” John took off a sequined headband. “I was at a disco.”

“Not really.” Devious pointed at Harold. “He needs patching up before we can take him home.”

“That’s an understatement.” Delirious vanished and reappeared with several needles and suture thread. “It’s a good job he’s unconscious. This would hurt like the devil else.”

* * * *

Harold’s eyes fluttered open when Gillian kissed his cheek. He smiled up at his dark beauty, catching the slight scent of blood clinging to her lips “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Dawn approaches. It’s time I was in my crypt.”

“Already?” He looked at the clock on the bedside table. “I won’t get up, if you don’t mind. It’s surprising how much saving the world and disposing of angels takes it out of you.”

“You can say that again.” Jasfoup, who took up more than half of the king-sized bed, was swathed in bandages.

“I can see myself out.” Gillian gave Harold a lingering kiss. “Perhaps we can have some time to ourselves soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Harold smiled. “I’ve been neglecting the shop a bit this week too. I really ought to get an assistant manager in for these odd weeks where I have to save the world. I bet I’ve lost business while I’ve been away.”

“You’ve got the internet site and mail order sales set up,” Jasfoup pointed out. “That should keep the earnings topped up.”

“Yes.” Harold squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll ask Dad to write a filter that directs people to me when they search for a book online then hijacks their virtual shopping basket and dumps it into my checkout. He’s a wizard with applets.”

“He would be, wouldn’t he?” Gillian smiled. “He’s always been good with apples, ever since he first met Eve.”

Harold frowned. “I don’t think that was him, actually. That was my Uncle Samael.” He looked around, but Gillian had already gone. He nudged Devious instead. “Wake up! I want a cup of tea.”

The imp groaned. “My poor head. Tell me the cure for a hangover, master!” He batted his third eyelids. “Please? I did save your life again last night.”

“He drank a whole pint while you were talking to Midnight in the club.”

“A pint? That’s not much.”

“Of creme de menthe?”

Harold sighed. “Very well. Three raw eggs, a pound of mustard, a sprig of fennel and a fluid ounce of salt.”

“Thank you, master.” Devious grinned and scampered off.

“A fluid ounce of salt?” Jasfoup raised an eyebrow.

Harold shrugged. “If I knew the cure for a hangover I’d be rich. If he manages to drink all that he’ll be sick. That’s halfway to a cure.”

“Have you ever seen an imp be sick?”

“No.”

“Nor have I.” Jasfoup eased himself out of bed. “Until now.”

Chapter 53

Harold slept in until elevenses the next morning, a much-needed and well-deserved rest after the night’s exertions, at least in his mind. Once bathed and dressed, he strolled downstairs to find Felicia and Jasfoup taking coffee on the terrace, while Julie sat in the kitchen looking through the situations vacant.

“Why are you looking for a job?” He poured a cup of tea from the pot. “I thought you had the insurance money from the house and your inheritance coming.”

Julie sighed. “That won’t last long. I was institutionalized at sixteen. What chance have I got of finding suitable employment? There’s nothing here for a black magician.”

Harold considered it. “I suppose not.” He helped himself to a bowl of toasted cornflakes and added milk and sugar. “Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.”

“Do you mean it?” Julie pointed her seeing eye at his face.

“Of course.” Harold tried to engage his enthusiasm for his now soggy cereal. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. How much salary are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. What’s the going rate?”

Harold shrugged. “Twenty thousand?”

“Plus fringe benefits?”

“I suppose.” Harold grinned. “You can stay here until you get yourself sorted. It’s got to be better than the hospital.”

Julia grinned and folded the paper. “Thanks, Harold. Your generosity is appreciated.”

Harold nodded. “As it should be.” He stood in the open door, watching Delirious and Wrack give the herb garden a makeover.

Jasfoup shaded his eyes with his hand. “It’s a beautiful day. It makes you glad to be alive.”

“How are you alive?” Felicia looked over the top of her paper. “I saw you cut in half.”

Harold grinned and shrugged. “I have a sort of immortality. I can only be killed in one particular way.”

“What’s that?”

“Having a–” Harold laughed and wagged his finger. “The fewer people who know the better. How’s your wound?”

Felicia lifted the bottom of her blouse and shifted in the chair so that Harold could see. The wound looked no different to how it had been the previous night.

“Gillian said she’d see to it tonight. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to the process.”

“I’ll clean the electric drill.” Jasfoup was pinker than usual, but apart from the bandages on his arm, looked none the worse for wear.

“Why did you get so burned?” Felicia took off her dark glasses. “I’ve seen you closer to angels before.”

“It’s all in the intent.” Jasfoup peered over his own glasses, his red eyes glinting in the sunlight. “If an angel is beatific, I can chat to them freely but if one of us is out to kill the other, that’s where the danger lies. If I’d been stronger I’d have driven it off instead, but a seraph...” He shook his head.

“At least you’re healing without having to have the wound cut open.” Felicia took a sip of her coffee and made room for Harold and Julie to sit.

Jasfoup shifted his cup. “We’ll have to do something about your eye, Julie. Replace one or something.”

“I’m still not keen on that. What if I lose the sight altogether?”

“How about cybernetic transplants?” Harold sat in partial shade. “I read a book once about this woman assassin who had sunglasses implanted into her face. They gave her digital readouts on everything she saw.”

“I don’t want to go that far.” Julie frowned.

“It’s an idea, though.” Felicia folded the paper. “Do your fetiches have to look like marbles, or can they be another shape?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried any other shapes. What were you thinking of?”

“Glasses. You won’t look out of place with them on and you’ll be able to overlap the real world with the spirit one.”

“I like that.” Julie raised her coffee mug. “I’ll give it a try.”

* * * *

Gillian nodded to the guards at the front of the embassy and walked into the gilded reception hall. An aide marked her off on his appointments diary and wrote out a visitor’s badge before leading her up the marble staircase, his sandaled feet slapping on cold stone that bustled with people by day but was as empty as a ransacked tomb at night. He paused outside a set of double doors and knocked timorously.

“Enter.” The voice from inside sounded dry and weary, but the aide opened the door a fraction and stood aside for her to pass, closing the door behind her and scurrying away. Gillian heard his footsteps padding back down.

The ambassador was slumped against a pile of tapestry cushions but looked up as she approached. “Do sit down. I’d rise to greet you properly, but today has been Hell and I’m far too tired for professional courtesies. Will you take tea?”

Gillian shook her head and seated herself before Azazel, Fallen Angel and Lord of the Nephilim, Standard Bearer of the Ninth Legion of Hell. “No, thank you. I don’t imbibe.”

Azazel nodded. “Of course. You’ve gained self-confidence since we met last.”

“Indeed, lord.” Gillian offered him a tight smile. “Felicia said that there was a condition for your service.”

“You will always be in my service.” Azazel smiled and put down his bowl of green tea. “I don’t suppose you fancy being the vicar of Maidstone, do you? No? I thought not. Ah well...” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Any idea who I should make Bishop of Kent?”

Gillian waited for a decent interval before coughing to attract his attention. He looked up again, his eyes focusing on her.

“Oh, yes, sorry. My price. I want a child.”

Gillian shrugged. “You need me for that? One of your aides could have kidnapped one.”

“No, you misunderstand. I want you to bear me an heir.” Azazel’s smile was dazzling. “Don’t worry, though. You can tell Harold he’s the child’s father.”

“My lord? I can’t bear a child.”