Simeon chuckled as the demon handed him the other drink as far from Francis as he could be.
“He’s repelled by the dichotomy of what you are,” he explained to Francis. “A creature of divinity, and yet fallen into great darkness. I think your kind confuses them.”
He held his glass up in a salute to Francis, and they both sipped their sherry. It was good as far as sherry went.
“Well, sometimes I confuse myself,” Francis said in all truthfulness. “What’s your story?”
Simeon tilted his head ever so slightly.
“You’re obviously human, but you’re palling around with demons. What’s that all about?”
“There’s no palling around, I’m afraid,” Simeon said, shaking his head. “They are strictly my servants.”
Francis watched as the man and the demons exchanged looks. There was little love there.
“If given half the chance they would rip me open and feast upon my entrails,” Simeon said, smiling again. “And that would only be if they decided to be merciful.”
“Must be something pretty special that keeps them in line,” Francis said, having some more of his drink.
“Special,” Simeon repeated. “It is at that.”
One mystery piling up atop another. Francis decided that it was time to cut to the chase and discuss what had brought them here. “So, what can you tell me about the Bone Masters?”
Simeon turned his head slowly to rest his gaze on the fallen angel. “Ah yes, the dreaded Bone Masters,” he said with dramatic flourish.
“Yeah, them.”
“Demonic killers with the utmost expertise,” Simeon added. “To hire them is to guarantee your quarry’s demise.”
“Sounds like you’ve been hired to manage their PR,” Francis said. It was his turn to smile, but it didn’t last for long.
“I admire them,” Simeon explained. “That’s all. It’s hard to find dependable help these days.” He sipped the last of his sherry and then turned in his chair as he set the empty glass down upon the table. “I’ve actually heard the same about you, Francis.”
“Me?” Francis responded with a laugh. “I doubt that I’m anywhere near the level of the Bone Masters.”
“You’re too modest.”
“More realistic than modest,” Francis said. He, too, finished his sherry and leaned over to rest the glass upon the table. “But we’re not supposed to be talking about me. I need to know everything you can tell me about the Bone Masters.”
Simeon leaned back in the club chair and crossed his long legs.
“Let’s see; a demonic species that excels in the act of murder, psychically linked with a species of animal that is transformed into their chosen weapon upon its death. A biological weapon that fires bullets coated with one of the deadliest venoms in all existence.”
“Any cure for the venom?” Francis asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Simeon answered. “To be hit by these projectiles pretty much signs your death warrant.”
“Where can these Bone Masters be found?”
“That is a secret of which they are very protective.”
Francis didn’t like that answer. “So you don’t have a clue?”
Simeon shook his head. “No idea whatsoever.”
“I thought you said . . .”
“I never said that I knew where they were, but I do have an idea of how you might find them.”
“All right,” Francis said. “I’ll bite. How?”
“The animals,” Simeon said simply. He poured another glass of sherry for himself.
“The animals,” Francis repeated. “What exactly does . . . ?”
“The animals that become their murder weapons. I know the location of their habitat.”
“So if I know where these creatures can be found . . .”
“Exactly,” Simeon interrupted. “The Bone Masters will not be far behind.”
“I like that,” Francis mused. “So here’s the question, then. What will this information cost me?”
Simeon played it coy, downing his second drink and smacking his lips almost comically as he let the empty glass dangle from his grasp. “It will not cost you a single cent of money.”
Francis waited for the bomb to drop.
“As I mentioned earlier, your reputation precedes you,” Simeon began. “And I have need for someone with your special skills.”
Francis didn’t have a good feeling about this, watching as Simeon began to spin the ring upon his finger.
Imagine that.
“I
t was to be a time unlike any other,” the Fossil continued. “That which had been sundered was to come together again; Heaven was to be unified once more, and the world of man was to join this new holy union.”
Images flickered in the recesses of Remy’s mind, flashes of memory that were not his own. He saw the streets of his home, the streets of Boston flowing with people, their faces turned to the sky, bathed in the unearthly light that shone from the Heavens above them.
It was true. It was all true.
“We were being invited into a pretty exclusive club,” the Fossil said. “We could all feel it in our very souls, believers and nonbelievers alike. God was asking us to join His kingdom—asking us to be a part of Heaven.”
Remy closed his eyes, trying to tempt more from another’s memory. There were flashes of the Golden City that made him gasp aloud. He was there, amongst his kind again—accepted, wanted.
“I was there,” he whispered as he tried to dredge more from the deep recesses of someone else’s mind. It was there, just beyond his reach.
He stretched out with mental fingers, reaching . . . reaching. . . .
The flash of memory was like a physical assault. Remy grunted, pitching forward to the dirt floor. His mouth was filled with the taste of blood, and his mind with the image of a city.
For a moment he was mistaken, believing it to be the golden capital of Heaven, but it was not. This was another city, one recently risen from the fire and the ice, shaped from the desolation of the world’s original purpose.
Called Tartarus in frightened whispers, it had once been a prison for those who had betrayed the Lord God, a place of great suffering for those who had sworn their allegiance to the Son of the Morning during the Great War.
But the Morningstar had returned, taking Tartarus and the world upon which it sat and shaping it into a kingdom he could call his own. A sprawling city to rival Heaven’s golden spires.
It was to be called Pandemonium.
That was what Remy saw.
“Hell’s city . . .” A sharply angled metropolis that seemed to have been chiseled from polished black stone. “Pandemonium was there.”
The old man smiled his sad smile, his lips cracking and starting to bleed. “Well, of course it was. As was the Garden of Eden. How else could Heaven be made whole?”
“Unification,” Remy said aloud, as the images of the Golden City, the Garden, and Pandemonium beginning to merge—to come together as one—exploded in his mind. “I see it.”
But then there came a sensation of dread. He could feel it building the deepest, darkest corners of this memory, a pressure intensifying, growing to critical mass before . . .
There were flashes of utter devastation; buildings composed of darkness and light crumbling toward one another, a jungle as old as reality burning, all plummeting from the sky to the earth below.
Remy recoiled, trying to push back the memories, afraid that they would most certainly be the death of him.
“Did you see?” the Fossil asked him.
“I saw the end, the death throes of Paradise.”
“And the cause?”
There were images, but unformed. “Nothing yet,” he said, feeling warmth upon his face and reaching up to find blood trickling from his nose.
“Certain memories can be dangerous things,” the Fossil counseled.
Remy wiped his nose with the sleeve of his heavy coat.
“I can’t avoid them forever.”
“No, you can’t.”
Remy reached into his pocket to find something to stifle the flow of blood and pulled out a filthy handkerchief. As he stared at the stained piece of cloth, that niggling sense of something dancing on the periphery of his brain was there again.
Something was wrapped in the handkerchief.
“What have you got there?” the Fossil asked.
Within the crusty folds, Remy found an old key. Images flashed again inside his skull. He saw a rounded, heavy wooden door, a broken neon sign hanging above it. He could make out some of the letters—
M
,
T
,
H
,
S
.
“Do you know what it’s for?” the Fossil asked him.
“A door,” Remy replied. “A door that I need to find.”
• • •
The Bone Master known to his clan as Ripper of Souls loomed above his latest assignment, watching her die.
She had once been part of a powerful coven of witches, but a greed for power had gotten the best of her and she’d stolen the coven’s Book of Shadows—the source of their power—to sell to the highest bidder.
The leader of the coven had not appreciated the betrayal and had contracted the Bone Masters to deal with it.
Ripper of Souls had little difficulty in locating the thief, whose name was Amanda Blite. Her mother, who was suffering from a rare form of bone cancer, had recently moved into a very exclusive, very expensive hospital for the terminally ill. All the Bone Master had to do was stake out the hospital and wait for the inevitable visit by the caring daughter.
It was all too easy, almost as if she wanted to die.
Standing above his prey, he stroked his weapon as he watched the light of life go out of her eyes. Blite had tried to fight back, but her magickal power had little effect once the first of his tainted bullets entered her flesh.
What was that saying that humanity used to reward a valiant yet fruitless trouble? An A for effort? Yes, that was what he would give this target.
An A for effort.
The bones of his weapon vibrated beneath each of his affectionate strokes, pleased that yet another victim had fallen to its venom.
More,
the weapon thought, excited for yet another kill.
The sound of something falling to the floor triggered an instantaneous reaction in the assassin. Ripper of Souls spun around, aiming the head of the animal skeleton that he held in his hands. But he did not will the weapon to fire, for it was not a threat at all.
The old woman lay on the hospital bed, reaching for the device that would sound an alarm and bring her aide. However, Ripper had already disabled it.
The dying woman locked eyes with the assassin, and he believed that if she had the ability to slay with a glance, he would most assuredly have suffered grievously.
A humorous thought crossed his mind at that very instant. What if she were to hire an assassin to slay him? By the looks of her, though, she’d never get the chance. Death was hovering very close by this one.
He was drawn to the bedside. The dying woman was little more than skin pulled tightly over bones. Her mouth moved pathetically as she tried to speak, but she was too weak to create much more than wheezing croaks.
The weapon cradled in his arm wanted to strike, but Ripper of Souls felt that it would only be a waste, and besides, no one ever got rich by being merciful.
Ripper of Souls pulled his cloak tighter about himself, preparing to leave and collect his fee, when his weapon suddenly began to vibrate.
At first he thought it was a warning, but then realized that the living gun was the first to respond to a psychic communication from the Broker.
Ripper of Souls allowed his guard to fall, feeling the tickling sensation of the telepathic call. Perhaps he was about to receive his newest job, the killer thought, feeling that sense of excitement he always did when being given the death notice on some hapless individual.
But then he realized that he and his weapon were not the only ones to receive this call—it was for all the Bone Masters. Their honor was being challenged. A quarry had managed to survive.
That could never be allowed.
Ripper of Souls felt himself aroused. To be the one that managed to prevent this potential embarrassment would be glorious.
His weapon agreed, vibrating eagerly in anticipation.
All the information he required to fulfill this existing contract filled his consciousness and that of his weapon.
An angel,
he thought. He and his weapon had never killed anything of the divine before. They could barely contain their excitement.
The sound that disturbed his thrill was little more than a squeak, but it distracted him anyway.
Ripper of Souls looked toward the bed, at the dying woman, as her mouth moved again, emitting a single, barely audible word. “Murderer,” she managed, the toll that the effort took upon her obvious.
The assassin could not contain himself, and he stepped closer to the bed.
“Yes,” he whispered, ignoring the psychic pleas of his weapon. It so wanted to kill the woman, but Ripper decided that he would not waste a single projectile or drop of venom.
Instead, he reached out, placed a skeletal hand firmly over the woman’s mouth and nose, and held it there. Her eyes grew wide with the realization that this was her time and that he would be the one to take her life.
“I
am
a murderer,” he told her, watching the life drain from her eyes as he had her daughter before. “And I do so love my job.”
• • •
Ashley bounded up the stairs, her heart pounding to the point that she thought it might just burst through her ribs.
“Remy,” she cried as she practically leapt into the bedroom, her momentum stopped cold by the sight of him lying so very still upon the bed.
Marlowe let out an excited bark, his tail wagging furiously as he jumped from his spot next to Remy and ran to greet her.
“What’s happened, boy?” she found herself asking, on the verge of crying, but she refused to let the emotion override her control. It wouldn’t do her any good to lose it now.
It was then that she noticed the dark-skinned man sitting so very still at the top of the bed beside her friend, his hand pressed to Remy’s heart.
“Hello?” she said. “Can you tell me what happened? . . . Can you tell me if he’ll be . . .” Her voice started to crack and she stopped to take a deep breath. “Can you tell me if he’ll be all right?”
When the man didn’t answer, Ashley rounded the bed with Marlowe close at her side. The man appeared to be in a kind of trance, his eyes barely open—just slits, really.
“Hello?” she said again.
The man continued to remain perfectly still. Slowly, she reached a tentative hand out.
The tips of her fingers touched his shoulder.
“Can you hear me?”
• • •
Assiel walked in the darkness of the angel Remiel’s psyche.
It was a turbulent place filled with equal parts darkness and light, and in all his time he had never seen another like it.
It had been his purpose to help heal those who were injured; sometimes using balms, sometimes potions, and sometimes something more drastic.
Something far more intense.
Assiel had the ability to connect with a being’s inner self, that which linked him to the flow of creation.
The source of all existence.
In humanity, it was the most fabulous and wonderful of creations. A very piece of the Lord God Himself imbued in each and every one of these special life-forms.
The soul was always a source of amazement for him, but until this moment, he had been certain that only on members of the human race had this amazing gift been bestowed.
Until this moment.
The healer had never seen anything quite like this.
An angel’s life essence was like a ball of fire, consistently feeding upon and being fed by the life energies of the universe, whereas the soul was a thing of absolute beauty, an intricate mechanism of branches and roots connected not only to the source of all life, but to the Almighty Himself.
What Assiel saw before him now was a thing of awesomeness. It was all that made Remy angel, blended with what looked to be the beginnings of a human soul.
It was something vibrant and alive. It was what all angels had craved since the creation of humanity.
Only the Lord God could have created such a thing as this.
But as Assiel drew closer to the pulsing energy that was shaped like a mighty tree, he found something that tweaked his curiosity. Rootlike tendrils extended from the base of the tree, flowing down into the earthen substance of Remiel’s psychic landscape. The tendrils seemed to be discolored, growing darker as they entered the earth.
Assiel knelt down and began to dig at the dirtlike substance. The blackening roots seemed to merge together, becoming entangled as they continued downward. Sensing that something wasn’t right, the healer dug deeper into the gritty matter as he followed the braided root.
The ground beneath his knees suddenly gave way, exposing a swirling void of indescribable origin. Assiel managed to grab hold of the root at its thickest point and haul himself back up to firmer ground, even as he felt the maelstrom of nothingness beneath him attempting to pull him down.
But now he knew what was happening to Remy.
The angel’s special life energies were being drained, drawn through the darkened root, down into the swirling abyss, to . . .
“Can you hear me?”
• • •
The dark-skinned man sitting beside Remy gasped and spun around to face Ashley.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley said, quickly stepping back, nearly tripping over Marlowe.
The man’s eyes were wide and dark, and he seemed confused, as if awakened from a very real dream.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Ashley.”
“Another of the Seraphim’s lovers?”
“Lovers?” Ashley repeated, horrified at the thought. “No way, I’m his friend.”
The man made a face that could only have meant
whatever
and turned his attentions back to Remy.
“How is he doing? Is he going to be all right?” Ashley asked as she crept closer to the bed.
The man was examining her friend, and for the first time she noticed that Remy was completely naked, but she didn’t care; there wasn’t room for modesty or embarrassment now.
“I had just managed to infiltrate your lover’s psyche—”
“He’s not my lover,” Ashley interrupted.
“And had discovered the source of his unconsciousness,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “but your touch drew me back.” The man focused his cold, dark eyes directly on Ashley.