Walking in the Midst of Fire (10 page)

It wasn’t often that one could observe an angel in the throes of pleasure.

“Aszrus wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d gone out earlier in the evening and wasn’t expected back until much later—if at all.”

“Where did he go?” Remy asked.

The angel shrugged. “Out,” he answered. “The general did not share his every bit of business with me, only items that pertained to maintaining God’s will and the glory of Heaven.”

“Right,” Remy muttered in response. “The glory of Heaven. So you don’t have the slightest idea where he went last night?”

“Not the slightest,” Montagin said as he drank some more.

Remy scowled, not liking that pieces of the puzzle were missing. “Go on. You came in . . .”

“So when I came in and found him like this . . .”

“And this is exactly how it was when you entered?” Remy asked. “You didn’t touch anything?”

The angel shook his head. “Not a thing.” He considered the question again, before adding to his answer. “I had a drink, but that was all.”

“And then what did you do?”

“Drank my drink, and thought about who could have done such a thing, and what it would mean to the grand scheme of things.”

“And then?”

“And then I thought of you, and how if there was anybody on this forsaken world that could keep this situation from blowing up it would be you.”

“I’m guessing that you already suspect who’s responsible,” Remy said, rising to his feet, eyes still rooted to the corpse of the angel general.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Montagin scoffed.

“No, not really,” Remy said, looking away from the corpse to the angel.

Just as he was about to take another swig from his glass, he stopped. “You’re not sure?” Montagin asked. “Who else but the Morningstar would be responsible for such a blatant disregard for protocol? Somebody entered the dwelling of a general serving in the army of Heaven and cut out his heart. Who else but Lucifer would dare—”

“He wasn’t murdered here,” Remy interrupted, looking back to the corpse.

“What?” Montagin asked, thrown by the statement. “What do you mean he wasn’t murdered here?”

“There isn’t enough blood.” Remy pointed down to the Persian rug beneath the corpse. “If Aszrus’ heart was cut out here, the rug would be stained with his blood. There isn’t more than a drop here and there beneath him.”

Montagin downed what remained of his drink, placed the empty glass on one of the bookshelves, and stalked closer for a look.

“You’re right, but if he wasn’t murdered here, then . . .”

“He was murdered someplace else,” Remy finished. “And I think that wherever that is will likely tell us who is responsible.”

“But who else would dare?” Montagin began.

The stink of scotch wafted from the angel’s breath, causing Remy to wrinkle his nose.

“I could be wrong, but I’m just not feeling the work of the Morningstar here,” Remy said.

“Then who?” Montagin demanded.

“Don’t know.” Remy was looking at the body again, searching for something—anything—that he might have missed the first few times. “But something tells me that if the Morningstar was involved, he wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of killing the general, and then bringing the body back here. I’m guessing it would have been left where it fell.”

“How can you know that?” Montagin asked.

Remy shrugged. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s just something that I’m feeling in my gut right now. This doesn’t feel like an act of war. It feels more . . . personal.”

“But that’s exactly what this is,” Montagin stressed.

Remy understood the ramifications of this act, and did everything possible not to break out in a cold sweat.

“Right, but we’ve got to do everything in our power to prevent folks from finding out about it right now until . . .”

“Until?” Montagin wanted to know.

“Until I figure out who’s responsible.”

CHAPTER SIX

T
he clock was ticking,
and since Montagin didn’t have any information as to where the general had been the previous night, Remy figured that it wouldn’t hurt to ask some of the house staff if they knew anything.

Montagin had pissed on the idea, but Remy knew better, insisting that the angel would be surprised at how much was known by people who supposedly didn’t know a thing.

They locked up the study and proceeded through the labyrinthine corridors of the estate to a huge kitchen, where a squat old woman sat at a table peeling potatoes, the filthy skins dropping from her knife onto a spread-out newspaper.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.

“This is Mr. Chandler,” Montagin announced as they entered the kitchen, and Remy watched as the old woman jumped at the sound of his voice. “He has some questions to ask you, and I would appreciate if you answered them.”

Montagin then looked to him. “I will be in the study if you should need me,” the angel announced before turning to go back the way they’d come.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Chandler?” the woman asked, pushing back her chair as she started to stand.

Remy watched her, and knew at once that she was blind. It was no surprise to him; Angels who functioned on Earth had a tendency to surround themselves with the sightless. There was something about the affliction that lent itself to the service of Heavenly beings.

Some said it had something to do with the sightless being able to see—
sense
—angels as they truly were and not as their human alter egos.

“That would be very nice, Ms. . . . ?”

“Bridget will suffice,” she said with a pleasant smile, fingers gently laid upon the tabletop as she moved around the furniture to get to the stove, where a pot of coffee sat.

She poured him a steaming cup of the dark liquid and carefully set it down in front of him without spilling a drop.

“Cream and sugar?” she asked. “Or would you prefer milk?”

“This is fine,” Remy said, picking up the cup and taking a careful sip. It was some of the best coffee he’d had in ages. Madeline would have called it rocket fuel it was so strong, but that was just the way he liked it.

Bridget continued to stand there, fingertips resting atop the table.

“Excellent coffee, Bridget,” he told her, expecting her to find her way back to her chair; but she continued to stand before him, sightless eyes gazing off into the kitchen.

“Glad you like it,” Bridget said, again with a tender smile. “It’s one of my special talents.”

Remy wholeheartedly agreed and took another drink of the scalding brew, the older woman still standing in front of him. He was about to ask her if there was something wrong, or something that he could do for her, when she began her question.

“Would it be forward of me to ask to touch your hand?” Bridget asked.

For a moment he didn’t understand, but he quickly came to realize that she wanted to
see
him as he truly was.

“Normally I have far better manners than this, but in you I’m sensing . . .”

Remy did not wait for her to finish. Instead, he reached out, gently taking her hand in his.

“How’s this?” he asked, watching the expression upon her face change.

“Oh my,” Bridget whispered, her cheeks beginning to flush pink. “You’re lovely.”

“Why, thank you,” Remy said with a laugh.

The old woman then lovingly patted his hand and returned to her seat.

“And why haven’t I seen somebody like you around here before?” she asked as she lowered herself down into her seat, and felt out a potato to begin peeling again.

“Let’s just say your master and I don’t run in the same circles,” Remy said.

She seemed to accept that, nodding in understanding.

“Mr. Montagin said that you have some questions for me,” she said, her knife expertly separating the skin from the body of the potato.

“I do,” Remy said. “When was the last time you had contact with Aszrus?” he asked.

She stopped her work, thinking about the question.

“Last night, before supper,” she said. “I was going to make a roast chicken, but he told me not to bother—that he was going out for the evening.”

“And that was it?” Remy asked. “You didn’t speak with him again?”

“Only briefly, when he asked if I would make him shepherd’s pie for tonight.” Her smile was beaming. “He loved my shepherd’s pie.”

“I’m sure it’s something amazing,” Remy responded, finding all of this absolutely fascinating. Here were angels of Heaven, creatures not known for their love of humanity’s ways, embracing many of the habits for which he himself had been ostracized by his kind.

“Perhaps if you and the master could put aside your differences—at least long enough to have a good meal—you might be able to see just how amazing.”

“That certainly is something to consider,” Remy said, finishing up the most excellent cup of coffee, and rising from his chair. He reached across the table to touch her hand again. “Thank you so much for your time, and the coffee.”

She told him that he was most welcome, but as Remy pulled his hand away, she grabbed hold of his fingers in a passionate grip.

“Why exactly are you here, Mr. Chandler?” Bridget asked. “Is everything all right?”

Remy could sense her rising concern, and did everything in his power not to let on. It was still too early for the fate of her master to be revealed.

“I’m helping Mr. Montagin with an investigation,” he told the concerned old woman. “As soon as we’ve gathered all the facts, I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”

Remy felt bad that he couldn’t tell her more, but was afraid that if he did, things would soon spiral out of control.

She released his hand without another word, and he left her there, staring off into space, alone with her curiosity and concern.

•   •   •

Remy found Montagin in the foyer of the home, finishing up his talk with the remaining staff.

“And if you should remember anything out of the ordinary, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

The random assortment of men and women, young and old, all sightless, responded that they most assuredly would, and proceeded to slowly go about their duties.

As Remy watched them he could see that there was some hesitation there, that some of them were attempting to get up enough courage to ask what this was all about. He used the opportunity to inject himself into the scene, canceling out their opportunity.

“Mr. Montagin,” Remy said aloud, announcing his presence.

He watched those who had not yet left rethink their next action, then disappear into the house along with their curiosity.

“Anything?” Remy asked.

“If they did hear something, they’ve chosen not to talk about it,” Montagin answered. “Was Ms. Worthington any help?”

“Bridget?” Remy asked. “No. She had a brief exchange with the general last night before he went out.” He kept his voice low in case there were any ears close by.

Remy took hold of Montagin’s elbow, steering him back toward the study and the scene of the crime.

“What now?” Montagin asked. “If we report this to the proper authorities, you know what the outcome will be.”

Remy knew exactly what would happen; it was as sure as dropping a lit match into a bucket of gasoline.

War.

The forces of Heaven were looking for an excuse, any excuse at all, to begin another war with the legions of the Morningstar.

“We need to keep what’s happened a secret as long as we can,” Remy said as they stood in front of the heavy wooden doors leading into the study.

“I’m not sure how long that might be,” the angel assistant said. “Aszrus had certain responsibilities.”

“They’ll need to be canceled,” Remy stated.

“Canceled?” Montagin protested. “Aszrus was a leading general of the Heavenly legions here to assess the situation brought on by the reemergence of the threat of Lucifer Morningstar. His responsibilities cannot just be canceled.”

Remy’s eyes darted around the hallway, making sure that no one was around before he spoke. “Well, guess what? They’re going to have to be, unless our friend in there is going to show up at one of his meetings sporting a lovely hole where his heart used to be.”

They glared at each other, the immensity of the situation weighing on them both.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t unfold like we think,” Montagin suggested. “Maybe if we stress your belief that the Morningstar wouldn’t—”

“You know as well as I do that’s exactly how it would unfold,” Remy interrupted. “War would be declared as soon as they saw the body—and since when would any of the Heavenly host have anything to do with what I have to say? They can’t fucking stand me.”

“True,” Montagin agreed. “But I don’t know how I’m going to keep this secret for very long.”

Remy looked at the doors. “First, we have to seal this up,” he said.

“Seal it up?”

“Nothing gets in there,” Remy explained. “We’re better off if no one knows he’s dead.”

“A locked door will not keep a being of Heaven from getting inside,” Montagin informed him.

“True, if we’re going the traditional route,” Remy said.

Montagin stared, unsure of where this was going. “Go on.”

“Magick,” Remy said. “We’ll find a magick user strong enough to weave a spell around the study, to keep anybody from getting in. Hopefully that will buy me enough time to come up with something to keep the dogs of war on their leashes.”

“And how do you suggest we locate this magick user?” Montagin questioned. “Should I look him up in the phone book, or use one of those computing devices and find him on the interweb?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Remy said. “I think I know enough to find somebody that should be able to handle the job. The payment might be steep, but considering the alternative . . .”

Montagin laughed—one of those freezing-cold displays of emotion popular with these creatures of the divine.

“Did I say something funny?” Remy asked him.

“All this effort, and we’re not even sure if it’s true or not,” the angel said, shaking his head.

“If what is true?”

“That Lucifer isn’t somehow responsible for this,” Montagin said. “Responsible for what’s gone on in there.” He pointed briefly to the closed doors, the horrible secret on the other side just pushing to get out and explode upon the world.