“It has come into the possession of a powerful necromancer,” the Pope said. “One who has learned to harness the power of the dead and dying.”
“Where?” Remiel asked, already suspecting he knew the answer.
“Somewhere right outside this door, angel,” Pope Tyranus said. “Can you think of a better place for one who harnesses the power of death, than a region besieged by plague?”
“His magick will be strong,” Remiel said.
“But not as strong as a soldier of Heaven,” Pope Tyranus said, leaning back in his chair, again fiddling with the ring upon his finger.
“You’re going to help me, angel,” the Pope told him. “You’re going to obtain Solomon’s sigil ring, and do your part in keeping the world from sliding into darkness.”
Remiel was stunned, shocked that one such as Tyranus felt that he could give orders to an angel of the holy host Seraphim as if he were a mere lackey.
But for reasons then unknown to him, the angel Remiel held his tongue, knowing that he would do everything in his power to perform this chore, and to obtain the ring of Solomon for the one who asked it of him.
For Pope Tyranus of the Holy Roman Empire.
“I’m sorry,” Remy told the Vatican representative. “I have no interest in working for you, or the Keepers, or anybody else associated with the Vatican.”
Malatesta just stared.
“I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but—”
“No,” the man interrupted. “After reviewing what I could find on your original involvement with us . . .”
“I’m surprised there was anything left for you to review,” Remy said. “Since Tyranus’ name was removed from the lineage of popes.”
“Even though his reign was erased, there are still some records to be found about the Black Pope, and his actions during the Middle Ages.”
Remy chuckled. “Kinda like that stain on the rug you can never get completely out.”
Malatesta tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “A stain on the rug?” he asked, obviously not getting what Remy was talking about.
“It’s nothing,” Remy said. “Just trying to draw a comparison.”
Malatesta nodded, sliding to the edge of the chair to drive home his point. “The Keepers have given me full authority to apologize profusely for any past transgressions, and to offer you substantial payment, within reason, for your time and services while working with us.”
Remy shook his head.
“I’m really sorry, but I’m just going to have to say no.”
It felt good saying no to the Vatican representative, not at all like when he was dealing with Pope Tyranus.
“There’s nothing that I can say or do to change your mind?” Malatesta asked.
Remy shook his head again. “I’m afraid not.”
Malatesta looked as though he was going to continue, but then appeared to think better of that. “I guess there’s nothing more to say,” he said, standing up.
Remy stood also.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Chandler,” Malatesta said, and extended his hand.
Remy reached out, taking his offered hand, and as their flesh touched . . .
There was a flash, and a hum, like unrestrained power coursing through a live wire lying in wait upon a street after a storm. If there had been any doubt that this man, this Constantin Malesta, had some sort of a knack for the arcane art of magick, there wasn’t any now.
His power coursed through Remy, amplifying the sensations that he had been experiencing for quite some time, reminding the angel of what was out there in the world, and the dangers that it would soon be facing.
“Perhaps another time,” Malatesta said with a final squeeze, before releasing his grip.
And before Remy could even respond, the Keeper agent was gone. But what he had stirred up in Remy with just a touch remained, and it lingered disturbingly for the remainder of the day.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next few weeks passed without incident.
The world rolled on, the trivial and the not so trivial, the kinds of events Remy had grown accustomed to in his time with human civilization, as days passed into weeks.
But that did not mean he wasn’t waiting for the so-called other shoe to fall. He found himself staring out the windows of his office and down onto the city streets far more attentively, watching the evening news broadcasts, and trolling the Internet with more frequency as he looked for signs.
He found nothing serious enough to alert him to impending doom, and started to eventually let his level of caution drop; still, he kept one eye open and his superhuman senses on alert for any notable change in the ether.
But life marched on; it had the habit of doing that, and Remy found himself more fully engaged in his ordinary human life than he had been for quite some time.
Business was good—not great, but good—enough to keep money coming in to handle the rent on the office space, and pay for the inordinate amount of coffee he drank.
On a personal level things couldn’t have been better. The more time he spent with Linda, the more the trepidation that he’d felt at becoming involved again—falling in love again—slowly crumbled away. He needed a partner to be whole, to be the person he wanted, and needed, to be. Linda was that partner—of that he no longer had any doubt.
The August night had been dreadfully humid, but a quick-moving thundershower while they had been out on a walk with Marlowe had brought with it a welcome drop in temperature. Refreshing cool breezes made the curtains in the house flap and wave like something out of an eighties music video.
While he dried Marlowe off with a towel, which was more of a tug-of-war match than anything of real use, Linda kicked off her sneakers and peeled her soaking-wet T-shirt and running pants from her body. She left the wet clothing where it had fallen, in a trail that led to the stairs that would take her up to the bedroom.
“Coming?” she asked as she started to climb, wearing only a sports bra and panties.
“Oh, do I have to?” Remy mockingly whined.
Linda laughed, padding up the wooden steps.
Telling Marlowe that Linda and he had some business to attend to met with some minor protests—Linda had been staying with Remy and Marlowe far more often lately, and the Labrador was feeling just the tiniest bit neglected—but the offer of a smoked pig’s ear was just the balm the retriever needed to feel as though he was still loved.
Remy picked up Linda’s discarded wet things as he followed their path to the stairs, finding the bra and panties waiting for him at the top.
“You’re never going to find yourself a good man with these cleanliness issues,” Remy said as he added her underthings to the wet pile, and dumped them in a hamper in the corner of the bedroom.
“Guess you’ll be stuck with me,” she said, propped up on her elbows in bed, a sheet barely covering her naked body.
“Great,” Remy said with a heavy sigh that made the woman laugh. He started to remove his own clothes, also damp from the summer rain, as she watched him from the bed.
“Is it so hard?” he asked her, as he tossed his shirt into the open hamper. “Dirty clothes go in there.”
He shed his sweatpants and underwear, putting them where they now belonged.
“Is that where they go?” Linda asked, wearing an exaggerated, dumbfounded look. “I thought that was the trash barrel.”
