Grier closed her eyes. Great. This just kept getting better: She’d not only bailed out a flight risk who had bolted, but a man who might well have killed somebody and faked his own death.
Polite and gentle my ass, she thought, wondering how in the hell someone like her, who’d passed nineteenth grade summa cum laude, had managed to be so stupid.
At that moment, the crowd parted to reveal Daniel in a tuxedo lounging next to one of those Degas. As he toasted her with a champagne flute, his handsome face was wallpapered in told-you-so.
The dead sonofabitch had a point. Even though he’d passed two years ago, she was still performing a kind of CPR on him: Desperate to bring him back to real life, she was caught up in other people’s dramas, that urge to get in and help sometimes the only thing that kept her going.
“You okay there, girl?”
She gripped her cell phone harder and wondered what the PI would say if he knew she was staring into the all-knowing eyes of her deceased sibling. “Not really, Louie.”
“He snow you?”
“I snowed myself.”
“Well, I got one other piece of info for you—although I’m not sure I want to give it over. Sounds like you’re in too deep already.”
Bracing herself, she muttered, “Tell me. I might as well know all of it.”
CHAPTER 8
Up high above the earth, in the celestial realm, the archangel Nigel strode over cropped green grass, hands clasped behind his back, head down, eyes straight ahead. His croquet whites had not been put to proper use, his failure to concentrate rendering him a pitiful contestant against the archangel Colin’s prodigious skills with a mallet.
Indeed, Nigel’s balls had been rolling thither and yon, going everywhere except through the wickets.
Eventually, he’d given up the pretense. There was no training his mind upon aught save what irritated him so, and therefore he was useless but for ambulation and rumination.
Damn it, rules needed to be followed. That was why in contests of wit and wiles they were agreed upon before play began—so there were no questions or errors due to misinterpretation in the midst of the game. Verily, he had always believed that a fair contest required two things: well-matched opponents and well-defined parameters.
And in the case at hand, namely that of the future of mankind, the first criterion was met rather squarely. His side and the demon Devina’s were equal in strengths, weaknesses, and focus.
Most particularly the focus part, as both “teams” knew well how high the stakes were: The very future of the world below hung in the balance, the great Creator’s patience having been tried over a protracted, inconclusive course of conflict between good and evil on the planet below. Mere weeks ago, it had been declared from on high that there would be seven final opportunities to prevail—and upon a simple majority of them, dominion would be won over not only the physical world but the bucolic heavens and the fiery depths of Hell.
Nigel was in charge of the “good” side. Devina captained the “bad.”
And that scurrilous demon was cheating.
The rules of the game provided that Nigel and Devina were to choose the souls “in play” and then sit back and watch Jim Heron interact and steer the course of events such that the resolution was either redemption or condemnation.
Seven chances. And the first one had been resolved in Nigel’s favor.
The next six were to be conducted in the true arena. And in the course of events, Nigel and Devina were allowed a certain amount of “coaching”: As Nigel had won the coin toss, so he had been permitted to approach Jim first—and for parity to be preserved, Devina had been likewise allowed to interact with the man. But now they were supposed to be off the field and on the sidelines for the most part, with interaction limited to the occasional time- out and the end-of-match recap by whoever’s side won.
Devina was down there, however. Down there and mucking about.
“You interfered as well.”
Nigel stopped, but did not turn around to face Colin. “My dear boy, do go fuck yourself.”
Colin’s laugh was deep and for once lacking in sarcasm. “Ah, there’s the lad we know and love. I’d wondered where you’d gone, given how badly you’d played.”
Keeping his back to his best mate, Nigel stared across the lawn at the high castle walls of the Manse of Souls. Beyond the vast stone fortification, in an infinite mansion of fine appointments and leisurely accoutrements, were the life-lights of those who had proven themselves of good and fine nature during their time on Earth.
If the angels did not prevail, all of those who so deserved what they had now would be lost to the pits of Hell. As would all else—including himself and his three associates.
“Adrian and Edward are not in the rules,” Colin pointed out.
“They take direction from him. It is a far sight different from what she is doing.”
“Granted. But we are not unrepresented down there.”
“She is toying with the fundamentals of the conflict.”
“Are you truly surprised.” Colin’s tone, always sharp, turned deadly. “We have battled her too long to be taken unaware by her duplicity. Which perhaps is why the Creator allows you to persist with our two emissaries.”
“Perhaps also the Creator wishes us to win.”
Nigel forced himself to start walking again, and his eyes could not depart from the bridge over the moat and the stout entrance to the manse. The sight of the massive, locked portal, to which only he had the metaphysical key, reassured him—but alas it was for no good reason. The souls were safe only if these contests were won.
“Are you going to take further action?” Colin asked as they made a fat loop over the lawn and headed toward the table upon which tea had been set out.
“How can I?”
“You’re willing to risk losing just to be honest?”
Nigel waved at Bertie and Byron, who were seated off in the distance before a teapot and a carousel of tiny sandwiches. As was proper, they had neither poured nor partaken, and they would not until the other two chairs at the table were filled. Meanwhile, Tarquin, Bertie’s beloved Irish wolfhound, was curled into a sit at the archangel’s side, the great beast staring over at Colin and Nigel, his wise, calm eyes missing nothing.
Nigel fussed with his cravat. “Victory and deceit are incompatible. And Adrian and Edward were your idea. I don’t know why I’m allowing it.”
Colin cursed, his aristocratic intonation adding precise corners to the naughty words. “You know damn well we don’t stand a bloody chance unless we bend the rules as well. That’s why you’re consenting.”
Nigel’s form of reply was but a quiet coughing sound, his signal that the conversation was over and done with. And upon his lead, the two of them went to the table that was arranged at his will and would disappear in the same manner.
Nigel, as with the others, neither lived nor breathed; he simply was. And the food was the same, neither necessary nor extant—as was the landscape and all that the four of them did to pass their eternity. But the trappings of a gracious life were of value. Indeed, the quarters that he shared with Colin were well kitted-out and the sojourns they took therein were not for any sleep necessity, but for recharging of a different kind.
War was exhausting, its burdens ne’er-ending, and at times, one needed physical succor.
As Nigel took his place at the table, he pulled his strength about him and resumed the mantle of leadership whilst Byron smiled and poured. In front of the other two, he was ever who he had to be. Colin, however, was different—although only when they were alone.
Never when there were others present.
As he lifted his fine bone china cup off its saucer, the perfumed steam from the Earl Grey wafted into his
