creatures that could disguise their essence the way she could.”
“I suppose it is probably so. But what would be her motive for doing such a thing? She was Antares’s mother, and as such held a place of status in your father’s court.”
“I don’t know why she would do it. I just want to know if it’s likely.”
Gabriel nodded. “Very likely, I would think.”
“Then would we be able to trace the mark of Greenwitch’s magic? Couldn’t we find this disguised nephilim that way? Since my cinnamon-scent test appears to have gained no votes,” I said, sticking my tongue out at Beezle.
Gabriel smiled at me. “Yes. Yes, we could. It would take some doing, but if I had the sense of her magic, then I could use it to trace anyone she had hidden. Madeline, that is brilliant.”
I shrugged, all false modesty. “I know. Now I’ve got to go. Beezle, it’s going to be okay. Guard the domicile, and I will see you in a little while.”
Beezle said nothing, just flew down the hall and out the front window with a frown on his face. It wasn’t like Beezle to send me off without a word, and I stared after him.
“The gargoyle is taking the truth of Greenwitch very hard,” Gabriel observed. “This has cut him to the core of his existence. If he cannot see through the layers of magic, then his life is meaningless.”
“His life is
I thought of the office downtown and felt my wings expand on my back. I flew from the kitchen without another word. I didn’t need to see him to know that Gabriel was right behind me.
The office was busier than usual when we arrived. It seemed that while I was at Azazel’s court, there had been a train accident that left several souls to take. Several souls equaled more paperwork, so it took J.B. a while before he could see us. When we finally managed to get into his office, I told J.B. what I thought he needed to know—that Ramuell was a nephilim, that nephilim were the children of the Grigori and human women, that my father was a Grigori, and that it was my job to track down Ramuell. He expressed a lot of disbelief, and more than a little annoyance, when I explained that I was going to need six days off each month, and that I couldn’t tell him exactly why but that it was a family matter. I was subjected to a little rant about the importance of my responsibilities as an Agent.
“Why is it your job to track down this monster?” J.B. asked. He leaned forward in his office chair and fiddled with some papers on his desk, making marks here and there with a pencil.
“You know, that’s a very good question. I started to track Ramuell myself because I wanted vengeance for Patrick and my mother. But Azazel could probably take care of this problem more efficiently than I could.” I looked questioningly at Gabriel.
“Ramuell’s freedom appears to be largely unknown in Lucifer’s kingdom. Lord Azazel is not certain why this is so, but he feels that Ramuell’s puppet master wants to maintain secrecy regarding the nephilim’s status, perhaps to use Ramuell as a surprise weapon during a gambit for power. Because of this, Lord Azazel is watching and waiting. He feels that Ramuell’s puppet master will be more easily discovered if the truth of the nephilim is not widely known. Additionally, hunting the nephilim presents a delicate problem for Lord Azazel.”
I thought of something that Azazel had told me in his receiving room. “Because if he harms Ramuell, it could be interpreted as a move against Lucifer.”
“Precisely. So Lord Azazel has entrusted you with this task, and I am to assist you, in hopes that we can quietly discover the traitor and return Ramuell to the Valley of Sorrows.”
“And what is it that
Gabriel got that steely look that told me there was going to be another stupid testosterone-fueled argument, so I quickly cut in.
“His powers are beyond your understanding. Listen, J.B., can you get us a pass into the Hall of Records? I want to see if I can trace Ramuell’s victims.”
J.B. and Gabriel shared a manly if-she-wasn’t-here-I’dkick-your-ass look. I rolled my eyes.
“J.B.?”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But I’m coming with you. Until you catch this soul-sucking thing, I’m glue and you’re . . . something that needs to be glued.”
“A construction-paper turkey?” I said, thinking of a second-grade art project. “Look, J.B., I appreciate your offer to help, but you really don’t know what your dealing with here. Your powers as an Agent mean nothing to a creature like Ramuell.”
“What do you know about my powers? I could have unsuspected depth.”
“Right. You’ve never seen Ramuell. There’s no way your depths are that unsuspected.”
“I’m with you or you get nothing from me,” he said. “I could have you barred from the building if I wanted.”
He would do it, too, just to be a pain in the ass. I thought that Gabriel and I could probably let J.B. feel like he was involved and still keep him from the worst of it.
“Fine, let’s just get to it,” I said.
A couple of hours later the three of us were dusty and irritated and not a bit closer to finding Ramuell. We’d decided to narrow our search to the year that Katherine had died and the last six months. Gabriel and J.B. had split the files of the general populace and I had taken the Agents, which were in a different section. The records of each death were kept on typed index cards. The index cards were sorted by date and kept in long thin drawers, like the cards for the Dewey decimal system at the library—before libraries had gone digital. We each pulled several drawers from a cabinet and sat down at a table that would seat eight, and began the laborious process of flipping through each card.
We’d discovered that twelve Agents had died without showing a record of their choice, and there was no discernable pattern or link between them. None of the Agents was directly related. Ten of the deaths had occurred the year that Katherine had died. Patrick and one other Agent had died in the last six months.
“I don’t understand,” J.B. said. “If ten Agents in the Chicago area died without showing their choices, wouldn’t their supervisor have noticed?”
“Not every supervisor is as anal as you are,” I muttered.
“You know, Black, I am really sick of your attitude. You may think that paperwork is just a chore, but it is necessary to the functioning of this business,” J.B. snapped.
“Yes, because soul-collecting just couldn’t happen unless paperwork was filed afterward,” I said sweetly.
J.B.’s face turned red and he opened his mouth—no doubt to remind me of my place—when the building suddenly shook, like an earthquake had struck. The lamps swung crazily from side to side, the drawers of index cards shook from the table and plaster dust fell from the ceiling.
My chair tipped to one side and I landed heavily on my elbow, crying out in pain.
Gabriel was at my side in an instant, J.B. right behind him. They both manhandled me to my feet, Gabriel on the left side and J.B. on the right. Both of them patted me all over, looking for injuries.
“Get off, get off!” I shouted, and flapped my arms at them. They both stepped away.
“Are you all right?” Gabriel asked.
“Are you hurt?” J.B. asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, and wobbled a little as the ground shuddered again. Gabriel put his hand just above my elbow to steady me. I waved him away. “What the hell is going on?”
That was when the screaming started. We could hear it through the vents.
J.B. dashed into the hallway, Gabriel and I following. The Hall of Records was in the subbasement, two floors below ground level. The hall was filled with confused-looking Agents, the ones who worked on the thankless task of moving the Agency into the twenty-first century. These were the data processors who spent their working hours entering information from the file cards into a database. They looked like naked mole rats seeing the sun for the first time.
“What’s happening?” a woman asked as J.B. shot past her and into the stairwell.
The sounds of screams and snarls filled the air. Heating/ cooling vents lined the hallway, and they broadcast human agony as clearly as if it had been a P.A. system.
“Stay here,” I shouted, slowing long enough to make sure they understood. “All of you stay together and go
