The oracle considered what was asked of it, the lids covering the empty sockets of its eyes moving as if there were something beneath them, something squirming around to eventually be free.
“One of twins born of human, and protohuman,” the oracle wheezed. “They were to be the guardians of magick, one representing the light, and the other, the dark. They were to maintain the balance, to keep one power from overwhelming the other.”
The oracle stopped talking, its mouth moving hungrily.
“Go on, oracle,” Remiel commanded.
“So dry,” the head hissed weakly. “So very, very thirsty.”
“Finish your tale and we shall see about quenching that thirst,” Tyranus stated cruelly.
The oracle noisily smacked its parched lips together, building up enough moisture that it could go on.
“One power believed itself stronger than the other, throwing the balance into turmoil. The light would take from the dark, both powers amassed in one . . . but the darkness would not stand for this and a great battle was fought—the light versus the darkness . . . brother against brother. . . .” The oracle’s voice trailed off.
“And this battle,” Remiel said. “The light versus the dark—it continues?”
“Yes,” the oracle replied. “The opposing forces collect their objects of magickal power in the hopes that one will eventually triumph over the other, and claim the might of the opposition.”
“The necromancer . . . Hallow. He has Solomon’s sigil?” Remiel asked.
“Yes,” the oracle hissed. “A prize coveted by many who know the ways of the weird, and especially by one who serves the light. This will be the prize most viciously sought, for it will upset the balance once and for all, and the power of magick both black and white will rest in the hands of . . .”
“We are done,” Pope Tyranus proclaimed, empty chalice clattering to the floor as he stood up from his throne.
Remiel stared at the Pope, curious of the interruption.
“The oracle is a tricky creature,” the Pope said. “It will continue to prattle just to hear itself if it believes it will be fed.”
Tyranus gestured to the boy. “Put it away.”
The child snapped to it immediately, going to the case, his bloody finger still wrapped in the dainty handkerchief. He started to close up the sides, eliciting a reaction from the oracle.
“Wait!” it squeaked. “You promised me more. . . . You promised to quench this unbearable thirst!”
The boy considered the head’s request, turning to gaze at his master for confirmation.
“Close it up, boy,” Pope Tyranus ordered.
“Please,” the oracle begged as the two sides of the case were slowly brought together. “The thirst . . . It hurts so badly. . . .”
The oracle’s pleas fell upon deaf ears as the case was closed, and the latches were refastened.
The sound of muffled cries of sorrow trailed off as the boy carried the box from the room.
Having already been to the Newport mansion, Remy was able to locate it again.
He opened his wings, allowing Malatesta to emerge, as he wished the feathered appendages away. They had appeared just beyond the elaborate home, on a cliff overlooking a tumultuous sea.
“An impressive way to travel,” Malatesta said, stumbling a bit to one side. Remy grabbed hold of his arm to steady him.
“As long as you know where you’re going it beats public transportation,” he said. “It’s a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.”
The Keeper representative shrugged off Remy’s assisting hand, and turned to face the mansion. “Is this it?” he asked.
“That’s it,” Remy answered, and both began walking toward the quiet road that ran in front of the impressive front gate.
“Is the reason a Bone Master wants you and your sorcerer companion dead why I am needed here?” Malatesta asked as they crossed the road, the crash of the turbulent sea upon the cliffs filling the air behind them.
“I believe it is,” Remy said as they reached the heavy wrought iron gate. “So you’re familiar with our attacker . . . this Bone Master? What can you tell me about them?”
Malatesta grabbed hold of the black iron and gave the gate a shake to see if it opened. It didn’t.
“Keeper agents have encountered them from time to time, assassins of a demonic nature. From what we’ve been able to piece together over the centuries, the Masters have somehow genetically engineered an animal that once dead becomes their weapon of choice. They bond with these mysterious animals on a psychic and physical level from childhood, and when coming of age, ceremonially slay the animal, and peel away the flesh to reveal the weapon specifically bred for them.”
Remy called forth his wings once again, grabbing Malatesta and hauling him up and over the gate.
“Thank you,” the Vatican agent said, appearing a little startled by this, smoothing down his shirt, and pulling at the sleeves of his suit jacket.
“The special weapon,” Remy said, walking up the driveway. “It fired what looked to be teeth.”
“Yes,” Malatesta answered, jogging to catch up. “The Keepers found that to be particularly interesting. As I mentioned, the weapon and the master are bound together both spiritually and physically, and the special gun is capable only of using its master’s teeth as ammunition.”
“So I’m guessing these Bone Masters—they have a lot of teeth?”
Malatesta nodded. “Very much like sharks’ teeth; one is removed and another grows in to take its place. We at the Keepers believe that once a Bone Master finally runs out of ammunition—teeth—they, and their weapon, die.”
They were climbing the steps to the double front doors.
“Do you realize how crazy all that sounds?” Remy asked, rapping his knuckles on the door. “And that’s coming from somebody like me.”
The door started to open, one of the blind servants visible on the other side.
“Get away from that door!” a voice boomed from somewhere inside.
The servant jumped back away from the door, and had started to close it again as it was yanked from his grasp. Montagin appeared in the entryway, his eyes burning with an unnatural light.
“Oh, it’s you. What took you so long?” he demanded to know.
“Had to find what I was looking for,” Remy said, pushing his way inside with Malatesta in tow. “And then there was the matter of somebody trying to kill me and the person who I found to take care of our problem.”
Inside the elaborate foyer, Remy saw that the servant still lingered there, waiting.
“Be off with you,” Montagin commanded, and the servant hurried off, hand upon the wall as he felt his way farther into the home.
“Is this that person?” Montagin asked, looking Malatesta up and down.
“No, he’s my substitute,” Remy explained. “Montagin, this is Constantin Malatesta.”
The angel was already on the move toward the study, as Malatesta stood there, hand extended, his offer ignored.
“Hurry this way,” Montagin said.
Remy and the Keeper representative followed.
“So, seeing as an attempt was made on my life,” Remy called after the angel. “Any chance that we might have a leak here?”
Montagin stopped before the study doors.
“No one but you and I has been inside this room since the discovery,” the angel said. “And from what I know about you, Remiel, the idea of somebody trying to kill you doesn’t seem all that uncommon.”
Malatesta looked to Remy.
“He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t,” Remy said to him.
Montagin unlocked the door, the smell of death wafting out to greet them like an eager puppy.
“I’m guessing that I’m here because someone has died,” Malatesta said, hand going up to his nose.
“Not just someone,” Montagin said as he closed the door tightly behind them.
Remy pointed out the corpse lying on the floor.
