“Neal is a driver with a local car service,” Francis began. “And one of his clients—”
“Is General Aszrus,” Remy stated flatly.
“Bingo,” Francis said, pointing at him. “So, Neal drives for the general, they chat a bit on the way to wherever it is they’re going, and when Neal drops off his customer, he makes a little call.”
“Neal was an informant?” Remy asked.
Francis nodded. “Yeah, kept the big boss in the loop as to how one of Heaven’s generals was spending his downtime.”
“I don’t suppose the big boss knows anything about the latest piece of hot information?” Remy said.
“And what might that be?”
“Aszrus is dead. Somebody cut his heart out.”
Remy was good at reading reactions, and Francis’ was most definitely genuine.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he exclaimed. “Who . . . ?”
“What I’m trying to find out,” Remy answered.
“If Aszrus is dead, how come the sky isn’t filled with angels with swords and hard-ons for fighting for the glory of whoever’s fucking side they’re on?”
“Because nobody knows.”
“You’re shitting me,” Francis said. “Damn, got any other secrets you’re sitting on?”
Remy kept himself from flinching at the question. There was a time and place.
“I’ve managed to keep the information locked up for now, but I don’t know how much longer we have. Montagin is babysitting the corpse with the help of a Vatican magick user by the name of Malatesta.”
“Montagin,” Francis said with a sneer. “I’m surprised he hasn’t sent out a mass e-mail yet.”
“You might be surprised,” Remy said. “He seems just as concerned as I am about the potential for some really nasty shit to go down if this information gets out before we can figure out who’s responsible.”
“So you think driver Neal might have something?”
“It’s all I’ve got right now,” Remy said. “If he could at least tell us where he took Aszrus last, we might be able to move backward from there.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Francis agreed. “Why don’t we go grab a coffee and wait to see if . . .”
A heavyset man, his arms full of groceries, was standing just inside the door, staring at the two men in the living room.
“Does Neal know you’re in here?” he asked, shifting the plastic shopping bags.
Remy took a step forward, but Francis took point.
“Yeah, he left the door open for us,” Francis said with an enormous smile. “We’re supposed to be meeting for lunch. I’m surprised he’s not here yet.”
“Are you sure it’s today?” the man asked.
“Yeah, I just talked to him this morning,” Remy said, taking out his phone.
“Well he must’ve forgot,” the big guy said, already losing interest in them. “’Cause I just saw him getting into his car. If you bust a hump, maybe you can catch him.”
Remy looked at Francis, and he at him.
“Son of a . . . ,” Remy began, darting across the kitchen to the window. He looked through the filthy glass onto a rusty fire escape and the alley below, where he saw a navy blue Town Car start to pull away.
“It’s him,” Remy said, pulling open the window and climbing out onto the fire escape.
He wasn’t about to let this guy get away.
Remy was starting down the metal stairs, not wanting to risk releasing his wings and being seen, when something fell past the fire escape at great speed. It landed in front of the Town Car only to be struck by the vehicle. He heard the sounds of twisting metal and breaking glass.
Remy leapt down the final stretch of stairs to the alley just in time to see Francis peeling himself from the front of the smashed Town Car bumper, a geyser of steam from the ruptured radiator hissing like the king of all serpents.
“No need to thank me,” Francis said, checking his suit jacket for rips. “I do this shit all the time.”
The driver’s side door opened with a screech.
“What the fuck!” Neal Moreland bellowed as he crawled out from behind the inflated airbag. “Look what you fucking did to my car!”
Remy was suddenly beside the guy, taking his arm in a steely grip.
“You were in quite the hurry, Neal,” he said. “Late for a pick-up?”
Francis stepped around the car, brushing pieces of glass from the fabric of his jacket.
“Who the hell are you two supposed to be?” the man asked defiantly, trying to pull away from Remy’s hold with little success.
Neal was older than he first looked. His thick head of hair was dyed an inky black and too many trips to the tanning salon had left his skin lined and leathery.
“Management sent me,” Francis stated flatly, his gaze boring into the driver’s. “Do you understand?”
Neal quit struggling, knowing exactly what Francis meant.
“Yeah, sure,” he said quickly. “Why the fuck did you have to wreck my car?”
“Because we wouldn’t have been able to talk with you if we hadn’t,” Remy explained.
Neal looked at him. “I got a call saying that I pissed somebody off with my job last night,” he said. “Said I might want to lay low for a while.”
“Your job last night is exactly what I’d like to discuss,” Remy told him, pulling him back toward the fire escape.
“Hey, I can’t help if he never came out,” Neal protested as Remy began to push him toward the first step. “I waited until they told me not to.”
“Who told you?” Francis asked.
“A guy came out and said Mr. Aszrus would be finding another way home.”
“Where did you take him?” Remy asked.
“Where he told me to go,” Neal said.
He looked as though he was going to say more, but stopped, staring at something in the opposite direction.
“Now what the fuck is that?” he asked.
Remy barely had a chance to look when the driver was snatched away. Francis and Remy reacted as one, jumping aside as the tendril of smoke dragged a flailing Neal Moreland up into a roiling black cloud that was drifting in from the opposite end of the alley.
Remy and Francis knew that it wasn’t really a cloud at all.
Neal screamed horribly as he was taken inside the billowing substance, and a rainfall of blood began pattering down atop the roof of the limousine and the alley floor.
“Black Choir,” Remy announced, already flexing the muscles of his shoulders to make his wings emerge.
“No shit,” Francis said, drawing the golden Colt from inside his suit jacket, already on the move toward the threat.
The Black Choir was the most horrible example of the fallout from the war in Heaven: angels who chose not to take a stand during the Great War, cursed to be accepted by neither God nor Lucifer, and warped to monstrous proportions by their inability to take a side.
They were true abominations, their misery provoking their foul deeds.
Remy searched the alley for something to use as a weapon, finding a length of an old wooden pallet lying up against the side of the apartment building beside the Dumpster. It would have to do.
He reached for the piece of wood in midstride, his wings lifting him from the ground as he took flight.
The Choir’s writhing, cloudlike environment descended toward Francis, who opened fire with the Pitiless pistol. Shrieks of the eternally damned echoed from within the shifting black and gray miasma. The cloud expanded, flowing out from the ground. Francis spun, attempting to outrun the roiling storm, but he wasn’t fast enough, turning to fire into the black cloud even as it engulfed him.
Remy descended from above, the piece of wood in his clutches now burning with the fires of Heaven. He
