“What does something like you know of love?”
Dardariel listened, wondering whether she would try to answer him as she was consumed, but as he expected, he heard only screaming.
With the scent of Aszrus’ life-stuff in his nostrils, the angel leapt into the air, crashing up through the ceilings and floors until he was hovering above the burning estate. He tilted his head back and cried out for his brothers, calling them to him, as he began to follow the trail.
Following the scent of spilled angel blood that would lead them to their wayward general.
The general’s body was starting to stink.
Francis and Montagin had moved Aszrus from his Newport abode to the basement apartment of the Newbury Street brownstone, and the corpse now lay on the floor of Francis’ living room, a trash bag shoved beneath him just in case he leaked.
“A stinking body is bad,” Francis said, gazing down at the corpse, his hands on his hips. “A stinking angel body is really bad.” He paused, remembering the position of authority Aszrus held in the angelic hierarchy. “The stinking body of an angel general is so bad that I’m getting a headache even talking about it.”
“We should have left him where he lay,” Montagin fretted. “With the sorcerer’s magicks at work, there was a chance we could have lasted until Chandler got back.”
“A chance,” Francis said. “But a slim one. If the general’s playmates stopped by once, they’ll definitely stop by again. We couldn’t take the risk.”
“But the smell,” Montagin said. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and held it to his nose.
“Yeah, it’s getting pretty bad,” Francis agreed, staring at the bloated corpse on the floor. He’d met Aszrus a few times in Heaven, before the beginning of the war, and had never really liked him. The guy was pretty full of himself.
“We gotta move him,” Francis said aloud.
Montagin looked at him incredulously. “Again?” he whined. “We just moved him here.”
“Yeah, I know,” Francis said. He was already heading toward the door. “But we can’t just leave him here, stinking to high heaven. A smell like this could lead the general’s buddies right to my door.”
“Where would you suggest we put him, then?” Montagin asked. “There’s not a place on earth that—”
“Exactly,” Francis interrupted. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He climbed the stairs from the basement to the lobby, and on up to the third floor. The smell of violence lingered in the hallway, and Francis remembered that someone had tried to punch Angus Heath’s ticket there the other day. He noticed a dark, ashen stain on the rug in the corridor, and made an educated guess as to what had left it.
Francis approached the door and gave it a solid kick. “Hey,” he said, leaning in close. “Quit spanking it to porn and open the door.”
The door opened suddenly and Francis was staring down into the ugly, hobgoblin face of Squire.
“What, do you have a fucking hidden camera in here?” he asked with a snarl.
“Nope,” Francis said, pushing his way into the apartment. “Just figured that’s what you’d be doing.”
“To what do I owe this visit?” Squire asked, slamming the door behind him.
Francis saw the large shape of Angus Heath lying on the couch. He was covered with several blankets, but he was still shivering. “He all right?” he asked the hobgoblin.
“He got himself poisoned by a Bone Master,” Squire said.
“Bone Master?” Francis repeated. “Sounds like what you might’ve been watching when I knocked.”
“You’re a fucking riot,” the hobgoblin said as he walked past the angel and approached the shivering sorcerer, laying a stubby hand upon his brow. “He’s still pretty feverish, but he does feel cooler than he did a while ago.”
Francis glanced over to the television and was surprised to see what seemed to be a show about cupcakes. “Cupcakes?” he asked.
“What can I say,” the hobgoblin answered with a shrug. “Fucking shoot me, I like cupcakes.”
Heath mumbled something unintelligible, and began to thrash, knocking his blankets to the floor.
“Did you pop by to borrow a cup of sugar?” Squire asked, picking up the blankets and draping them over his friend. “Or is there something else?”
“Something else,” Francis said.
“Go on,” Squire urged.
“Got a favor to ask.”
“Yeah?”
“Got the body of an angel general rotting in my basement apartment,” Francis said matter-of-factly. “I was wondering if for storage you could stick it in one of those shadow places you so often frequent.”
“Oh, is that all?” Squire replied, rolling his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Remy and the glamour-wearing Malatesta approached the entrance to Rapture.
A doorman, a huge specimen of inhumanity squeezed into a black tuxedo, was greeting people at the door and checking their keys.
“Do you have the key?” Remy asked from the side of his mouth.
“Got it,” Malatesta said, holding it up for Remy to see.
In front of them, an elderly woman and a much younger male were greeted and allowed to step inside with just a casual glance, and Remy hoped that it would be just as easy for them.
Malatesta presented the black key for the doorman to see, looking straight ahead as he was about to pass through the entrance. Remy hugged closely behind the sorcerer, thinking that maybe something would go right for them.
The doorman’s large hand planted itself in the center of Remy’s chest, stopping him.
“Excuse me, General,” the doorman said. His voice was rough, as if it were a strain to speak.
The hand resting upon Remy’s chest was like ice, and closer examination of the man showed that he probably hadn’t been alive for quite some time. Zombies were all the rage in supernatural circles, he was hearing. They never got tired, and he guessed that they seldom complained about the long hours, and the low pay. They were probably just happy not to be rotting in a grave someplace.
This particular walking dead man must have been a professional wrestler or some sort of bodybuilder before he shuffled off this mortal coil to Zombieville.
Malatesta turned, wearing a look of annoyance perfect for the face of the angel general.
“Is there a problem?”
The zombie shifted on cinder-block-sized feet. “Actually, sir, there is.”
Malatesta glared like a true champion.
“And what might this problem be?” Malatesta demanded in his best authoritative tone.
“We know who you are,” the zombie said. “But who is he?”
The walking dead man pointed a finger at him that looked like a big, gray Italian sausage.
Remy decided to keep his mouth shut, and trust Malatesta’s skills. If he had been working for the Vatican all these years, he must have learned something about throwing weight around.
“He is my guest,” Malatesta declared.
“Yes, of course,” the zombie stammered. “But the rules of the house state—”
“The rules of the house don’t apply to someone like me,” Malatesta growled. “Do you have any idea what my presence in your establishment does for your reputation?”
