Prosper barely nodded, and one of the zombies stepped in, delivering a smashing blow that snapped Malatesta’s head viciously to one side. Remy was spattered with the magick user’s blood.
“Hey, there’s no need for that,” Remy hollered.
The distraction worked this time, and Prosper turned his cold, dead gaze to the angel. Again, there came the barely perceptible nod, and the zombie with the sledgehammer right hook was beside him, giving Remy a taste of hurt.
The blow practically tore his head from his shoulders, but at least he had gotten the focus away from Malatesta.
“So, as I was saying,” Remy said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “The Choir really has no love for me. Did they charge you, or did they agree to do me in for nothing?”
Prosper pretended to smile, but Remy could see that there was no real happiness behind the facial contortion. He’d seen this in quite a few Denizens after they’d been freed from Tartarus. It was as if they had no idea what happiness was anymore, and any chance of knowing it again had been taken away.
“Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you’re trying to make me do?” Prosper asked.
The zombie stepped in again, and Remy tried to brace himself, but it really didn’t do much good.
“Now why would I want you to do something like that?” Remy asked, feeling blood dribble from the corner of his mouth, and down to his shirt.
“Maybe because you know what’s coming,” Prosper suggested, and again there was that smile, only this time there might have been something akin to pleasure behind it.
“And what might that be?”
“I hate to waste things,” Prosper said. “If I can turn waste into profit, I’m ahead of the game.”
“So you’re gonna turn me—us—into profit?” Remy asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Prosper folded his hands in front of himself and stared. “In my business I have all sort of clients, and some of those clients have certain needs that are very specific, and quite difficult to fulfill.”
“I’ve heard that,” Remy said. “Like General Aszrus, he liked to play a little rough.”
This time Prosper didn’t wait for his living-dead bodyguard to do the dirty work. The fallen angel delivered a succession of blows that showed Remy he had struck a nerve.
“You had to go poking around.” Prosper shook his hand out and Remy could see that his knuckles were torn and bloody.
“Just doing my job,” Remy managed from a mouth feeling swollen and out of shape. “Like you . . . making my client happy.”
He thought he might get hit again, but Prosper managed some level of restraint.
“Glad you understand,” he said instead. “I have clients who would give me anything I want for some time with the likes of a Seraphim.”
Prosper smiled. There was definitely some pleasure there, but it was the dirty kind that made the hair at the back of the neck stand up, and the skin prickle.
“Now would this be a dinner date, or just lunch?” Remy asked, knowing the question would probably be bad for him, but it felt good to ask.
Prosper surprised him by laughing out loud. It wasn’t too pleasant a sound. “Yeah, you could call it that. A dinner date, yeah.” He was laughing again. “You’ll be the fucking dinner and they’ll be eating you alive, among other things.”
That idea made him laugh all the harder. Remy could just imagine the perversity inside the fallen angel’s head, and was glad that he couldn’t share in it.
A knock at the door interrupted their fun.
One of the zombies opened it a crack, and Remy caught sight of a pretty, older woman standing outside.
“What?” Prosper said, without even looking, annoyance in his tone.
“Got a problem upstairs,” the woman said.
He looked in her direction then. “What kind of problem?”
“The kind that can cause a shitload of damage if it’s not taken care of,” she stated. “A Summerian battle god whacked out of his gourd on joy juice is threatening to rip the roof off the place if somebody doesn’t bring him a ten-year-old virgin.”
“Son of a bitch,” Prosper spat, moving toward the door. “We don’t have any?” he asked as he and his zombie thugs pushed past her, closing the door behind them.
Remy was left alone to deal with his own problem. He looked at Malatesta who was coming to, moaning as if being prodded with a hot poker.
The doorknob rattled again, and he was half expecting to see Prosper back for more fun and games, but instead the woman entered, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Forget something?” Remy asked.
The woman glared as she stalked toward him.
“Where did you get it?” she asked, tension like that of a coiled spring ready to snap in her voice.
“I don’t understand,” Remy said, looking into her distressed eyes.
“Where did you find it?” she repeated, as if English was his second language. She reached into her pocket and removed the picture that Morgan had picked up from the floor in her room. “This,” the woman held it out to Remy, “where did you get it?”
She was frantic, her eyes darting between Remy and the door, obviously expecting Prosper and his buddies to return.
“What does it mean?” Remy asked her.
She looked at the picture, a look of genuine longing spreading across her face.
“I was told they had died at birth,” she said. “But this . . .”
“Why would Aszrus have that picture?” Remy asked, watching the woman’s reaction.
“Aszrus,” she repeated. “You got this from Aszrus?”
She was looking at the picture again, tears welling in her eyes.
“Who is it?” Remy asked.
She seemed to be struggling with his questions. “They weren’t supposed to be able to have babies,” she finally said, sobbing. “But here they were, pregnant.”
“Who?” Remy prodded, desperate for answers. “Who was pregnant?”
“My girls,” she said. “It wasn’t natural, but it happened.”
“The Nephilim?” Remy asked. “The Nephilim were getting pregnant?”
He’d never heard of such a thing, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t even possible. Nephilim were supposed to be sterile.
There was a muffled sound from outside the room, and the woman turned, bolting for the door.
“Who got the girls pregnant?” Remy asked as she turned the knob, ready to flee. “Was it the angels? Was it Aszrus?”
The look on her face told him all he needed to know as she quickly slunk out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
Remy had more than he did before, but the puzzle’s picture was still not yet defined. He had to get out of here.
He looked over to Malatesta, who was again muttering in Latin.
“Listen,” Remy said. “We’re in some pretty big trouble here,” he told the sorcerer.
Remy didn’t know whether he was listening, but went on, assuming that he was.
“We need to get out of here as quickly as we can before we end up as part of the entertainment.” He was straining against his chains again, feeling the magick charging up to prevent him from getting much farther.
“As much as it kills me to admit it, I’m useless right now—these chains prevent me from doing anything that could be even remotely useful, and I’m guessing that whatever is keeping you in that chair has probably done a job on your magickal mojo as well.”
Malatesta’s head turned ever so slightly, looking at him from the corner of a swollen eye.
