“We’re taking you back to Rapture,” Remy told him. “And maybe somebody there will take care of your sorry ass.”
Prosper’s stare was intense.
“You’re not going to kill me?”
Remy stared back with equal intensity before answering.
“No,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now than offing you.”
The children were eyeing the fallen angel hungrily.
“If I wanted to be a real son of a bitch I’d leave you here with the kids,” he said. “Let them show you how much they appreciate the life you’ve given them so far.”
Prosper refused to look at them, hanging his head.
Gareth joined them, standing beside Remy.
“Are you sure this is the way?” he asked.
“It’s the only thing I’ve got,” Remy replied.
The air was filled with the hissing of the storm.
“And you think that’s right?” Gareth asked. “That we should remain alive?”
“I do,” Remy told him, hoping that what he was about to attempt would bring some semblance of peace and normalcy to these sad, pathetic creatures that were the product of divine lust.
With that said, Gareth turned, and walked away.
“Will you be back soon?” asked the little boy who had pushed Malatesta’s demon deeper.
“Soon as we can,” Remy reassured him.
“Will it be raining all the time where we’re going?” the child asked.
“I bet it’s going to be sunny a lot of the time there,” Remy told the boy. “If that’s all right,” he added.
The boy nodded vigorously, and Remy reached out to ruffle his rain-soaked head.
Malatesta was holding Prosper up by the arm.
“Ready?” the sorcerer asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Remy answered.
Malatesta began to help Prosper through the passage, but Remy paused for a moment to give the children one final wave.
He caught sight of Gareth in the distance, watching with dark eyes filled with fear of what was to come.
A fear of the fate that might befall them all.
Morgan was sipping a pear martini and pretending that she gave a shit about her latest john’s confession that he’d been responsible for at least two of the murders credited to Jack the Ripper, when she noticed the security staff moving en masse down the corridor toward Prosper’s office.
She and the rest of the girls had been pretty much left in the dark not only as to the fate that had befallen their boss, but also what had really happened to the children they believed had died at birth.
She excused herself with a smile, and followed the walking dead men down the corridor. As she suspected, the door to Prosper’s office was wide-open, and a strange humming sound that made her inner ear itch was coming from inside.
Security was on full alert, but she managed to maneuver herself through their obstructing bulk into Prosper’s office. The air at the back of the room had begun to shimmer and blur, finally spitting out an all too familiar shape.
Prosper fell through the fluctuating passage to land on his knees in his office. He looked like someone had taken a hammer to him, and for a moment, Morgan was tempted to go to the angel.
But then she remembered what he had done to Bobbie, and what he had kept from them.
Prosper knelt for a moment, before falling forward to all fours. The passage behind him shimmered and blurred some more, before another shape emerged that Morgan recognized as the guy who’d been disguised as Aszrus. And then the angel Remiel stepped through behind him.
Morgan was pushed aside as the zombie security team surged forward.
“Stop!” Prosper croaked. “They’re with me.”
The zombies nearly fell over one another as they froze in their tracks. It was then that Morgan caught the angel’s eye, and she couldn’t help but feel a smile begin to tease at her lips.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone we could use, would you?” Remy asked.
And she found herself reaching into the pocket of the silk jacket she wore to give the angel what he asked for.
Patriarch Adolfi could not stop staring at the man called Simeon. It had been at least thirty years since last they’d met, and the man didn’t appear to have aged a day.
“How—,” Adolfi began, only to have Simeon interrupt.
“There’s no time for that now, Patriarch,” Simeon said, raising the china cup to his mouth for a sip of coffee. “There are other more pressing matters.”
Patriarch Adolfi reached for his own steaming beverage, trying to keep his ancient hands from trembling, but not having much luck.
“The jet will be fueled and waiting for us within the hour,” Adolfi said.
“And when we reach Tokyo?”
“A helicopter will take us to the island.”
“Very good,” Simeon said, and the three figures that stayed in the shadows in the far corner of the room shifted.
“Are you certain that your . . . people . . . would not care for some refreshments?” Adolfi asked.
“They are not people, and merely being in the presence of one such as yourself is probably filling them with an overwhelming revulsion,” Simeon snapped. “No offense, but I think it best they stay where they are.”
The patriarch silently agreed, continuing the uncomfortable wait for the call that Simeon promised would be coming. The call that would summon them to duty.
The cell phone on the cherrywood table beside the patriarch’s chair began to play the beginning strains of
“There we are,” Simeon said, taking another sip of his coffee.
“Hello?” The patriarch listened to the voice on the other end with increasing interest.
“Why yes, Constantin,” he said, looking to Simeon. “I’ve been expecting your call.”
Francis wasn’t about to leave with his tail tucked between his legs; he wouldn’t allow himself, given the pain he was still feeling as a result of his questioning—
He had some questions to ask Michael, and might even have a few for Dardariel, in between tearing off his wings and shoving them up his ass.
They climbed the dusty stone steps up from the bowels of the ancient prison. He was surprised that the others had all agreed to join him, albeit some begrudgingly, but they were still here.
Francis suspected their decision had more to do with them not feeling comfortable traveling the shadow paths with Squire, and less to do with wanting to have his back, but whatever the reason, they were there.
Francis thought of Remy, wondering if he had met with success. He couldn’t imagine that the Seraphim hadn’t, but then again there was always the chance—
Voices from the landing interrupted his thoughts, and he paused on the stairs.
“Are you sure about this?” Squire asked from beside him. “There’s a nice patch of shadow we can crawl through at the bottom of the steps.”
Francis glanced back to the others. “What do you think?”
Montagin still looked as though he had a stick shoved up his butt, but he held out his hand and called forth a pretty funky-looking sword that could probably do some serious damage. “Does this answer your question?” he asked.
