The Paradise Prophecy

He gestured to the painted blue symbol on the wall.

“You didn’t tell me about this.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to. You know what it is?”

“It’s a sigil.”

“A what?”

“A sign, or a seal, with a very specific power and meaning. They’re used in ceremonial magic. Even its color is significant.”

“So what does it mean?”

LaLaurie found the copy of Paradise Lost where Callahan had left it atop the prayer desk. He leafed through it until he came to Gabriela’s highlighted passages. He read for a moment, then looked up at Callahan.

“What it means,” he said, “is that you were right about Gabriela having an obsession. First the figurine, then the painting, and now all these notations in Book Eleven. But the obsession wasn’t limited to this book.”

“Then what?”

“Not what. Who.” He gestured to the wall. “That sigil represents the Archangel Michael. And blue is his color.”

You’re part of Michael’s army. He sent you here to spy on us.

“And what about the notations in the book?”

“They’re all in chapter eleven. Which is the part of the poem where Michael comes down from heaven to give Adam and Eve a message from God.”

“Okay,” Callahan said. “So we’ve established she had an obsession. What does that have to do with her death?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“How so?”

He reached to the shelf beneath the prayer desk, pulled out the books that were stacked there and pointed to the first one. “The Lesser Key of Solomon. A seventeenth-century grimoire.”

“Grim-what?”

“Grimoire. A textbook on magic.” He showed her the next book. “Forbidden Rites. A manual on summoning spirits.” And the next one.

“Angels, Incantations, and Revelation. I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.” He looked at her. “Are you sensing a pattern yet?”

She thought about what Martinez had said. “You think she was practicing black magic?”

“Magic is just magic. It’s the intent that makes it black or white, and there are varying shades in between.”

“You almost sound as if you think it’s real.”

“Oh, it’s very real.”

Why did she know he’d say that? “I’m afraid you’re looking at a bit of a skeptic, Professor, and I’ve already had my fill of superstitious nonsense for one case, so unless you have some concrete answers for me . . .”

“This is about as concrete as it gets. The way it looks to me is that Gabriela was trying to summon up an angel and it backfired on her.”

Oh, brother. Should she even bother?

“Backfired?”

“She got the wrong angel,” he said.

Callahan wanted to scream, but couldn’t quite muster up the energy. She was just too tired to argue anymore.

The best thing to do, she decided, was to let this guy have his say, then put him on the next plane back to looneyville.

But she had to admit she was curious. “What do you mean by wrong angel? Aren’t angels supposed to be good?”

“It’s all about intent. Just like the magic.”

She thought about Martinez’s paranoia. “I always thought demons were the bad guys.”

“They’re the same thing,” LaLaurie said. “The ancient Greeks thought of demons as benevolent spirits. Even Christians acknowledge they’re nothing more than the so-called fallen angels. So what you’d call a demon is simply an angel who’s made some bad choices.”

“Why do I think my old catechism teacher would view this a little differently?”

“Most of what you hear in church was cobbled together by people who were long on faith but short on knowledge. And most religions are a jumble of ancient folklore, inconsistencies and convoluted logic.”

“Yet here you stand, talking about angels and demons as if they’re as common as wheat toast.”

“Because this isn’t about religion.”

Callahan frowned. “I think you just lost me there.”

“Religion is simply a byproduct of people trying to explain the inexplicable. What I’m talking about here has nothing to do with any particular faith, and everything to do with reality. And angels are quite real. They just happen to occupy a different plane of existence than we do. Most of the time, at least.” He paused. “The trouble starts when we try to invite them home for dinner.”

“Okay,” Callahan said. “For the sake of argument, let’s pretend you aren’t one sandwich short of a picnic.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“The bottom line is that you’re saying Gabriela tried to summon up an angel and got more than she bargained for.”

“Not just any angel.”

“Then who?”

LaLaurie indicated the symbol on the wall. “I thought we already established that.”

You’re part of Michael’s army.

“Saint Michael?”

He nodded. “But I have a feeling it wasn’t Michael who answered her call.”

“You said what happened to Gabriela wasn’t an isolated incident. What did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before.”

LaLaurie was damaged, all right. Somewhere around the left temporal lobe.

Maybe that would explain why he was on indefinite leave from Trinity Baptist College.

Callahan had let this guy say what he had to say, and no words she uttered in response would express the depth of her disappointment. Or annoyance. Maybe she was the one who belonged in the looney bin for letting it get this far.

Time to wrap up this nonsense, put this guy on a plane back home and go to bed.

“Thank you for your insight, Professor. I just have one more question for you. One that might actually elicit a rational response.”

“You don’t want to hear the rest of it?”

“I’ll leave that for you and your psychiatrist to sort out. But you do seem to have a lot of knowledge about Christian artifacts, so maybe you can tell me the significance of . . .”

She stopped herself as she looked at the wooden cross atop the prayer desk and noticed that the necklace was gone. “What the hell happened to it?”

LaLaurie was at a loss. “To what?”

“The Saint Christopher medal. It was hanging here yesterday.”

The look on LaLaurie’s face went from mild confusion to sudden surprise. “What kind of Saint Christopher