The Paradise Prophecy

from Manessa was snooping around the crime scene, prying into the singer’s death.

While this hadn’t concerned her much, she was curious. So she had come back to Sao Paulo and discovered that the woman in question had now moved on to Esau. And this she found doubly curious, since she’d recently taken a trip there herself.

Was this woman’s interest in the singer, and now, obviously, the antiquities dealer, purely professional? A connecting of the dots?

Or was she Custodes Sacri?

While retracing the woman’s steps here in the city, Belial had found herself in the Favela Paraisopolis, with all of its glorious depravity (which was ironic considering what this place had once been), only to be introduced to its self-appointed king, a smart but overeager little rodent with a provocative, cocoa-skinned girlfriend.

The night had gotten predictable after that.

This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it was a distraction when the clock was ticking and she had work to do. Beelzebub’s anger for her failure to locate the remaining members of her wayward brother’s army was not misplaced, but it wasn’t as if she’d abandoned the project. Her children were always out there working for her. Staying alert.

And what was the harm in a few stolen moments with a goldentongued goddess? Surely Belial was allowed some pleasure . . .

But then, out of the blue, just as the girl was placing her lips on a hardened nipple and drawing it into her mouth-

– Belial heard it. The sound she so hated. The unmistakable scream of a soul turning to dust.

A soul that belonged to her.

She stiffened suddenly and shoved the goddess aside, pulling herself to the edge of the bed.

“Is something wrong?” de Souza asked, looking fearful. “Did she hurt you?”

The room was dark except for a few candles burning on the shelf above them, and Belial was glad for that, because she didn’t want these humans to see her face. Unlike her brother, who wasn’t afraid to show his torment (should the occasion arise), Belial preferred to keep her pain private.

And the loss of a soul was always painful.

For her, at least.

Especially since this wasn’t the first one she’d lost today. Her brother had seen to that.

“It’s nothing,” she said to de Souza. “I’m bored, is all. It’s time for me to go.”

At moments like this the other clan leaders-Beelzebub, Mammon and Moloch-seemed to take as much pride in their ability to remain stoic as de Souza took in his enameled tooth. But for Belial, a loss was a loss. Each soul gone was a missing piece, a hole in the fabric she had spent so many centuries weaving.

These were not mere possessions to her. They were her children.

And to lose one always saddened her.

As she pulled her clothes on, de Souza leaned forward in his chair, an intense, concerned look on his face. “Are you sure you won’t stay? We have so much to talk about.”

The thought was absurd. “Like what, for instance?”

“The coming days, for one. We need to know how to prepare.”

Belial looked at him and almost laughed. It was amusing how naive these self-absorbed converts could be. Did he really think he could prepare for what was to come?

Even she wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Watch the moon,” she said flatly. “Then do what comes naturally.”

The second jolt came less than hour later. Belial had pinpointed her loss to Ajda, the young waitress she had met in Esau, and she knew this wasn’t a coincidence. The woman she’d been told about was involved somehow. She was sure of it.

Ajda must have sensed something wrong about this woman and had foolishly taken matters into her own hands. And now that Ajda was gone, the hole in the fabric seemed larger than ever.

She’d been one of Belial’s favorites.

So Belial had decided to stop wasting time and go to Esau immediately. Not to confront, but to observe. If a strategy wasn’t working, you changed it, and confrontation had so far produced very little. And even if this woman did not turn out to be a member of Custodes Sacri, she could still prove useful.

But as she was preparing to leave, Belial felt a sudden jolt of pain in her chest. Someone pulling at her, trying to suck her out of her skin and into the swirling darkness of the otherworld.

When she realized who it was, she didn’t resist. Let herself go.

How could she not?

She had invested a lot of time and energy into this man. He was a laggard and a drunk, yes, but from the first moment she saw him-long before he’d taken that path-she had found herself inexplicably drawn to him.

His wit. His intellect. The complexity of thought. The ability to see what others couldn’t.

She remembered what Moloch had said to her that night in the tea shop. “It’s quite obvious you have a soft spot for this pathetic creature.”

Moloch was a self-important dunderhead, but what he’d said was true. She did have a soft spot. And her decision not to turn the laggard had less to do with strategy-as in de Souza’s case-and everything to do with . . .

Dare she say it?

Her feelings.

Just as she had no control over the sadness that overcame her whenever she lost a soul, she couldn’t help how she felt about this man. A frame of mind that was both troubling and dangerous. She knew she should have turned him immediately, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to even try. Couldn’t bear the thought of losing the qualities that made him who he was.

And after their glorious night together-a moment she had delayed for two long years-she had worked very hard to forget about him. Had distracted herself with the flesh of others in hopes that her thoughts of that night would soon fade away.

She had not returned to his home. Had not returned to his bed. And had almost convinced herself that he was no longer important to her.

Yet here he was now, pulling at her. Floating before her in the ether. Summoning up the lingering remains of that night in the tea shop with Ajda.

And this part puzzled her.

Was he there right now? In the tea shop?

Had he gone to Esau?

Before she could weigh the gravity of this turn of events, she saw him crouched near the floor, his face coming into sharp focus, and she could see that he wasn’t happy. Far from it.

There was hate in those eyes. Fury.

And she knew with sudden certainty that-true to his intellect-he was now fully aware of who she really was and what she had done to that useless bag of bones, that supercilious whore he had called a wife.

And for the first time in as long as she could remember-

– Belial was heartbroken.

30

ISTANBUL, TURKEY

After the fifth shot of whiskey, Batty still wasn’t properly anesthetized, but he was getting there. He’d brought the bottle to their hotel room and planned to finish it off before the night was over.

He was slumped on a couch near a window that overlooked the city, his forearm bandaged, the Milton manuscript lying on the cushion next to him. But he hadn’t cracked it open yet. His excitement over it had waned.