We take the elevator up to the floor below Traven’s and walk up a set of bare, uncarpeted stairs. Traven’s apartment door is open a few inches when we get there. I don’t like unexpected open doors. I knock and push it open, my other hand under my coat on the .460.
Traven is sitting at a desk scribbling away on yellow paper that looks old enough to have Spanish Inquisition letterhead at the top. He stops writing and lifts his head, speaks without turning around.
“Ah. You must be God’s other rejects. Plirt rejectease, come in.”
Traven gets up from a long desk piled high with books. Really, it’s the kind of fold-up conference table you see in community centers. I don’t know if he’s getting ready for work or a church bake sale.
As we come in, Traven extends his hand. He gives us a faint smile, like he wants to be friendly but hasn’t had any reason to be for a long time and is trying to remember how to make his face work.
“I’m Liam Traven. Good to meet you all. Julia has told me a lot about you.”
He turns to Candy.
“Well, about two of you.”
She takes off her sunglasses and beams at him.
“I’m Candy, Mr. Stark’s bodyguard.”
Traven grins at her. He does it better this time.
“It’s very nice to meet you all.”
He steps out of the way so we can get farther into the place.
The apartment is small but neat and brighter than I expected. Whoever cut up the place installed a couple of big picture windows overlooking UCLA. There are books, scrolls, and folded sheets of vellum, mystical codices, and crumbling reference books everywhere. Even some pop-science and physics textbooks covered in highlighter marks and Post-its. Brick-and-board bookshelves line the walls and there are more books on the floor. Vidocq heads right for them and starts eyeballing the piles.
“I owned many of these years ago. Not here. I had to leave my library when I left France. I haven’t seen some of these texts in a hundred years.”
He kneels and picks up a bound manuscript from the floor. It’s so old and worn it looks like someone sewed dried leaves together and slapped a cover around them. Vidocq opens it carefully, flips through a few pages, and turns to Traven.
“Is this the old Gnostic Pistis Sophia?”
Traven nods and walks over to Vidocq.
“There it is. I’ve been looking for that. Thank you. And yes, it’s the Pistis.”
“I thought there were only four or five of these left in the world?”
Traven gently takes the book and puts it on a high shelf with other moldering titles.
“There’s more than that if you know where to look.”
I say, “Maybe there’s one less now that you’re not punching the clock for the pope. I bet that wasn’t a going-away present.”
Traven glances up at the manuscript and then to me.
“We do rash things at rash moments,” he says. “Later, we sometimes regret them. But not always.”
“God helps those who help themselves,” says Candy.
“Especially the ones who don’t get caught. Don’t worry, Father. We don’t have a problem with rash. The first thing I did when I got back to this world was roll a guy for his clothes and cash. He threw the first punch and I’d recently woken up on a pile of burning garbage, so I figured God would understand if I helped myself to some necessities.”
Father Traven is in his fifties, but his ashen complexion makes him look older. His voice is deep and exhausted, but his eyes are large and curious. His face is lined and deeply creased by years of doing something he didn’t want to do, but did anyway because he thought it needed to be done. It’s a soldier’s face, not a priest’s. There’s something else. He’s definitely not Sub Rosa—I would have known that the moment I touched his hand—but I can feel waves of hoodoo coming off him. Something weird and old. I don’t know what it is, but it’s powerful. I bet he doesn’t even know about it. Also, I think he’s dying. I smell what could be the early stages of cancer.
“The lucky among us might get the same deal as Dysmas. Dysmas was one of the thieves crucified next to Christ. When he asked for forgiveness, Christ said, ‘Today you will be with me in paradise.’ ”
Candy and Vidocq wander around the room. I’m still standing and so is Traven, protectively, in front of his desk. He likes seeing people, but values his privacy. I know the feeling.
“I know a dying story, too. Ever hear of a guy named Voltaire? Vidocq told me about him. I guess he’s famous. On his deathbed the priest says to him, ‘Do you renounce Satan and his ways?’ ”
“And Voltaire says, ‘My good man, this is no time for making enemies,’ ” says Traven. “It was a popular joke in the seminary.”
Framed pictures of old gods and goddesses line the walls. Egyptian. Babylonian. Hindu. Aztec. Some jellyfish-spider things I haven’t seen before. Candy likes those as much as Vidocq likes the books.
“These are the coolest,” she says.
“I’m glad you like them,” says Traven. “Some of those are images of the oldest gods in the world. We don’t even know some of their names.”
The angel in my head has been chattering ever since we got here. n="e got hHe wants to get out of my skull and run around. This place is Disneyland to him. I’m about to slap a gag on him when he points out something that I hadn’t noticed. I scan the walls to make sure he’s right. He is. Among all the books and ancient gods there isn’t a single crucifix. Not even prayer beads. The father lapsed a long time ago or he really holds a grudge.
“Would you like some coffee or hot chocolate? I’m afraid that’s all I have. I don’t get many guests.”
“No thank you,” says Vidocq, still poking at Traven’s bookshelves.
“I’m fine, Father,” says Candy.
He didn’t mention scotch, but I get a faint whiff of it when he talks. Not enough for a normal person to notice. Guess we all need something to take the edge off when we’re booted from the only life we’ve ever known.
“I’m not a priest anymore, so there’s no need to call me ‘Father.’ Liam works just fine.”
“Thank you, Liam,” says Candy.
“I’ll stick with ‘Father,’ ” I say. “I heard every time you call an excommunicated priest ‘Father,’ an angel gets hemorrhoids.
“What is it you do exactly?” I ask.
He clasps his hands in thought.
“To put it simply, I translate old texts. Some known. Some unknown. Depending on who you ask, I’m a paleographer, a historical linguist, or paleolinguist. Not all of those are nice terms.”
“You read old books.”
“Not ordinary books. Some of these texts haven’t been read in more than a thousand years. They’re written in languages that no longer exist. Sometimes in languages that no one even recognizes. Those are my specialty.”
He looks at me happily. Is that the sin of pride showing?
“How the hell do you work on something like that?”
“I have a gift for languages.”
Traven catches me looking at the book on his desk, pretends to put a pen back into its holder, and closes the book, trying to make the move look casual. There’s a symbol carved into its front cover and rust-red stains like blood splattered across it. Traven takes another book and covers the splattered one.