Jonah studied him. “For a sword?”
Why did people insist angels were so judgmental? They had nothing on the former African missionary man and the teshuva demon glinting violet in his eyes.
Fane let out a sharp breath between his teeth. “When you were maimed, you took on a symballein mate you didn’t want to be your right hand, to replace what was no more. And now you would kill for her, die for her.”
Jonah spread his left hand wide. “What you say is true. So?”
“I had that myself once, but I lost it—yes, I lost it, out of a weakness I can never defend —and was given the abraxas as recompense. And so I want it back.”
After a long moment, the talya jerked his head once, as hard as if Fane had punched him. Was that supposed to be an acknowledgment of some sort? Jonah turned on his boot heel and stalked away, leaving Fane to follow or not.
He followed.
They went upstairs. The old warehouse had been a salvage operation, so the upper level was full of trash and ostensible treasure. A bare space had been cleared in the middle of the clutter except for a dozen mismatched chairs in a circle. A half dozen talyan sat around the child-sized sarcophagus. Why did anyone in Chicago, even demon-ridden warriors, need a sarcophagus of any size? On top of the marble lid was perched a pretty silver tea service with mugs as mismatched as the chairs.
Jonah pointed his hook at one of the empty chairs.
Fane hesitated, waiting for his angel's instincts for trouble to finally rouse. Nothing. With a nod to the talya beside him, he sat.
Nim smirked. “Welcome to a talya coffee klatsch.” She handed him a tea cup brimming with a yellow-green liquid. Leaves floated on top. His angel stirred restlessly.
Oh sure, now when they were being friendly his angel warned him off. Too late.
He tossed back the whole damn cup's worth. And gagged. “Now I know why you need the sarcophagus.”
Nim snickered. “Jilly's landlady told us it's an ancient Chinese remedy to stoke your inner fire when it is cold and dark out. Tomorrow night is the longest night of the year, you know.”
Fane licked his lips and winced at the sting of cayenne on his tongue. Even as the initial burn waned, the slower spice of ginger glowed within him. He closed his watering eyes for a moment, waiting to spontaneously combust. On the backs of his eyelids, he swore he saw red, red in all shades, like flames dancing, writhing. Which reminded him of Bella… He popped his eyes open to banish the erotic image. “I'm on fire all right.”
Around the circle of chairs, the talyan stared dubiously into their cups.
Fane stared back at them. “You mean none of you have tried it yet?”
At the far side of the circle, Ecco—the biggest of the overly large talya, only made bigger by the black tank exposing his broad shoulders—shook his shaved head. “Jilly's landlady is a witch. I'd never drink anything she gave me.”
Jonah grinned. “I told you the warden would.”
And Jonah had been his vote of confidence? Great. Fane slammed his mug on the tray upside down. “Ex-warden. Which is why I'm here.”
Ecco scoffed. “Why would we want you on our side? You're a loser.”
After one slow blink to calm himself, Fane said, “Because I have nothing else to lose.”
All around the circle, talya heads nodded. Of course, they understood.
The circle came back to Ecco, who lifted one shoulder infinitesimally. “Can't ever have enough cannon fodder.”
That had gone easier than he expected. Fane smiled. “So when are we going after Thorne?”
He left the warehouse feeling... Well, feeling a little charred. But that was to be expected in the presence of demons, even repentant ones. The second cup of hell tea had added to the sensation. But he thought they would make a place for him, more or less willingly, when they confronted Thorne again.
From the industrial district to Lake Shore Drive which would take him northward and home was a quick jaunt, but he found himself on a more circuitous route through a thin scattering of sleet.
The Mortal Coil was blacker than the @1 warehouse, not a hint of light showing from any of the windows. Even the ouroboros in the circle of stained glass above the door was dim, only its yellow eye still glinting in the darkness. Perhaps he should drive on…
The Porsche stuttered to a halt as if of its own volition.
Fane found himself at the front door. From the angle where he stood, sheltered in the doorway, he caught another glimmer between the black-out curtains drawn over the windows. He ignored the white sign with its rude rejection and knocked.
Nothing. The glimmer cut out and then returned, as if someone had moved between the light source and where he stood. But the door remained stubbornly closed.
The glimmer returned and cut out again. Was Bella trying to come to the door? Was something preventing her? His heartbeat accelerated, and he tried the door knob. Locked. But he’d been in too many fights to let the surge of adrenaline go unused.
He’d also been in enough fights to know the frontal approach wasn’t always the best, especially for an angelic possessed going up against demon-ridden whose supernatural sidekicks included perks such as increased speed and strength, not to mention immortality. So he jogged around to the alley.
A beat-up hatchback was parked near the back door, trunk open but empty. He closed it to keep the weather and any other transients out, then ran a hand over the hood: still warm despite the plummeting temperatures.
Sure enough, the back door of the club was unlocked, as if the unloading implied by the open truck had only just completed. Fane pushed through.
The back door was at the end of the bathroom hallway, black except for the red exit sign over his head. His toed thumped something hollow and plastic in the path, which he nudged aside. He strode down the dark hall toward the main room of the club, guided by the intermittent blinking he’d seen from the front step.
He crossed into the cavernous space.
And stopped.
Arrayed around the room at all the entrance points, like the lookouts of a besieged army, were small, nearly identical statues. Most were swathed only from the waist down, and some were molded with their bare, pudgy arms outstretched as if to hold back an enemy, like aggressive half-naked lawn gnomes.
Taken out of context, it was a full heartbeat before Fane recognized them.
It was a platoon of infant Jesuses.
He shook his head, as if he could clear the baffling imagery, but the weird collection remained. Mostly life sized, the effigies had clearly come from a variety of displays. Some had the hard shine of ceramic, though the majority were plastic, and one was transparent, like glass. Fane winced; he’d probably kicked another baby Jesus out of the back door.
From the shadows near the front, a figure emerged. For a second, Fane’s heart skipped, and he had the fleeting thought one of the statues had come to life.
But no. Instead of the short, pale, pudgy shape of another modeled infant, Bella—slender and head-to-slippered-toe red—emerged into the blinking light of one of the figurines.
Fane put his hands on his hips. “What the hell?”
Bella unspooled a power cord. “I know, seriously. Why does a baby Jesus need to blink? It even has a frequency dial.” She demonstrated on the controller in her hand, cranking up the speed to disco rates.
The statue beside the front door blinked a frantic SOS Fane couldn’t decode.
The feeling of cluelessness made him want to lash out, but the cavernous room held only the babies and Bella. “Never mind the blinking.” He bit out each word. “Who buys a couple dozen nativity scene Jesuses?”
“Only a crazy person, obviously.” She dropped the cord but didn’t leave the tangle of reaching white arms. “So you think I’m crazy?”