“Or people,” Malatesta agreed, having some more of his steaming drink. “Your name quickly moved to the top of our list.”
“Lucky me,” Remy said.
The Vatican representative chuckled. “We were very discreet in our interview process,” he said.
“Who else did you talk to beside Detective Mulvehill?”
Malatesta was bringing the mug up to his lips. “Some former clients who all spoke very highly of you . . . if they spoke at all.”
Remy cocked his head, confused by the statement.
“Some of those we talked to would give us only the basic information, as if they were somehow protecting you . . . protecting your secret.”
“Most don’t even know that I have one,” Remy said, taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s something that I work on.”
“I can imagine it would be complex,” Malatesta acknowledged. “You said most. . . . There are some who . . .”
“Very few.”
“Detective Mulvehill?”
“Let me guess. He got all squirrelly when you started asking about me.”
“Squirrelly,” Malatesta repeated and laughed. “Yes.” He drained his coffee and leaned forward to set the mug on the edge of the desk.
“Want another cup?” Remy asked. “I’ve got a whole pot.”
“No, thank you,” Malatesta said. “I’m trying to limit my caffeine, and I’m afraid to say that cup has put me over my allotted amount.”
“No worries,” Remy answered, as he stood and headed for the pot. “More for me.”
“So, now that I know how you found me, Mr. Malatesta,” he said, filling his mug, “why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”
“Not for me per se, Mr. Chandler,” Malatesta answered. “It is what you can do for a changing world.”
Remy chose to stand, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“And what, I’m afraid to ask, is that?”
“The Keepers of the Vatican wish you to work for them, Remy Chandler.”
Remy thought about this for a moment before bringing his mug up to his mouth. “I worked for the Vatican once, a long time ago,” he said, taking a sip of the hot liquid, reveling in the scalding sensation as it burned his lips and tongue. “Let’s just say it didn’t turn out so well.”
“Do you eat?”
Pope Tyranus did not rise from the head of the vast banquet table as Remiel was led into the dining hall by the soldiers of the Vatican.
The table was covered with all forms of repast: roasted chickens, quail, a wild boar the size of a small child, and bowls of peas, carrots, and potatoes. There was enough to feed a small village laid out before the holy man.
“Would you prefer that I speak in Latin?” the Pope asked in the tongue of the Church, seemingly impatient with the lack of immediate response. “Or perhaps Italian?”
Remiel fixed the old man in an icy stare. “Occasionally I indulge,” he replied to the first question. “But it is not necessary for my survival.”
“Then, will you do me the honor of indulging me?”
The old man gestured for him to take a seat at the corner, by his side. Remiel noticed the jewelry that clattered upon his wrist, and the rings that adorned his long, slender fingers.
There was something in the tone of the holy man’s voice, something that told him to acquiesce to the Pope’s request of him.
Pope Tyranus smiled as Remiel approached the table.
A servant appeared from a shadowed corner of the hall, pulling out the heavy wooden chair so that the angel could sit, before scampering out of view again.
“She’s actually one of the few left alive here,” Pope Tyranus said, drawing Remiel’s attention back to himself. “The lord of this manor, his family, and most who served them have succumbed to the pestilence.”
He reached for a silver decanter and poured a libation into a tarnished goblet. “Wine?” the Pope offered.
Remiel found himself taking a goblet in hand and holding it out so that the holy man could fill it.
They both noticed the servant girl now standing nearby, watching the holy man, a look of horror upon her face.
“Please, your holiness, please allow me to pour . . . ,” she began.
“Off with you, girl,” the Pope said, setting down the decanter. “My guest and I wish for privacy.”
He turned his cold, gray eyes to Remiel.
“And we’re both human enough to serve ourselves,” he added with a smile.
Remiel turned his gaze to her, reassuring the girl with a kind nod. She turned away, darting into a passage behind a scarlet curtain.
Pope Tyranus leaned forward in his chair, sinking his long fingers into the eye socket of the roast boar, rooting around, and removing the gelatinous remains of the wild pig’s eye.
“Excuse my lack of manners,” the Pope said as he brought the dripping organ of sight toward his eager mouth, “but I’m simply famished. You should be honored that I waited for you.”
He slurped the eye from his fingers and chewed happily.
“You said that the lord of this manor and most of his servants are dead,” Remiel began. He picked up his goblet of wine.
The Pope waited for him to continue, using his silken robes to wipe away the ocular fluid that dribbled down his chin.
“So why are you here?” Remiel asked as he sipped from his silver cup, his eyes never leaving those of the Pope. “Why would one such as yourself risk exposing himself, and his servants”—Remiel turned slightly in his chair to glance at the soldiers who remained at attention in the entry to the dining hall—“to the potential of plague?”
“Exactly,” Tyranus reiterated. “What could be of such importance that I would leave the safety of Rome and expose myself to all of this . . .” He waved his bejeweled hand around in the air beside his head. “Death,” he finished dramatically.
The Pope sipped more wine, as if he needed the soothing effects of the libation to continue.
“These are dark and dangerous times we live in, soldier of God,” Tyranus told him. “There are forces of darkness afoot that wish to squelch the goodness of the true faith.”
Remiel was amused by the statement—as if one faith of humanity were somehow better than all the rest. As if one specific religion would somehow place its followers closer to God than all the others.
Pope Tyranus must have caught the look on Remiel’s face. “Do you not see it as you make your way in the world, angel?” he asked, his annoyance clear in his tone. “Things lurking in the shadows that lust to see your most holy radiance snuffed out like a candle’s flame.”
Remiel slowly rotated his goblet upon the wooden table, carefully considering his words.
“This world has always been plagued by darkness, but there has also been light. There is a balance here, I believe.”
“Balance?” Tyranus sneered. “I’m afraid I see a world teetering on the edge of the abyss. Balance was lost a very long time ago.”
He picked at some pheasant meat that he had torn from the body of the bird and placed upon his plate.
“I plan to keep this world from plunging headlong into damnation.”
“And this has brought you here? To England?”
Tyranus slowly chewed the piece of pheasant meat he’d put in his mouth. “Exactly, angel.”
“And how do you plan to prevent the world from being swallowed up by this darkness you see?” Remiel asked, curious.
“I sense that we don’t necessarily agree on the level of the threat that the good people of the world face,” Tyranus stated.
Remiel shrugged. “It is a matter of perception,” he explained. “When one has seen true darkness . . .”
The angel remembered the war against the Morningstar, and the lives of his brothers that he was forced to take. The taste of angel blood was suddenly in his mouth, and he quickly picked up his goblet to wash it away with wine.