“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone we could use, would you?” Remy asked.
And she found herself reaching into the pocket of the silk jacket she wore to give the angel what he asked for.
• • •
Patriarch Adolfi could not stop staring at the man called Simeon. It had been at least thirty years since last they’d met, and the man didn’t appear to have aged a day.
“How—,” Adolfi began, only to have Simeon interrupt.
“There’s no time for that now, Patriarch,” Simeon said, raising the china cup to his mouth for a sip of coffee. “There are other more pressing matters.”
Patriarch Adolfi reached for his own steaming beverage, trying to keep his ancient hands from trembling, but not having much luck.
“The jet will be fueled and waiting for us within the hour,” Adolfi said.
“And when we reach Tokyo?”
“A helicopter will take us to the island.”
“Very good,” Simeon said, and the three figures that stayed in the shadows in the far corner of the room shifted.
“Are you certain that your . . . people . . . would not care for some refreshments?” Adolfi asked.
“They are not people, and merely being in the presence of one such as yourself is probably filling them with an overwhelming revulsion,” Simeon snapped. “No offense, but I think it best they stay where they are.”
The patriarch silently agreed, continuing the uncomfortable wait for the call that Simeon promised would be coming. The call that would summon them to duty.
The cell phone on the cherrywood table beside the patriarch’s chair began to play the beginning strains of Tocatta in D minor, and he quickly picked it up.
“There we are,” Simeon said, taking another sip of his coffee.
“Hello?” The patriarch listened to the voice on the other end with increasing interest.
“Why yes, Constantin,” he said, looking to Simeon. “I’ve been expecting your call.”
• • •
Francis wasn’t about to leave with his tail tucked between his legs; he wouldn’t allow himself, given the pain he was still feeling as a result of his questioning—torture.
He had some questions to ask Michael, and might even have a few for Dardariel, in between tearing off his wings and shoving them up his ass.
They climbed the dusty stone steps up from the bowels of the ancient prison. He was surprised that the others had all agreed to join him, albeit some begrudgingly, but they were still here.
Francis suspected their decision had more to do with them not feeling comfortable traveling the shadow paths with Squire, and less to do with wanting to have his back, but whatever the reason, they were there.
Always good to have more bodies at your back, he thought, imagining the fight that might soon ensue.
Francis thought of Remy, wondering if he had met with success. He couldn’t imagine that the Seraphim hadn’t, but then again there was always the chance—
Voices from the landing interrupted his thoughts, and he paused on the stairs.
“Are you sure about this?” Squire asked from beside him. “There’s a nice patch of shadow we can crawl through at the bottom of the steps.”
Francis glanced back to the others. “What do you think?”
Montagin still looked as though he had a stick shoved up his butt, but he held out his hand and called forth a pretty funky-looking sword that could probably do some serious damage. “Does this answer your question?” he asked.
Heath, whose lips looked as though he’d been intimate with the tailpipe of an eighteen-wheeler, extended his fingers and gave them a little wiggle. He said something that Francis couldn’t quite make out because it sounded like the sorcerer had a mouthful of marbles, but he guessed that Heath was staying.
“All right,” Squire said with a shrug. He reached into a pocket of his tool belt and produced two short-bladed knives that he held tightly in both pudgy hands. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”
Seeing the others with weapons made Francis realize how naked he was. He closed his eyes and envisioned the Pitiless pistol and the scalpel-like blade taken from the dead hand of one of the architects of creation. He missed his weapons, his deadly friends.
“How much longer do you plan on skulking there upon the staircase?” asked a voice he recognized as belonging to the Archangel Michael.
Francis glanced to the others, seeing the beginnings of panic in their eyes as he climbed the rest of the way to the landing. So much for surprise.
He was met at the top of the stairs by the angel Dardariel, and immediately tensed. But Dardariel just stood there, holding out his hands to present Francis with the most unexpected of things.
In one palm rested his knife, and in the other the Pitiless pistol.
At first Francis thought it was some sort of joke, but he sensed from the weapons themselves that they were the real deal, and were anxious to be back in his possession.
He took them, first the knife and then the gun.
“I haven’t forgotten about our little conversation downstairs,” Francis said, dropping the knife into his pocket. He hefted the pistol. It felt good in his hand, which suggested to him that he was spending a little bit too much time with the gun.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t enough.
“Of course not,” Dardariel said, and gestured for them to follow. “They’re waiting for you on the roof.”
Francis looked to the others.
“Who is waiting?” Montagin asked.
Squire and Heath shrugged.
“Only one way to find out,” Francis said. He continued down the corridor, following Dardariel up another small flight of stone steps that led onto the prison rooftop.
He really had no idea what to expect. A catered lunch would have been nice, but he was completely taken aback by the sight that awaited him.
It was a gathering of angels.
Everywhere he looked stood a soldier of Heaven, and as Francis emerged onto the rooftop, every eye turned to him. The Pitiless grew warm in his hand, excited by the prospect of violence, but Francis knew it would be hopeless.
Sure, he could take a bunch of the peacocks down, but eventually one of them would reach him, and that would be all she wrote.
Still, not a single weapon of fire was called upon. The angels simply stood and stared, as if waiting for something.
“Ah, there you are,” the Archangel Michael said, moving away from the crowd. “Now we can go.”
Montagin was standing beside Francis, and the former Guardian could sense Heath and Squire at his back. They all seemed just as confused as he was.
“Go where?” Francis asked.
“There has been a cessation of hostilities,” the Archangel stated as he spread his wings.
All the other angels opened their wings as well.
“A conference has been called.”
Angel soldiers appeared behind Francis and his group. They were incredibly close—close enough to take them inside their winged embrace, and transport them away.
“And we must answer the summons.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Remy stopped in the doorway of Prosper’s room, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
A few of the female staff were seeing to the fallen angel’s needs—changing bandages, fluffing pillows. Remy noticed that none of the Nephilim that Prosper employed were present. He figured that the lie about the death of their children was just too much for them to forgive.
“You wanted to see me?” Remy asked.
“Yeah,” Prosper said, shifting his weight upon the bed. He dismissed the girls with a wave of his hand, and they passed Remy with a smile as they went out the door.