The van from the biodome had been singed a bit in the explosion, but it had proven to still be road-worthy. They’d made a quick stop at the closest megastore, picking up some fresh clothes, a map, and Jon’s hearing-aid batteries.
Remy had just run himself through the shower, and he came out of the bathroom to find Jon sitting on the corner of one of the beds, staring at the room’s green carpet with laser-beam intensity.
“You all right?” Remy asked, drying his dark hair with a towel.
It took a moment or so, and he was about to ask the question again when Jon pulled his eyes away from the rug.
“I’m good,” he said, but Remy wasn’t sure he believed him. The man was pale, sick-looking, and he hoped that it was just the reality of their situation catching up with him.
“Are you done in there?” Jon asked, rousing himself.
“It’s all yours.” Remy stepped aside as Jon grabbed a plastic bag containing his purchases and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him; seconds later the water in the shower was running.
Remy had bought a new pair of jeans and a powder blue dress shirt. He tore the price tags off and dressed, glancing toward the bathroom, wishing he were alone on this leg of the journey. Something told him that things were only going to get worse, and Jon had already been through enough.
From another bag on the floor, Remy took out the maps he’d bought and unfolded them on the bed, planning the quickest route to Louisiana and hoping the van would last long enough to get them there.
Steam swirled around the bathroom as Jon held on to the edges of the sink, staring at his fogging reflection in the mirror.
But it wasn’t himself he was looking at; it wasn’t a person at all. Jon was seeing a place . . . a place not seen by man or woman for a very long time.
Eden was coming.
He was both in awe of and terrified by the immensity of the place, the wildness of its smell. It was closer now than it had ever been, and soon it would be here.
If only Nathan could have lived to see it.
But it was his sacrifice that had allowed Jon to connect to the special place in a way that his people never had before.
It was as if he were actually there, walking amid the lush, tropical green, feeling the moisture of the humidity upon his naked skin.
The pain was sudden, like stepping on shards of glass with bare feet.
Jon recoiled, his entire body shivering with the intensity of the agony. His gaze fell on the ground at his feet and he realized that where he was standing was inexplicably dead. The Garden around him was lush and thriving, but this area now appeared leached of life.
And then he heard the sounds. They were coming from the dead zone, somewhere very close.
Something was stirring.
Something beneath the earth.
And as it stirred, Jon felt himself growing sicker . . . weaker . . . as if his very life force were being sucked away.
Remy had just finished leaving Linda Somerset a message, explaining that he’d be gone longer than he thought, but would make it up to her when he got back.
First Mulvehill’s bottle of twenty-five-year-old Scotch and steak dinner, now Linda, and he was sure Marlowe would have something to say when he returned.
Jon emerged from the bathroom, interrupting Remy’s thoughts. He was completely naked, and looked even paler, if that was possible.
“We have to find the key right away,” he said, swaying on his bare feet.
“I agree,” Remy said carefully. “I’ve already gone over the maps and I think—”
“No.” Jon shook his head. “We have to get there fast. . . .”
“Yes, I know, and I’m pretty sure I’ve mapped out the fastest route—”
“Faster,” Jon interrupted, panting, as if he’d overexerted himself in the shower. “It has to be faster. We have to be there now.”
Remy rushed to the man’s side as he began to fall, grabbing hold of his arm to steady him. “What’s happened, Jon?”
“Something’s happening in the Garden,” he said, gasping. “Since Nathan did his thing I’m more connected. . . . I had a vision. . . . Something’s killing it.”
“Did your vision show you what’s killing it?” Remy asked. “Is it Zophiel or . . .”
“I don’t know what it is,” Jon said with a shake of his head.
“So not only do we have to get the second half of the key and get Adam home; now we have to save the Garden as well.”
“Looks like it,” Jon agreed. He pulled out the chair to the desk and sat, elbows resting on his bare knees. “We need to get to Louisiana as fast as possible, and the quickest way is you.”
Remy didn’t like the sound of that. “Me?”
Jon looked up, face pallid and sweating. “You’re an angel; I saw those wings when you rescued me from the wreckage of the dome.”
“You want me to fly us there?”
“Don’t play stupid, Remy,” Jon said. “You know you do more than fly.”
“And you received your doctorate in angelology from what school?”
“From the school of answering to one for more than seventy years,” Jon retorted.
It was easy to forget how old Jon actually was, and how long he’d been in the company of Malachi.
“I don’t know where we’re going,” Remy said. “I have to have some sort of connection.”
“I do,” Jon said. “After Nathan ate the fruit and connected us to the Garden, it was like I was there.”
Remy shook his head. “But it didn’t happen to me.”
“It’s in my blood now. The scent of the place is in my blood.”
Jon had received a gash on the side of his head in the biodome explosion, and although it had stopped bleeding some time ago, it appeared to be seeping a bit since his shower. He reached up, touched the wound, and held his bloodstained hand out to Remy.
“You can follow a scent. Track this. . . . It should bring us there, or at least pretty close.”
Louisiana: 1932
Francis had become a regular at the Pelican Club.
Leo, the big man on the porch, greeted him nightly with an accepting nod, and Cleo, his dog, with an excited wag of the tail.
He was okay as far as they were concerned.
If only they knew the truth.
Melvin greeted him the same way from behind his two-by-four bar every night—with a big smile and a jelly jar full of moonshine.
Francis liked being a regular, liked the fact that folks smiled at him as he entered, assuming he was one of them.
If only they knew the truth.
The Thrones had sent him here on a mission of murder, and as he sat on the rickety wooden stool, sipping moonshine whiskey from a jelly jar, he waited for his target.
He had been waiting for days.
It wasn’t that his target hadn’t made an appearance; in fact, she had been there every night. He liked to tell himself that he was waiting for the opportune moment.
But he knew otherwise.
It was always the same. He arrived at the Pelican intent on carrying out his assignment, but then she’d open her mouth to sing, and it was like nothing mattered anymore.
Tonight the Swamp Angel was singing once again, but there was a difference; tonight she was looking at him. It was bad enough that her voice had such an effect on him, but now, as her eyes touched his, it was a whole new ball of wax.
“I think somebody’s noticed you,” Melvin said as he used a rag to dry the inside of a recently washed jelly jar.
“What are you talking about?” Francis asked, not able to tear his gaze away from the Angel.
“I think you know what I’m talking about,” Melvin said. “You’d have to be dead not to notice.”
The situation was going from bad to worse, and this target wasn’t even a real angel; she was human. Francis picked up his drink and retreated to one of the darker corners. He had to think.