The swamp grew thicker—denser—almost completely blocking out the rays of the hot sun as if night had suddenly fallen.
“There,” the woman said, pointing through the thick mist rising from the water at something in the distance ahead.
At first Jon and Remy couldn’t see anything, but then they saw . . . something.
It was a single, tiny ball of orange, and then there was another, resembling a set of fiery eyes peering out through the darkness, but that illusion was dispelled by the appearance of another, and another after that. Multiple orbs of light hung in the mist, like stars in the sky, before Jon and Remy could figure out what they were seeing.
Before the thick, smoky mist pulled apart like a delicate spiderweb, and they saw the stilt house, looking like some large, prehistoric beast standing in the midst of the swamp on tree trunk-sized legs. Burning lanterns hung from the structure.
“It’s almost as if she knows we’re coming,” Jon said, his eyes never leaving the house.
“Oh, she knows,” the woman said.
Remy’s sense of an ancient power was even stronger here. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end as they drew closer.
A wooden ladder hung from the elevated platform, and the woman piloted the boat as close as she could before cutting off the engine.
“This is as far as I go,” she said.
Jon stood, grabbing for the ladder. “Maybe you should join us,” he said. “Help explain that we don’t mean her any harm.”
“She doesn’t need to hear anything from me,” the woman said. “She’ll make up her own mind about you.”
Remy stood carefully so as not to tip the boat, and joined Jon at the ladder.
“Thank you for this,” he said.
“It’s all right,” she answered. “Whatever happens from here on is out of my hands.”
“Thank you for not shooting me,” Jon said, starting to climb the ladder.
The woman laughed. “You might be wishing I did after you’ve dealt with Izzy.”
Remy followed Jon up onto the platform, the two of them watching as the woman piloted her motorboat back into the embrace of the thick swamp mist. Not only did it swallow her up, but it swallowed the sound of the outboard as well, leaving them alone in an eerie silence.
“I suggest we get this over with,” Jon said, reaching up to adjust his hearing aid as he turned and walked toward the front door of the house. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can reconnect with Adam and Malachi and . . .”
A woman stood in the open doorway.
Jon noticed her with a start, jumping back and bumping into Remy.
She was older at first glance, but exactly how old was tricky. She looked forty, but could have very easily been sixty, considering her pedigree. She had smoky skin and piercing, light-colored eyes. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton top and a flowing peasant skirt in multiple colors. She was exotically attractive, but what really stood out was her hair, long and frizzy with streaks of white—like lightning bolts shooting from her scalp and running through the length of her wavy curls.
“Well, hello,” Jon said, recovering quickly. “I’m Jon, and this is Remy, and we’ve come to—”
“I know why you’ve come,” she said. Remy didn’t like her tone and immediately went on full alert. “I’ve been waiting for a long time.”
Her eyes gave the first sign that they were in trouble. In less than a second, they changed from a light shade that could have been the palest green to something dark and murky, like the swamp waters surrounding them.
The many bracelets adorning her wrists jangled noisily in the stillness as her hands shot out to either side of her, supernatural energy leaking from the tips of her fingers. Remy could feel the power start to surge, permeating the air as it intensified. It was all happening too fast.
The magick was loose, charging the very air around them with an aura of danger. Remy pushed Jon aside, moving to the forefront in an attempt to quell their growing predicament, but it was too late for that, and she told him so.
“You’re too late, angel,” she said, with a smile that showed off pearly white teeth and bands of magickal energy squirming across their ivory surface. “I’ve prepared for the likes of you two.”
The winds began to howl, and the still waters seethed. The trees seemed to be moving—snaking closer to converge on the stilt house. The wood beneath their feet began to vibrate, and Remy was forced, yet again, to call upon the power of the Seraphim. But again he wasn’t fast enough.
Something surged up, something sculpted from the mud and water and wildlife of the swamp.
The monster was in human form, mouth like a swirling vortex opened to roar its might, but it was like nothing Remy had ever seen before. It towered above the platform, then flowed down in a tsunami of thick, foul-smelling mud, to snatch them from their perch.
Dragging them down into the murky depths.
Louisiana: 1932
Francis was totally smitten by Eliza Swan.
He had never felt anything like this before. Certainly he’d had his dalliances with human women over the numerous centuries he’d been on Earth cleaning up God’s messes, but none had ever managed to touch him so precisely . . . so deeply.
It was like magick.
He was at the Pelican Club again, listening to Eliza sing, and this time he knew that she sang to him.
Her voice made him feel more alive than he had in forever. It made him forget the dark days of war, when he slew his brothers in the name of a cause that he eventually came to realize was insane. She made him truly feel.
As if he were loved by God again.
But no matter how loved he was feeling, it didn’t change the fact that he’d been given an assignment, and the Thrones weren’t all that crazy about insubordination.
Eliza Swan was supposed to die, and he was the one who had to see to it she did. The Thrones wanted Eliza’s blood for whatever reason, and they would not be denied.
She was singing one of his personal favorites, a beautiful, melancholy tune called “Searching for Paradise,” and he let her sweet, sweet voice wash over him.
This one is something special, he thought, wondering why the Thrones would want her dead. Maybe it was the spell she seemed to have over anyone who heard her voice.
She finished her song to wild applause, and flashed Francis an amazing smile from the stage, leaving no doubt she’d sung that song for him.
There had to be a solution to this problem that didn’t involve killing her. Part of him argued to just do the job and move on—that nothing, and no one, was more important than being able to pass through the gates of Heaven again and bask in the glory of the Almighty.
He imagined that was the same part of his nature that had been beguiled by the words of the Morningstar. He shouldn’t have listened then, and he wasn’t going to now.
He picked up his drink, and it was about halfway to his mouth when he felt it, a strange tingling in his spine. He’d heard humans make reference to the sensation as someone walking over their grave, and he couldn’t have said it better himself. Although it was just the feeling he got when others of his kind were around.
Francis scanned the room. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, doubting he’d see the flaming, eye-covered orbs of the Thrones floating around the Pelican, but then again, he hadn’t followed through on his orders, and the Thrones were impatient sons of bitches.
But it wasn’t the Thrones. It was an angel, tall and dressed to the nines in a dark suit and tie. The angel’s human guise was a striking one, with hair and beard of glacial white. He looked like some sort of aristocrat who had decided to see how the simple folk lived.
He was headed directly for Francis, other patrons instinctively moving aside, allowing him to pass.
Francis casually set his jar of moonshine down, letting his arm brush against his coat pocket. The Enochian dagger was still there, resting . . . waiting . . . eager for another taste of angel blood.