“Very, very hungry,” the creature said, reaching down to take the angel’s face in his hands.
The pain was incredible, but Remy was too weak to cry out as his life force was slowly drained away.
For as far as he could see, the golden fields of Heaven were buried beneath the bodies of his fallen brethren.
Yet still they came at him.
He was tired and did not want to fight anymore, but the angel Remiel continued to defend his Lord God against those who had chosen to stand with the Morningstar.
Not long ago they had been one family, and now they were enemies. They descended upon him, wings pounding the air as they screamed for his death, their fiery blades eager to drink deeply of his Seraphim blood. Remiel tried not to look at them, tried not to see which former brother desired to take his life.
But it was an impossible task. The art of warfare, of violence and death, was such a personal thing.
He struck them down, his brothers, one after another. And as each body fell, its blood seeping into the rich soil of Heaven, tainting with a hint of scarlet the few yellow blades of grass that managed to reach up from between the corpses of the vanquished, Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim cried out to his Lord God that he could do this no more.
Yet still they came.
And still he fought.
Remy awoke to the sounds of clattering dishware.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes, not wanting to make it known that he had returned from unconsciousness as he gathered his strength and surveyed his surroundings.
He was inside the farmhouse, lying in the center of a wooden table. The creature that only wore the guise of a man moved around the table, setting out dust-covered plates and cups, muttering to himself.
“It’ll be just like old times,” he said, placing a broken cup next to the jagged half of a plate. “A real family dinner. Just like I remember.” He stopped, his bulging eyes scanning the settings. “But…what do I remember?” He rubbed a burned hand across his forehead, as if he had an excruciating headache.
“They’re not yours,” he said bitterly. “They belong to somebody else.”
“They are mine!” he screamed, grabbing a coffee cup and smashing it to the floor. “I collected them and now they belong to me!”
He leaned against the table, breathing heavily.
“All right, then.” He took a deep breath and stood straight, adjusting the neck of his shirt as if he were wearing a tie. “Let’s just sit down and have a nice dinner, without the drama.”
Pulling out a chair, the man sat down and made himself comfortable. “Fine by me,” he muttered. He picked up an oily rag and laid it across his lap. “I’m absolutely famished.”
He reached across the table to lay his hand upon Remy.
“Enough,” Remy cried, coming suddenly to life. He captured the man’s wrist in one hand and with the other grabbed a knife from the table, infusing it with the intensity of Heaven’s fire. He pulled the man closer and plunged the glowing blade squarely into his captor’s chest.
The man yanked his hand from Remy’s grasp, stumbling backward, gazing with disbelieving eyes at the metal instrument protruding from his chest. “Now, is that any way for dinner to act?” he asked.
Remy sprang from the table as tongues of divine flame began to consume the man from within.
The creature stumbled about the room, fire leaking from his burning form, igniting the ragged curtains. “All I wanted…,” he screamed. “All I wanted was to have them for my own…memories of my own…”
The farmhouse was primed to burn, and in a matter of seconds, the entire house was engulfed. Flames swirled hungrily around Remy like eager dogs anxious for play, but they did not try to touch him, for they knew he was their master. He spread his wings and leapt through the burning ceiling and into the smoke-filled second floor before ripping through the roof to the clear air outside.
Remy hovered above the farmhouse, watching as it collapsed in upon itself with a forsaken moan of weakened timbers. Then, as if satisfied, the flames began to dwindle until only ribbons of thick, gray smoke remained.
His mind was filled with questions. What were these human-shaped creatures that could drain away his life energy with just a touch? He’d never seen their like before, so why had they targeted him? And why through Ashley?
He lowered himself to the ground in front of the rickety old barn and assumed his human guise. Since he’d allowed his first opportunity for answers to burn in a fire of his own making, maybe he could find something in the barn where four of his attackers had disappeared.
The barn was empty, nothing but the lingering aroma of magick in the dusty air, too faint to track. “Damn it,” he snarled in frustration.
He walked toward the smoldering wreckage of the farmhouse and surveyed the remains. Something wedged beneath a section of wall caught his attention. He reached down and pulled away plaster that disintegrated in his grasp, to reveal a charred skull nestled in a pile of ash. Pulling the remains from the rubble, he gave the skull a shake, loosening the soot that clung to it. The skull was far heavier than it should have been, and as Remy ran a finger along the jawline, he came to the realization that it was not composed of bone, but from some sort of stone.
Or clay.
He gazed at the grinning skull for a moment, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed a call.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I might need some help.”
CHAPTER NINE
The jet-black limousine cut through the rainy Detroit night, tires hissing as they rolled across the water-covered blacktop.
From the backseat, Algernon Stearns gazed out at the dilapidated ruins that had once housed businesses but now were just empty shells, reminders of what had been.
Shadowy figures watched from doorways as the luxurious vehicle drove past. Stearns could feel their eyes, their hungry eyes, starving for just a morsel of what he had.
With that thought, his own body began to ache. Every part of him, right down to the individual cells, was suddenly awake, demanding to be fed. Calling it hunger did no justice to the agony; it was so much more than that. He had learned to live with the pain but not to ignore it, for to do so was to suffer beyond words.
Stearns looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, then leaned his head against the cool, tinted glass of the window, allowing his eyes to follow the ascending numbers on the storefronts.
“Right here, Aubrey,” he announced, tapping the glass with the diamond ring he wore.
The driver obeyed at once, slowing the car and pulling over to the curb in front of a particularly dismal-appearing structure. The driver exited the vehicle and moved around to the rear passenger’s door, holding an umbrella in one hand as he opened the door with the other.
“Thank you, Aubrey,” Stearns said as he stood and breathed in the humid air of the nearly deceased city.
“Shall I go with you?” Aubrey asked, closing the door.
“No need.” Stearns eyed the building before him. “I should be fine.” He felt a tremor in his legs brought on by the hunger, and hoped that he had the strength he would need to accomplish what had brought him to Michigan on such an ungodly night.
“Very good, sir,” the driver said. He shielded Stearns from the rain as they walked toward the front entrance of the building, then promptly turned back to the limousine when Stearns gestured him away.
There was a filth-encrusted buzzer on the side of the metal door, and Stearns tentatively raised a finger. Deciding that he wouldn’t be making contact with it long enough to catch something contagious, he quickly pressed the button.
How many of these kinds of visits have I made over the years? he pondered as he waited. He looked back to the car and saw that Aubrey still stood with the umbrella, observing his progress. His driver was one of a kind. He had actually passed away from pancreatic cancer a year ago, but Stearns wasn’t about to let death stand in the way of twenty-five years of excellent service. Good help was so hard to find; a simple spell of resurrection had saved Stearns the trouble.