They were greeted at Gabriela’s front door by Rosa, who frowned the moment she saw Callahan. “Mr. Ruiz is not available.”
“We just want another look around,” Callahan said.
Rosa shot a wary glance at LaLaurie, then she reluctantly let them in. Callahan ushered him into the living room, surprised by the way his face lit up at the sight Gabriela’s collection.
“My God,” he said, crossing to the cases full of artifacts, his gaze immediately drawn to something of interest. “Look at this. Do you know what this is?”
Callahan didn’t really know what any of it was, but she was momentarily caught up in his enthusiasm and joined him at the glass. He gestured to a small, greenish cross that looked as if it had been carved from stone, a crude figure of Jesus with outstretched arms adorning it.
“A bronze pendant,” he said. “Seventh century, Roman Byzantine period. Soldiers used to wear these to battle. It must’ve cost her a small fortune.”
“She had a big one, so I’m sure it wasn’t a problem.”
LaLaurie moved on to the next item as if he were the proverbial kid in the candy shop. “And this,” he said, pointing at what looked like a tiny, oval picture frame. “An antique silver reliquary with a Saint Leonard relic. This has to be over six hundred years old.”
He went on this way for a few more minutes, pointing out each artifact and explaining what it was. Reliquaries, engravings, rare manuscripts, altar cards.
He certainly seemed to know his stuff.
As she listened, Callahan spotted a new item inside one of the cases: the stone figurine of an angel fighting a dragon. The one she’d taken from the box on Gabriela’s bed yesterday. Rosa must have found it there and decided to put it on display.
She pointed it out to LaLaurie. “What about this? Any idea what it is? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
LaLaurie nodded. “It looks about seventeenth century to me. It’s from Revelation. Saint Michael fighting the dragon Satan in a war in heaven.”
A sudden memory tumbled through Callahan’s brain.
You’re part of Michael’s army.
“Did you just say ‘Michael’?”
“The patron saint of chivalry. Louis the Eleventh founded an order in his name. You’ve never heard of him?”
He sent you here to spy on us.
“I’m sure I must have, but I’m not big on religious icons.”
“Well, the victim sure was. And maybe she wasn’t such a Barbie doll after all.” He gestured to the cases. “Nobody builds a collection like this unless they’re very serious about their faith.” He paused. “Or they’re trying to protect themselves.”
“Against what?”
He looked at Callahan. “Against exactly what happened to her.”
He was about to turn away when Callahan grabbed his arm. “Professor, you’ve strung this out long enough. Do you have information pertinent to this investigation or don’t you?”
“Where’s her copy of Paradise Lost?”
Callahan sighed. “In a room off her bedroom.”
Before she could say another word, he found the hallway and headed straight to Gabriela’s bedroom without even the slightest hitch in his gate. Callahan followed, and by the time she stepped inside, he was already moving through the walk-in closet toward the hidden room in back.
When she caught up to him, she said, “How did you do that? How did you know where to go?”
“This room has an energy. I could feel its draw.”
He stood just inside the doorway, taking in Gabriela’s prayer room the same way he’d taken in the crime scene, and the look on his face wasn’t easy to describe. Surprise. Awe. But also some uneasiness there.
He gestured to the painted blue symbol on the wall.
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to. You know what it is?”
“It’s a sigil.”
“A what?”
“A sign, or a seal, with a very specific power and meaning. They’re used in ceremonial magic. Even its color is significant.”
“So what does it mean?”
LaLaurie found the copy of Paradise Lost where Callahan had left it atop the prayer desk. He leafed through it until he came to Gabriela’s highlighted passages. He read for a moment, then looked up at Callahan.
“What it means,” he said, “is that you were right about Gabriela having an obsession. First the figurine, then the painting, and now all these notations in Book Eleven. But the obsession wasn’t limited to this book.”
“Then what?”
“Not what. Who.” He gestured to the wall. “That sigil represents the Archangel Michael. And blue is his color.”
You’re part of Michael’s army. He sent you here to spy on us.
“And what about the notations in the book?”
“They’re all in chapter eleven. Which is the part of the poem where Michael comes down from heaven to give Adam and Eve a message from God.”
“Okay,” Callahan said. “So we’ve established she had an obsession. What does that have to do with her death?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“How so?”
He reached to the shelf beneath the prayer desk, pulled out the books that were stacked there and pointed to the first one. “The Lesser Key of Solomon. A seventeenth-century grimoire.”
“Grim-what?”
“Grimoire. A textbook on magic.” He showed her the next book. “Forbidden Rites. A manual on summoning spirits.” And the next one.
“Angels, Incantations, and Revelation. I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.” He looked at her. “Are you sensing a pattern yet?”
She thought about what Martinez had said. “You think she was practicing black magic?”
“Magic is just magic. It’s the intent that makes it black or white, and there are varying shades in between.”
“You almost sound as if you think it’s real.”
“Oh, it’s very real.”
Why did she know he’d say that? “I’m afraid you’re looking at a bit of a skeptic, Professor, and I’ve already had my fill of superstitious nonsense for one case, so unless you have some concrete answers for me . . .”
“This is about as concrete as it gets. The way it looks to me is that Gabriela was trying to summon up an angel and it backfired on her.”
Oh, brother. Should she even bother?
“Backfired?”
“She got the wrong angel,” he said.
Callahan wanted to scream, but couldn’t quite muster up the energy. She was just too tired to argue anymore.
The best thing to do, she decided, was to let this guy have his say, then put him on the next plane back to looneyville.
But she had to admit she was curious. “What do you mean by wrong angel? Aren’t angels supposed to be good?”
“It’s all about intent. Just like the magic.”
She thought about Martinez’s paranoia. “I always thought demons were the bad guys.”
“They’re the same thing,” LaLaurie said. “The ancient Greeks thought of demons as benevolent spirits. Even Christians acknowledge they’re nothing more than the so-called fallen angels. So what you’d call a demon is simply an angel who’s made some bad choices.”
“Why do I think my old catechism teacher would view this a little differently?”
“Most of what you hear in church was cobbled together by people who were long on faith but short on knowledge. And most religions are a jumble of ancient folklore, inconsistencies and convoluted logic.”
“Yet here you stand, talking about angels and demons as if they’re as common as wheat toast.”
“Because this isn’t about religion.”
Callahan frowned. “I think you just lost me there.”
“Religion is simply a byproduct of people trying to explain the inexplicable. What I’m talking about here has nothing to do with any particular faith, and everything to do with reality. And angels are quite real. They just happen to occupy a different plane of existence than we do. Most of the time, at least.” He paused. “The trouble starts when we try to invite them home for dinner.”