Possession

Chapter Twenty-seven

Up above the Earth, past the clouds and the sky, farther still away from the atmosphere, even more distant than the galaxy, the Milky Way, the universe … the archangel Albert was sitting down to tea in a grove not far from the Manse of Souls.

In truth, he was not hungry a’tall.

“Bertie, my dear friend, whate’er ails you?”

Looking up across the dainty sandwiches and the silver tea service, he met the archangel Byron’s eyes. Behind rose-colored glasses, they were grave, and that was the saddest commentary on the status of the game. Even sadder, somehow, than the fact that there were only two flags flying on the castle’s parapet, no longer three: Byron was the optimist among the four of them, always believing in a kind and just destiny for the quick and the dead … and the angels.

To have him aggrieved?

Bad. Very bad.

“Shall I serve the tea?” Bertie said by way of reply. “I shan’t think we’ll be joined.”

After all, when he’d arrived initially and found only Byron seated, he had gone in search of the other two … Nigel, who was their leader; and Colin, who was their warrior. Alas, however, there had been no answer when he’d approached the closed flap of Nigel’s beautiful silk tent, and likewise, Colin’s camp by the river had been empty.

Now, in Colin’s case, it was not unusual for him to disappear without commentary, but Nigel never departed without checking in. And he had not been inside the manse, either. Indeed, as Bertie had searched therein, he had found nothing located but the souls of the righteous passing a peaceful eternity within the protected walls.

Which was as it should be—but might ne’er be again if this war was lost.

He supposed it was possible that Nigel had gone to see the Maker. That would be the only reason he would break away without word—

“Bertie? I indicated yes, please?”

Refocusing, he found that the other archangel had his porcelain teacup held outward. “Oh, right, terribly sorry.”

He picked up the silver pot and poured out a fragrant amber stream with practiced ease. Then he did the same for himself, accepting the sugar cubes when they were offered to him and declining the scones.

“Perhaps a sandwich, then?” Byron inquired.

Stirring with a silver spoon, Bertie glanced over the perfectly constructed deviled-ham squares and circular cucumber-and-cream-cheese delectables. There were tiny petits fours, too, and little pieces of fudge, and orange slices as well.

He could not eat any of it.

“When this started,” he said quietly, “it never occurred to one that one’s side might lose. One never considered that possibility.”

“Yes.” Byron added some milk out of a delicate pitcher. “I feel much the same.”

In fact, Bertie tried to imagine an existence different from this and could not. His most enjoyable job was to be a gatekeeper, along with the others, to welcome the new arrivals and to help smooth the way for them—after all, Heaven could be a shock to those who had left the Earth conflicted or in grief, and further, even those who had been prepared to go could mourn the loss of their family, their friends, their life. Fortunately, any such strife ne’er lasted as soon as they understood that time here had no meaning, that moments and millennia were interchangeable in the manse—and thus they would be reunited in the blink of an eye, even if it took fifty years.

He loved his work. Interacting with the souls had brought out a dimension in him he had lacked, in spite of the fact that his role, out of the four of them, was to be the heart: Although he was not alive in the human sense, and never had been, he had found, over the ages, that he had embraced on a personal level humans’ need for comfort and companionship, for love and security.

And that commiseration made any impending loss in the larger war so much more upsetting. He could not bear to lose his colleagues, his purpose, his home.

“I feel rather helpless,” he murmured, as he looked over the undulating lawn.

Green, so very green, yet it was not a chromatic one-note. There were blades of every shade in the verdant carpet, from shamrock to emerald to chartreuse and sea foam. And in that sense, what was the very foundation of Heaven was like the souls below: different variations of the same thing making a glorious composite—

Far off in the distance, there was a flash of movement—and even though he could not see what it was quite yet, he knew precisely the cause.

Tarquin, his beloved Irish wolfhound, had gone off for a runabout, something the dear old boy did on a regular basis, sure as if he were watching his lean waistline: streaking over the ground, body stretched out long and lithe, tongue hanging out as he charged for the tea table, he was clearly enjoying his exercise.

It was only when the dog, which was not actually a dog, got closer, that it became obvious joy was not a part of the approach.

At the table, Tarquin skidded to a halt, his panting loud and frothy. He did not sniff around in hopes of a snack, however: He stood there meeting Bertie’s eyes, sending out some kind of an urgent message.

Bertie put his teacup down and wiped his mouth. “What is it, darling one? Whatever is wrong?”

As Bertie cradled that massive head between his hands, Colin’s voice intruded upon the scene.

“Nigel’s gone.”

Bertie wrenched around. “I beg your pardon?”

The other archangel came forward from out of the very air, and dearest fates, he looked absolutely wretched, his skin as pale as his white clothes, his dark hair ragged as a torn cloth. “He’s not coming back.”

Byron stiffened. “Do not say such a thing.”

Oh, no, Bertie thought … no…

Colin’s voice cracked. “He did it himself.”

All the blood drained out of Bertie’s head. “Surely you do not mean—”

Colin stared out over the landscape and yet his eyes focused on nothing. “I went to get him for tea, and I found him. So when I say he’s gone—it’s not because he decided to go for a long walk. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go get drunk.”

“Colin,” Bertie breathed. “Dearest fates upon us, no.”

“Fates upon us. Yes, quite.” The archangel put his palm out as both Bertie and Byron began to get to their feet. “No. No compassion. In fact, no response, please. I’m going to deal with this in my own way, thank you.”

The archangel Colin turned away as if in a trance, and in contrast to his sudden appearance, he ambulated away in halting, uneven steps—stumbling and tripping now and again as he went down toward the river.

“No …” Byron moaned. “Surely this cannot be.”

Bertie grabbed onto Tarquin’s neck and held the great beast to him. No, this was not supposed to be how it all went. When they had begun this war, there had been … rules. There had been the understanding that Devina was the enemy. There had been the expectation of victory and peace e’er after.

Never, ever this.

Shifting his eyes over to the two flags on the parapet, he knew why, however.

“Whatever shall we do now,” Byron whispered.

That was the question, of course. The war was going to rage on—it was just going to do so without Nigel … and Colin. For one without the other, when it came to that pair, meant that both were lost.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Byron said. “I did not foresee this a’tall.”

As tears welled in Bertie’s eyes, he had to agree—

A cold warning trembled across his shoulders as he measured the stout walls of the castle, and the moat, and the drawbridge.

As much as he mourned his dearest friend, there was a larger worry, a far, far more emergent problem. One of Biblical proportions, as they might say upon the Earth.

“Byron.” He rose out of his seat and took the collar of the great dog. “Byron, get upon your feet.”

The other archangel lifted his distraught eyes. “Why?”

“Come hither.” Bertie began to back away from the table, leading Tarquin with him. “Now.”

“Bertie, whate’er is wrong with you—”

“We must needs get inside the castle, and lock it up tight.” Bertie pivoted and started to walk faster, calling over his shoulder. “We are all that is left to protect them.”

At that, there was a loud clanging noise, as if the archangel had burst up and caught the underside of the table with his legs.

Byron had clearly extrapolated to the same conclusion Bertie had: Assuming Colin had not misinterpreted whatever he had found in Nigel’s tent, Nigel was well and truly unreachable now, and Colin not far behind. And that meant Heaven was weakened.

It had long been a fact that the souls were behind those fortifications for good reason. All it would take was an infiltration by Devina, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the war’s resolution.

She would determine that herself.

Bertie fell into a flat-out run, and Tarquin, as if sensing their predicament, loped alongside him, his gait growing longer and longer until he broke free and became the first of the three of them to cross the drawbridge.

Bertie was the second, and as his fine leather-soled shoes encountered the thick wooden boards, he looked overhead, praying that he didn’t see shadows forming in the sky above. Skidding to a halt by the gear and cable system that would raise the planks, he was relieved to find Byron shooting across the moat at a dead run.

Together, he and the other archangel placed hands on the massive crank and threw their weight into a pumping rhythm as Tarquin splayed his massive forepaws and scrummed down, growling deep in his chest in warning as he backed up inside to allow the drawbridge to raise.

Devina had yet to arrive. If she had, her presence would have been sensed.

But Bertie knew she would come—and likely, soon. She and Nigel were required to meet on a regular basis with the Maker, and they were not allowed to forgo the sessions. If they did not attend? They were penalized.

The instant Nigel didn’t appear at the scheduled time?

That canny demon would suspect something dire had happened, and it was in her nature to investigate the cause. And if she infiltrated the grounds? The manse was the only safe place to be—and even then, it had never truly been tested.

As the planks found home, locking in up top, Bertie went to one side, and Byron went to the other and together, they completed the final step: Tremendous forged iron bars thick as a torso slid across into deeply carved compartments in the twelve-foot-thick walls, hitting home with a resonant, echoing thud.

He couldn’t remember the last time these precautions had been taken.

Collapsing back against the cool stone, all Bertie could think about were his dear friends—his family, indeed—stuck on the far side.

“God save them,” he whispered.

Tarquin whimpered and nudged his hand. As he stroked that regal head, he said, “Darling one, we shall be safe herein.”

At least until Devina tried to enter. Then? He did not know.

With a wave of despair, he looked over at Byron … and watched as the archangel slowly drew off his rose-colored glasses. His hands were trembling so badly, he dropped them.

Landing on the stone floor, the lenses shattered into countless pieces.