John Connolly - The Black Angel

“There is that.”

He set about tearing apart his lobster. I tried not to watch.

“So, do you want to tell me why Claudia Stern should have come to your attention?” he asked. “Strictly between ourselves, I should add.”

“There’s a sale taking place there tomorrow.”

“The Sedlec trove,” said Phil. “I’ve heard rumors.”

One of Phil’s areas of interest was the aesthetics of cemeteries, so it wasn’t surprising that he was aware of Sedlec. Sometimes, the breadth of his knowledge was almost worrying.

“You know anything about it?”

“I hear that the fragment of vellum at the center of the auction contains drawings of some kind, and that in itself it’s worth relatively little, apart from a certain curiosity value. I know that Claudia Stern has presented only a tiny portion of the vellum for authentication, with the remainder supposedly being kept under lock and key until a buyer is found. I also know that there has been a lot of secrecy maintained, and care taken, for such a minor item.”

“I can tell you a little more,” I said.

And I did. By the time I was done, Phil’s lobster lay half-consumed on his plate. I had barely touched my beef. The waitress looked quite pained when she came to check up on us.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

Phil’s face lit up with a smile so perfect only an expert could have spotted that it was false, although his regret was genuine.

“Everything was divine, but I don’t have the appetite I once had,” he explained.

I let her take my plate as well, and the smile faded slowly from Phil’s face.

“Do you really believe that this statue is real?” he said.

“I think that something was hidden, a long time ago,” I replied. “Too many individuals are concerned about it for it to be a complete myth. As for its exact nature, I can’t say, but it’s safe to assume that it’s valuable enough to kill for. How much do you know about collectors of this type of material?”

“I know some of them by name, others by reputation. Those in the business occasionally share gossip with me.”

“Could you get a pair of invitations to the auction?”

“I think I could. It would mean calling in some favors, but you just told me that you believe Claudia Stern would probably prefer if you didn’t attend.”

“I’m hoping that she’ll be sufficiently distracted by all that’s happening to allow me to get a foot in the door with you by my side. If we arrive close to the auction, I’m banking on the hope that it will be easier to let us stay than to throw us out and risk disrupting the affair. Anyway, I do lots of things that people would prefer I didn’t do. I’d be out of a job if I didn’t.”

Phil finished his wine.

“I knew this free meal would end up costing me dearly,” he said.

“Come on,” I said. “I know you’re fascinated. And if anyone kills you, just think of the obituary you’ll get in the Press Herald . You’ll be immortalized.”

“That is not reassuring,” said Phil. “I was hoping that immortality would come to me through not dying.”

“You may yet be the first,” I told him.

“And what are your chances?”

“Slim,” I said. “And declining.”

Brightwell was hungry. He had fought the urges for so long, but lately they had become too strong for him. He recalled the death of the woman, Alice Temple, in the old warehouse, and the sound of his bare feet slapping on the tiles as he approached her. Temple: her name was somehow appropriate in light of the desecration that had been visited on her body. It was strange to Brightwell, the way in which he was able to stand outside himself and watch what occurred, as though his mortal form were engaged in certain pursuits while its guiding consciousness was otherwise occupied.

Brightwell opened his mouth and sucked in a deep breath of oily air. His fists clenched and unclenched, whitening his knuckles beneath his skin. He shuddered, recalling the fury with which he had torn the woman apart. That was where the separation occurred, the division of Self and Notself, one part seeking only to rend and tear while the other stood aside, calm yet watchful, waiting for the moment, the final moment. This was Brightwell’s gift, the reason for his being: even with his eyes closed, or locked in complete darkness, he could sense the coming of the last breath…

The spasming was increasing in frequency now. His mouth was very dry. Temple, Alice Temple. He loved that name, loved the taste of her as his mouth found hers, blood and spit and sweat intermingled upon her lips, her consciousness seeping away, her strength failing. Now Brightwell was with her once again, his ensanguined fingers clutching at her head, his lips locked against her lips, the redness of her: red within, red without. She was dying, and to anyone else, from a doctor to a layman, there would be only the sight of a body deflating, the life leaving it at last as it slumped, naked, in the battered chair.

But life was not the only element departing at that moment, and Brightwell was waiting for it as it left her. He felt it as a rushing sensation in his mouth, like a sweet breeze ascending through a scarlet tunnel, like a gentle fall making way for harsh winter, like sunset and night, presence and absence, light and not-light. And then it was within him, locked inside, trapped between worlds in the ancient, dark prison that was Brightwell.

Brightwell, the guiding angel, the guardian of memories. Brightwell, the searcher, the identifier.

Brightwell’s breathing grew faster. He could feel them within him, tormented and questing.

Brightwell, capable of bending the will of others to his own, of convincing the lost and forgotten that the truth of their natures lay in his words.

He needed another. The taste was on him. Deep inside him, a crescendo grew, a great chorus of voices crying out for release.

He did not regret all that had followed from her death. True, it had brought them unwanted attention. She was not alone in the world after all. There were those who cared about her, and who would not let her passing go unexamined, but the intersection of her life’s path with that of Brightwell was no coincidence. Brightwell was very old, and with great age came great patience. He had always retained his faith, his certainty that each life taken would bring him closer and closer to the one who had betrayed him, who had betrayed them all for the possibility of a redemption always destined to be denied him. He had kept himself well hidden, submerging the truth of his being, burying it beneath a pretence of normality even as the three worlds-this world, the world above, and the great honeycomb world below-did all in their power to demonstrate to him that normality had no place in his existence.

Brightwell had plans for him, oh yes. Brightwell would find a cold, dark place, with chains upon the walls, and there he would bind him, and watch him through a hole in the brickwork as he wasted away, hour upon hour, day upon day, year upon year, century after century, teetering on the brink of death yet never falling finally into the abyss.

And if Brightwell were wrong about his nature-and Brightwell was rarely wrong, even in the smallest of things-then it would still be a long, agonizing death for the man who had threatened to stand in the way of the revelation that they had long sought, and the recovery of the one that had been lost to them for so long.

The preparations were all in place. Tomorrow they would find out what they needed to know. There was nothing more that could be done, so Brightwell allowed himself a small indulgence. Later that night, he came across a young man in the shadow of the park, and he drew him to himself with promises of money and food and strange, carnal delights. And in time, Brightwell was upon him, his hands buried deep within the boy’s body, his long nails slicing organs and gently crushing veins, controling the intricate piece of machinery that was the human form, slowly bringing the boy to the climax that Brightwell sought, until at last they were locked together, lip to lip, and the surging sweetness filled Brightwell as another voice was added to the great choir of souls within.