“You are in no position to threaten me, and certainly not Belial.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
“You have no power here, so your threats are pointless.”
Salvatore Amato looked utterly unconcerned. For an old man, he radiated health and vitality. In fact, he might actually be much older than they suspected. A gift From Belial. It would explain how he could assume the Fallen Angel’s power and carry it so effortlessly. And this place certainly reeked of age. It was as old as the church above, maybe even older. Perhaps the church had been built over it.
He continued, his voice dropping and filling with Belial’s power again. “How many others?”
“There are only us.”
“Lies. Perhaps if I kill one of your brothers, you will speak the truth. With every lie, I kill one more.” He studied the four prisoners. “Kill the golden-winged one.”
Nahum unwillingly stood and lifted his sword, slowly advancing on Ash.
Shadow couldn’t afford to wait any longer. She had hoped that Amato would give away some of his secrets willingly, but it was clear he would not. They would have to coerce him, and somehow break his power over the Nephilim.
She materialised out of the darkness, wrapped one arm around Amato’s thin shoulders, and placed her dagger at his throat. “End it now, or I end you.”
The old man roared in shock, and before Shadow knew what was happening, he seemed to swell in size as he emitted a blinding white light. It threw her off her feet and into the wall, her dagger falling to the floor.
Fortunately, it had thrown the Nephilim back, too. All four lay crumpled against the walls. But that was as much as she saw, because Amato snatched up his cruel-edged knife and flew at her with lightning speed.
She rolled to a crouch, her other blade already in her hand, facing him. “You are more than you appear, Amato. You must carry a trinket to have that much power.”
“Who are you?” he spat. “How dare you enter my sanctuary!”
“I dare to enter anywhere I choose.”
He flew at her, dagger slashing where she had stood, but she had already moved, keeping easily out of reach. “Release the Nephilim.”
“I will kill them first.”
Rather than lunging at her, he sprang at the closest Nephilim, all four still lying helplessly and unable to move. He reached Gabe first. His knife slashed his arm in a vicious jab. Shadow tackled Amato, rolling over and over across the stone floor, feeling his sharp blade slice her side. It was as cold as ice, yet it burned with the power of the sigils.
She landed on top of him, knee pinning his hand that carried the blade to the ground. She punched him repeatedly, his head striking the stone flags. But he was strong with angelic power. He rose up, trying to throw her off him, desperate to free his knife. With an unexpected surge of strength, he rolled, slamming her into the ground, blade slashing down. Shadow wanted to slit his throat and be done with him, but they still needed him for answers. Instead, she stabbed his arm, slicing through tendons, and with a horrified yell and a splatter of blood, he fell backwards, then scrambled away on hands and knees.
“Glad to know that you still feel pain, you bastard,” she yelled. She struck again, cutting the back of his legs and slicing his Achilles tendons with another splatter of blood.
He screamed, eyes wild, foaming at the mouth as if with some religious ecstasy.
She edged back, knowing he couldn’t move, and checked her team. They were still where they had fallen, limbs tangled. Gabe’s arm was bleeding profusely. He stared at her, his emotions a mix of fury and gratitude. And confusion. Deep confusion.
Not surprising. This place was all kinds of unexpected, and so was Amato. The wound at her side ached, and she pressed her hand to it, trying to stem the blood flow. Amato was muttering something, eyes closed, his power building. Much like the unexpected surge of power when she had attacked him.
What now?
Two
Barak eased the door open and slipped inside the rectory that had once been Jacobsen’s home, Estelle right behind him.
It was the first time they had been able to enter it after his death. There had been, understandably, a lot of press interest in the death of a vicar slain in his own church, and as yet there wasn’t a new one assigned to the area. The weekly service was instead delivered by a visiting vicar. When the police investigation ended, they seized their chance.
“Do you feel any sign of Belial?” Estelle whispered.
“Not a thing.” The loud ticking of a wall clock marked the time as Estelle threw a few witch-lights above them. They illuminated a short hall, and doorways to either side. “He’ll have a study somewhere, a place where he would have written his sermons and seen visitors. Let’s hope it’s where he kept his secrets.”
Together they opened doors and progressed through the house, investigating the living areas and kitchen before finding a large, square study at the back of the house overlooking the garden. The house was cold and dusty, and it was obvious that no one had been in since the week Nahum had killed him. A Christmas tree wilted in the front room, dead pine needles spread across the floor.
“Do you think he’ll have a folder of co-conspirators?” Estelle asked, half laughing.
“Let’s hope so. It will make our life easier.” Barak shut the curtains and the door and flicked on the light switch. Fortunately, the house still had electricity, and light flooded the room revealing bookcases, a small fireplace, a desk and chair, and an armchair by the fire. “So far, so ordinary.”
“It’s hardly like he’ll advertise his allegiance to Belial. Apart from the gigantic painting of an angel, of course.” An angel in typical Biblical style was portrayed with spread wings, looking down at the Earth. “It’s unnerving. I think his eyes are following me.”
Barak laughed. “Great. A possessed portrait. That’s all we need.” He turned his back on it and started going through the drawers in the large, battered desk. Papers were spread over it, along with the remains of the powder the police used when dusting for fingerprints. “Old sermons, notebooks, pens, pencils. Just the usual crap.”
“Is there an address book?”
“Not so far.”
Estelle hunted through the bookcases, and for a while there was silence between them. Barak placed a couple of notebooks in his pack, but the desk otherwise held nothing of interest.
“Here are some more old notes,” Estelle said, handing them to him. “We can check them later, and there’s also an address book. Pretty scant pickings, really. All of the books are religious, apart from a few thrillers.”
“What about those?” Barak asked, turning his attention to a few photographs on the wall. “He’s young in them. Looks like he’s fresh from religious college, or whatever they call it.”
“A seminary, I believe.”
