Death Masks

I looked over my shoulder at her, smiling. She smiled back.

It didn’t last long. Both of our smiles turned a little sad.

"Susan," I said.

She put two fingertips to my lips. "Don’t."

"Dammit, Susan. Last night-"

"Shouldn’t have happened," she said. Her voice sounded tired, but her eyes stayed steady on mine. "It doesn’t-"

"- change anything," I finished. I sounded bitter, even to me.

She took her hand away and buttoned up the dark leather jacket.

"Right," I said. I should have stuck to shoptalk. I opened the door and looked outside. "Cab’s here. Let’s get to work."

Chapter Twenty-seven

I grabbed my staff, blasting rod, and Shiro’s cane, and made a note to get myself a freaking golf bag. We took the cab to McAnnally’s. The Blue Beetle was still in the nearby lot, and it hadn’t been stolen, vaporized, or otherwise mishandled.

"What happened to your back window?" Susan asked.

"One of Marcone’s goons winged a few shots at me outside the Larry Fowler studio."

Susan’s mouth twitched. "You went on Larry Fowler again?"

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"Uh- huh. And what about the hood?"

"Little holes are from Marcone’s thug. Big dent was a chlorofiend," I said.

"A what?"

"Plant monster."

"Oh. Why don’t you just say ‘plant monster’?"

"I have my pride."

"Your poor car."

I got out my keys, but Susan put her hand on mine, and walked a circle around the car. She crouched down and looked beneath it a couple of times, then said, "Okay."

I got in. "Thank you, double oh seven, but no one bombs a Volkswagen. They’re too cute."

Susan got in the passenger door and said, "Cute confetti if you aren’t careful, Harry."

I grunted, revved up the car, and puttered to Michael’s place.

The morning was cold and clear. Winter hadn’t yet given up its grip on the Great Lakes, and where Lake Michigan went, Chicago went too. Susan got out and looked around the front lawn, frowning from behind black sunglasses. "How does he manage to make this place so nice, run his own business, and fight demons on the side?"

"He probably watches a lot of those home-and-garden shows," I said.

She frowned. "The grass is green. It’s February and his grass is green. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?"

"Sod works in mysterious ways."

She made a disgusted sound, and then followed me up the walk to the door.

I knocked. A moment later Father Forthill said, "Who’s there?"

"Donny and Marie," I responded. "Salt-N-Pepa asked us to fill in for them."

He opened the door, smiling from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He was the same short, stocky, balding old Forthill, but he looked strained and tired. The lines of his face had grown deeper than I remembered. "Hello, Harry."

"Father," I said. "You know Susan?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "By reputation," he said. "Come in, come in."

We did, and as I came in, Forthill set a Louisville Slugger baseball bat down in the corner. I raised my eyebrows, traded a look with Susan, and then put my staff and Shiro’s cane beside the bat. We followed Forthill into the kitchen.

"Where’s Charity?" I asked.

"Taking the children to her mother’s house," Forthill said. "She should be back soon."

I let out a breath of relief. "Anna Valmont?"

"Guest room. Sleeping."

"I need to call Martin," Susan said. "Excuse me." She stepped aside into the small study.

"Coffee, doughnut?" Father Forthill asked.

I sat down at the table. "Father, you’ve never been closer to converting me."

He laughed. "The Fantastic Forthill, saving souls one Danish at a time." He produced the nectar of the gods themselves in Dunkin Donuts paper sacks and Styrofoam cups, taking some for himself as well. "I’ve always admired your ability to make jokes when faced with adversity. Matters are grave."

"I sort of noticed," I said through a mouthful of glazed doughnut. "Where’s Michael?"

"He and Sanya went to St. Louis to investigate possible Denarian activity. They were both arrested by the local police."

"They what? What for?"

"No charges were filed," Forthill said. "They were arrested, held for twenty-four hours, and released."

"Sand trap," I said. "Someone wanted them out of the way."

Forthill nodded. "So it would seem. I spoke to them about two hours ago. They’re on their way back now and should be here soon."

"Then as soon as they get here, we have to go get Shiro back."

Forthill frowned and nodded. "What happened to you last night?"

I told him the short version-all about the art auction and the Denarians, but I elided over the details afterward, which were none of his chaste business. And which would have embarrassed me to tell. I’m not particularly religious, but come on, the man was a priest.

When I finished, Forthill took off his glasses and stared hard at me. He had eyes the color of robin’s eggs, and they could be disturbingly intense. "Nicodemus," he said quietly. "Are you sure that is what he called himself?"

"Yeah."

"Without a doubt?"

"Yeah. We had a nice chat."

Forthill folded his hands and exhaled slowly. "Mother of God. Harry, could you describe him for me?"

I did, while the old priest listened. "Oh, and he was always wearing a rope around his neck. Not like a ship’s hawser, a thin rope, like clothesline. I thought it was a string tie at first."

Forthill’s fingers reached up to touch the crucifix at his throat. "Tied in a noose?"

"Yeah."

"What did you think of him?" he asked.

I looked down at my half-eaten doughnut. "He scared the hell out of me. He’s – bad, I guess. Wrong."

"The word you are looking for is ‘evil,’ Harry."

I shrugged, ate the rest of the doughnut, and didn’t argue.

"Nicodemus is an ancient foe of the Knights of the Cross," Forthill said quietly. "Our information about him is limited. He has made it a point to find and destroy our archives every other century or so, so we cannot be sure who he is or how long he has been alive. He may even have walked the earth when the Savior was crucified."

"Didn’t look a day over five hundred," I mumbled. "How come some Knight hasn’t gone and parted his hair for him?"