night?”
“Not one for fresh air?” Azael gasps in mock disbelief. “Well lucky for you we’ve got a beautiful chapel, decorated in the latest interior trends from Paris. It’s called ‘derelict couture.’”
He gestures grandly to a dirt path that zigzags up to the crumbling ruins of a small chapel set beyond the neglected graveyard. Gus skirts around Azael’s extended arm and makes his way up the path. Azael falls in behind him, turning around to grin at me mischievously. I follow last, leisurely picking my way over the thick and twisting roots that stretch across the broken path.
“Is that what it’s called?” I shout forward. “And here I’ve been calling it ‘vacant chic.’ How embarrassing.”
Gus ignores our exchange and shoves open the heavy doors of the chapel, the bulky knocker beating flatly on the rotting wood. The shrill hinges creak as the doors slow to a stop. He stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders a darker shadow against the dank, unlit chapel.
He lifts his right hand and waves it indifferently, igniting the wicks of the dozen candles grouped on the altar. Several smaller candles that hang on the wall down the length of the chapel also spark with light, flickering weakly. The sudden brightness startles an assembly of bats from the vaulted ceiling, their wings flapping in a panic as they tumble carelessly out of a hole in the roof.
Even lit, the chapel looks sullen. The thick, stacked stones that make up the wall look like they are sinking slowly into the ground, and the marble steps up to the altar are cracked and sloping severely to one side. The pews are covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, and cobwebs hang in every corner. The lower half of the stained glass window behind the altar is shattered, as if someone had thrown a rock through it. Right through Saint Peter’s crotch. Broken bits of red, green, and yellow glass are scattered below the window and sparkle dully in the candlelight.
“Breathtaking,” he grimaces.
“Thanks,” Azael says, sidling up to Gus and draping his arm around his shoulder. “We’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“So it would seem.” Gus shakes Azael’s arm off his shoulder and moves around the altar, which, miraculously, is still perfectly intact.
He pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket and lays it open on the surface of the altar. Azael follows Gus and settles in a tattered high-back chair set to the side. I walk over to the first row of pews and perch myself on top of the thick wooden half-wall.
Gus scans his notebook, snaps it closed, and looks up at us both. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
“Let me guess,” Azael interrupts. “You’ve brought the erotic novel you’ve been writing about Lucifer and yourself instead of your proper notes. Well, don’t expect us to wait for you while you run back down to Hell to grab the correct notebook. I’ve got places to go and people to reap!”
I look between Azael and Gus. Az has a cocky grin plastered across his face and Gus’s jaw is clenched so tight that I’m sure he’s cracked his teeth. I bite back my amusement.
“Michael,” Gus continues, still clenching and unclenching his jaw, “has escaped.”
My face falls. “So he wasn’t lying? It’s true?” I jump down from wall and land on the dirty stone floor with a soft crunch. “How?”
I glance at Azael and see his face set in fury, his violet eyes as bright as fire. I brace myself for him to explode. It doesn’t take long.
“BULLSHIT!” Azael throws his arms up angrily, and a tall candle that sits behind him darkens, its flame whisping away into smoke. “Absolutely impossible—I helped trap him there myself! We bound him with the most powerful dark magic. Even God Himself would have had a difficult time jimmying that lock!”
“Though, somehow, it appears that He managed to do so quite easily.”
“ God? ” I ask incredulously.
“So it would seem.” Gus puts a fist to his chin.
“Not one for fresh air?” Azael gasps in mock disbelief. “Well lucky for you we’ve got a beautiful chapel, decorated in the latest interior trends from Paris. It’s called ‘derelict couture.’”
He gestures grandly to a dirt path that zigzags up to the crumbling ruins of a small chapel set beyond the neglected graveyard. Gus skirts around Azael’s extended arm and makes his way up the path. Azael falls in behind him, turning around to grin at me mischievously. I follow last, leisurely picking my way over the thick and twisting roots that stretch across the broken path.
“Is that what it’s called?” I shout forward. “And here I’ve been calling it ‘vacant chic.’ How embarrassing.”
Gus ignores our exchange and shoves open the heavy doors of the chapel, the bulky knocker beating flatly on the rotting wood. The shrill hinges creak as the doors slow to a stop. He stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders a darker shadow against the dank, unlit chapel.
He lifts his right hand and waves it indifferently, igniting the wicks of the dozen candles grouped on the altar. Several smaller candles that hang on the wall down the length of the chapel also spark with light, flickering weakly. The sudden brightness startles an assembly of bats from the vaulted ceiling, their wings flapping in a panic as they tumble carelessly out of a hole in the roof.
Even lit, the chapel looks sullen. The thick, stacked stones that make up the wall look like they are sinking slowly into the ground, and the marble steps up to the altar are cracked and sloping severely to one side. The pews are covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, and cobwebs hang in every corner. The lower half of the stained glass window behind the altar is shattered, as if someone had thrown a rock through it. Right through Saint Peter’s crotch. Broken bits of red, green, and yellow glass are scattered below the window and sparkle dully in the candlelight.
“Breathtaking,” he grimaces.
“Thanks,” Azael says, sidling up to Gus and draping his arm around his shoulder. “We’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“So it would seem.” Gus shakes Azael’s arm off his shoulder and moves around the altar, which, miraculously, is still perfectly intact.
He pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket and lays it open on the surface of the altar. Azael follows Gus and settles in a tattered high-back chair set to the side. I walk over to the first row of pews and perch myself on top of the thick wooden half-wall.
Gus scans his notebook, snaps it closed, and looks up at us both. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
“Let me guess,” Azael interrupts. “You’ve brought the erotic novel you’ve been writing about Lucifer and yourself instead of your proper notes. Well, don’t expect us to wait for you while you run back down to Hell to grab the correct notebook. I’ve got places to go and people to reap!”
I look between Azael and Gus. Az has a cocky grin plastered across his face and Gus’s jaw is clenched so tight that I’m sure he’s cracked his teeth. I bite back my amusement.
“Michael,” Gus continues, still clenching and unclenching his jaw, “has escaped.”
My face falls. “So he wasn’t lying? It’s true?” I jump down from wall and land on the dirty stone floor with a soft crunch. “How?”
I glance at Azael and see his face set in fury, his violet eyes as bright as fire. I brace myself for him to explode. It doesn’t take long.
“BULLSHIT!” Azael throws his arms up angrily, and a tall candle that sits behind him darkens, its flame whisping away into smoke. “Absolutely impossible—I helped trap him there myself! We bound him with the most powerful dark magic. Even God Himself would have had a difficult time jimmying that lock!”
“Though, somehow, it appears that He managed to do so quite easily.”
“ God? ” I ask incredulously.
“So it would seem.” Gus puts a fist to his chin.
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