Small Favor(22)

"Yeah. Each of those Denarian bozos has a silver coin."
"Three silver coins," Thomas said. "I'm drawing a blank."
"Thirty," I corrected him.
Thomas made a choking sound. "Thirty?"
"Potentially. But Michael and the others have several of them hidden away at the moment."
"Thirty pieces of silver," Thomas said, understanding.
I nodded. "Each coin has the spirit of one of the Fallen trapped inside. Whoever possesses one of the coins can draw upon the Fallen angel's power. They use it to shapeshift into those forms you saw, heal wounds, all kinds of fun stuff."
"They tough?"
"Certifiable nightmares," I said. "A lot of them have been alive long enough to develop some serious talent for magic, too."
"Huh," Thomas said. "The one who came through the door didn't seem like such a badass. Ugly, sure, but he wasn't Superman."
"Maybe you got lucky," I said. "As long as they have the coins, ‘hard to kill' doesn't begin to describe it."
"Ah," Thomas said. "That explains it, then."
"What?" I asked.
Thomas reached into his pants pocket and drew out a silver coin a little larger than a nickel, blackened with age, except for the shape of a single sigil, shining cleanly through the tarnish. "When I gutted Captain Ugly, this went flying out."
"Hell's bells!" I spat, and flinched away from the coin.
Thomas twitched in surprise, and the Hummer went into a slow slide on the snow. He turned into it and regained control of the vehicle without ever taking his eyes off me. "Whoa, Harry. What?"
I pressed my side up against the door of the Hummer, getting as far as I physically could from the thing. "Look, just … just don't move, all right?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Ooookay. Why not?"
"Because if that thing touches your skin, you're screwed," I said. "Shut up a second and let me think."
The gloves. Thomas had been wearing gloves earlier, when fingering Justine's scarf. He hadn't touched the coin with his skin, or he'd already know how much trouble he was in. Good. But the coin was a menace, and I strongly suspected that the entity trapped inside it might be able to influence the physical world around it in subtle ways-enough to go rolling away from its former owner, for example, or to somehow manipulate Thomas into dropping or misplacing it.
Containment. It had to be contained. I fumbled at my pockets. The only container I was carrying was an old Crown Royal whiskey bag, the one that held my little set of gaming dice. I dumped them out into my pocket and opened the bag.
I already had a glove on my left hand. My paw had recovered significantly from the horrible burns it had gotten several years before, but it still wasn't what you'd call pretty. I kept it covered out of courtesy to everyone who might glance at it. I held the little bag open with two fingers of my left hand and said, "Put it in here. And for God's sake, don't drop it or touch me with it."
Thomas's eyes widened further. He bit his lower lip and moved his hand very carefully, until he could drop the inoffensive little disk into the Crown Royal bag.
I jerked the drawstrings tight the second the coin was in, and tied the bag shut. Then I slapped open the Hummer's ashtray, stuffed the bag inside, and slammed it closed again.
Only then did I draw a slow breath and sag back down into my seat.
"Jesus," Thomas said quietly. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Harry … is it really that bad?"
"It's worse," I said. "But I can't think of any other precautions to take yet."
"What would have happened if I'd touched it?"
"The Fallen inside the coin would have invaded your consciousness," I said. "It would offer you power. Temptation. Once you gave in enough, it would own you."
"I've resisted temptation before, Harry."
"Not like this." I turned a frank gaze to him. "It's a Fallen angel, man. Thousands and thousands of years old. It knows how people think. It knows how to exploit them."
His voice sharpened a little. "I come from a family where everyone's an incubus or a succubus. I think I know a little something about temptation."
"Then you should know how they'd get you." I lowered my voice and said gently, "It could give Justine back to you, Thomas. Let you touch her again."
He stared at me for a second, a flicker of wild longing somewhere far back in his eyes. Then he turned his head slowly back to the road, his expression slipping into a neutral mask. "Oh," he said quietly. After a moment he said, "We should probably get rid of the thing."
"We will," I said. "The Church has been up against the Denarians for a couple of thousand years. There are measures they can take."
Thomas glanced down at the ashtray for a second, then dragged his eyes away and glowered at the dented hood of his Hummer. "They couldn't have shown up six months ago. When I was driving a Buick."
I snorted. "As long as you've got your priorities in order."
"I just met them, but already I hate these guys," Thomas said. "But why are they here? Why now?"
"Offhand? I'd say that they were out to wax Marcone and prove to the other members of the Accords that vanilla mortals have no place among us weirdos-I mean, superhumans."
"They're members of the Accords?"
"I'd have to look it up," I said. "I doubt they're signed on as the ‘Order of Demon-possessed Psychotics.' But from the way Mantis Girl was talking, yeah."
Thomas shook his head. "So what do they get out of it? What does taking Marcone prove?"
I shrugged. I had already asked myself the same questions and hadn't been able to come up with any answers. "No clue," I said. "But they've got what it takes to have torn that building apart, and to get around or go through the kind of muscle Marcone keeps around him."
"And what the hell are the Faerie Queens doing getting involved?" Thomas asked.
I shrugged again. I'd already asked myself that, too. I hate it when I have to answer my own questions like that.
We went the rest of the way to Michael's place in grey-and-white silence.
His street was on one of the routes being kept plowed, and we had no trouble rolling right up into his driveway. Michael himself was there with his two tallest sons, each of them wielding a snow shovel as they labored to clear the driveway and the sidewalk and the porch of the ongoing snow.
Michael regarded the Hummer with pursed lips as Thomas pulled in. He said something to his sons that made them trade a look with each other, then hurry inside. Michael walked down the driveway to my side of the truck and looked at my brother, then at the passengers in the backseat.
I rolled down the window. "Hey," I said.
"Harry," he said calmly. "What are you doing here?"
"I just had a conversation with Preying Mantis Girl," I said. I held up a notebook, where I'd scribbled down the angelic sigil while it was still fresh in my memory.
Michael took a deep breath and grimaced. Then he nodded. "I had a feeling they might be in town."
"Oh?" I asked.
The front door of the house opened, and a large, dark-skinned man appeared, dressed in blue jeans and a dark leather jacket. He wore a gym bag over one broad shoulder, and had one hand resting casually inside it. He paced out into the cold and the snow as if he'd been wearing full winter-weather gear, rather than casual traveling clothes, and stalked over toward us.
Once he got close enough to make out the details his face split into a broad, brief grin, and he hurried to stand beside Michael. "Harry!" he said, his voice deep, rich, and thick with a Russian accent. "We meet again."
I answered his grin. "Sanya," I replied, offering my hand. He shook it with enough force to crack bones. "What are you doing here?"
"Passing through," Sanya said, and hooked a thumb up at the snow. "I was on the last flight in before they closed the airport. Looks like I am staying for a few days." His eyes went from my face to the notebook, and the pleasant expression on his dark face turned to a brief snarl.
"Somebody you know?" I asked.
"Tessa," he said. "And Imariel."
"You've met, huh?"
His jaw clenched again. "Tessa's second … recruited me. Tessa is here?"
"With friends." I sketched the sigil I'd seen on the blackened denarius a few moments before and held it up to them.
Sanya shook his head and glanced at Michael.
"Akariel," Michael said at once.
I nodded. "He's in a Crown Royal bag in the ashtray."
Michael blinked. Sanya too.
"I hope you have one of those holy hankies. I'd have taken it to Padre Forthill, but I figured they'd have him under observation. I need someplace quiet to hole up."
Sanya and Michael traded a long, silent look.
Sanya frowned, examining my brother. "Who is the vampire?"
I felt Thomas stiffen in surprise. As a rule, even members of the supernatural world can't detect what a vampire of the White Court truly is, unless he's actually in the middle of doing something vampity. It's a natural camouflage for his kind, and they rely upon it every bit as much as a leopard does its spots.
But it can be tough to hide things from a Knight of the Cross. Maybe it's a part of the power they're given, or maybe it's just a part of the personality of the men chosen for the job-don't ask me which. I'm fuzzy on the whole issue of faith and the Almighty, and I swim those waters with extreme caution and as much brevity as possible. I just know that the bad guys rarely get to sneak up on a Knight of the Cross, and that the Knights have a propensity for bringing the truth to light.