Moon Angel Read online

  Further down, the nondescript door appeared magically next to me. Unfortunately, a student also appeared at the far end of the hall, hefting a backpack that would undoubtedly give him back problems later in life. I paused in front of some books and projected my inner radar out as far as it would go. A moment later, and there he was in my mind, glancing at books, and when he stood on his tiptoes, scanning a row of books on the shelf above him, I moved swiftly, opening the secret door and slipping inside.

  I had just barely closed the door behind me when I heard sneakers running and squeaking from down the hall. The same kid with the backpack appeared very near the door, scanning and searching, his face white. Oops, on second thought, I might not have slipped away as fast as I thought. No doubt the little nerd had turned and caught sight of a foot or buttocks disappearing through the wall.

  Now, as he scanned the wall, I watched him through a window that only I could see. He wore broken glasses and a Wonder Woman T-shirt. I might just be looking at the King Nerd. He rapped on the wall, knocking and listening. Now, he put both hands on the wall and pushed. A little, geeky vein popped out on his forehead. I watched all of this with some amusement, and let him believe, even for just a few seconds longer, that magic was real, which it was. But before he could post a video to whatever nerdy channel he ran, I gave him a suggestion to let it all go, that he had seen nothing, that he, in fact, could not remember why he was looking at this wall. That he, in fact, had to go to the bathroom, and badly. The sense of wonder left his face, to be replaced by a pinched look. He did a little dance, crossed his legs, then took off running.

  I felt sorry for him, truthfully. He had seen what he had thought was something extraordinary—and he had. Something out of this world. Something magical and not understood. I pondered for a beat or two, then called him back, with a suggestion that he’d heard someone call his name. And now, there he was, frowning and looking around, and still crossing his legs.

  I decided I couldn’t destroy someone’s sense of wonder, and so I dug into my pocket and found what I was looking for. When he was looking away, I cracked open the door open and flipped a penny into the air. The door was closed well before it landed, and I watched him leap back in surprise when it landed with a metallic clang, the sound amplified in the dead-quiet library. Oops, he might have peed himself. Anyway, he reached down and picked up the coin, examined it, looked around, and assumed it had been tossed from the other side of the bookcase. He pushed aside some books, only to discover the bookcases here were solid, and then he took off running, no doubt to look for whoever had tossed the penny... and for a bathroom.

  “Very well done, Samantha Moon,” said a voice from behind me, a voice I knew well.

  “I’m not sure why I did it.”

  “Because you understand that what makes this world interesting—perhaps even fun—is the unknown. You have renewed that primitive part of him that believes in things that go bump in the night.”

  “But is that so important?”

  “The seeking of answers is important, Sam, even if the answers themselves are far less interesting. Once science proves or disproves Bigfoot, most of the fun in wondering will be lost. But it is the search that is fun. That, Sam, is where real living, and a secret to life.”

  “Is Bigfoot real?”

  “Of course. He has long since reveled in his role as the wild man, the very embodiment of which humans seek, to be completely free.”

  “He wasn’t real before?”

  “No, Sam. He has been summoned into existence from sheer belief. But let me tell you, he is happy to be here. The wild man loves his role, and basks in it, as you might expect.”

  We moved to his help desk, which I always thought was kind of cute, especially since I had never seen him help anyone other than me. But there it was, complete with a plaque that read Help Desk, similar to other such plaques in this library.

  I said, “Well, I’m here about another creature summoned into existence.”

  “The devil,” he said.

  “Gee,” I said. “It’s almost as if you’ve read my mind.”

  ***

  “I see that your angel, Ishmael, had told you that the devil is only as powerful as you allow. And I see that the one and only Dracula also warned you. Correction, it was Cornelius—the entity within Dracula.”

  “He’s a real peach,” I said.

  “He was, perhaps, our greatest adversary. At the time, I was too young and too new at the alchemy game to have taken him down. Indeed, Cornelius alone, along with my mother, killed dozens, if not hundreds, of light workers.”

  “They belong together,” I said. “Except they will never be together. Not under my watch.”

  “Nor mine, Sam. Speaking of which, I see my mother has suggested that a deal with the devil is only as binding as one allows. She speaks the truth. The problem with her statement is that the devil, once inside you, can convince you to allow it. The devil, in essence, can override one’s defenses.”

  “You’re not helping me feel better,” I said.

  “No, I imagine not. Then again, you are not here to feel better, are you, Sam?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m here to figure out how to stop the devil.”

  “And by stop, do you mean kill?”

  “If that’s what I have to do,” I said. “Then again, who am I?”

  “Who are you indeed, Sam?”

  I was about to ask what the hell that meant, when he went on. “The devil and I have crossed paths many times. You see, he sought out the realm from which the dark masters had been banished, and thought I might give him what he needed. He tempted me as well, and tried to lure me into a particularly clever trap. It was only with the help of other Light Warriors that I was able to untangle myself from his carefully laid plans. He is not happy about it. I do not care if he is happy or not, quite frankly.”

  I waited, knowing the five-hundred-year-old Alchemist, who just so happened to look like your everyday college student, was going somewhere with this.

  “I am, Sam. The devil is indeed alive today because of expectation, because of belief, and because of fear. It was a perfect mix to bring him forth from the ether. But belief has reached a tipping point.”

  “Tipping point?” I asked. “As in, belief in his existence is sliding?”

  The Alchemist nodded. “And rapidly, too. The tide is turning. There are whole generations who do not believe in him or hell or even the afterlife. He feels it, and, I believe, it is weakening him. Indeed, I feel he has made a concerted effort to increase his wicked ways, to wreak even more mayhem and destruction. To remind the world that the devil is alive and well and to be feared.”

  “Because belief and fear—”

  “Keep him strong. Keep him relevant. Keep him alive.”

  “Not to sound narcissistic as hell, but where do I fit into all of this?”

  “I’m not sure yet, Sam. But I see you there, in the mix.” He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

  “See me how?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been having my dreams, Sam. Prophetic dreams.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “In them, you are connected to the devil’s demise. At least, in one version.”

  “And in the other?”

  “You, and everything you love, has been wiped off the face of the Earth.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Sadly, He is not in my dreams.”

  I digested this, then asked, “And how accurate are your prophetic dreams?”

  “They always come to pass.”

  “But they’re a little vague,” I said. “Either the devil or I die.”

  “True, Sam. But the key point here is that you and the devil will cross paths, and you will do so in a grand way.”

  “Whatever it takes,” I said, “for him to leave my kids alone.”

  “Admirable, Sam. But let me ask you: if he knows that your kids are your trigger point, why, then, has he come after th
em?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He needs them?”

  “The devil doesn’t them, Sam. He has done fine for millenniums without them.”

  “I-I don’t know,” I said.

  “Think, Sam.”

  I shrugged. “To cause a reaction in me?”

  “Sam, are you aware that the devil is bound by certain universal laws?”

  “Sorta.”

  “One of which states that he cannot strike a human first. He needs to either be invited in, or act in self-defense.”

  “And who upholds these laws?”

  “The ways of the devil, his role in the universe, the laws that govern him, if any, are mostly unknown. Evidence suggests that he shows restraint, for reasons I do not understand, but which point to an agreement with higher beings.”

  “Fine,” I said. “So, what are you getting at? The devil is coaxing me into a fight?”

  The Librarian held my gaze, and I suspected I had hit the nail on the head. He said, “Sam, are you aware that there has been a renewed wellspring of prayers—”

  “Prayers?” I said.

  “Yes, Sam, prayers.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I am very close to my own guardian angel, Sam.”

  “And angels are aware of prayers?”

  “They have access to them, yes. This shouldn’t surprise you. Many of the higher beings in the non-physical realms have access to our prayers. More accurately, they can see our wants and desires, which flash across the cosmos. Our desires are eventually answered, if one believes and allows.”

  “Am I flashing now?”

  “Oh, yes. Sam. Your desire to protect your children is, undoubtedly, shining bright and clear.”

  “But I didn’t make an official prayer.”

  “Official prayers are not necessary, Sam. Desires spring forth automatically, flashing through the heavens.”

  “Did you just say, ‘spring forth’?”

  “I did. I’m showing my age, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Your request for the safety of your children has within it a not-so-hidden condition. A condition to defeat the devil.”

  “So, what are you saying? That my prayer or desires have been answered?”

  “Yes and no, Sam. I am saying that the machinations have been assembled for you to do so.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “I know the laws of the Universe, Sam. And yours is a powerful desire. Powerful desires are heard loud and clear. But first, do you know the purpose of forest fires?”

  Chapter Seven

  I blinked. “Forest fires have a purpose?”

  “Of course,” he said. “This way.”

  He stepped out from behind the help desk and headed over to the many rows of creepy-ass books. I kept my distance, mostly because I couldn’t stand the dark whispering and cries. How he ignored them, I didn’t know. He studied the high shelves. For a secret library filled with some of the most dangerous books, pamphlets, and grimoires, it was surprisingly well-lit. I looked up and up, and saw no actual source of light, neither bulb nor halogen. The light just seemed to emanate from somewhere.

  “Eternal light from there is all, of all, in all, Sam,” he said, still studying the shelves.

  “Um, sure.”

  “God light. Found originally in the Great Pyramid, it has been passed on for centuries. A similar light burns in the Vatican, another in a secret room beneath the White House, still another in a chamber beneath the Wailing Wall, not to mention a number of Buddhist temples, hidden caves and underground chambers the world over, all of which you are not privy to. At least, not yet. Ah, here we go.”

  He selected a particularly large book from an upper shelf, using a footstool that just might have hovered up and down on its own volition. He returned to the help desk, and I followed while keeping an eye on the footstool.

  “Back to the forest fire analogy,” he said as he laid the book before me, not yet opening it. Try as I might, I couldn’t read the title upside down, until I realized it was in Latin. I think. He went on, “Forests can be overburdened with fallen trees, hindering the growth of new trees.”

  “Which is where forest fires come in.”

  “Indeed, Sam. Fires are a marvelous thing. They cleanse the land and give it a chance to start anew. With one lightning strike, a fire can ignite. With one lightning strike, the burden upon the forest can be eliminated and give room for new life to grow.”

  “But killing the living, too.”

  “A sacrifice nature is willing to make.”

  “I assume the devil is the fire?”

  “No, Sam. The devil is the rotting, dead trees that clog the forest floor, the fallen trees that stifle new growth and burden humanity. The devil is the result of tired, outdated fears.” Archibald Maximus paused. “You, Samantha Moon, are the lightning strike.”

  Max opened the book.

  Chapter Eight

  “Tell me, Sam, what do you know of the Angel of Death?”

  I shrugged. “Dark robe. Hoodie. Carries a scythe. The silent type.”

  “That’s Death, Sam,” said Max, carefully turning pages filled with drawings of all types of creatures. Granted, they were all upside down, but I was pretty sure I spotted a dragon, a harpy, humanoids with animal legs. Animals with human legs. Angels, giant men, tiny men, and everything in between. “Some cultures confuse the two. The truth is, one exists and one doesn’t. At least, not anymore.”

  “Death is dead?”

  “He is, Sam.”

  “Are you smoking the funny weed, Maxie?”

  “I am not, and please do not call me Maxie.”

  “What about Archie?”

  “I do not see myself as an Archie.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Can we move on, Sam?”

  “Sure,” I said. “So, Death existed at one time.”

  “He did, yes.”

  “Let me guess. People lost their belief in him, too?”

  “They did, Sam.”

  “And he just... died?”

  “Yes and no. It is safer to say he was... returned.”

  “Returned?” I said. “Returned to where?”

  “To the Creator. To the light.”

  “And who returned him?” But then, I caught on. “The Angel of Death.”

  “Yes, Sam. The Angel of Death has been given the burden to remove those who are no longer necessary.”

  “And his job is to kill people? Like a celestial hitman?”

  “In short, yes. Ah, here it is.”

  Max spun the book around for me to see. I saw an illustration of a winged angel. A beautiful winged angel, I might add. An angel who seemed to be hovering high above what appeared to be a temple of some sort, complete with massive marble columns. The angel seemed to be emitting a golden light.

  “Doesn’t look like death.”

  “I agree.”

  The pen-and-ink drawing, with just a hint of color, seemed to have sprung from the hand of Leonardo himself, so accurate was it in its anatomical detail. And then, I saw something else. Something I couldn’t unsee.

  “It just moved.”

  “Did it now?”

  I leaned down a little closer, inches from the beautiful drawing of the beautiful man whose massive, outstretched wings could have spanned a four-lane highway. The thing was, well, the wings flapped ever so slightly. And his hair—sweet mama—his hair had just lifted and fell, too. It was as if a drawing of Fabio had come to life.

  “In a way, it had, Sam,” said Max, reading my thoughts. “This is The Book of All Known Beings. Images contained within are updated in real time.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means that these images are an accurate and current depiction of the entity.”

  “Wouldn’t a photograph be easier?”

  “Some entities can’t be photographed, Sam, as you well know.”

  “Then who drew
these entities?”

  “A number of artists throughout time, from Leonardo da Vinci to Picasso to Jean-Michel Basquiat. All contribute from the grave, of course, updating their pieces as needed.”

  “From the grave?”

  “Have a look here.”

  I looked, confused as hell. And then, I saw it. The book, ever so slightly, seemed to swell in size, as if new pages had been added. A moment later, it shrank again, the book clearly slimmer. It did this, continuously, over and over.

  “What am I seeing here, Max?” I asked.

  “You are looking at the addition of more beings, and the removal of others.”

  “Some entities are dying?”

  “Indeed, and some are being created.”

  “As we stand here?”

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “How the hell are they being added to the book?”

  “The book you see before you, Sam, is merely a representation of the real book. Think of it as a living copy.”

  “My brain hurts.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “The artists. They were all Light Warriors?” I tried to imagine the edgy Brooklyn street artist, Basquiat, as an Alchemist. Then shrugged. Why the hell not?

  “He died too young,” Max said, reading my mind again. “But, yes, many of his paintings contain within them coded messages; in fact, all of our artists were adept at hiding secret messages that reached other Light Warriors without giving up our secrets, or our locations, or our lives.”

  I pointed to the winged angel. “Who drew this one?”

  “A master from a bygone era, Sam.”

  “You don’t know?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not. He would have been before my time, and even my own master’s time.”

  “Hermes?”

  “Yes.”

  The Angel of Death shifted ever so lightly, his robes billowing, his sword catching more of the light, gleaming brighter.

  “Max, why are you showing me the Angel of Death?”

  “Because only he—Azrael—can help kill the devil, Sam.”

  “But I thought you said my destiny was intertwined with the devil and all that.”