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, prayers.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I am very close to my own guardian angel, as you know.”

  I did know. “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. 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. Desires spring forth automatically, streaking through the heavens.”

  “Did you just say, ‘spring forth’?”

  “I did. Am I showing my age?”

  “You are. Go on.”

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

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

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

  “And you know this how?”

  the Alchemist shrugged. “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. “Follow me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  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 higher shelves. For a secret library filled with some of the most dangerous books, pamphlets, scrolls 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.

  “God light,” he said distractedly, studying the shelves.

  “Of course.”

  “Found originally in the Great Pyramid, it has been passed on for centuries. A similar light manifests 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 him back while turning and keeping an eye on the footstool. Yup, definitely hovering.

  “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 ones.”

  “Which is where forest fires come in.”

  “Indeed. 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.”

  “By 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 fire.”

  Max opened the book.

  Chapter Eight

  “Tell me, 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 mythological 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, sadly.”

  “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.”

  “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 drawing of the beautiful man whose massive, outstretched wings could have spanned a four-lane highway. The thing was, well, the wings had flapped ever so slightly. And his hair—sweet mama—his hair 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 these images are an accurate and current depiction of the living entity.”

  “Wouldn’t a photograph be easier?”

  “Some entities can’t be photographed, 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.”

  “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.”

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

  “It is. But I suspect you are going to need a little help.”

  I tapped the picture. “Any suggestions on where to find him?”

  Max shook his head. “Sadly, I haven’t a clue. But he is real, I know that much.”

  “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be in The Book of All Known Beings.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “This temple with the pillars. Any idea where that’s located?”

  “I don’t, Sam. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, fat lot of good you’ve been, Mr. Maximus.”

  He gave me a small smile. “I apologize, Sam. You’ll discover that most creatures in this book are rather difficult to find, let alone archangels.”

  I tapped the page opposite the Angel of Death. “Like this guy,” I said, who looked nothing more than an amorphous shadow, although I could vaguely make out it was humanoid. In fact, I thought I was just able to make out two massive wings, as well.

  “Ah, yes. Death’s Shadow. At least, that’s how I think of him.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The page appeared not too long ago. There’s no description.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The creature, you’ll note, has not fully formed.”

  “Then how do you know he’s called Death’s Shadow?”

  “I don’t. But if you’ll look, they appear as exact opposites.”

  He was right about that, only the shadow was without shape. “Maybe that’s just how it looks.”

  “No, Sam. It’s been taking shape over the years.”

  “When did it first appear?”

  “Within the past decade, I would say.”

  I watched the misty shadow shift and move, form and reform, all very slowly. He, too, appeared to be sporting a shadowy sword, but it was hard to tell. It could have been a hockey stick for all I knew. And the wings... they could have been something else too.

  No, I thought, they’re wings. And they’re massive. Nearly as massive as the Angel of Death’s own wings.

  “Another thing. Entities aligned or connected are always found grouped together in this book.”

  “So he really is Azrael’s shadow,” I said.

  Archibald Maximus nodded, and I thought about that as I continued studying the shadowy being, feeling oddly intrigued by it.

  And terrified, too.

  Chapter Nine

  We were all at Kingsley’s manor, where we’d been for the past three days. Kingsley had insisted, and I had agreed. There was, after all, safety in numbers.

  With that said, the massive estate was feeling a bit like a frat house, which I didn’t mind so much. Truthfully, I did feel safer surrounded by Kingsley and his massive manservants, each of whom just so happened to be variations on the Frankenstein monsters. In this case, the Lichtenstein monsters. Luckily, there was more than enough room for all of us. As an added treat, Allison came by nightly and sometimes stayed over too. I think she enjoyed being around all this masculine energy, even if some of the energy had literally been dead and buried.

  “I heard that, Sam,” came her voice from the kitchen. “And no.”

  “Love you,” I said, raising my voice.

  “You’d better.”

  “What did she hear?” asked Kingsley above me, since I just so happened to be snuggled deep in his arms.

  “There was a small chance that I might have insulted Allison.”

  “You tend to do that a lot.”

  “What can I say? It’s how I show love.”

  He thought about that. “So every time you call me a big lug, what you are really saying you love me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go with that.”

  We were in Kingsley’s family room, which was big enough to move into. Kingsley and I were snuggled on one end of the U-shaped couch watching Anthony play on the Xbox. Tammy was seated opposite us, apparently texting her life story, judging from the way her fingers flew over her phone keypad for the past half hour.

  Without looking up, she stuck out her tongue at me and continued texting.

  In the background, lumbering and limping, although some were surprisingly fleet of foot, were the Lichtenstein monsters. They prowled Kingsley’s spacious home, cleaning, cooking, or just wandering. It would have been creepy if I wasn’t used to it—

  Never mind. It was still creepy, although my kids didn’t so much as blink an eye when one of these things appeared in the room, or when they bowed and tried to smile, or when they picked up our empty dishes.

  It’s creepy, Sam, came Allison’s thoughts.

  I nodded. Thought so.

  But not to my kids, who had more or less grown up with the strange and weird, even if the strange and weird had been primarily me. To my kids, these lumbering, hulking, scarred and misshapen monsters—who were stronger than even Kingsley—were just an everyday, run-of-the-mill norm.

  One such creature—a particularly tall fellow with one side of his head missing—accidentally kicked the coffee table. He apologized and reached down to position it back, and dropped the dishes he’d been holding. Most clattered onto the mohair rug. A knife and fork rattled on the glass tabletop.

  He apologized, or tried to, his voice so deep as to be nearly incomprehensible. I had just made out the words “sorry” and “idiot” when Kingsley shot up from the couch to assist him. The creature bowed and apologized and seemed to be close to weeping, when Kingsley pulled him in close and held the back of the man’s head in a deep hug. I heard Kingsley reassure the man-thing, telling him he was doing a good job and that he was Kingsley’s favorite. He said this to all of the Lichtenstein monsters in private: they were each his favorite. I thought that was kind of cute, and not weird at all.

  The creature nodded and tried to smile, but I knew the nerves in his face had been long since destroyed, perhaps when his head had been damaged. Dr. Lichtenstein, his creator, had been a true mad scientist. Not content with leaving well enough alone, the doctor had rearranged body parts, too, presumably to find the best matches. Not all had gone according to plan. Some body parts worked well with some of them, with others, not so much. Some spirits remained attached to the various parts; indeed, one monster might have a half-dozen such entities within him, all crowding for air time. Of course, it was the dark master within each of them who actually fueled the dead bodies. Dark masters, it seemed, cared little for which body they inhabited, as long as they got a body. With that said, many of the Lichtenstein monsters contained low-level dark masters. Lower, even, than Danny.

  Most interesting was the bonding that occurred between Kingsley and the monsters. Initially, they had all bonded with Lichtenstein himself; that was, until he found himself stranded in a world far, far away. He could just stay there for all eternity, for all I cared.

  Earlier, Kingsley had barbecued some hamburgers for us. Allison, Tammy and I had watched in stunned disbelief as the two boys—Kingsley and my son—had eaten what was surely the equivalent of a full-grown wild boar. I hadn’t even finished my chicken breast. Thanks to a magic ring, I could eat, but food still tasted bland. Not terrible, mind you, just not very exciting. Still, just the act of ingesting food with friends and family on Kingsley’s spacious outdoor deck—a deck that looked out onto the Carbon Canyon woods, woods which proved to be fertile hunting grounds for Franklin each month.

  Anyway, we had been lavishly served by Kingsley’s massive—and heavily stitched—staff, a staff fit for a king, surely. It wasn’t terrible having our every whim catered to, even if the staff did smell slightly dead. Granted, it wasn’t a smell I entirely minded, even though I often watched Allison fight back the vomit. Tammy, too, for that matter.

  Afterward, we had all gone for a small walk around Kingsley’s property. Yes, the rich bastard had a hiking trail around his property, complete with mileposts. It was precisely three miles around his yard. I noted the high walls, all outfitted with not just barbed wire, but deadly-looking wall spikes, each of which could have been found atop a Crusader’s spear. I wondered what his neighbors thought. Then again, his closest neighbor was a mile away. Probably a good thing.

  Now we were all in the family room, waiting on Allison’s signature coffee-bean crème brûlée. And waiting. You’d think a witch would be faster in a kitchen.

  Wait for it...

  “That’s because I’m not a kitchen witch,” said Allison, stepping through the arched doorway, holding a silver platter containing a half-dozen dishes. “And you know that, Sam.”

  I did, of course. Kitchen witches relied on complicated spells and bizarre ingredients, such as eye of newt and all that. Although effective, Allison was a bit more bad-ass than that—although she was quick to remind me that a kitchen witch could make one’s life a living hell, too. Or enhance it beautifully. Spells, after all, worked both ways. Of course, knowing all of this didn’t stop my jabs, barbs and digs, all of which entertained me to no end.