Sons of Angels (18 page)

“I don’t think so.” Felicia closed her eyes, trying to think of something to temper Julie’s animosity. Her mind was a blank. “I’ll just get the stone carved for the time being. We can think about where to place it later.”

“Whoop.” Julie’s face showed no excitement. “We could have a party and invite all the other devils.”

Felicia laughed. “Do you want anything while I’m on the phone?”

“Thanks.” The smile was genuine. “I’ll have a green tea, please.”

“Oh.” Felicia gave a hiss of annoyance. “I don’t have any, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right.” Julie reached up and tickled Wrack under the chin. “Wrack will get me one, won’t you?”

“I suppose.” The imp burped a cloud of chocolate-scented gas. “Should I get her coffee too?”

“That would be nice.” Julie gave his tail a light squeeze.

Felicia left them to it and went to use the telephone. The message light was flashing and she played it back.

“Miss Turling?” She barely recognized the voice. “It’s DS Peters here. Just to inform you, we’ll be taking no action against you regarding the death of your mother, Mrs. Patricia Turling. You can collect the notification of death from the coroner’s office, open Monday to Friday, ten ’til four. Thank you.” The message beeped and Felicia deleted it, glad that at least her mother’s death wasn’t going to be pinned on her.

She opened the telephone directory and dialed the funeral director’s.

“Morton and Sons. Can I help you?” The voice was a deep baritone and Felicia could imagine a middle-aged man in a somber suit.

“Hello? I want to arrange a funeral.”

“Certainly. May I ask when the deceased passed away?”

“Monday. It was my mother.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that Ms...”

“Turling.” Felicia felt that her heart was twice its normal weight.

“May I inquire where your mother is now?”

Felicia shrugged. “Hell, if there’s any justice.”

The man coughed. “I meant, which hospital.”

“Oh.” Felicia was glad that he couldn’t see her blush. “There isn’t a body. She was caught in a house fire. No remains.”

“Tragic.” The man hesitated. “What sort of service do you require, madam? Empty casket?”

“God, no.” Felicia almost laughed. “What a waste of money. I just want a stone carved.”

“I see.” She could hear him turning pages. “I have a ten o’clock slot tomorrow available for an appointment.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“To choose a suitable stone and wording.”

“Oh. Right.” Felicia opened her diary. “That’d be fine. I’ll see you then, Mr...”

“Briggs. I look forward to meeting you, Ms. Turling. Goodbye.”

Felicia wondered if seeing her mother’s name carved in stone would convince her that her mother was dead.

“Cheer up.” Wrack handed her a latte. “You look like your mother’s come back.”

Chapter 19

Felicia flicked through a catalog of stone monuments. Even though there was nothing left of her mother, it might be nice to have somewhere to go to feel she was near. At the very least, it would ground the idea of her to a specific place. Thoughts of dead relatives watching her from Heaven had kept Felicia from masturbating until she was nineteen. She looked up as Julie came in, tossing the catalog aside.

“How’s it going?” Julie’s hands were constantly moving, touching walls and surfaces to map her surroundings.

“All right.” Felicia carried her mug to the kitchen. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow morning to choose a memorial stone. Do you want to come?”

“An undertaker’s?” Julie grimaced. “I’d rather avoid the recently dead, if I could. They all want you to pass messages to their relatives.”

“What sort of messages?”

“Anything, really. Some want to reassure their loved ones they’re happy, some want to tell them where they put the will, or the cat food, or the keys to the lock-up where the bodies are and others want me to tell someone about their death.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like those. Suicides, mostly.”

“You must meet some horrible people.”

“Not really.” Julie came farther into the kitchen, her hands still fluttering over the worktops. Felicia moved the open dish of butter. “Ghosts look like they expect to look. Their self-image molds their appearance.”

“That’s fascinating.”

Julie reached the sink and played with the taps, letting the water spill over and through her fingers. “How do you change your form?”

“I’m not very good at it.” Felicia handed her a tea towel to dry her hands. “Gillian’s trying to teach me but I can only do it when I’m angry.”

Julie stroked her arm. “It’ll come.”

“Thanks.” Felicia gave her a hug.

Wrack took the opportunity to investigate the fridge and removed a block of cheese.

Right.” Felicia stepped away. “I’ve got to pick up the death certificate and see the solicitor. Do you want to stay here? I could drop you off at the shop with Harold and Jasfoup if you prefer. That’s probably the safest place.”

“That sounds good.” Wrack guided her out of the kitchen, opening the cheese as he pointed out objects in her path.

* * * *

 
“This is where we work.”

Felicia led her sister into Alexandrian Gold which was empty, as usuausual. “They’re probably in the kitchen. The gallery’s downstairs, if you want to take a look.”

“I’d rather not. Standing in front of paintings that I can’t see doesn’t really do much for me.” She turned her head, giving the appearance of looking round. “I can’t say I’m all that keen on bookshops, either, though there are vibrations here in the spirit realm.”

“Probably from the books. Some of them are really old. Harold told me he had a fragment of the Rosetta Stone–one the British Museum would kill for. Apparently it’s the key to the whole thing.”

“Oh?” Julie smiled. “What does it say?”

“‘Shopping list’.” Harold came from the kitchen passage. “Would you like to see it? Feel it, I mean?”

“Sure.” Julie smiled. “It’s not often I get that sort of offer from a man.”

Harold laughed. “It’s this way. I keep it locked up, usually.”

Julie moved her hands across the surface, feeling the shape of the hieroglyphs. “You’re right, it is a shopping list.
Eight bushels of wheat. Three hands of chicken. A palmful of saffron
.” She moved her hands farther down. “This is different.
There once was a king from Amun, Who came at a touch far too soon. With three virgins fair, he hadn’t a care, but
... and the rest of it is missing.”

“The British Museum has the punch line. They think it’s a notation of dynasty.”

Julie laughed and closed the case. She walked around the rest of the room, her fingers leaving prints on the glass Harold would have to ask an imp to clean.

“What’s this?” She stopped in front of a locked glass case that displayed a single book.

“It’s the Codis Ressurecti.” Harold stood at her side. “Supposedly an ancient manuscript of magic, but I can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s not written in any language I’ve been able to research.”

Julie bent over the glass. “
The Ritual of Resurrection
,” she read. “
Pay no heed to the tales that this can only be achieved by the will of God. It’s actually fairly easy, as long as you put in the legwork to assemble the right components. It must be performed on the full moon, during the daylight for preference when there are less malevolent spirits about
.”

Harold’s mouth dropped open. “How did you read that? It looks like lines and squiggles to me.”

“It’s written in the tongue of ghosts. I’ve only ever heard rumors of this tome. Each page is a spirit bound to the book in order to keep the letters there.” She grimaced. “Not all of them went into its making willingly, either.”

“That’s incredible. You’ve got to translate it for me.” He hesitated. “I’ll pay you, obviously, whatever you want.”

Julie stared at him until he felt uncomfortable under her blank glare. “Anything?”

Harold nodded. “Of course. Just name it.”

Julie nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s not going to be easy. There are some pages in there that don’t want to be read and others that are trying to escape. I’m going to ask for something big.”

“Ask away.” Harold’s fists were clenched tightly.

“I want my sight back.”

* * * *

Felicia dropped the pamphlet she was glancing at when her number was called, the announcer’s voice apparently recorded in a crowded train station with a vaulted roof when two commuter trains had come in. She stepped up to the window.

“Yes?” The woman behind the triple-glazed counter stared at Felicia. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve come for a coroner’s certificate to register the death of my mother.” Felicia blinked in the dim light. Perhaps it was supposed to be soothing, but she felt it was more like the claustrophobic land of the dead. It was appropriate, really.

The woman nodded. “Name?” She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

“Felicia Turling.” Felicia paused. “Sorry, that’s me. I meant, Patricia Turling. She died on Monday.”

The woman turned around. “That’s too soon for a certificate. He won’t have finished with the body yet.”

“There wasn’t a body. She was cremated in a house fire. Not even a scrap of bone left of her.”

“Oh.” The woman paused. “I read about that in the paper. I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.” She turned back to the filing cabinet and extracted a small sheet torn from a pad. “Here it is. Have you any identification?”

Felicia showed her driving license, still with her mother’s address on it and got the certificate without further trouble. She signed the papers and headed outside, where the warm sun on her face instantly buoyed her mood. How, she wondered, did Gillian survive with knowing she could never see the sun again?

For the first time she was grateful to be a werewolf.

Chapter 20

Felicia reached the registrar’s office just as it was about to close. The woman there, more cheerful than the one in the coroner’s office, smiled.

“You were cutting it fine. I was about to lock the doors.”

“Thanks.” Felicia returned the smile. “I need to register the death of my mother.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” The woman moved back behind her desk and took out a book of forms in triplicate copies. “Have you got the medical certificate?”

“Here.” Felicia took the coroner’s form from her purse and handed it to her. She sat in front of the desk. Her mother’s death seemed so final in black and white.

“Thank you.” The woman managed to retain a neutral expression as she read it. “If you could give me the time and place of death...”

“Four, Sandringham Crescent. Monday, the fourth of May.” Felicia felt tears threaten as she remembered her mother falling down the stairs and took out a paper tissue. “That was her home. Burnt to the ground now, of course.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman touched her arm. “I’m sorry for asking you a lot of questions too. I know that this must be a difficult time for you.”

Felicia dabbed at her eyes. “That’s all right. Ask away.”

The woman moved on. “Her name and maiden name, please.”

“Patricia Ann Turling, Banks.” Felicia watched her fill in the information and read the next question. “She married Gordon Turling, building engineer, deceased.”

“Thank you, dear.” The woman looked up. “We’ve missed a question out, though. When and where was she born?”

Felicia grimaced. “I don’t know. She never, ever discussed her age or her past, and all the papers were destroyed in the fire. She did mention that she’d watched the London Exhibition go up when she was six, though.”

“What exhibition was that? We could narrow down the place and year.” The woman paused and looked at Felicia expectantly.