The Army of Angels: The Lovelace & Wick Series, #3

By Jennifer Rainey

There's no rest for the wicked…even when the wicked are trying to retire.

 

In the thirteen years since they abandoned their demonic duties to Hell, Iago Wick and Dante Lovelace have become world travelers and developed an acute aversion to responsibility of any kind. Life is sublime until an old friend comes knocking with a favor to ask.

 

Gloria Ambrose is an angel in need. Her brothers and sisters are disappearing, and signs indicate the angels are being taken to Purgatory, a treacherous land that only a demon can navigate. As Dante and Iago plunge into Purgatory's depths, they uncover a madman's plot to turn angels into weapons, using the vast wasteland of the underworld as his testing ground.

 

With the help of friends new and old, Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Wick devise a rescue plan, but peril, past lives, and amphibious beasts lurk around every corner. Not to mention, things are never what they seem in Purgatory. Whose twisted mind is really behind the army of angels?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Rainey
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393855958

Book preview

THE ARMY OF ANGELS

Jennifer Rainey

The Army of Angels. Copyright 2020 by Jennifer Rainey. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or products are of the author’s own creation or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons living or dead or actual events or locations are purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the author’s written consent.

Cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com

Title font provided by user Bill Roach on DaFont.com

The Army of Angels

I.

In a forest in Tuscany, there stood an age-old structure called The Chapel of Broken Bones.

Predictably, it was a very unpleasant place.

Its architects, devoted priests of Lucifer, named the structure literally. Every wall was crafted from the bones of those they had sacrificed in the name of their Lord. A few bundles of femurs were quite effectual in constructing the chapel’s frame, and skulls peered from the corners of every door and window. The pulpit, a mound of bones and death, looked like someone had thrown a stick of dynamite into a mausoleum and called it a day.

The priests had sacrificed a lot to build that chapel.

Little did they know, Lucifer wasn’t as keen on sacrifices as their holy books claimed. A sacrifice in his name was the religious equivalent of yet another ugly necktie at Christmas. Oh, another slaughtered virgin. You shouldn’t have.

But they did not know better, and so they continued.

Most of them, anyway.

Sacrifices? said the chapel’s newest priestess. Utter codswallop!

She hated laundering enough already, and bloodstains were so stubborn. No, sacrifices simply would not do. There were dozens of other ways to demonstrate her devotion to the Dark Lord Lucifer, and quite frankly, they weren’t nearly as hard on her wardrobe.

But unpopular opinions made her an unpopular priestess. She prayed alone and tended the chapel alone and spread the word of Lucifer alone.

But not for much longer.

On a still spring night, the priestess, Elladora Lee, crouched over her newly-scribbled ritual. She tossed a handful of black salt into the center of an intricate circle of sigils drawn in chalk upon the chapel floor. They looked quite smart and mysterious. For the first time since she’d traveled from America to Italy to practice in the legendary structure, she felt in harmony with its power and energy. It surged through her, made her fingers tingle.

She muttered ancient words under her breath and pressed the blade of her dagger to her palm.

The empty eyes of a hundred skulls watched her as they had watched every other servant of Lucifer before her. Candlelight flickered on the alabaster bone. Elladora uttered another stream of dead language before holding her hand over the circle. Her blood trickled to the floor.

Hissing profanity, she pulled a handkerchief from inside her robe and wrapped it around her palm. Some blood was unavoidable. Both of her hands were waxy and white with scar tissue these days, but such small incisions never caused any spurting or spatter, thank Lucifer.

An effusion of black smoke or Hellish screams might have been nice, but this particular summoning did not offer such fanfare. Rather, the creature she summoned simply appeared. She jumped back as she beheld a tall, bald, and expressionless man in a black suit.

He did not speak but cocked his head like a confused parrot. He took a large step forward, looking at her expectantly.

He wanted his orders.

Elladora cawed, A-ha, look at him! She reached for the flask of bourbon she’d kept at her hip all night and took a generous swig. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?

A gentle voice answered from the pews. Excellent! And he’s all yours. He’ll do anything you ask, and trust me, they are very loyal.

Another man chuckled. But they’re not that bright. Patience is more than a virtue when you are working with Conjures; it’s the only thing that will keep you sane.

It would be worth mentioning that Elladora Lee did not manage this feat on her own. Her teachers observed from the pews.

It’s not every day a priestess of Lucifer gets to study with a pair of demons. And what utter gentlemen they were! One cannot expect every Hellspawn one meets to be so cordial.

Indeed, fortune had smiled upon Elladora Lee the day she wandered into the village tavern and met Dante Lovelace and Iago Wick.

* * *

Iago Wick did not often befriend strange women in taverns.

Elladora Lee, however, was no ordinary lush.

She had introduced herself with, You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I am wrong—in which case, I deeply apologize for my transgression—but are you demons?

A quick reading of her mind and intent had revealed that she was not one of Hell’s watchmen, come to capture two demons who had turned their backs on their Hellish duties thirteen years prior. No, she was only a friendly drunk.

And a priestess of Lucifer.

I’m seeking the help of demons, she’d said, joining them at their table. I’d like to learn some Hellish rituals, and I am told by very reputable sources that only a demon can teach me.

Under usual circumstances, the demons might have left her then. But a priestess of Lucifer keeps many secrets, and secrets, Iago reminded Dante, can be bought.

Several weeks later, in the unholy aura of The Chapel of Broken Bones, Elladora Lee stood before her very own Conjure.

I can hardly believe I did it, she said breathlessly.

Yes, the process is a bit more difficult for humans than it is for demons, Iago Wick said. He stood, buttoning his suit coat over a black waistcoat he had found suitable for the night’s proceedings. Practitioners such as Elladora Lee had a penchant for dark clothing. Dante fit right in; not to mention, Mr. Lovelace simply adored the profusion of bones. The place harkened back to his old home in Marlowe.

Elladora asked the Conjure, Dance for me?

The Conjure broke into a little shuffle that, while not fit for any formal soirée, was pleasant enough to appease Elladora. She exuberantly fluffed her wild blonde hair.

Gentlemen, I couldn’t have done this without your help. I am a lucky woman to have encountered such cooperative demons! Most wouldn’t think of lowering themselves to work with a priestess, she said, and bowed drunkenly. She had been hitting her flask hard that evening.

Ah, but this is to be a mutually beneficial partnership, yes? Iago asked. Where’s the book?

Oh, how silly of me! Yes, of course, she said, and turned to a heavy wooden door just beyond the pulpit. She opened it to reveal a small chamber of what she called Very Important Books. She returned with a pained look on her face, but this was the price of doing business.

I have worked hard over the decades to collect these volumes. However, I am in your debt, she said. She gave Dante a very large, very dusty book. "This is one of the most comprehensive grimoires I’ve ever encountered. I acquired it from a coven of benandanti."

Thank you, Elladora, said Dante.

She sluggishly raised a brow. "You’ve wanted that book from the start. The benandanti have long protected villages in Italy. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you protecting yourself from? Are you hiding from someone?"

Iago cleared his throat. The fewer who knew their outlaw status, the better. Mr. Lovelace is simply a scholar, dear lady. It’s a passion to learn which drives him, nothing more.

In her fuzzy-headed state, that was good enough for her. I see! Well, happy learning, Mr. Lovelace. And if there’s anything else I can do for you…?

Dante shook his head. You’ve done enough by giving us this book. I assure you, it is an equal trade. He gave Iago a meaningful glance, but Iago had more in mind. And if you—

Are you familiar with the old demonic rituals? Iago asked. Pre-Luciferian, when we were our own creatures and not his loyal servants?

Elladora looked as though he had just asked her if she could tie her boots. Of course! I’m a learned woman, Mr. Wick. However, I wonder why you would want to go back to such a dark time. What is there in the old ways for a modern demon?

A modern demon, Iago mused. A modern demon did as he pleased, and what good was defecting if there wasn’t a little excitement here and there? Iago had to admit that his thoughts had favored the frivolous and romantic since they had abandoned Hell’s cause. Not to mention, he’d been practically attached to Dante Lovelace’s hip for over a century and a half. He could not tell where he ended and Dante began most days. There was no life without Dante Lovelace now.

A human would say there was only one thing to be done about it.

And so, Iago said, Marry me.

Dante blinked. "What?"

That was, customarily, not how one expected one’s lover to respond. Why not, Dante? Iago asked. We’re in a wicked chapel with a priestess of Lucifer. It’s either ritualistic orgy or wedding, and my orgy days are far behind me. And look! The Conjure can even serve as a witness.

Dante’s face cracked into the very smile that had made Iago Wick invite him home over a hundred and fifty years ago. You’re going to make an honest man of me?

Hurry and say yes, Iago said, so we can move on to the wedding night, which is, if I understand correctly, quite a bit more enjoyable than the ceremony itself.

Iago knew it was a silly and human thing to do, but Dante made him feel human, so why shouldn’t he make him want to do silly, human things?

Ancient demons would have wedded purely to claim their mate. There was no celebration. An ancient demonic wedding was a solemn occasion. But since there was already bourbon present, and Iago had never been one for solemnity, he imagined a few changes could be made to that traditional practice.

Dante asked, And do you have rings for this momentous occasion, Mr. Wick?

Have I ever been unprepared? Iago asked, and conjured two thin black bands from his breast pocket.

Dante took his hand. Then I couldn’t possibly say no, could I?

Elladora gave a squeal so full of piercing delight that one might have thought she was the one getting married. She took one more swig of bourbon and retrieved another tome from her collection of Very Important Books. Oh, the last couple I wedded were a werewolf and a ghoul! We had the ceremony on the night of a full moon, and it was quite the experience. Very messy, very messy. Come now, Conjure, let’s set the stage!

* * *

Elladora Lee might have stumbled over her words a few times during the ceremony, but it was just a lot of mispronounced pomp and circumstance. The important bits were all there, and anyway, it’s the thought that counts.

The demons had been married a full fifteen seconds before the priestess insisted they all have a drink to celebrate.

Or maybe two. Or maybe the whole bottle. Thirsty skulls watched the celebration with envious eye sockets.

I paid good money to have this bourbon shipped to Italy, Elladora proclaimed. Straight from Kentucky! She spent much of the night teaching her Conjure to dance.

Iago Wick caught Dante Lovelace admiring the thin band on his finger more than once, before he finally clutched the book of magic to his chest and once again gave Iago that meaningful glance. They’d risked enough already just by helping her. It was time to move on.

Elladora ended up draped over one of the pews, snoring loudly. Demons may have been resistant to inebriation, but Elladora Lee was not. Her Conjure fetched her a glass of water for when she woke, then sat at her side, stroking her wild hair. With one last toast to their marriage and the unconscious priestess, Dante and Iago left the bourbon-soaked chapel of bone.

The morning sun just barely colored the horizon. With a quiet incantation, Dante Lovelace conjured light from his hand, and in that soft glow, he kissed Iago Wick. Happy now, husband?

Perfectly, said Iago.

Dante drummed his fingers upon the book, the light flickering. You’re certain about this?

About the marriage? Bit too late to have second thoughts, isn’t it?

No, Dante said. You know what I mean. The magic. This is completely new, totally different from anything I’ve used before.

Of course, Iago answered. I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t trust you.

Dante smiled and thumbed through the tome. "The benandanti are the best witches there are at protective magic, not to mention cloaking spells, warding spells—even spiritual projection! We shall be a pair of needles in Hell’s proverbial haystack."

Splendid, Iago said. After all, there’s that little problem of the watchman in the village, which is…that way, correct?

Yes, this way, Dante said, leading the charge.

They entered the forest, dark and damp. Iago rubbed his hands together, thankful for bourbon on chilly mornings such as these. March in Tuscany made him long for a warm bed, but the summers…ah, the summers were worth the wait.

Dante continued, I’ve done a bit of investigating. Brimstone is the watchman’s name, I think.

Iago guffawed. That can’t be his real name.

Fake name or not, I fear he knows where we are. He’s not gotten too close yet, but he’s been lurking. Signora Estella, the fortune-teller, has been watching for me, Dante said.

Another alliance? Iago asked, amused, and narrowly missed tripping over an errant tree root.

Dante lowered the light to illuminate his way. One cannot befriend too many witches.

I beg to differ.

Dante ignored him. I won’t be proficient in this new magic for some time. I’m afraid we should leave the country altogether, just to be safe.

So much for another Italian summer. Bloody watchmen.

Italy had been a dream, nothing but lazing about and drinking wine and speaking Italian. Since their arrival in Italy, Iago’s only exposure to the English language had been in his writing. Osgood Quinn of Quinn Publishing House in Boston certainly wouldn’t hire a translator. But working with Elladora had forced Iago to speak the language again. It felt very comfortable. How about we return to America?

Dante gave the idea some thought. Hmm. I do miss it. He smiled naughtily. Honeymoon first?

Of course, Iago said. A quick stop in Paris.

Not too quick.

And who was Iago Wick to displease his husband?

II.

The town of Pickle, West Virginia made the middle of nowhere look positively metropolitan.

The quiet, lazy burg boasted a population of twenty-seven quiet, lazy citizens who had little desire to ever leave Pickle. They had their homes, a lean-to with a wooden cross to serve as a church, a general store, and the tavern.

That tavern, to the delight of Dante Lovelace and Iago Wick, was renting the rooms on the second floor.

And so, Pickle’s population hopped to twenty-nine.

The Thirsty Hog, as the tavern was called, certainly hadn’t the luxury of a hotel in Paris. It didn’t come close to the comfort of 13 Darke Street or the room above the cigar shop in Marlowe. But for one dollar a week, it was theirs, off the beaten path, hidden from the world.

And that was before Dante Lovelace came to town, armed with a smile and an old Italian spellbook.

He had devoutly studied the book in Paris, and before the week’s end, The Thirsty Hog boasted a dozen protective sigils, discreetly carved into the wood while the patrons were too intoxicated to notice. Charms and cloaking spells kept away watchmen, and a benandanti warding spell repelled all creatures who might mean the village or any of its inhabitants harm.

Dante had not yet attempted to ‘send his spirit out into the world of man,’ as the book so eloquently put it. The benandanti were quite adept at the practice, and Iago had noticed him reading the pages carefully, taking meticulous notes. Beatrice Dickens would have been proud.

Dante was happy to integrate the spells he learned into his ever-growing arsenal. He told Iago he couldn’t possibly classify himself as one kind of practitioner. He wove his magic with a variety of threads and colors, learning warding spells as easily as he learned to bake protective biscuits with rosemary and sage.

Considering the number of those biscuits Iago had consumed, he’d probably never even stub his toe again, let alone fall into the clutches of a watchman. He didn’t always give himself over to the sin of gluttony, but Dante’s baking was an exquisite exception. Thank Lucifer Below for the demonic metabolism; Iago’s figure had remained…mostly…unspoiled.

Thus, the newlyweds settled into the two-room suite above The Thirsty Hog.

And everything was dandy until the morning the angel flew through the window.

Iago woke to the sound of breaking glass. Someone was flailing in the middle of the bedroom. The intruder fought with the curtains tangled around his head before tossing them to the ground. He looked regretfully at the broken window.

Then, and only then, did he notice Iago.

Oh, I’m sorry, the angel said, his entire being humming with angelic frequency. I am still perfecting my landing. Flying on Earth is so different from flying in Heaven. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. He clasped his hands together in a motion of prayer, whispering something, probably Enochian. In a flash of light, the window was repaired, and Iago had a very satisfied angel of the Lord in his bedroom.

Iago winced. Could you lower the volume?

What’s that? Oh! The angel drew a deep breath, and the humming vanished. I’m sorry. I…well, I’m…

New? Iago asked. Dante stirred beside him.

Yes, the angel said. He smoothed his yellow hair and straightened his uniform.

The angel’s buttons gleamed in the summer sun, and his pearly-white uniform was cut to military perfection. It seemed one of Heaven’s soldiers had just crashed through their window. It was a hot and muggy morning, but they had all been hot and muggy mornings since coming to Pickle. The air was as thick as molasses and twice as sticky. Still, their visitor looked as cool and unruffled as though it were mid-spring.

The angel continued, I’ve traveled through the strata, seen other worlds, and traversed every inch of Heaven, but never Earth. This is my very first mission on the planet. He looked curious. Is it customary for demons to sleep on Earth?

If they so choose, they may sleep, Iago said.

Ah. And is it customary for demons to sleep…unclothed?

Iago hastily tightened the bedsheet around his waist. What exactly is your mission?

Why, to find you, of course!

Surely Hell had not enlisted the powers of Heaven in searching for them! Who were they that they should receive such special treatment? Find us? Iago asked.

Dante half-sat beside him, his dark hair sticking up in five different directions. Mr. Wick, is there an angel in the bedroom?

Yes.

Why?

That’s what I’m trying to determine, dear.

I am the angel Bartholomew, their visitor proclaimed, ensign to Her Grand Heavenly Authority, Constable Gloria Ambrose, and I have come to you with a summons!

Iago gulped. A summons?

The angel’s vacuous golden eyes widened still. Indeed! Fifteen years ago, Constable Ambrose performed an act of goodwill and friendship for the benefit of Iago Wick, he said. You are Iago Wick, correct?

So much for peace and quiet in Pickle, West Virginia. Unfortunately, yes. I’m in her debt. She’s looking to collect.

Precisely! Very good, Mr. Wick, Bartholomew said in genuine praise. Sarcasm was not a language most angels even acknowledged, let alone spoke. She has requested the presence of Mr. Wick and Mr. Lovelace.

Iago muttered a curse under his breath, quiet enough as to not burn the featherbrain’s sensitive ears. Bart, is it?

It’s Bartholomew, but Bart is fine, the angel said. That’s very friendly, and I do like making friends.

I’m sure you do. Bart, I need you to relay a message to Miss Ambrose for me.

"Constable Ambrose," he insisted.

Fine. Tell Constable Ambrose that, while I am always a man to honor a debt, Mr. Lovelace and I… He paused. His and Dante’s status as outlaws in the eyes of Hell was to be handled with care. He wasn’t certain he wanted to put that information in the hands of this daffy warrior of Heaven, whose interests included making friends and idle conversation. Iago coughed. Actually, do you mind if I fully dress before we discuss this?

Of course! Take your time. Bartholomew looked upon them with an unwavering smile, hands firmly on his hips.

Dante snickered and stretched. Are you looking for a show, angel?

A show? Well, I…Oh. Oh, Lord Above, I am sorry. Um…I’ll be in here. His shoulders heaved with an embarrassed sigh as he hurried into the parlor.

Iago rolled out of bed. His