Conspiracy of Angels by Michelle Belanger Page B

tipped on its back, cushions scattered and upholstery slashed. Bookcases that had once lined the walls were toppled to the floor, their contents spilling everywhere. Picture frames had been torn from the walls and tossed haphazardly among the piles of books. The desk and filing cabinet tucked in one corner had been thoroughly ransacked, drifts of papers spilling from manila folders everywhere.
    A conspicuously empty section on the desk suggested that it had once been home to a computer.
    Lillee whistled sharply. “Jeez, Zack. I knew you were a bachelor, but this is excessive even for you.”
    I glared over my shoulder. “Very funny. The place has been tossed.”
    “No shit,” she said, carefully stepping around the scattered piles. She toed one of the books that lay open, pages torn by a hasty hand. “They were hot to get their mitts on something.”
    “Yeah,” I responded glumly, “and I’ve got to figure out what they wanted, when I don’t even remember what I owned.”
    “You got gloves?” she asked. She set the lock-picking gun on a clear patch of beige carpet, fished in her purse, then produced a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Slipping one on, she gingerly picked up one of the picture frames. Glass tinkled as she shook little slivers onto the rug. Her delicately plucked brows went up and she made a little “hrm” sound in the back of her throat. “I didn’t know you were still a collector,” she observed.
    “Let me see that.” I reached out and took it from her. She started to object, but I shook my head firmly, making a sweeping gesture with my free hand. “My place, remember? My prints are all over.”
    “Good point,” she said, and she relinquished the frame.
    Moving to the front windows where a patch of light shone from a nearby streetlamp, I squinted down at the picture in my hand. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. The roughly nine-by-twelve frame housed not a picture nor a photo, but the page of a book. It was very old, with a stylized drop capital, florid calligraphy, and an illuminated panel at the top. The rich pigments of the illumination took on a dark and velvety texture in the weak spill of light, accented with the unmistakable glint of gold leaf. The parchment had a rich and creamy texture, glowing with a depth you just didn’t get with ordinary paper.
    “It’s from a psaltery,” I muttered. “Latin—probably thirteenth, maybe early fourteenth century. France, I think.” I looked around the room again, taking things in with a new set of eyes. There were more framed pages. “I study this stuff,” I said, and almost remembered it. I tried to catch more, but it slipped my grasp. For a moment, I considered unclenching that fist in my head and seeing what impressions I might pick up from the place, but I still didn’t have a handle on those powers. I really didn’t want to end up twitching on the floor—especially not around Lil.
    So I went for a more conventional approach, digging through the untidy piles of books and reading the spines. Lil didn’t move from her relatively clear spot just inside the entrance. With her gray-eyed gaze, she watched me curiously.
    “
Ancient Near Eastern Languages
,” I read. “
A History of Sumer, Babylon, and Akkad
.” I grabbed the next one. “
Ugaritic Culture and Its Impact on the Abrahamic Faith
.” And the next one. “
Sons of Ur: the Sumerian Roots of the Book of the Watchers
.” Pretty soon, I stood in the midst of a growing pile of thick, obscure tomes, only some of which were in English. “I study this!” I declared with mounting excitement.
    “Well, of course you do,” Lil purred, “but you cheat. You spoke most of those languages back in the day.”
    I dropped the book I was holding and goggled at her.
    “Uh, Lil,” I said, “that was like, six thousand years ago.”
    “So?” she asked archly. “You’re immortal. Don’t tell me you forgot that, too.” At that I flashed back