Of Love and Evil (The Songs of the Seraphim 2)

“Well, in a way we are and in a way we aren’t,” he said. “But you have things to do now and you should do them. Do again what profited you the most before.”

He had a slight dip to his eyebrows, his pupils moving ever so slightly but constantly, as though in watching me, he was watching some immense display of movement and detail that I couldn’t comprehend.

“You spend too much time studying our faces,” he offered. “You’ll never be able to read us in this way. We couldn’t explain to you the way we think even if we wanted to.”

“Can your facial expression be dishonest, or deceiving?” I asked.

“No,” he said, with a placid smile.

“Do you enjoy being visible to me?”

“Yes,” he said. “We enjoy the physical universe. We always have. We enjoy your physicality. We find it interesting.”

I was fascinated.

“Do you enjoy talking to me so that I can actually hear your voice?” I asked. “Do you really like it?”

“Yes,” he said. “I like it very much.”

“You must have had a horrible ten years when I was a killer,” I said.

He laughed without making a sound, his eyes moving over the ceiling. Then he looked at me. “Not my best time,” he said. “I have to admit.”

I nodded, as if I’d caught him in a startling series of admissions, but of course I had caught him in nothing.

I went into the little kitchen area and made a pot of coffee. Finally when I had the first cup the way I wanted it, I turned back to him, sipping the coffee, savoring the heat the way I’d savored the coldness of the soda before.

“Why was Ankanoc allowed to test me?” I asked. “Why was he allowed to lead me off like that in Rome?”

“You’re asking me?” he answered. Again came that small shrug. “Special angels come for those who have a special destiny. And special demons target those same individuals in special ways.”

“So there’s more to come.” I said. “He’ll never give up.”

He pondered this and indicated he couldn’t answer. Just a little gesture with his hands, and a little lift to his eyebrows.

“What did you learn about him?” he asked.

“He chose the way of reason to attack me, old arguments, theories I’d read. He ventured into New Age philosophy, the testimony of those who’ve traveled out of body, claimed to have had near-death experiences. But he made a hash of it. The point is, he attacked my faith, through reason, rather than my shaky self-control.”

He drifted into thought again, or into something like it. He looked to be about my age, I figured, but why he’d chosen to appear with red hair I couldn’t guess, and it seemed his body was a little thicker all over than Malchiah’s body. These things had to mean something but what? There might be rules to all this, a vast system of them, but it might be far too intricate and involved for me to understand.

He spoke up suddenly, bringing me back to the conversation.

“There’s an old story,” he said, “about a saint who once said, ‘Even when the Prince of Darkness takes the form of an angel of light, you’ll know him by his reptilian tail.’ ”

I laughed. “I’ve heard that story,” I said. “I knew the saint once. Well, Ankanoc didn’t have a reptilian tail.”

“But he gave himself away, nevertheless. You pegged him for what he was early on—by his speech, the unkind remarks he made about human beings.”

“That’s exactly right,” I said. “And also by the way in which he used the New Age viewpoints on questions of life and death and why we’re here. What’s fascinating about those viewpoints is that they’re put forth by a whole variety of thinkers, that certain patterns of thought emerge from psychic pioneers all over the globe. But Ankanoc treated them as if they were dogma and he tried to ram that dogma home.”

“Keep this in mind,” he said. “No matter what he does and says, he will always give himself away. Demons are too full of hate and rage to be too clever. Don’t overestimate them. That might be as bad as underestimating them. And if you call him by name, he must answer you, so he’s not likely to try a disguise again.”

“So you’re saying that demons aren’t as smart as angels.”

“Perhaps they could be,” he said, “but their state of mind interferes with their intelligence. It interferes with their observations, and their conclusions. It interferes with everything that they do. Theirs is a hideous predicament. They refuse to admit that they have lost.”

That was beautiful. I liked it. I liked the puzzle of it and the truth of it.

“Do you know him personally?” I asked.

“Personally?” He burst out laughing. “Personally!” he said again with a gleaming smile. “Toby, you are a fascinating young man. No, I don’t know him personally. I don’t think he would give me the time of day.” He laughed again. “He doesn’t think he has to worry about me, a ‘mere guardian angel.’ It’s Malchiah who drives him to the brink. He has a great deal to learn.”

“So after work, when I’m asleep for instance, you and Ankanoc couldn’t go to a café together in Angel Time for a drink.”

“No,” he said, laughing again. “And I’m not off work when you’re sleeping, by the way. You probably know that very well.”

“Were you there, with me in Rome?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. I’m always with you. I’m your guardian angel, I told you. I’ve been with you since before you were born.”

“But in Rome, you couldn’t come to me, appear to me, help me?” I asked.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Oh, not again. You angels keep turning the questions around.”

“Don’t we, though!” he whispered. “But now we both know one reason, at least, why you’re so troubled. You’re angry that I didn’t come to you and help you. But Malchiah came, did he not?”

“Finally, yes,” I responded. “He came when it was all over. But couldn’t either of you have given me a hint that this creature was waylaying me with extraordinary means?”

He shrugged.

“I think you must bow to Malchiah’s wishes,” I said.

“That is one way of describing things,” he said. “Malchiah is a Seraph. I am not.”