Free Bones of Angels by Christopher Forrest

on his heels.
    “I’m well versed in the martial arts,” Reynard said, stretching forth his two arms in a classic karate stance, the palms of his hands flat. He leaned forward, the weight of his body leveraged on his left knee.
    Hawkeye glanced to his rear. Quiz was struggling to stand. The two acolytes stood behind him, each still holding a taser.
    “I think you’re outnumbered,” said Reynard.
    Hawkeye thrust his hardened right hand toward the priest, but it was deflected. With Reynard slightly off balance, Hawkeye kicked Reynard in the abdomen. Reynard winced and shot forward with a blow to Hawkeye’s sternum, followed by a sharp jab to the throat.
    “You’re going to tell me what I want to know,” Reynard said. “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you.”
    Ops Center
    Aboard the Alamiranta
     
    “I’m sending a rather strong electromagnetic pulse through the sat feed,” said Touchdown. “Since they’re jamming me, I intend to jam them.”
    “The ghosts?” asked DJ.
    “Right. The ghosts. It should disrupt their energy patterns, at least temporarily.”
    “Will it destroy them?” asked Caine.
    It was Donovan who answered. “No, it won’t. The energy patterns of such spirits are too cohesive. They’re made up of some kind of plasma energy that is formed around the memories and thought patterns of a lifetime. They can’t be permanently destroyed, only temporarily disrupted.”
    “Impressive,” said Caine. “You surprise me, Archbishop.”
    “People assume that clerics simply stay inside and pray all the time,” said Donovan.
    “Throw the switch, Touchdown,” ordered Caine. “Time for some ghostbusting.”
    Whittington Manor, The East Wing
    Long Island, New York
     
    Reynard was about to renew his attack against Hawkeye when high-pitched screams sounded from every corner of Whittington Manor. To Reynard’s ears, they resembled the wailing of a thousand banshees. Mingled with the screams were the cries of his many acolytes.
    “Master!” someone cried in the adjoining hall.
    Reynard turned his head. As he did so, Hawkeye wheeled around and ran, grabbing Quiz by the arm. The two operatives pushed aside the startled acolytes holding tasers.
    “Run into the picture frame straight ahead!” said Quiz. “Trust me!”
    “Go after them, you fools!” yelled Reynard, returning his attention to the hall straight ahead.
    Brother Cedric appeared by Reynard’s side. “We must leave, master. Our brethren are in chaos.”
    Hawkeye and Quiz charged into an eighteenth century oil painting of a proper English gentleman standing next to his mount in a rural setting. Smashing through the canvas, the two men hurtled forward into darkness.
    A steel door came down in place of the canvas.
    Ops Center
    Aboard the Alamiranta
     
    “They’re descending rapidly,” Touchdown said. “But they’re . . . ”  He glanced over his shoulder at Caine in disbelief. “Look at the hologram. They’re moving down in a spiral motion.”
    In the middle of the Ops Center, two red dots corkscrewed downwards in the holographic representation of Whittington Manor. Meanwhile, a hundred orange energy signals were dispersing throughout the home, growing fainter.
    Simultaneously, fourteen red signals gathered on the first floor.
    Whittington Manor
    Long Island, New York
     
    “Where are we, Quiz?” asked Hawkeye.
    The two operatives were sliding down a spiral chute in complete darkness.
    “We’re taking a shortcut,” said Quiz. “Enjoy the ride.”
    “A shortcut to where?” said Hawkeye as his body twisted and turned at breakneck speed against a smooth metal surface.
    “Somewhere safe,” said Quiz, gasping for breath. “At least, I think so. It’s been a while since I took this ride.”
    “That’s comforting to know,” said Hawkeye, whose skin felt as if it were crawling with mosquitoes.
    Their two bodies emerged at great speed from the bottom of the chute. Both men tumbled roughly onto the coarse wooden floor of a