All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (5 page)

“
Why
didn’t you let me help them?”

“
They
were beyond help.”

“
But
I was right there. I could’ve done something.”

“
Their
time has passed, Icarus. They died while you hid in your motel.”

“
Will
you call me Ric, for Christ’s sake?”

He glared at
me—presumably for taking the name of the boss’ son in
vain—but didn’t respond. I held his gaze feeling like a
man engaged in a staring contest with a cat. Time crawled past, my
discomfort increasing as each second ticked by.

“
Why?
Why would you show me that?”

“
So
you would see that death happens, Icarus Fell. Whether you are there
or not, death happens.”

“
I
know that. I can’t be everywhere, I’m not God.”

“
You
most certainly are not.”

I fought the urge
to smack the smug look off his face, which might equate to
committing suicide-by-archangel. Instead, I bit down hard on my back
teeth so my next words came out poorly enunciated.

“
But
there are souls who went to Hell because of me. That’s not
right.”

Mikey shrugged and
the action of his shoulders rising and falling acted like a pump
inflating my anger.

“
What
is it you humans say? ‘Shit happens’?”

“
But
they wouldn’t have died if I’d harvested the priest’s
soul, like I was told. It’s my fault.”

He looked like he
might shrug again and I gritted my teeth, readying myself in case I
had to slap him and he had to hurt me. Lucky for both of us, he
chose to speak instead.

“
Every
decision we make, good or bad, yields a consequence.”

“
Will
you stop fucking saying that!?”

I yanked my gaze
back from his and paced again, feet hammering the concrete floor
like a child denied dessert. I realized I could do nothing on my own
to correct things, but that didn’t mean nothing could be done.
If anyone possessed the ability to do it, the blond-haired behemoth
occupying the lawn furniture warehouse with me was the guy.

I stopped and faced
him.

“
Help
me get them back.”

His features
softened; he tilted his head slightly to the right and reached his
hand out to me like a peace offering.

“
Icarus.”
He spoke slowly, like he provided explanation to someone with a
severe mental issue. My hackles stirred. “You have seen Hell
before. You cannot possibly want to go again.”

“
I
don’t
want
to; I
have
to.”

“
No.”

My hands bunched
into fists but his expression didn’t change.

“
You
have to help me.”

“
I
have
to do nothing.”

He crossed the
space between us, his hand stretched toward my shoulder in a
fatherly gesture. I dodged to avoid his touch but his fingers found
me. The electric shock of his touch flowed down my arm, spilled into
my chest, exciting nerve endings and spasming muscles.

“
You
will go back to your motel and await Gabriel’s scrolls. You
will do nothing else but wait.”

He squeezed my
shoulder and a vision flashed before me: a lake of souls writhing in
agony, their moans gathering to a cacophony threatening to burst my
ear drums. He let the pressure off and the vision faded but the cold
sweat it brought to my forehead remained.

“
Do
you understand?”

I
nodded minutely—all I could manage. I suddenly knew what it
was like to be the hapless
Star
Wars
stormtroopers: ‘these aren’t the droids you’re
looking for.’

Mikey stepped back,
his form wavering in the dim warehouse. My nerves tingled for a few
seconds before the excitement subsided leaving a gap in my being
which ached for his touch to fill it. It was always that way with an
angel’s touch: impossible to get used to, impossible to avoid,
impossible to do anything but want more. My shoulders sagged and it
required effort to keep my head from lolling forward. When the last
shadow of him disappeared, my chin drooped and I collapsed onto a
conveniently placed stack of cushions.

Minutes ticked by
while I lay there, each of them tugging at me to get up and get on
with my death. I’d seen what happens to unharvested souls; I
knew Mikey’s intention in showing me the vision was to scare
me off the idea of going to Hell, but it had the opposite effect.

I wasn’t
responsible for every soul sent south–I couldn’t save
them all–but there was the matter of the ones who’d been
damned because of my poor decisions, my laziness, my ego. I couldn’t
let them stay there.

As I reclined,
staring up at the girder-and-pipe-filled ceiling from the
not-too-comfortable cushions, recovering from the archangel’s
touch and the latest episode of Hell-o-vision, I didn’t know
how I’d go about getting them back, only that I would.

Somehow.

Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

Poe knocked again
and waited. Someone walked by on the sidewalk and cat-called her but
she ignored the man’s slurred words. The first snowflake of
the season floated lazily past her nose making her smile: she had
loved snow since childhood, and the love carried on beyond life into
the sweet hereafter. She peeked over her shoulder at more big, puffy
flakes drifting down. The sight relaxed her.

She turned back to
the door and knocked a third time.

A minute later she
stepped away, looked up and down the street, some of the calm
brought by the snowflakes gone. The man who had cat-called her
leaned against a lamp post a block down, vomiting; the street was
otherwise empty.

Where is he?

Poe died too young
to have a child, but being guardian angel for Icarus Fell, she
thought she knew how it felt. Michael had left no doubt he wasn’t
to leave his room, yet here she stood, wondering where Icarus was.
There were only a few possibilities: restaurant, cafe, bar, or
Trevor’s. She glanced at her watch: eleven-thirty pm.

Too
late for a cafe or to see his son.
She
tapped her chin with her index finger.
I
hope he’s not drinking again.

Michael said he
might be upset—the reason she was looking for him—but
could it be bad enough for him to hit the bottle again? Not with
Trevor back in his life.

What would upset
him?

Michael didn’t
say; he considered the detail above her pay-grade.

Unsure where to go,
she headed left down the street; searching was better than waiting.
The snow continued with flakes the size of cotton balls. Poe caught
one on her tongue, one of life’s joys an angel rarely gets to
appreciate. The last time she’d experienced snow while in
human form was eight or nine years before, when Icarus passed out in
someone’s back yard. She’d dragged him out of the yard
and onto the sidewalk for someone to find and call 911. He’d
been a dead weight, and she remembered being thankful for the packed
snow under him lending aid. Snow: helpful and beautiful.

Poe’s first
destination lay at the end of the next block, and as she breathed
deeply, inhaling the snow’s crisp freshness, the odor of fried
food encroached—a sure sign she neared the Denny’s
Icarus liked to frequent before his motel arrest.

Traffic sent the
massive snowflakes swirling, hurling exhaust and noise into the
winter-crisp, fried-food night. Halfway down the block, the urge to
turn and run, to find a place away from traffic and people and
responsibility, grabbed Poe. She’d daydreamed about lying in a
field, snowflakes falling on her until they buried her, transforming
her into a hill in the landscape of winter instead of a cog in
Heaven’s machine. No more worries, no pressure, no
responsibility.

And no Michael. Or
Icarus.

Poe shook her head
as she reached to pull the restaurant’s door open, clearing
snowflakes from her blond hair and silly fantasies from her
thoughts. Escaping sounded wonderful, but could she desert Icarus?
Could she bear never seeing Michael again?

No to both.

Crossing the
threshold into the restaurant was like passing through a force field
separating calm from chaos. Behind her, traffic hummed rhythmically
past, its cadence constant, while ahead glasses clinked, silverware
jingled, people chatted—loud, inconstant, nerve-jangling.
Somewhere near the back of the restaurant a plate crashed to the
floor eliciting a sarcastic cheer from a few patrons. Poe let the
door swing shut behind her and stepped into the clamor, her nerves
set on-edge by the noise. She glanced around the room and observed a
man leaning forward on his table, apparently asleep; a group of
teens sneaking sips from a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag;
tables-full of men and women talking, eating, laughing. In the far
corner, away from everyone else, she spied Icarus Fell sprawled
alone across the bench of a booth designed to seat six, a full cup
of coffee untouched on the table in front of him. She waved, but
despite the fact he looked right at her, he didn’t acknowledge
her.

Maybe he didn’t
see me.

Poe breathed deep,
nearly choking on the greasy odor of French fries, fried eggs and
superbird sandwiches. She crossed the floor, breath held, the
thought of speaking with Icarus and ordering an extra-thick
chocolate shake pushing her on.

“
Hey,
stranger,” she sing-songed as she slid onto the bench across
from him. Icarus looked at her but didn’t smile.

“
Hey.”