All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (6 page)

“
What’s
going on?”

Icarus glanced down
at the coffee cup, wiped away a line of coffee which had run down
the side with his thumb, but didn’t answer.

“
Michael
said I should drop by and see you. Why aren’t you in your
room?”

“
Michael,”
Icarus repeated, disdain plain in his voice. A knot of dread crept
into Poe’s chest. “What does he care?”

“
He
cares. He just shows it his own way.”

“
Right.”

Poe glanced over
her shoulder, searching for a server from whom to order a shake and
interrupt the unenjoyable conversation. She disliked it when Icarus
spoke badly of Michael or vice-versa.

“
I
need your help.”

She turned to find
Icarus had abandoned the survey of his mug in favor of her; his gaze
on her brought a giggle to her lips.

“
That’s
what I’m here for, silly. I’m your guardian angel.”

“
Good.”

“
Did
you want to talk about something? Is it Michael?”

“
Not
Mike. He wouldn’t help, that’s why I need you.”

“
He
wouldn’t? Why not?”

“
Because
I want to go to Hell.”

Poe felt the blood
drain from her face; her fingers and toes went cold. She opened her
mouth with no intention of speaking. When she realized it happened,
she forced it shut again. Images flashed through her mind of winged
things with twisted limbs and melted faces. She closed her eyes to
make them leave.

“
What
can I get you?”

The server’s
words startled her. She opened her eyes and looked up into the
woman’s plump, fifty-something face, half-expecting the face
of a monster to be waiting to take her order. When it wasn’t,
she still struggled to find words to answer.

“
She’ll
have a chocolate shake. Extra thick.”

“
Anything
else?”

“
That’s
it.”

The woman left and
Poe looked back at Icarus, her lips quivering, finally forming a
word.

“
Why?”

“
Because
there are souls condemned to an eternity of torture who shouldn’t
be there. They’re in Hell because of me, not because they
deserve to be there.”

She grasped the
edge of her seat hard enough that her knuckles went white. She made
herself relinquish her grip and breathe a steady breath through her
nose.

“
This
is why Michael thought you’d be upset. He told you not to go.”

“
He
said he wouldn’t help.”

“
Then
you can’t go.”

“
But
I am.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and she
sniffed to see if he’d been drinking. It didn’t smell
like it, but the odor of coffee and fried food made it difficult to
be sure. “And you’re going to help me.”

“
No,”
she said. A whisper. “I can’t.”

“
You
have to.”

She shook her head;
Icarus’ eyebrows canted toward his nose, lines formed on his
forehead. Poe leaned away from him, her back pressed against the
booth’s cushion.

“
You
said it yourself: you’re my guardian angel. It’s your
job to help me.”

“
It’s
my job to keep you safe, but not...not there. Not if Michael said
no.”

Icarus slammed his
open palm against the table slopping coffee over the edge of his
mug; the impact made Poe jump. She pushed herself harder against the
seat back.

“
Damn
it, Poe. Whose side are you on?”

She forced her lips
into a thin, taut line for fear if she opened her mouth the word
‘Michael’s’ might come out and anger him further.
But her silence provided the same effect. Icarus rose from the
booth, hip bumping the corner of the table and spilling more coffee.
Standing, he leaned toward her, hands braced on the end of the
table. Poe fought the urge to cower.

“
I’m
going with or without you. Will you help?”

The guardian angel
stared at him, eyes wide, unwilling to answer. The muscles in his
jaw bulged and she thought he’d get angry with her. Instead,
he straightened, turned toward the door and stomped away. Poe
shifted in her seat to watch him pick his way between the tables
before being slowed by a crowd milling about near the door.

“
Here’s
your shake, sweetie.”

Poe looked at the
waitress and ventured an unsuccessful smile.

“
Is
your friend done?”

She nodded.

“
He
barely touched it. Spilled more than he drank, I think.”

The woman picked up
the mug and used a cloth hanging from her apron to clean up the
spilled coffee. She took a step to leave then stopped.

“
Are
you alright?”

This time Poe
forced the corner of her mouth to turn up a bit and nodded.

“
Well,
let me know if you need anything else, honey.”

The waitress left
and Poe turned to look for Icarus again. He was gone. She sank back
into her seat and contemplated her milk-shake: the curly-cue of
whipped cream topping it, the patina of frost on the side of the
metal overflow cup. She considered going after him but realized that
she had no idea where he might go, what he might do. After all the
years she’d watched over him, all the things they’d been
through, this time she felt out of her league. She’d seen Hell
and it was too big and too bad a problem for her.

She didn’t
feel like drinking a chocolate shake anymore.

†‡†

The faces differed,
but the setting remained unchanged. A foursome of men in their
twenties occupied the table by the huge television where Marty,
Todd, Phil and I used to sit. Countless nights passed as we drank
and debated whatever sport was in season, back before a mad man
raised from the dead took their lives. Before two of them went to
Hell because of me. Before the Giants somehow managed to beat the
Patriots for the Superbowl for a second time.

Fucking Eli
Manning.

Sully, the bar’s
namesake, was conspicuous by his absence. A woman I’d never
seen before concocted my vodka sodas with a lime wedge from behind
the bar normally patrolled by the red-headed bar owner. I picked up
my current drink—the fifth double—and swirled the
oily-looking lime juice floating atop the vodka into kaleidoscopic
patterns, searching for meaning in it like it was an alcoholic
Rorschach test. I raised the glass toward my lips but stopped part
way.

I shouldn’t
be doing this.

The liquor burned
my throat as I gulped it down then waved the bartender over.

“
Another
one, please.”

“
Good
enough.”

She poured my
drink, set it on the tattered coaster in front of me, then took the
ten spot I offered. She made change as I picked up the drink and
twirled on my stool to survey the room. I didn’t recognize
anyone. Even if I did, none of them would recognize me, it had been
that way since Mike brought me back to harvest souls. My ex-wife, my
drinking buddies, even my son hadn’t known me. Sister Mary
Therese was the only person who saw through the facade shrouding me
from those who once knew me, and she’d ended up dead, too.
Because of me.

At least I saved
her from damnation.

I squeezed the lime
wedge over the vodka soda and dropped it in, then licked juice from
my fingers. Poe would be disappointed if she knew I was here, but
she could have stopped it by agreeing to help. What good is a
guardian angel who’s unwilling to keep you safe when you
decide to go to Hell?

I downed half the
drink in one gulp and savored the feel of it muddling my head.

I don’t
need her anyway.

But Poe would be
looking for me; she wouldn’t leave me to take a cruise through
Hell without at least trying to talk me out of it. It wouldn’t
work, though. Eight people died because of me, and although I
harvested three, five souls languished in Hell who didn’t
belong there. Maybe Hell wasn’t all biblical
fire-and-brimstone, but it wasn’t unicorns-and-blowjobs,
either.

I finished my drink
and thumped the empty glass on the bar. I determined to leave the
change as a tip, then stood and required the edge of the bar to keep
me from wobbling.

Maybe I shouldn’t
have ordered doubles.

“
Are
you all right, sir?”

“
Fine.”

“
Can
I call you a cab?”

I wondered briefly
if, when I told her I did, she’d say ‘you’re a
cab’, then waved my hand dismissively and only stumbled once
on my way to the door. Outside, a dusting of snow had collected on
the ground, and the white stuff continued to fall. I hiked my collar
up and wondered how, in this winter wonderland, a guy might find his
way to Hell.

Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

The snow stopped
during the night but, since I didn’t crawl out of bed until
after noon, I couldn’t say exactly when it did. The guy behind
the desk of the motel I stumbled into after leaving Sully’s
tried to charge me for a second day—check out time was
eleven—but I convinced him a couple of bucks for his own
pocket was a better choice.