Eternal (4 page)

The archangel, my wings, and my girl are gone.

A CRY FOR HELP
rips into the night. It’s Lucy, Miranda’s best friend in the world. I ignore the throbbing of my skull. I run.

I’m clumsy in my solid, wingless form. I trip in my sandals over a fallen branch. Skid against the hard dirt, tearing off skin on my palms and knees and chin. My white robes are wet and dirty.

Tonight is my first experience with physical pain. With cold. They pale against the heartache. I pray that when the monster took Miranda, it didn’t hurt her too much.

I stand and listen. After a moment, I hear a male voice. It’s soft. It’s convincing. It’s coming from off to the west. I pick my steps more carefully. Seconds later, I vault over a low arched tombstone and into a clearing.

Kurt bares his fangs, releases Lucy’s throat, and bolts into the darkness.

I swallow hard, having seen for myself what he is.

Knowing what that means for my girl.

Lucy coughs. “Miranda,” she chokes out. “You have to find Miranda.”

It takes a moment to register that it’s me Lucy is talking to. I’m used to seeing her. But I’m not used to her seeing me.

I’m not sure why, in the midst of all this, she trusts me to be on her side. Maybe it’s because I appear to have frightened away her attacker. Maybe it’s intuitive or helped by a nudge from Lucy’s guardian angel, whoever that is.

In any case, she’s right. Despite what’s just happened, I still need to track down Miranda.

I’m no expert. Only the Big Boss is all-knowing, and GAs don’t usually deal with evil this close to the source. But I do know that the transformation from human to the living dead takes about a month unless the subject dies first, which triggers an immediate change. The clock starts ticking once unholy blood is digested (transfusions work, too). However tainted, Miranda may still be human. She may be suffering.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

Lucy plants her boots and then sways. “I’m all right. I’m all right.”

She’s shaking. We’re both sweating. The chill is brutal.

“You’re the hero,” she whispers. “If there are monsters, there must be heroes. You’re the hero, right? You’re magical, right? You frightened away the vampire.”

Vampire.
It’s wretched to hear that word out loud.

“No normal person would be dressed like that,” Lucy insists.

I realize then how strange I must look to her in the standard uniform — the long white sleeveless robe and sandals, especially since the temperature is in the mid-40s.

“You’ll help me save Miranda, won’t you?”

“She’s not here,” I say, supporting Lucy’s forearm. “They took her.”

On the way out, I snag Miranda’s purse from a flat tombstone.

Back at the Honda, I fish out the car keys, cash card, and phone card. Lucy uses her cell phone to call 911. By the time she signs off, the car heater is blasting.

“I have to go,” I say. I hate to, but the authorities will arrive any minute. I can only imagine what they’d make of me. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep watch until help comes.”

“No! We have to go
now.
Miranda needs us.”

Lucy’s face is splotchy. By morning, her throat will be bruised from Kurt’s grip, but the skin is mercifully unbroken. He must’ve just caught her when I found them.

“The cops can’t help, can they?” Lucy wipes away a tear. “Not really. Maybe they could spot her, though. Kurt drives a maroon Lexus. Let’s call them back. Tell them that. We can buy one of those police scanners and . . .”

I tune her out. The girls have been friends since they were toddlers. I’ve always known they’ve loved each other like sisters. Tonight I can see that love, shimmering in Lucy’s eyes. “You make the call,” I say. “I’ll look for clues.”

“Just a sec.” Before I can stop her, Lucy is wiggling out of her coat. “Take this.”

I hesitate, but she’s right. It’s getting colder every minute. The coat’s too tight through the shoulders, so I drape it as best I can and cinch the long belt.

“Be careful,” she adds. “Stay outside the stone wall. If you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming after you.”

There’s that spirit Miranda admired so much. While Lucy’s distracted by the 911 operator, I put some distance between myself and the Honda. A couple of moments later, I duck behind a shrub as an ambulance and two squad cars zoom by.

Michael was right to yank my wings. To toss me out of the fold.

Last night I shouldn’t have shown myself to Miranda. Not in full glory. Not at all. If I hadn’t, she would’ve died in that grave. My girl’s soul would’ve been carried upstairs by the archangel himself. Her arrival would’ve been celebrated.

I didn’t know what would happen. I thought losing her then, so young and soon, was total BS. Didn’t I? Did I stop to think at all?

So I bent one rule. It was my instinct, my duty, to protect her. Besides, didn’t she deserve a little happiness here on terra firma?

After all those years of watching her, watching over her, it never crossed my mind that she’d be afraid of me. I always assumed that knowing for sure about angels, knowing she had one of her own, would make her feel better.

In the end, the loss was worse than I ever imagined.

After leaving Lucy in the hands of the rescue pros, I hiked a couple of miles to a twenty-four-hour gas station. I used Miranda’s cash card at the ATM, emptying the $532 account, and her phone card to call a cab. I kept the coat lapels pulled high and stood at an angle to avoid any cameras.

Then I spent the night at a mission shelter, where I picked up a change of clothes, and took a bus here this morning.

I’d wanted to come right away. But I had a delayed physiological reaction to my powers being revoked. It first hit when I was waiting for the taxi. I could barely stand, and I was achy, feverish, and dizzy most of the night. By dawn, though, I began to feel better — physically at least.

Right now, I’m in an alley, casing the four-story red brick building at Kurt’s address. Supposedly, vamps are weaker in the daylight, not that it’ll matter much if they’re indoors.

I guess the West End makes sense for them, location-wise. It’s probably a good hunting ground. Miranda and Lucy were here last summer for the Taste of Dallas food festival.

I don’t know what I’ll do if I find Miranda. I don’t think there’s a cure. But I can try. Maybe something like an exorcism would work.

My stomach clenches at the smell of smoking meat from a nearby barbecue restaurant. For the first time, I’m weak from hunger. But I won’t back down. This building is the only lead I’ve got. Should I wait? See if she comes out? Should I —

An explosion rocks the ground beneath me.

I dive for cover behind an open Dumpster. I rip open the scab on my chin and slam my shoulder into a sharp metal corner, tearing Lucy’s coat. At least I’m shielded from the heat, the falling brick and raining glass.

Once the wreckage stills, I don’t wait for the smoke to clear. I stumble — right arm bent over my head, left sleeve in front of my nose and mouth — into the street. I crunch debris beneath the soles of my sandals.

The fourth floor, Kurt’s floor, is on fire. Is he up there? Is Miranda?

A second explosion knocks me back down. Car alarms wail. I hear a siren. Smoke billows — dense, blinding. Nothing could’ve survived that blast.

Someone beat me here. Vampire hunters or shifters or who knows what.

My money is on a shifter group. Werewolves, werehogs, take your pick. The Big Boss loves variety. Elk have been more proactive lately.

There’s no way to know for sure.

I swallow the thin hope I had of minimizing the damage I’ve done, the destruction of my Miranda. If she was up there, I try to tell myself, maybe this is mercy. She was a sweet, loving girl. She wouldn’t have wanted to go on like that.

Staggering from the scene, I remember that it’s Valentine’s Day.

I DREAM OF BLACK-AND-BLUE BUTTERFLIES
, slicing pain, pleasure pounding.

I dream of star flying and soft leather, of drowning, my gums heavy, muscles numb, and throat raw. I’m lost among the tombstones, swallowed by the moon.

“Can’t breathe, can’t breathe,” I whisper, shifting bare-skinned on slippery silk. The room smells of lavender and talcum powder, roses and cigars. A Johnny Cash song plays at low volume. “Can’t . . .”

“You don’t have to, sugar,” answers an unfamiliar masculine voice. “It’s time to open your eyes. We’re all so tickled to meet you.”

I try, I do. It’s hard to form words. It hurts. “Can’t . . .”

“Easy there, drink this,” he says.

I take the straw at my lips. I sink into the salty blackberry warmth, the not-caring place. I don’t know who he is. A doctor, I’d say, but do doctors call you “sugar”? I don’t think so. I’m not anyone’s sugar, anyone’s girl. I hardly have any friends except —

“Lucy!” My eyes open, and I struggle to sit. “Where’s Lucy?”

The cool hand on mine is reassuring. The other has taken my cup away. The formally dressed man attached to both is movie-star striking, the hollows of his cheeks accented by flickering candlelight from the candelabra in the far corners of the room. His Asian-style chair is pulled to the edge of my iron-framed canopy bed. “Not to fret, your friend is safe. You have my word.”

The room is bigger than Lucy’s entire condo. Heavy pink-and-black-checked drapes cover the arched windows. They match the bedding.

Pink and white roses, lilies, and orchids in crystal vases crowd every antique surface. More cascade to the hardwood floor.