On Unfaithful Wings (10 page)

One more block.

Traffic clogged the last street between us and our goal, blocking our escape. The second man couldn’t be far behind. I gritted my teeth and pushed on.

“Hold tight.”

We plunged into the busy street without looking to see what automobile company’s logo might end up imprinted in my forehead. Horns blared, tires squealed. I moved straight ahead holding the boy tight to my side. I’d wonder later why I had the ability to handle a ghost, not now.

A car went past so close behind me it flapped the legs my jeans. Miraculously, we stumbled onto the far curb. The sound of metal crumpling against metal screeched from the street behind us and, safe from traffic, I turned to see the mess we’d left behind. Two cars pinned the bald man, legs mashed below mid-thigh.

He’s solid like me.

He didn’t seem to notice that his legs had been crushed. His expression showed anger, annoyance, instead of the devastating pain it should have; his nonchalance made me shudder. He waved his arms, a glow collecting around his right hand.

“Get down!” I shouted and pulled Alfred to the sidewalk as an orange ball of light shot from the man’s hand, burning a bright trail in my retina and assaulting my ears with a screaming boom. It streaked past, its heat touching my face, and hit a car stopped beside us, flipping it into the air. I glanced up at it spinning over us, clearing us by barely enough space to allow me to roll away with the boy. The car crunched to the sidewalk a few inches from my head. The driver, scared and stupefied, stared out through the broken window.

“Come on.”

I clambered away, dragging the wide-eyed boy away from the wrecked car, his feet scraping the sidewalk . The other man, recovered from his fall, vaulted past his companion, leaping hood to trunk to roof, crossing the street on a bridge of twisted metal. My breath came in ragged gasps of shock and exertion as we stumbled away, eyes on street numbers we found.

Ten four ten. Ten four eighteen.

I glanced ahead, estimating which door belonged to the address we sought. A wooden sign hung over the sidewalk, its lettering looked freshly painted: ‘99 Red Balloons’.

A toy store? What toy store is open at eleven at night?

I hoped I’d guessed wrong. A church made more sense. A coffee shop, even a bowling alley would more likely be open, but a toy store?

Ten four thirty-eight. Ten four forty-six.

My estimate proved correct. We skidded to a stop in front of ‘99 Red Balloons’ and glanced back down the sidewalk. The man looked like he carried a camp fire in his hands. Not waiting to give him another opportunity to kills us, I twisted the antique-looking door knob and prayed it would open.

It did.

I shoved Alfred across the threshold as fire slammed into the sidewalk where my feet had been half a second before. A rain of dust and rock spouted into the air and the force of it tossed me through the doorway, flattening me to the floor. I scrambled across polished hardwood and slammed the door, jingling the brass bell hung over it. I searched the door knob, then around the edge of the door.

No lock.

Alfred whimpered. I pulled him close to my chest and scrambled away from the door, rubber souls squeaking as my feet pumped against the floor. My mind reeled. How would I defend us when the man came through the door? My heart ached at the thought of losing the poor, terrified boy, and at missing the chance to live my life again.

The man appeared in the window, his satisfied sneer and ember-colored eyes making him look every bit the demon he probably was. The boy shrieked, startling me. I jumped up and searched the nearby shelves for anything to use in defense, knocking over teddy bears and Raggedy-Ann dolls as I did. Too bad she didn’t keep an uzi hidden under her apron.

“Shit.”

The man reached slowly for the door knob, savoring the moment. When his fingers contacted the burnished metal, his body stiffened and shook like an electrical charge shot up his arm and through his body, dancing him about like a loose-jointed marionette with no strings.

I gaped at the sight. Alfred laughed through his tears.

“Don’t worry. He cannot enter.”

I spun toward the voice, fist cocked, but the man standing in the shadows moved in neither defense nor threat.

“Who are you?”

He stepped forward, the light shining through the store window revealing the whitest person I’d ever seen: white skin, white hair, white shirt and pants, the exact opposite of the men in the alley. If not for eyes so blue they’d have made a clear spring sky jealous, he might have been albino. He took another step, his foot treading on the quivering shadow of the man at the door--our pursuer winced as though kicked in the ribs.

“I have no name,” he said in dulcet tones. “Only a job.”

The man at the door banged on the window and I glanced over my shoulder. He leapt against the door, but it didn’t so much as shudder under the impact. He must have realized he’d been beaten because he stomped his feet like a child angry at losing a game and disappeared. Literally. One second, he was there, the next: gone. I gaped at the empty space.

What have I gotten myself into?

Alfred inched toward Mr. Clean. I grabbed him in a bear hug, held him back. If good guys wore black in Chuck Norris movies, then bad guys might wear white, too.

“What’s your job?”

“To take Alfred Topping before the throne of God.”

I hesitated, but Alfie seemed convinced; he struggled against my grip and I let him go. He pulled away, gliding across the floor to the man without hesitation. The man--angel?--knelt and whispered in the boy’s ear. Alfred nodded.

“Thank you, Icarus Fell,” the boy said in a tone like his mother told him to show appreciation for a birthday gift. My gut twinged at the thought.

Trevor.

He smiled and the man guided him into the shadow at the rear of the store.

“Wait.” I reached out my hand. “What happens now?”

Neither of them answered. I saw the outline of the whitest man for a second longer, his arm around Alf’s shoulder, and then they faded away, leaving me alone in the toy store. The room fell into greater darkness, like someone extinguished a candle, and the dark seeped into me. Every dim shape lurking in the shadows unnerved me.

I slumped to the floor and sat knees hugged to chest, the way I’d cowered in the priest’s closet as a child. With my eyes fixed on the window, I waited and watched, expecting the men in black to come for me, but our pursuers didn’t return. It didn’t seem wise to venture out, so I settled in, awaiting dawn to vanquish night and, hopefully, the things lurking within it.

With time on my hands, I pondered the night’s events: another angel, demons ejaculating fire from their bare hands, and the mysterious man in the alley. This job suddenly seemed way too dangerous. I didn’t want to do it, not if it would be like this. I needed to figure a way out that would still allow me to have my son back.

God, I needed a drink.

Chapter Seven

I left the toy store with the rising sun, hurrying up the street with uneasy glances and hands jammed in pockets. A new roll of cash appeared in one of them. I flipped through the tens and twenties as I walked, wondering how they got there and how often I could expect them. No problem figuring out how to get rid of them, though. My first stop took care of the most important thing: Gray Goose. I deserved it after the previous night, needed it to smooth my nerves. Next, I found a motel renting rooms by the month. Not knowing how often cash would materialize in my pocket, I paid for two months at a place that, ranked among tourist spots, would have come in around a Motel 2.

Bottle in hand, I headed straight for the bed, fully intending to drink away angels and demons then sleep through a good chunk of my rent. Four hours and half a bottle later, I was awake and sober and disappointed to be both.

“What the hell happened last night?”

The empty room didn’t answer.

“Who were those guys?”

I flipped on the TV for distraction, but the cooking shows, pre-schoolers’ programming and talk shows aimed at housewives didn’t hold my interest. Porn might have worked, but the hotel wasn’t far enough up the food chain to offer pay-per-view. I set the bottle on the nightstand, feeling so little effect from imbibing its contents, I doubted it was actually me who drank it. Only one thing to do now: coffee.

A couple blocks away, I found a cafe called ‘The Caffeinated Cowboy’ where I eased myself into an over-stuffed chair tucked in the corner and sipped a mocha not quite hot enough for my tastes. Paintings by an unknown local artist hung on the patterned orange walls, small white cards bearing ridiculous prices mounted under each piece.

My head throbbed rendering me unable to focus on the splashes of paint they passed off as art and I wished the pain was caused by the vodka. I watched the cafe’s patrons, worried I’d see black trench coats or a swallow tattoo. Suit-and-tie guys lined up for morning wake-ups beside working girls in smeared make-up getting a last shot of caffeine to settle their heads before sleeping the day away: an odd-couple tag team. I pondered them a while, wondering which suit the most successful businessman, which woman the most prosperous whore, but the twirling in my head distracted me. I closed my eyes and settled back in the chair, the big, white mug of mocha resting on the arm. Someone took the chair opposite mine, but I didn’t look no matter the warnings from my jangled nerves.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice: tentative, nervous.

I didn’t react outwardly, but the electricity of adrenaline flowed into my limbs. Maybe if I showed no interest, my visitor would think me dead, leave me alone. I
was
dead, after all.

“Icarus? Hello?”

I canted my head toward the speaker, eyes still shut. I didn’t recognize the voice and nobody knew me, so it didn’t take much to guess what kind of being sat across from me.

“Ric,” I said. A minute passed, then two. My uninvited guest remained, quiet except for her breathing. I cracked an eyelid.

A red butterfly clip held the young woman’s white-blond hair away from her face. Neither attractive nor unattractive, she possessed a face you might see anywhere and not think twice about. Her prominent nose kept her from being beautiful--I’ve always been a small nose guy. She glanced around the coffee shop like she didn’t know I was looking at her.

“Nice place,” she said, the nervous quake still evident in her words.

“Who are you?” I didn’t have the patience for niceties.

“Did you get a place to stay?”

“Who are you?”

“Poe.” She offered her hand and a self-conscious smile.

“Poe.” I shook her hand. Her fingers were long and dainty--piano-player’s hands--her skin cool. Static electricity passed between us. “As in Edgar Allan.”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “No relation.”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re having.” She covered her mouth and giggled behind her hand.

I started to say I didn’t mean to offer her a drink but changed my mind. Her intentional misunderstanding melted some of my surliness and she didn’t seem likely to go anywhere or to fry me with fireballs, so I went to the counter and bought her a mocha. She sipped it, made a face, then poured more sugar into it than anyone should be allowed to use. Another sip brought a satisfied nod.

“That’s good.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you settled in?” She fidgeted in the comfy chair.

“Yep.”

“Good. I couldn’t stand the idea of you living on the street again.”

“You didn’t really answer my questions.”

She leaned forward, eyes shifting side to side, and whispered: “I’m your guardian angel.”

I nearly spit a mouthful of mocha at her.

“What?” She glanced into my eyes then looked away.

“Not very good at your job, are you?”

Her smile drooped; I felt no remorse. My only parent--a nun--died giving birth to me; I was raised by an abusive priest; suffered through drug and alcohol addiction while living for years on the street; went through a shitty divorce and got killed by muggers in front of a church. Any one of them seemed like good reason to hold my guardian angel in disdain. I stared at her, daring her to dispute my words, but she refused to meet my glare.

“I’m a guide, Icarus. I don’t make the decisions.” She managed to sound both defensive and on the verge of tears. “It’s you who chooses to fly too close to the sun.”

Bringing Greek mythology into a conversation has never been the best way to make friends with me.

“Who the hell were those men last night, Miss Guardian Angel?”

She examined the color of her mocha.

“After the shit I’ve been through, you owe me an answer.”

“Carrions,” she whispered like the word frightened her.

“Carrions? What does that mean?”

“They do what you do, but for the other team.” She looked up, her face taut with emotion: remorse, maybe.