On Unfaithful Wings (13 page)

“Damn it.”

The chair toppled behind me as I thrust my torso forward, diving onto the table. My lips worked, attempting to grab the hypodermic. Push forward, stretch--close enough to reach, but it rolled away. Instinctively, my tongue shot out in a desperate attempt. Its tip brushed the smooth side of the cylinder, tasted its contents. Thrilling me. Teasing me.

Still out of reach.

“God damn it.”

I stood, head clanking against the overhead lamp, and cursed again. If I reached the other side of the table, the side it was closer to, my troubles were half over. After that, I need only figure out how to use the needle with no hands. No problem. In my time on the streets, I’d seen some dedicated and resourceful junkies manage similar feats. I took a step but my foot didn’t move. A stab of pain shot up my leg.

What the hell?

I glanced at my feet: pools of blood circled each, a result of the spikes pinning them to the floor. My scream died against the damp, rotted walls and water-stained ceiling. With great effort, I used my stumps to right the tumbled chair and sit before my trembling knees gave out. Sweat rolled into my eyes, stinging and blurring my vision so that I didn’t know whether to believe them when the mound of blankets lying against the wall shifted.

I blinked madly to clear my sight. They moved again, proving it wasn’t an illusion. My breath stopped, half out of fear, half in anticipation someone might emerge to give me the drugs I so badly craved.

A hand groped out from under the ratty blankets followed by the sleeve of a jean jacket. I watched, waiting, hoping. A figure sat up, its back to me, and the blankets fell away. A patch covered the back of the jacket, a picture of Iron Maiden’s decomposed mascot wielding an axe, glowering at me. The jacket-wearer stood. Unkempt brown hair extended below the jacket’s collar; he wore faded blue jeans with wear marks and tears. This might have been me two decades ago. The figure turned.

Trevor.

My flesh went cold.

His eyes fell first on me then the syringe. He kicked the tangle of blankets from his feet and crossed the dirty carpet in four strides, eyes glued to the needle. The table shivered when his thighs banged against it.

“Trevor, give it to me,” I thought I said, but my mouth emitted no sound. I tried again, felt my lips move, the tongue behind them form words, but still they died before finding life. My heart crawled into my throat, choking me. I waved my stumps, struggled against my trapped feet. My bladder felt suddenly full.

Trevor slid the denim jacket off his shoulders, baring his arms, and reached for the syringe.

“No,” I said in spite of the lack of sound. I wasn’t deaf: I heard his breath, the scrape of denim against skin, the monotonous tick of an unseen clock. I practically heard the sweat forming on my forehead. “Give me the needle, Trev. Give it to me.” Tears spilled down my cheek, spittle flew from my lips with the effort to be heard. Still no sound.

Trevor undid his belt, pulled it hissing through the loops of his jeans; his gaze didn’t shift from the hypodermic, it held him mesmerized. He wrapped the belt around his left bicep, slipped it through the buckle and cinched it tight, holding it between his teeth. My body shuddered as yearning left and terror roared in. The evil contained in that plastic cylinder had eaten up years of my time and shit out a pathetic life, I couldn’t let the same happen to him. I pushed myself to stand but couldn’t move. Nylon straps bound my chest and thighs to the chair which now weighed a thousand pounds.

“No,” I shouted silently. “Trevor.”

He picked up the syringe, holding it between us, staring at it, or past it at me. My eyes flickered to his then back to the rusty needle, the dark foreign matter floating in the heroin like tiny piranha waiting to kill. He shifted it in his hand and guided it toward the vein bulging in the crook of his elbow.

“Trevor!”

The needle pushed against his flesh, dimpling it momentarily before piercing. He pulled the plunger back, drawing enough blood into the fluid to disguise the black bits of destruction, then forced it all into his veins. The grip of his teeth eased and the belt loosened to send death hurtling toward his heart. His eyes glazed, breath sighed out of his lungs.

“Trevor,” I whispered through the sobs shuddering my body. This time the word floated across the room. He looked up, face slack, but his eyes met mine and a slice of recognition flashed through them.

“Icarus.” His voice sounded distant. “Dad. Where were you?”

“I...I was...” I shook my head, unable to find words. Tears dripped from my chin onto the front of my shirt.

“Your fault.” The last word barely cleared his mouth before his knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor.

“No.” Plaster, tattered blankets and worn carpet ate my sobs. “No.”

I closed my eyes, my chin drooped to my chest. How long I remained like that, I don’t know. A second, maybe, perhaps eternity. A finger under my chin raised my head, made me open my eyes. Michael’s flickering yellow eyes stared into mine, his expression stony. I breathed deep attempting to regain composure.

“Was that...?” I managed before my voice broke. “Did he...?”

“What?”

“You know what,” I screamed, but the Archangel didn’t flinch. “You can read my fucking mind.”

“It has not happened. It is not necessarily the future. But it could be.” He leaned back, and a smile might have flitted across his face like a bat across the full moon. “That was your Hell.”

Heat radiated from him, adding to the fearful sweat on my skin. I squirmed away, the sudden fear of him and what he could do to me burying my relief that Trevor was safe. At least for now.

“Why?”

“Now you know what happens when you let the Carrions take a soul.” He folded his arms, making me feel like a child lectured by his parent. “Everyone’s Hell is different. No fire and brimstone. It’s worse.”

His expression was intense, fierce, and I retained no doubt he meant every word.

“That poor woman. Because of me,” I said, voice small, resigned.

“For eternity.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

His eyes flickered to Poe and I followed his gaze. She shrank away, the look of awe and longing disappearing from her face, some of the same fear and regret I felt replacing it.

“A start.” He stood, towering over me. “There will be times it is impossible to perform your task. You cannot win every time, but you are expected to do your best. If you do not, there are consequences, both for the soul you did not harvest and for you.”

I shivered and the deserted room flashed before my eyes; my chest cinched tight. I didn’t want to see that place again, never mind spend eternity suffering there. My eyes swept the motel room--never before had tattered furniture and grimy carpet made me feel so welcome, so safe.

“I get it.”

“Good.” He strode to the door and it swung open. Poe bowed in deference but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Do not play God again. I showed you but a taste.”

He took a step then turned back. “The soul you collected: there were Carrions?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Two,” I said, then corrected myself. “No, three.”

“Did the third pursue you?”

“No.”

“He was not a Carrion. He is who had you killed.” He stepped out of the room, the door closing behind him.

I stared at the plain wood door for a minute, his parting words echoing in my head, making me feel like I hung at the end of a rope, toes dangling over an unknown chasm.

Poe came and sat next to me, lips curved into a strained smile.

“He wants me to come with you next time,” she said, a note of apology in her tone.

“I’m not surprised. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What would happen if I didn’t get a soul.”

She looked down at her lap. “You left before I had a chance.”

The regret plain on her face--like a child who’d disappointed her parent--suggested she didn’t say it to make me feel guilty, but it had that effect anyway. Not only did that poor woman end up in Hell because of me, I missed an opportunity to get one soul closer to having my life back.

That’s what Mike meant about Trevor. If I harvest the souls, I can be there for him, keep bad things from happening.

We sat in silence, Mikey’s words and the thought of Trevor pushing the needle into his arm, injecting death into his body, still strong in my head. I might never be able to rid myself of that memory. I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and then glanced at my arm. Never in my life could I remember being thankful for having arms.

“Does he mean what he said?” I rubbed my hands together, enjoying the feel of them. “Will he send me to Hell?”

“No.” Poe touched my hand, a fleeting caress gone almost before I realized it. The feel of her skin on mine sent an electric tingling up my arm. “Michael fought to save you so you could serve God as you were destined. He rescued you from Hell.”

“He fought for me?” I imaged an epic battle between good and evil, Michael held aloft on snowy wings I knew he didn’t have as he fought a red man with horns and a spiky tail. Or maybe the man in black from the alley, the one he said had me killed.

Poe nodded. “Yes. The other side wants you, too.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the squeak of the chair’s springs.

“Great,” I said. “‘Like I don’t have enough problems.”

Chapter Nine

Two-thirty a.m. is prime time at every Denny’s in the world, including the one down the street from my motel. Not surprisingly, the clientele consisted mostly of drunks. While waiting for my grand slam breakfast, I remembered the times I’d been the lout abusing the over-worked waitress and felt some remorse. Or maybe I longed for the bottle hidden under the seat of my car. I wanted to retrieve it the second Mike left but didn’t dare, not with Poe still hanging around. Conscience is a terrible thing--whether your own or imposed upon you, Jiminy Cricket-style--and the waitress would get a larger-than-usual tip tonight in an attempt to ease mine.

The smell of grease and frying bacon wafted to me from the kitchen as I sipped coffee from a stained white mug and looked at the obese woman sitting alone at the table beside me jamming ketchup smothered fries into her mouth, a newspaper spread on the table catching the bits that fell out. Her hairdo of tight curls perched on her head like a bonnet, her glasses slid down her nose requiring readjustment every half-minute. I don’t know why she drew my attention, but I was still watching her when I sensed a presence at my table.

“Hi, Poe.” I didn’t look away from the overweight woman.

“Hello, Icarus.”

“Ric,” I said glancing at her. She wore her hair down, the flowing blond mane drawing attention away from her imperfect nose, making her prettier. Her presence lightened my mood. “I thought I’d managed to lose you for the night.”

“I knew you’d have to eat eventually. There’s not many places open this late.”

She flagged down the waitress and ordered a mocha. When the haggard-looking woman told her they didn’t offer mochas, she changed her order to a chocolate milk shake. I cringed at the thought of a milk shake at this time of night.

“Can I ask you something, Poe?”

She nodded but said nothing. A hint of blush crawled across her cheeks.

“I learned about angels growing up. Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Uriel: they all end with the letters ‘e-l’. All angel’s names do, it means ‘of God’.” I paused for another swig of bad coffee. “Poe doesn’t.”

She leaned her elbows on the table, propping her chin on closed fists. Her eyes, the color of old straw, sparked deep within. Not as prominent as in Mikey’s eyes, or the guy we bumped into in the alley, but flickering all the same. The waitress returned and put Poe’s chocolate shake on the table--a glass with a line of chocolate dribbling down the side and a frosted metal shake cup containing the overflow. I stole a glance at the fat woman beside us. Why couldn’t I keep my eyes off her?

“Thanks.” Poe glanced at the waitress then turned her gaze to the shake. She didn’t say anything for a minute and I thought she didn’t realize my statement had been a query. My lips parted to add a question mark, but she finally answered without looking up from her drink.

“They were born angels. I wasn’t.”

I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

“We’re not here to talk about me.” She sighed around her straw. I decided not to press the issue. Yet. “Are you ready for your next assignment?”

“No.”

“What? But--”

I shook my head. “I’ll never be ready, not for this.”

“You know what could happen to you if you don’t.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t, just I don’t like it. Those guys almost killed me.”

“You’re already dead, Icarus. What are you afraid of?” She sucked hard on the straw to get some of the thick shake through it. “Think of the people you’re helping.”

“Alfred didn’t want my help.”