On Unfaithful Wings (23 page)

“No.” She grabbed my shoulder. “You can’t stop. There are souls who need you.”

My gut hurt on two levels: that my friends were dying--probably because of me--and because there went three more souls that could have gotten me closer to having Trevor back. She was right: I couldn’t stop.

“How many do I need, Poe?”

“How many what?”

“Souls. How many before I get my life back?”

She looked at me with a blank expression before answering. “I don’t know.”

A long moment passed. I stared at the old carpet under my feet, fighting to ignore Poe’s hand on my shoulder and the feeling it spilled down my arm. This was no time to think about how long it had been since a woman last touched me. But Poe wasn’t really a woman, was she? She took her hand from my shoulder as though sensing my thoughts. Could she read them like the archangels?

“What happens to the souls after an unplanned death?”

“You know what happens if the Carrions get them.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If no one’s there for the harvest, they become ghosts, linked to this world until someone collects them.”

“So, if they were unplanned, maybe the Carrions didn’t know. Maybe they’re still hanging around and I just have to find them.”

Poe looked at me like I was a child who’d suggested I could help Santa with his chores. “They’re unplanned by us, Icarus. The likelihood is the other guys caused them.”

I covered my eyes with my hand, suddenly aware of a pounding in my head. The decrepit room and heroin-filled syringe sprang back to life in my memory. Other than Phil, I hadn’t seen the people listed in the news story, in years, but they had all been important to me in their own ways. Beth Elton: my last relationship before I met Rae and probably the first woman I really loved; Tony McSweeny: the only person in my life who’d ever been close to a father figure. How did I let them slip away from me over the years? It hurt like hell to think they died simply because they knew me. And not merely dead, either, but butchered by a maniac and possibly gone to Hell. And Orlando--he’d have been a leading candidate for the Hades express, so how did I encounter him in the alley?

“What do I do?”

“We’ve got people working on it.”

I raised my head and looked into Poe’s softly glowing eyes. Compassion and concern mixed in her expression, but the look I returned was much more stern.

“Finding the killer?”

“Identifying the next victims.” She shifted on the bed. “We can’t do anything to stop the killer. That’s up to mortals. But we can do our best to collect the souls deserving ascension.”

The muscles in my jaw flexed as my teeth clamped tight.

“You’re not going to do anything?”

“We can’t. Even archangels have limitations around how much they can meddle in the affairs of men.”

“What if this lunatic keeps going after people I know?” The anger brewing in my gut spilled out with my words.

Poe flinched. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You may not be able to do anything,” I said, rising from the bed. “But I’m no angel.”

“Icarus.”

I stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned back to look at her. I needed to know one thing before running off to save the world.

“Is Michael on the committee that decided I should die?”

She hesitated a second before nodding once.

The door slammed behind me, cutting off any words of explanation she might have offered. She’d find me again later--she always did. After what happened last time I walked out on her, they wouldn’t let me be alone for long. But for now, I needed time on my own. Time to think, time to figure this out. I wouldn’t sit back and let somebody kill everybody I’d ever known.

I still liked some of them.

Chapter Seventeen

A closed coffin sat before the small group of mourners at the grave-side service. Amongst the group, I recognized Phil’s wife and his thirty-year-old son--Peter, I think--and Marty and Todd. The rest were strangers to me, which merely meant they weren’t a bunch of drunks. How many of them knew why the casket needed to be closed?

The service went like any other: a priest who’d probably never met Phil said nice things about him and spoke comforting quotes from the bible while the widow wept and the son consoled. Marty said his piece, too, his words already slurred; I pulled the collar of the trench-coat up by my face in case he caught sight of me standing away from the group. The service ended with everyone saying their silent good-byes and offering condolences to the family while I faded into the background. Not likely any of the people in attendance killed him.

What now?

Not knowing what else to do, I followed Marty and Todd as they headed for the nearest pub to pay respect to their fallen comrade. I pulled into a spot down the street and watched them go in, wondering if they’d done the same when I died.

***

“To Phil Taggart!” Marty bellowed for at least the twentieth time and banged his mug of beer against Todd’s. By following them into the bar, I took a chance Marty might recognize me again, but his beer goggles grew thicker by the minute. He probably wouldn’t recognize Ronald McDonald if he came through the door and kicked his ass with his floppy red clown shoes.

“So long, Phil. No more suffering,” Todd added, the alcohol transforming him into Sylvester the cat.

They both gulped back a few mouthfuls as the other bar patrons mumbled in response, clearly tired of the toasts and no longer sharing their enthusiasm: after five hours and twenty-plus toasts, I couldn’t say I blamed them.

The server dropped off another diet coke at my table; I paid her with a five and told her to keep the change. My stomach gurgled a protest and my bladder ached at the sight of the sweating glass. No matter how insistently my liver begged for a real drink or how bad the soda tasted without rum to spice it, I was determined to behave myself. Not so long ago, I’d been one of those guys swilling beer for hours, spending a whole evening knocking back brewskies until Sully kicked us out at closing time. I’d been able to drink beer until the proverbial cows came home to roost, but after three sodas, I was ready to pack it in.

Marty and Todd went back to their quieter conversation reminiscing about the good times their decimated brain cells could still dredge up. I pushed the glass away and stood, my bladder no longer willing to wait. I surveyed the unfamiliar pub and located the men’s room--a direct walk past Marty and Todd. I mentally crossed my legs to see if it could wait.

No dice.

I crossed the room, head down and face turned away from my old drinking buddies, hoping Marty wouldn’t spot me. Neither of them looked up as I passed close enough to catch a snippet of their conversation.

“...passed out in the back seat of the cab, slobbering on myself,” Marty said, then took a swig of beer before continuing. Remembering the incident, I smiled as I passed. “That God damn cabbie just kept driving around, running up the fare. Phil came to and started shaking me. Good thing he did, that fuckin’ cab driver mighta put me in the poor house.”

Marty laughed and slapped his hand on the table. Todd giggled from behind the beer mug held to his lips.

Bastard! That was me, not Phil.

At the washroom door, I looked back at them, cheeks burning. How did Marty forget I kept the guy from getting all his money that night, not Phil? I’d paid half the fare so his old lady wouldn’t know what happened--my spending money for the rest of the week. Marty looked up and our eyes met. Before he reacted, I ducked through the door into the smell of piss and urinal pucks.

Stupid.

I couldn’t let emotions get in the way--people’s lives were at stake. Hoping he didn’t recognize me, I went to the urinal and did my business, melting most of the bowlful of ice. As I waited for my bladder to drain, the hinges on the bathroom door squeaked as someone entered. I resisted the urge to look up.

I swallowed hard when Marty’s bulk settled in at the urinal beside me.

“Hey,” he said, looking up the wall toward the ceiling in good men’s room etiquette.

“Hey.”

He sighed as piss began to flow. “Lost a good buddy the other day.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

I swallowed hard, but he still didn’t look at me.

“Terrible loss. Some guy cut him up pretty bad.”

“That’s awful.”

I finished, zipped and went to the sink to wash my hands, hoping to get out of the washroom before realization dawned through his beer haze. Nerves made my head buzz like a fluorescent light bulb. His urinal flushed before I finished, so I stared into the sink, intent on cleaning my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his reflection in the mirror. He paused behind me and I held my breath.

“He was a good man. Do me a favor and have a drink in his memory.”

I glanced at his reflection, at his unfocused eyes, and nodded. Marty left the room without stopping to wash up. I sighed out my held breath and paused to examine my face in the mirror.

What do they see when they look at me?

The cuts and grazes gained jumping through the rectory window had mostly healed. Otherwise, it looked to me like the same face I’d worn my whole life, all my time drinking with Marty. How come no one recognized me? No one but sister Mary-Therese and Father Dominic. Something niggled in my gut at the thought. I shut off the faucet and hit the button on the blow-drier with my elbow.

Why did they recognize me?

Instead of bursting back into the pub like any other guy finished pissing and ready for another round, I opened the washroom door a crack and peeked out. Marty didn’t recognize me as the man at the hospital, but he couldn’t get his cab-fare-stealing taxi driver stories right, either. That didn’t mean his beer-addled mind wouldn’t eventually fire the right synapses. Their table came into view.

Empty.

I threw open the door and rushed out, nearly bowling over an old guy heading for relief.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry,” I said distractedly, my gaze sweeping the room. “Did you see where the two guys who were sitting there went?”

“The loudmouths? Finally left, and good riddance to them.”

I left the man shaking his head and headed for my table to retrieve my coat and follow my old drinking buddies. I didn’t think they were in any way responsible for Phil’s death, but the compulsion to trail them, to ensure their safety, dogged me. Halfway to the table, my pace slowed. The swallow tattoo was absent from the back of her neck--she must have forgotten to put it on when she got dressed in her human-suit--but the gingerbread hair left no doubt the woman at my table was Gabe.

“Gabe.” I settled into the chair across from her, feigning nonchalance. “Where’s your tattoo?”

She looked over first one shoulder then the other, reminding me of a dog chasing its tail.

“It comes and goes. Depends on my mood.”

“Oh. So, what’s going on?”

“I’d ask you the same thing.” A smile brightened her face, her eyes gleamed. She was a beautiful woman and when she smiled she looked, well, angelic. “Is a bar really the best place for you to hang out?”

“Diet coke.” I gestured toward the glass. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks. We’ve got work for you, but there isn’t much time.” She reached behind her, pulled two scrolls from her back pocket and laid them on the table. I reached for them but she kept her hand on them, preventing me from picking them up. “Remember what you are here for, Icarus.”

I raised an eyebrow at her comment. Gabe got up and I stared at the scrolls for a second, panic mounting as I wondered if one would say ‘Rae’ and the other ‘Trevor’. I snatched them off the table, hurriedly unrolling the first. In my rush, my soda toppled, breaking the glass and sending beverage and ice spilling across the table, waterfalling onto the floor. The server rushed over, cloth in hand, to clean up the mess.

“I’ll get you another one sir,” she said scooping broken glass onto her tray with a dirty blue cloth.

“Don’t bother.”

I rose, grabbing my coat from where it hung on the back of the chair, and scooped up the scrolls before heading for the door. Part of me felt relieved the first scroll bore Todd’s name.

I didn’t need to read the second.

***

The address on the scrolls was quite a hike from the pub. How did two drunk guys get so far so quickly?

They must have hailed a cab.

I attempted to follow their lead, but the taxis whizzed past, hurrying to their next destination, leaving me with a twenty minute walk. A glance at my watch told me twenty-five minutes remained until the time on the scrolls: lots of time, but I didn’t want to take any chances with their souls. I tucked the scrolls into the inside pocket of my coat and started out at a fast walk, hastened my pace to a jog, then a run. A thought came to me as I ran: if I got to the address quick enough, maybe I could prevent their deaths. Gabe had said it couldn’t be done, but it was worth a try to save my friends; they were in increasingly short supply.