Reckoning (2 page)

Time stood still in that moment, the only movement being the rain streaming down my face and down the hand at my waist that still held the handle of my sword. A deep, blunt pain throbbed in my chest, which I only vaguely realized was the exact location of my heart. The world around me fell away, my focus held entirely to that spot where I had seen my eternal love and was now willing him to return.

A movement below me stirred my awareness then and without much thought at all I pulled my sword from its sheath, swiped it through the air, and felt Pablo’s head severe from his body. I did this emotionless, without any notion of victory or relief.

Stepping aside, I allowed the rain to clean the steal, my face still turned up and locked on the rooftop. I didn’t move immediately, unable to will my body away from the spot where I had seen Eran. It had been too long and I wasn’t willing to let go of the memory just yet. Torn somewhere between shock, a deep yearning, and frustration, I debated whether it had been him or whether my longing for him had conjured his image in my mind. He wouldn’t make himself known if he had found me, I reasoned. He knew I had left him with a purpose that needed fulfilling before I could return. It was then I realized that Eran couldn’t have been here. I was a good hunter but, having had years of experience, I was an even better hider. I was impossible to find.

“
Shake it off,” I demanded quietly, though my eyes still remained on the spot where I’d glimpsed the figure.

It was only after female voices drifted over the pounding rain did I recall where I was and that I was standing over a dead body. I glanced down to ensure Pablo’s wings had sunk back in just as the girls stepped in to view. With heads turned, they didn’t see my wings slip smoothly from between my shoulder blades, extend to their full length, and pump forcefully twice. I lifted in to the air, rising above the rooftop where Eran had been, and flew over the city towards the New Mexico border.

A few minutes later, I was standing outside a gas station on I-25 paying an old man twenty dollars for watching my Harley Davidson. The unnerving feeling of seeing Eran was beginning to lift but I was still half-concentrating on the memory of him…or at least the figment of my imagination I had thought was him.

The old man cleared his throat to get my attention. “Ground’s dry here, sky’s clear and the temperature’s agreeable.”

“
Yes, it is,” I replied avoiding a direct look at him.

He took the twenty, slipped it in his pocket, and settled back in his seat, one that looked well worn and familiar with his shape.

“
Yet your hair and clothes are wet…” he continued. “Whachya do? Pick a fight with a car wash?”

I chuckled softly to myself. “Something like that.”

He watched quietly as I stepped on to my bike and it was then I got the sense he wanted to tell me something.

“
I don’t mind watchin’ your bike for you.”

“
Thank you for that.”

“
Easy money. But makes me wonder when you leave it parked here, walk around the station,” he waved towards the corner farthest from the road, “and disappear.”

I glanced in his direction. “You’ve followed me?”

“
I have.”

Unsure if I felt unnerved by it or not, I asked, “And what have you seen?”

“
That’s the problem…I don’t see nothing. Nothing at all. You’re gone.” He made a whistling sound from between is lips, insinuating speed.

I wasn’t sure how many weeks I’d been on the road, flatly refusing to pay attention since all it did was reinforce how much time I’d spent away from Eran. But the last two of them had been in the southwestern states and I’d used this man and his gas station as my base of operations, leaving my beloved Harley Davidson bike in his care a number of times. He’d been amiable but reserved; a perfect babysitter for my bike. He wasn’t foolish and from his perch on the front porch of his rundown gas station he didn’t miss much of anything.

He was telling me in not so many words that while he hadn’t seen anything at all he still understood what he had seen.

Very slowly I felt a smile spread across my face while still wondering about his intentions.

Then, very slowly a smile spread across his face.

“
What do you do out there?” he asked, sincerely interested.

“
Me?” I said thoughtfully. “I just clean the streets.”

His smile returned. “I wondered if you might.”

I enjoyed the old man’s approach to life, relaxed and nonjudgmental, but what I liked most about him is that he never messed with my bike or anything on it…including the most important item I owned. I unlocked this item from my seat compartment and flipped it open, the black leather binding creaking as I flipped to the page I’d last read. I took the pen from its binding and marked a red X from each corner to the next before turning to the following page.

This one, as with all the rest, read like a police file. Each spread was a dossier filled with information and images of those who had been expelled from the afterlife for committing inhumane crimes. It was now up to me to eradicate them from the face of the earth. Among other facts, this book told me who they were, their strengths and weaknesses, what they feared, what they excelled at and, most importantly, where they lived.

As the book fell shut, the old man asked, “Where you off to now?”

“
Well,” I said, replacing the book in its compartment. “Looks like I’m headed for San Francisco.”

“
Got some street cleaning to do there, ha?”

“
It seems I do,” I replied as I strapped on my helmet. “See you around.”

“
Doubt it…” said the old man.

Though I didn’t mention it, I agreed with him completely.

I’d already found each of the Fallen Ones within this territory. They had been simple to hunt and even easier to kill. But, I was now headed to the West Coast where I would find more dangerous enemies. Whether I survived them or not, I wouldn’t be returning to New Mexico any time soon.

* * *

San Francisco, California

Claden Markett was one of the wealthiest and most corrupt arms dealers on the West Coast, using the San Francisco docks as his preferred place to conduct business. He had once dominated New York City using the same tactics of murder, thievery, and intimidation but that was back in the mid-1800s. No one would remember him now, especially with his new, fictitious name.

More importantly, he was good with handguns, wielding them as effortless as an old western gangster, and he maintained a small group of bodyguards equally as dangerous.

This was just a small summary what his dossier told me and it would come in handy this evening.

I’d watched him throughout the day, careful to duck from cover each time he looked up in search of me. He knew I was nearby but he couldn’t pinpoint me. His radar was less precise than Pablo’s had been.

Every once in a while he spun quickly around only to find behind him an elderly lady struggling with grocery bags or snapped his head in the direction of a stray dog approaching. Knowing that none of these were me, he grew tenser, more agitated throughout the day, a clear advantage to me.

Finally night fell and he withdrew to an office on the docks, where all but two of his cohorts filtered in behind him. The windows, grimy with years of buildup, obscured any possibility of a view but my senses were up and I could hear them clearly.

Claden was issuing orders for the evening and they involved me.

“
We have company,” he told them. “Keep your eyes open.”

By the time he’d finished his warning, the two men outside his office were already unconscious and dragged around back. When the next two emerged from the small building, they too were rendered useless and piled with their friends.

Humans had never been a challenge for me, my strength and skill far exceeding any level a man could reach. Claden’s men, in particular, were merely inconvenient and annoying obstructions to the one I had come for.

When the last two had fallen, I waited just outside the door, leaning against a stack of crates with arms crossed, and whistled.

Claden opened the door slowly, a handgun at his side.

“
Magdalene,” he stated almost jadedly.

“
So we meet again,” I replied.

His head ducked to the side and he smiled in memory of our last reunion, which hadn’t been pleasant other than the fact he’d survived it. He lifted his eyes and looked directly at me then.

“
Heard you were comin’,” he said wistfully.

“
Oh yeah? From who?”

“
Word’s spread. You can take out two of us, even three, and we won’t notice.” He paused to suck in a deep breath from between his teeth. “But fifty of us…well that makes us a little uneasy.”

“
Sixty three,” I corrected him, surprised at the arrogance in my tone.

Claden didn’t seem to notice. “You do understand that the attempt to decimate us has been done before and failed.”

My eyes narrowed. “I won’t fail.”

“
Be honest with yourself, Magdalene. There is only one of you and there are hundreds of us.”

The insinuation was clear yet I chose to ignore it. “I like those odds,” I said with calm confidence. “I will prevail, you will die, and the humans will live in peace.”

He paused to stare at me before asking, “Why do you love them so much?”

“
Why do you hate them so much?” I asked.

“
I don’t hate them. They serve a purpose. They provide for me, whether they like it or not.”

“
They are not here to provide for you.”

He grinned lightly. “Oh yes they are…” His face fell slightly then. “Everyone serves a purpose, Magdalene. Take Eran, for example.” My muscles tensed at the sound of his name and Claden found he’d sparked in me the reaction he’d intended, which only emboldened him. “Eran is your guardian, dedicated to protecting you at all costs. That is his purpose and yet…” He swept his hand across the dock. “Yet, he isn’t here to defend you.”

“
I don’t need his help, Claden,” I replied, stepping forward.

The gun in his hand shifted and I realized Claden had strengthened his grip as I closed the distance between us. He was still frightened of me, I realized, but tried to hide it by continuing.

“
You will find yourself regretting those words,” he threatened.

“
I don’t believe so,” I said, taking another step. With a rapid snap of my shoulders, my appendages released, stretching wide and imposing.

Claden raised his arm, the gun barrel pointing directly at my chest, even as his own appendages extended. They looked a sickeningly dull grey color in the dim light of the dock.

His expression grew dark a moment later and his finger cautiously squeezed the trigger. I was ready for it.

My wings pumped once and I sprang several stories high, the bullets riddling from the end of his gun and each aimed in my direction. With heightened senses, I knew where each bullet would pass well before it reached me and my body swerved effortlessly to avoid them.

When the cartridge was empty, Claden threw it aside and reached inside the door. He faced me again with two more guns, these ones being .50 caliber Desert Eagle’s.

These sounded like small canons launching, echoing down the lengthy San Francisco dock.

Still, these too missed.

When he had exhausted his supply of ammunition, I hovered above him, waiting to catch his eye.

Then I grinned with arrogance, swiftly moving to a position of attack and launching myself towards him.

Our bodies collided with such force that we tumbled along the hard, rutted dock, peeling back shards of wood the size of lamp posts.

It was now a test of speed and strength, both in which we seemed equally matched.

Our fight took us over the water and back again, landing us against the wall of his small office.

Then something happened that I least expected…Claden got the upper hand. He slammed me against the wall and held me there with one arm to my neck, his free hand hastily digging inside his jeans.

That brief distraction turned the fight in my favor, or so I thought. As I drew a dagger from my suit and thrust it up through his heart I found a second later that Claden had a gun to my head with his finger on the trigger. He only needed to squeeze.

But he never got the chance.

Claden’s body was suddenly thrown back, his limbs flailing weakly. He landed with a thud and tumbled until his body rolled over the edge of the dock and into the water.

In his place, standing before me, was Eran.

CHAPTER TWO: HOME

Eran’s eyes were wild, even madly delirious for a moment before reasoning could work its way back in.

“
Damnit, Magdalene,” he seethed. “That was too close. No more. I draw the line here.
No more
!”

He stepped back and turned away, his hands running through his dark, wavy hair. He was breathing hard but not from exertion, from nervous frustration.

Still in a surreal state and trying to grasp that he was here, not safely back in New Orleans and not a figment of my imagination, I struggled to respond appropriately and failed.