Secrets of the Hanged Man (Icarus Fell #3) (An Icarus Fell Novel) (17 page)

4 Years Ago

Cory sat at the back of the room, hands in his lap, listening to the priest drone on about precious life. He talked of the loss experienced when someone is taken from us too soon, explained that God has other plans for them. The teen fought to keep his eyes open by watching the back of his mother’s head as she sat in the front row clad in the black dress she’d purchased at Value Village to play the part of grieving widow.

He shuffled his feet and surveyed the mourners gathered to pay their respects. Some of them he recognized as either his mother’s or Robert’s family—the few still left alive—some he didn’t know. All the mourners together occupied only half the folding chairs while the others sat empty.

It seems no one liked Ugly Robert.

No casket attended the funeral, only a table with a picture of the man smiling out at the small group who felt compelled to attend, a vase of flowers beside it and rose petals scattered across its top. When a man dies in a freak accident with a ride-on mower, the chances of putting things back together for an open casket funeral are slim. They diminish exponentially when the lawn mower reverses itself and drives over him a second time.

Cory searched for anything to avoid looking at Robert’s photo. He craned his neck and peered over his shoulder at the man standing at the back of the room, observing the gathering. His outfit made it obvious he didn’t belong; he wore a tie, but no suit jacket beneath his overcoat. Though they hadn’t met, Cory recognized him as the detective investigating Robert’s death. He’d been to the house to talk to his mother, but Cory had stayed in his room, ear pressed to the door to hear their conversation in the living room; they didn’t keep their voices quiet because they didn’t expect him to listen in.

Why didn’t you tell him, Ma?

He glanced back at his mother, her head sagging forward as the minister finished and asked if anyone else wanted to say a few words. The lace edging the collar of her dress she’d safety-pinned in place had come away at the side of her neck and dangled down the back.

You should have told him what he did to you.

No further eulogizing followed the minister; no one got up to share their memories of the dead man or to wax eloquent on his contributions to the human race. The mourners went by the table, each saying their last good bye—or good riddance, more likely—before offering condolences to his mother, then taking their leave. Before they were all done, his mother rose from her seat and made her way along the aisle toward the door, supporting herself on the arm of Robert’s friend, Al.

He raised his head at her approach, a sliver inside him hoping she’d smile or give him a thumbs-up, letting him know their lives would be better without her second husband. She didn’t look at him until she drew even with his seat and , when she did, he noticed things in her eyes he’d never seen. They held sorrow and sadness, to be sure, but also disappointment and accusation. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. In her expression, Cory understood she suspected his link to Robert’s ‘accidental’ death, maybe Kaitlin’s, his Grandmother’s, and his baby sitter’s, too. And so many others she couldn’t possibly imagine, some Cory himself didn’t know.

Maybe even his father’s.

She continued past, stopping to talk to the detective for a few seconds in the doorway. Cory couldn’t hear the words that passed between them, but when the man put his hand on her shoulder, his mother began to cry. She collapsed against the cop, catching him by surprise, but he patted her back and looked more than a bit uncomfortable. He scanned the room of mourners once more, perhaps to see if anyone was watching. When his eyes met Cory’s, he paused and nodded. Cory didn’t respond.

The detective led his mother from the funeral.

Cory remained in his seat for a while, head bowed. By the time the priest stood beside him, they were the last ones in the room.

“
It’s okay, son. Your father has gone to a better place,” the man said, misconstruing Cory’s contemplation for grief.

“
Stepfather,” Cory corrected, looking up and doing his best to fulfill his role as the sad stepson.

“
Stepfather.” He faced one of the folding chairs toward Cory and sat in front of him. The teen realized he couldn’t recall the priest’s name, though he’d introduced himself at the beginning of the service. Father o’Something, probably. A smudge of dirt sullied his white clerical collar.

Their gazes held on each other for an agonizing time, the priest waiting for Cory to melt into tears, tell him how broken up he was over his stepfather’s death, but Cory crying over Ugly Robert’s death wasn’t going to happen. And he wouldn’t speak, because even a teenage boy realized how inappropriate it was to tell a priest how frustrated he’d been it took so many years for the man to die, or of the joy filling him now he finally had.

“If you need someone to talk to...”

Cory suppressed the smile aching to climb onto his face. If this man truly knew his stepfather, he’d have been high-fiving him instead of offering comfort and a shoulder to cry on. If he’d taken the time in writing the eulogy to find out about the times Ugly Robert hit his mother, how he avoided work and responsibility, the way he treated Cory, he’d have refused to oversee the proceedings at the bastard’s funeral. And if he suspected anything about the deaths for which Cory was responsible, he might have given up his faith.

Instead of saying any of that, Cory shook his head, pretended to be the brave young man willing to make his way through his own grief. With a grave but understanding expression on his face, the priest leaned forward and put his hand on the teen’s shoulder in a final attempt to persuade him to share the confused emotions swirling within. If he was going to say anything as well, it got lost the instant his fingers touched Cory.

The priest froze, his lips parted to speak, then his eyes went wide and bulging. His lip twitched and a tremor started in his elbow, small at first, but increasing until his entire arm shook. Cory felt it in his shoulder as the man’s hand trembled against him, then the priest jumped to his feet and stumbled back a step, sending the folding chair clattering to the floor. He stared for a few seconds, face contorted with fear, before raising his hands, palms toward Cory like he meant to push him. He didn’t, backing away instead, the soles of his shoes scuffing on the short, stiff carpet.

Cory stood, one corner of his mouth pulled up in what the few people acquainted with him might recognize for a smile, but others might interpret as more sinister. He tipped the shocked priest a nod and walked out of the room, wondering what the man experienced, what stirred him, but he had his suspicions. Too much death stuck to him—some with his fingerprints all over them, some from afar—for a man of the cloth not to notice, he supposed.

He stepped out of the funeral home and into a cold rain. It refreshed him after an hour in the stuffy room listening to lies told about his asshole stepfather and lies of God and Heaven. If God truly existed, Ugly Robert would have been dead years before.

If a God sat somewhere above in Heaven, how could someone like Cory himself exist?

He glanced left and right along the street and didn’t see his mother’s car; she’d left him behind to find his own way home, but he didn’t mind. This way, he’d avoid dealing with the uncomfortable silence that settled between them in the snatches of time they found themselves alone together. For years—since as early as the death of his baby sister—they’d both felt it, but it only visited from time to time at first, then became more frequent since his grandfather’s death, and the baby sitter’s, and his aunt’s, and the neighbor’s. Since Ugly Robert died, the awkward, unbearable silence seemed to have moved in with them.

With a flick of his wrist, Cory bent the collar of the sport coat his mother borrowed from his cousin—the son of his dead aunt—up by his neck to keep the chill rain from running into his shirt. He galloped down the steps to the walk, then paused for a second, pondering which route home would be the quickest; consideration ceased when he glimpsed the boy standing across the street opposite him.

The kid appeared younger than him, with a dark complexion and a wide smile. Despite the rain falling, his black hair didn’t appear wet; instead, a misty haze surrounded him, as though thin steam rose from his flesh. Fat drops pelted Cory’s face, encouraging him to leave this place and make his way home, but he found himself unable to turn away from the boy, drawn to him by an inexplicable magnetism.

Cory recognized the boy, but from where? School? Around the neighborhood? He couldn’t recall.

A bus’ diesel engine roared, distracting Cory’s attention for an instant. The coach whizzed by, throwing up a slender rooster tail of water from the wet pavement. When it had passed, the boy no longer stood on the far sidewalk.

Cory stayed another minute, the flesh on his arm prickling with goose bumps at the sight of the kid and his surety of the priest peering out a window watching him. Rain ran along the back of Cory’s neck and down his back, giving him an unaccustomed chill. He shivered and peered back over his shoulder, saw Father o’Something disappear behind a curtain, then started down the street for home, a smile on his face and a whistled tune on his lips.

“Where have you been?”

“
That was him.”

Dido jogged a few steps to catch up to me and the spirit of Gonzo. Not Hunter S. Thompson, not the weird bird from the Muppet Show, and definitely not Ted Nugent, but Gonzo nonetheless.
Who nicknames a six-year-old ‘Gonzo?’

“
Who?”

“
Mrs. Medlin-Williams’ son. The guy watching at the other end of the field: it was him.”

I stopped short. “How do you know?”

“I don’t. A feeling, that’s all.”

“
Feelings are a poor indication of reality.” I resumed walking, the Gonzo kid in tow. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him watching us, eavesdropping.

“
Why can’t you--”

“
Excuse me,” the six-year-old with the Muppet on his shirt chimed in, interrupting Dee. She stopped talking and we both looked at him. “Did you say
Medlin
-Williams?”

“
Yeah,” Dee said sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“
We call him Scarecrow.”

“
Scarecrow,” I said, incredulous—an unwarranted frame of mind for a guy named Icarus to have when asking Gonzo about someone called Scarecrow. “You know him?”

“
I go to...went to school with him.”

“
So he’s you age,” I asked.

“
A year older, I think.”

“
What’s his name?” Dee asked.

Gonzo shrugged. “I remember his last name because we used to tease him about meddling in things, but I don’t remember his first name. We haven’t called him anything but Scarecrow since first grade.” He paused to survey our surroundings. “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry, kid. If you’re with me, everything’s fine.” I expected Dee to scoff, but she contained herself.

He nodded without looking at either of us. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his pace slowing until he raised his hand and pointed.

“And who’s that?”

A dark figure stood halfway up the block, hidden in shadows. I squinted at the silhouette, unable to see any features. The certainty this was the same person we’d seen at the school send a chill racing up my spine.

“It’s Gabriel,” Dido said.

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief and squinted harder. Nope. Face hidden in shadow, no inkling of the clothing she wore, and no birds fluttering around her. The silhouette’s diminutive stature suggested she might be correct, but that was purely circumstantial evidence. I wondered if it might be possible to trade in my shoddy lock-opening afterlife power for night vision.

“Gabe? How can you tell?”

“
Trust me,” Dee said and hurried toward her.

I caught her arm to stop her, but she pulled free, and an alarm bell went off in my head. I’d been the victim of a counterfeit Gabe once before and didn’t want to let it happen again. No birds equals no messenger.

“Stay behind me, but keep close,” I told the kid and followed Dee.

As we drew nearer the shadowy figure, I recalled how uncomfortable Dee was around Gabe the last time she visited. In fact, she’d said Gabe hated her. What changed? How did she go from uncomfortable and hated to rushing to someone she could only be guessing was the messenger? Believe me, I understood the desire to be close to the archangel and her incredible energy; I’d have sold my soul to the devil to spend my life with that, but doubted I possessed enough of one to make the payments.

“Wait, Dee,” I called, but she didn’t. A swallow flew twittering by my head, then another, their presence relieving the tension creeping into my limbs.

“
Don’t they fly south?” the kid asked.

“
Not these ones.”

We caught up to the wayward spirit and noticed other swallows fluttering around, a few settling on Gabe’s shoulders before taking to the air again. Touching her always sent such a shock through my system, I wondered what it would be like to experience it in the body of a small bird. These ones probably weren’t really birds at all, though.

By the time we reached her, she was already holding out a scroll for me to take.

“
Hey, Gabe,” I said, grasping it.

“
No time to talk,” Dee said as Gabe relinquished the rolled parchment. “We’ve got to go now or we’re going to miss this one.”

I raised an eyebrow and opened my mouth to ask how the hell she knew, but Gabe cut me off.

“The girl is right. You do not have much time.”

“
We need to drop Gonzo off.” I gestured over my shoulder at the kid.

“
Leave him with me,” Gabe said.

I regarded her for a second, wondering what happened to her ubiquitous smile. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“
But you--”

“
Icarus,” Dee cut in. “We don’t have time.”

I glared at her, both for using my full name and for cutting short my time with the archangel. Rather than argue, I unrolled the scroll, read the time and address, then peeked at my watches. She was right.

Damn her.

“
Okay,” I turned to the kid’s spirit cowering behind me. “You’re going to go with Gabe. She’ll take good care of you.”
Lucky bastard.

I guided him to the archangel’s side and a swallow landed on his shoulder, prompting a smile from him. Close to Gabe, the energy radiating from her caressed me, whispered my name. My mind spun, searching for any reason to touch her, let her power flow into me and connect us, even for a brief instant. I raised my arm toward her with no excuse at the ready, but Dee’s hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me away.

“Come on, Icarus. There’s no time.”

“
Wait,” I looked at Gonzo. “Scarecrow: what’s his real name?”

He shook his head and shrugged.

“What school do you go to?”

“
Sir Francis Drake.”

Dido tugged my sleeve and a moment later, we were jogging away, leaving Gabe and Gonzo behind, the name of the school echoing around the halls of my head.

Trevor’s school.

***

As we slowed upon reaching the address on the scroll, my side hurt like I’d been prompted to keep running by a task master with a sharp prod and a bad attitude. Dying did nothing for my cardio and, when you’re busy collecting souls, it’s hell getting to the gym. Did this job have any perks?

From the second she dragged me away, I wanted to ask Dee why she thought it was Gabe before we saw her, and how she knew we didn’t have time to chit chat. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an opportunity while we were running and, upon arrival, I was too short of breath to struggle the question out, so had to settle for gasping for air and silently cursing the young girl who appeared no worse for wear after our run.

We stopped on the sidewalk out front of the address: a flower shop long closed and locked up tight. I peered through the window at vases of floral arrangements and refrigerators stocked with overpriced roses. No one inside.

“
Not there,” Dee said tapping me on the shoulder. “There.”

I looked where she pointed across the street beyond the traffic blocking my view of the far side. Nothing.

“What are you--?”

A figure clambered to the top of the embankment and paused at the guard rail separating the street from a long tumble to the park beyond. He stooped over, leaning on the barrier, catching his breath. I’d forgotten we were so close to the park and realized we were within spitting distance of where we’d collected Tom’s soul.

The figure straightened and turned, giving me the opportunity to recognize him as the stocky teen who’d been at the elementary school with Gonzo, then a bus went by, blocking our view. A pick up truck with a canopy followed it, then a delivery van and another bus, cutting us off from the teen for five seconds or so. When our sight line cleared, he’d climbed over the railing.

And a hulking figure stood beside him.

It didn’t resemble any carrion I’d ever seen, and stood taller than Azrael. It was more than its size that caught my attention, though, it was also the black, scaly skin reflecting passing headlights. And it had a tail.

“
What is that thing?” I whispered.

Whatever it was, it scared the crap out of the teenager. He stumbled back a step and the thing advanced on him. I grabbed Dee’s arm and searched for a break in the traffic to get across the street and harvest the boy’s spirit before this monstrous carrion got him, but before there was a lull between cars, the boy darted away from the black hulk and into the street.

The impact of the truck must have killed him instantly, because it appeared to turn him into two people. A dead piece of meat version flew through the air, pinballing off an older Porsche 911 before crumpling on the pavement, the other was an exact replica of the deceased kid, but less opaque with tidier clothes and a better haircut.

Tires screeched as traffic skidded to a halt. I tugged on Dee’s sleeve, but she didn’t follow me. She stared at the creature, eyes wide with fright; I understood her reticence, so I let go and plunged into the street, dodging cars to make my way to the spirit. Some of the drivers climbed out of their vehicles and rushed to the limp and broken body lying on the pavement, not knowing the kid was well beyond help.

“Hang on,” I shouted, hoping to avoid the Good Samaritans, but before I reached the soul, big, black and fearsome stepped between us.

Close up, it was bigger, blacker, and more fearsome than I suspected.

Its scales clicked and grated together as it moved, the long tail whipped around behind it like that of an impatient tiger. A cloud of shadow and darkness hid its face until its lips parted to reveal sharp, white teeth I wished I could unsee.

My flesh went cold.

The thing took a step toward me and the ground rumbled beneath my feet. My gaze flickered to the teen’s soul standing behind the truck that killed him; he stared at the beast, awe-struck and fearful, but the thing didn’t seem interested in him anymore. Me, however...different story.

I shivered in response to the thought, but that had little to no effect on the thing.

It moved closer, unhurried and deliberate like it realized I wouldn’t or couldn’t get away, and the rank stench of its breath permeated my nostrils: rotted meat and garbage and death. I’d had the displeasure of inhaling similar breath more than once before. In Hell.

As it closed on me, the pains in my shoulder and gut, my leg and chest flared and screamed. I cringed and grated my teeth together, trying to prevent the torment from making me fold at the waist and take my eyes off the thing, or lose track of the teen’s spirit.

Given a million years and a bunch of monkeys with typewriters, I’d never have guessed what happened next.

The black beast’s head jerked up, looking past me like a dog called by its master. I wanted to follow its gaze to see what grabbed its attention, but I worried it was employing a ‘hey, what’s that’ ruse designed to expose my jugular. Nothing doing—death might not be much of a life, but it was better than most alternatives.

The creature leaned forward, its wide black chest less than two feet from me, heat radiating from it in waves that made sweat collect on my brow and a drop roll down my temple. A snarl rumbled at the back of its throat, but it cut short. The beast’s lips slid back over its wicked teeth and it stutter-stepped away, taking its stink and too-balmy temperature with it. It hesitated a second, then bolted, clipping the back end of a car with its leg hard enough to shift the vehicle a foot and leave a medicine ball-sized dent in the rear quarter panel.

The muscles in my shoulders relaxed and the searing ache eased until a figure flashed past me. I only got a glimpse, but instinct told me the fleet-of-foot shape belonged to Dee, and fear for her safety leaped into me.

“Dee!”

My paralysis loosened and I stumbled forward, bumping into the car the beast dented but causing far less damage. I leaned against its trunk lid and raised my head in time to see the thing leap over the metal barrier and disappear down the embankment. Dee skidded to a halt beside the guard rail, glaring after it, and I noticed differences in her, shifts and changes.

Her body shape grew and changed, cycling through a number of different people: tall short, broad, skinny. Her hair lengthened and shortened, went from dark, to light, to gray. I shook my head to dislodge what must have been an illusion caused by the beast, and lurched the rest of the way across the street.

One hand on the guardrail, I peered first one way along the street, then the other, then over the embankment. Nothing. The thing had vanished without a dent in the foliage and brambles lining the side of the embankment to denote its passing, and I couldn’t say I was disappointed. Breath shuddered into my lungs past the pain in my chest and I struggled one leg over the rail, ready to follow him because I should, not because I wanted to, when Dee’s hand touched my arm.