The Fallen

For John Ordover and Dave Mack, good friends
and the sine qua nons of my career and marriage

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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This Simon Pulse paperback edition June 2011
Copyright © 2004 by 17th Street Productions, an Alloy company
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Manufactured in the United States of America

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Library of Congress Control Number 2004102854

ISBN 978-1-4424-4134-7

ISBN 978-1-4424-4137-8 (eBook)

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

He never tired
or lost her trail.

Not since she'd first seen him an hour ago in the bar, when his sleeve had fallen back and revealed an ornate black brand. Scrolls and curlicues of ink and scar tissue spelled out the familiar words:
Sodalitas Gladii Decimi

And so she ran.

She took a deep breath and looked ahead, leaping over piles of garbage and puddles with the precision of an acrobat, propelled by her terror. Which street did this alley connect to? Was there a public place close by—even a twenty-four-hour gas station—where she would be safe?

Finally the smell of open, wet air told her an exit was ahead: a barbedwire-topped gate blocked the far end of the alley.

She prepared to leap, triumph and freedom singing in her ears.

Then something burned into her left leg, ripping through muscle.

She clung to the gate, her leg dangling uselessly below her. She reached to pull herself up, hand over hand, but a near-silent whir announced a second attack. In an instant, she fell.

“Trapped, I'm afraid,” said an irritatingly calm voice.

She desperately tried to push herself along the ground, away from him—but there was nowhere to go.

“Please… no…, she whimpered, pushing herself back up against a wall. “I'm not what you think. I'm not
bad….”

“I'm sure you don't believe you are.”

She heard a blade, fine and small like a dagger, being whisked out of its sheath.

“I've never—I would never hurt
anyonel
Please!”

He cut her throat.

“Id tibi facio, Deus,”
he whispered, putting the side of his left hand to his heart, thumb in the middle of his chest, pointing up. A gentle sigh escaped the dying girl; a thin ribbon of blood trickled down her neck. Tiny marks of an expert assassin. He bowed his head. “In allegiance to the Order of the Tenth Blade.
Pater noster, rex gentius.”

He adjusted her head so that she looked more comfortable and closed her eyes. Then he wiped the tiny silver blade on a handkerchief, sat back on his heels, and waited.

When she woke up, he would kill her again.

As Soon as
she opened her eyes that morning, Chloe decided that she would go to Coit Tower instead of Parker S. Shannon High, her usual destination on a Tuesday.

She was turning sixteen in less than twenty-four hours, with no real celebration in sight: Paul spent Wednesdays at his dad's house in Oakland, and—far worse—her mom had said something about “maybe going to a nice restaurant.” What was a “nice” restaurant, anyway? A place where they served blowfish and foie gras? Where the wine list was thicker than her American civilization textbook? No, thank you.

If Mom found out about the Coit Tower expedition, Chloe would be grounded, completely eliminating any possibility of dinner out. Then Chloe would have a
right
to feel miserable on her sixteenth birthday, at home, alone, punished. The idea was strangely alluring.

She called Amy.

“Hey,
want to go to the tower today instead of physics?”

“Absolutely.” There was no hesitation, no pause—no grogginess, in fact. For all of Amy's rebel post-punk posturing, Chloe's best friend was a morning person. How did she deal with the 2
A.M
. poetry readings? “I'll see you there at ten. I'll bring bagels if you bring the crack.”

By “crack” Amy meant Café Eland's distinctive twenty-ounce coffee, which was brewed with caffeinated water.

“You're on.”

“You want me to call Paul?”

That was strange. Amy never volunteered to do anything, much less help with group planning.

“Nah, let me guilt him into it.”

“Your funeral. See ya.”

She dragged herself out of bed, wrapping the comforter around her. Like almost everything in the room, it was from Ikea. Her mom's taste ran toward orange, turquoise, abstract kokopelli statuettes, and blocks of sandstone—none of which fit in a crappy middle-class San Francisco ranch. And since Pateena Vintage Clothing paid a whopping $5.50 an hour, Chloe's design budget was limited. Scandinavian blocks of color and furniture with unpronounceable names would have to do for now.
Anything
beat New Southwest.

She stood in front of the closet, wearing a short pair of boxers and a tank. Even if she still hadn't gotten her period, Chloe was finally developing a waist, as if her belly had been squeezed up to her breasts and down to her butt. Hot or not, it wasn't as though any of it really
mattered: her mom grounded her if she so much as even
mentioned
a boy other than Paul.

She threw herself in front of the computer with a wide yawn and jiggled the mouse. Unless Paul was asleep or dead, he could pretty much be located at his computer 24/7. Bingo—his name popped up in bold on her buddy list.

Chloe grinned. Maybe her birthday wasn't going to suck after all.

She looked out the window—yup, fog. In a city of fog, Inner Sunset was the foggiest part of San Francisco. Amy loved it because it was all spooky and mysterious and reminded her of England (although she had never been there). But Chloe was depressed by the damp and cheerless mornings, evenings, and afternoons and liked
to flee to higher, sunnier ground—like Coit Tower—at every opportunity.

She decided to play it safe and dressed as if for school, in jeans and a tee and a jean jacket from Pateena's that was authentic eighties. It even had a verse of a Styx song penned carefully in ballpoint on one of the sleeves. She emptied her messenger bag of her textbooks and hid them under her bed. Then she stumbled downstairs, trying to emulate her usual tired-grumpy-morning-Chloe routine.

“You're down early,” her mother said suspiciously.

Uneager to pick a fight this morning, Chloe swallowed her sigh.
Everything
she did out of the ordinary since she'd turned twelve was greeted with suspicion. The first time she'd gotten a short haircut—paid for with her
own
money, thank you very much—her mother had demanded to know if she was a lesbian.

“I'm meeting Ame at the Beanery first,” Chloe responded as politely as she could, grabbing an orange out of the fridge.

“I don't want to sound old-fashioned, but—”

“It's gonna stunt my growth?”

“It's a gateway drug.” Mrs. King put her hands on her hips. In black Donna Karan capris with a silk-and-wool scoop neck and her pixie haircut, Chloe's mom didn't look like a mom. She looked like someone out of a Chardonnay ad.

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” Chloe couldn't keep herself from saying.

“There's an article in the
Week.”
Her mother's gray eyes narrowed, her expertly lined lips pursed. “Coffee leads to cigarettes leads to cocaine and crystal methampheta-mines.”

“Crystal
meth,
Mom. It's crystal
meth”
Chloe kissed her on the cheek as she walked past her to the door.