I, Angel

by JC Andrijeski

  Assuming no other footage of the alley surfaced, he was mostly in the clear.

  For the same reason, he watched the last few digital video clips with a clenched jaw, mostly to hide his relief.

  When the last clip ended, he was ready.

  He’d already come up with several different stories to explain his side of things, depending on what the video depicted. When he saw what they actually had on him, he pulled out the simplest of those, the one that left out wings exploding out of his back, odd flames on his arms and chest, and his tendency to involuntarily launch into flight.

  He told Kara he’d jumped up to reach the wall, then climbed out of the alley⏤scaling the brick via his rock-climbing skills.

  She mocked him openly for that, of course.

  She made a few snarky references to comic books and old movies where the heroes mutated into insects. She told him how implausible that was, what a stupid story it was, how him even trying to pass it off as the truth was an insult to both of them… but in the end, she had no way to counter it, apart from her disbelief.

  As for Dags, he stuck to his version of events stubbornly.

  He ignored her mocking comments, her sarcasm, her rolled eyes.

  He told her he’d been doing a lot of rock-climbing, and even practicing some parkour, using, among other things, brick walls.

  When he refused to back down, she eventually could only ask him why he’d bailed like that, if he really hadn’t done anything wrong, like he claimed.

  He told her he’d been drinking, so his judgment was off.

  At her disbelieving snort, he doubled-down.

  He said he was drunk and he panicked, seeing all those cops there.

  He reminded her he was hurt, jacked up on adrenaline from the fight with the guy, and yes, drunk. In that split second, he opted to get the hell out of there, acting on pure instinct. All he’d wanted was to go home. All he’d wanted was a shower and his bed, especially once he realized Ms. Jackson was safe, and the guy who went after her was going to be arrested.

  The last thing he wanted, he told her, was to spend a few hours in a police station, being interrogated by cops who already didn’t like him.

  It wasn’t a great excuse.

  It wasn’t even a semi-good one.

  Kara clearly didn’t believe a word of it.

  But Dags also couldn’t see how they’d disprove any of it.

  He watched Kara carefully once he’d finished talking, trying to gauge what she might do. From the flickers in her aura, and the harder scrutiny in her eyes, she was mostly trying to puzzle out why he was lying, not whether or not what he’d said was true. Dags knew cops had people lie to them all the time, for all kinds of reasons, a lot of them completely stupid. He also knew a lot of those lies had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual crime being investigated.

  He hoped Kara assumed his lies were the same⏤stupid, personal, more to do with embarrassment over something idiotic he’d done, versus Dags being some kind of criminal mastermind or deviant.

  He didn’t ask, of course.

  He also didn’t elaborate on his story, or give any unnecessary details. He only rolled his eyes at her mention of wings. He didn’t tell her anything about the top of the building, or try to explain how he’d gotten down, or where he’d gone after that.

  He’d learned a long time ago, less was more with this kind of thing.

  He just said he went home.

  He was still sitting there, watching her, trying to sift through the micro-expressions on her face and in her aura, when Kara exhaled, folding her arms.

  “So you’re really not going to comment on the wings? The green and blue lightning a few of the uniforms said they saw, shooting out of your hands and chest?”

  Dags frowned, setting down his cup of coffee.

  When she continued to stare at him pointedly, he made his expression deliberately irritated.

  “Do you honestly expect me to comment on that?” he grunted. He lifted his fork, digging back into his stack of blueberry pancakes. “Did you get drug tests on any of them? Maybe send for a shrink?”

  “Asia Jackson said it, too,” Kara remarked drily. “Well. At first she did, anyway. She seemed to recant her ‘wings’ story later, but a few of the uniforms found her sudden change of heart pretty unconvincing. Apparently, she was quite eloquent about the wings at first… Angel-guy.”

  Kara hit that last bit with added emphasis.

  “Well, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t believe that then,” Dags muttered sarcastically. “After all, she called me ‘Angel-guy.’ It must be true.”

  Giving Kara a hard look, he popped a forkful of pancake into his mouth and chewed.

  His mind, on the other hand, was seething.

  Gee, lady, he thought to himself. Thanks a lot.

  No good deed ever went unpunished.

  Not ever.

  “Don’t blame her,” Kara said, as if reading behind his expression. “Everyone else’s stories are relatively consistent. Not everyone saw the same thing, of course. A few thought they saw wings. Some claimed they saw the green and blue ‘lightning’ she described. Others say they felt the wind when you rose up in the air.”

  Leaning forward over her plate, she stabbed a fork into another chunk of pancake, giving Dags a flat look.

  “Every statement I heard had you standing in the middle of the alley when you jumped up in the air like that, Dags. You didn’t make a run for the wall. You didn’t even jump sideways. You leapt straight up, into the air. The video I saw all shows the same.” Quirking an eyebrow, she lifted the forkful of pancake to her lips, commenting, “It’s a pretty weird way to start a climb, Dags. No matter how ‘good’ you are at it.”

  Putting the forkful in her mouth, she chewed, watching his eyes.

  Swallowing a few seconds later, she added,

  “You sure you want this to be your official statement? Should we go down to the alley, so you can show off your parkour skills to me in person?”

  Exhaling, he folded his arms, leaning back in the faux leather booth.

  “Would you rather if I made up a more interesting story?” he said, motioning dismissively with a hand. “One that involves giant eagles carrying me off? Maybe a dragon?”

  “You have friends in the business,” Kara said, her tone back to cop voice. “I’m not asking if you’re magical, Jourdain. I’m asking how you did it. Was it some kind of special effects thing? A distraction, so Tig could escape?”

  He stared at her, even as it clicked where her mind was going.

  Then he exhaled in annoyance, trying not to feel genuinely offended.

  “You really think I’m a dick, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re a terrible liar,” she retorted. “I think a toddler could come up with a better story than the hot mess I just heard. I’m just waiting to hear something that makes sense. So far, you working with Tig is the only explanation that even comes close.”

  “Except I wasn’t working for Tig, Kara,” he said, giving her an angry look in spite of himself. “I don’t help psychos rape women.”

  “He’s a stuntman,” she said, lowering her coffee mug back to the table. “Which makes it even more plausible that other movie people were involved. Especially since he targeted an actress. Two actresses, if Asia Jackson can be believed.”

  Dags shrugged, resting both of his hands on the table.

  “Kara, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Maybe this Tig guy created the distraction on his own. Maybe that’s the reason for the weird lightning your people saw.”

  Still studying his eyes, she nodded warily.

  Again, he didn’t have to look hard at her aura to know she didn’t believe him.

  There wasn’t much he could do about it, though.

  He flat-out couldn’t tell her the truth.

  He certainly couldn’t explain how Jason Tig went from being unconscious to somehow getting past a half-dozen cops and at least two black and whites parked
in the mouth of the alley. Demon-possessed or no, he shouldn’t have been invisible.

  “Look. Kara.” Dags forced out a breath. “I get why you’re pissed. In retrospect, I should have stayed. I should have given a statement. But I was drunk. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I wasn’t exactly up for getting arrested, as peak irony for trying to do a good deed.”

  Frowning at her disbelieving look, he growled,

  “I’d already gotten my ass kicked by that psycho. He sicced his damned dog on me. I managed to get the upper hand for a few seconds with what little I remembered from high school Tae Kwon Do⏤”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Dags,” she snapped, like she couldn’t help herself. “That actress, Asia Johnson, said the two of you fought like pro-fighters. As it turns out, she has an uncle who trains fighters in mixed martial arts, so she actually knows what she’s talking about. She said you moved faster than anyone she’s ever seen.”

  Leaning closer to him, she added,

  “I believed her, Dags. On that, at least. She also said Jason Tig moved like a boxer… which fits with the stunt man thing.”

  Pausing deliberately, Kara added,

  “Everything she said about Tig made sense, and matches the little bit we know about him. It’s everything she said about you that sounded crazy. Like something out of a spy novel.”

  Dags shrugged. “I honestly have no idea what she was talking about.”

  “Bullshit.” Kara lowered her voice, glancing around at nearby tables before staring back at him. “You’re lying to me, Dags. And the most annoying thing is, I don’t even know why.” Pausing at his silence, she motioned towards his arms and chest. “Where did you learn to fight like that? You moonlighting at a martial arts gym or something? Asia Jackson seemed to think you must have had serious training of some kind⏤”

  “No.” He shook his head, his expression going flat as he re-folded his arms. “And even if any of that were remotely true, that’s not illegal, Kara.”

  “Are you C.I.A.? Some kind of black ops agent? Is that why you can’t tell me?”

  He stared at her, then let out a snorting laugh. “What?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know.” He smiled. “That’s why it’s funny.”

  She clenched her jaw, her expression caught somewhere between fury and frustration. Looking at her, he worried again he might be pushing his luck.

  “Did I do anything illegal, Kara?” he pressed. “Are you planning on charging me with something? Because I was honest-to-God trying to help her.”

  Kara continued to shake her head.

  “Just about every part of your story stinks to high heaven,” she said. “Everything about what happened last night stinks to high heaven.”

  Kara paused, as if waiting for Dags to respond.

  When he didn’t, she clenched her jaw briefly, then went on.

  “Ms. Jackson agrees with you, however. She said if you hadn’t happened along when you did, she’d likely be dead. She was utterly convinced that your being there was just good luck, that you saw what was happening to her and tried to help.”

  Pausing, Kara added,

  “She’s also threatened to sue, if we press charges against you. She was pissed some of ours wanted to pick you up last night, even just for questioning. She said you wouldn’t even use the gun she bought, legally, as it turns out, for self-defense. She showed it to the officers, under the dumpster, after telling them you tossed it away.”

  Shaking her head, Kara gave him an incredulous look.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind, Dags? What the hell are you trying to prove?”

  He clenched his jaw.

  He could have told her his reasons.

  He could have told her he noticed Tig because Tig the human had the tell-tale signs in his aura of being possessed by a demon, so Dags went into that alley to deal with it personally instead of calling the cops. He could have explained how all this started: with Uri, the drugs, the dreamwalk, his blackouts, how he learned the exorcism rituals from his dead grandfather, how he started using them to free humans from parasitic evil spirits.

  He wondered which nuthouse Kara would have gotten him committed to by the time he finished talking.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said instead, exhaling out anger. “I walked by. She was in trouble. It was one of those right-place, right-time things.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” she said sarcastically. “You being master-fighter, master-parkour artist, and master-rock-climbing guy, all rolled into one.”

  Dags pressed his lips together, tilting his head in a shrug.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “So that’s really going to be your story?” Kara frowned. “You’re just some guy with a P.I. license who happened by, and helped out a woman in distress.”

  Dags shrugged again.

  “Is it really that unbelievable?”

  “Yes,” she snapped, smacking her hand down on the Formica. “Damn it, Jourdain. Yes. It’s really that unbelievable.”

  “Then why aren’t I in cuffs?” he retorted.

  At her silence, he exhaled, folding his arms. After a bare pause, she folded her arms too, frowning at him as she imitated his pose, leaning back in the red vinyl booth.

  For a long-feeling few minutes, they both just sat there.

  Glaring at one another.

  Letting their coffees go cold.

  Chapter 7

  Aren’t You Going To Get That?

  His grandfather sits on a red-rock boulder.

  Blue and green fire ripple off the old man’s feet, his hands, his arms. That fire burns brightest in his chest, forming a cloudlike vortex right at the center. His grandfather’s eyes also glow faintly with that same otherworldly fire, but Dags can still see the kind, dark-brown irises past those flickers of flame.

  Dags is pacing in front of him.

  Complaining.

  Mostly.

  Yes. Mostly complaining.

  He walks back and forth on the desert floor, talking. He isn’t entirely sure if he’s talking to himself, or if he’s talking to the old man.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m screwing this whole thing up.” Dags comes to a stop, staring down at his feet, at the red-rock desert, without really seeing either. “What am I even doing here? It feels like I’m trying to remove the sand off a few miles of beach with nothing but tweezers.”

  Clenching his hands into fists, he turns around.

  He strides back over the desert floor the exact way he’d come.

  “Why the hell don’t they tell me anything?” he growls. “Why do I get all of… this… with no instruction manual? Not a clue what it’s for? How am I supposed to know what to do with it?”

  His grandfather chuckles.

  This isn’t the first time he’s heard this particular tirade. He should probably be annoyed, bored at least, but the old man just smiles at him affectionately.

  “You think that’s funny, old man?” Dags grouses.

  “Yes.”

  “You would.”

  “Just do something with it,” his grandfather advises.

  “Something. Great. That’s really fucking helpful.”

  “Something good,” his grandfather adds.

  Dags gives him an annoyed look, biting back what he wants to say.

  He’s still his grandfather, after all.

  Dags can’t cross certain lines, even now that the old man’s dead.

  “Have you found her yet?” his grandfather asks, before Dags can sort out what he wants to say. “The one you look for. Have you found her?”

  Images swim through the desert sky behind where his grandfather sits. Three-dimensional, living images, filled with presence and breath.

  They are so real, all Dags can do is stare.

  They are not new to him. He has seen all of this before. He tries not to think about them when he’s not here, in this timeless place, but they’ve lived in the back of his mind since that idioti
c dreamwalk he went on back when he was eighteen, back when he was stupid enough to drink the drug-cocktail-concoction his friend Uri handed him.

  He doesn’t have to ask his grandfather who he means.

  He means her.

  She is in all of those visions. She lives inside every one.

  Some are crystal clear. Some are harder to make out; they change, swirling and morphing, neverendingly in motion. In those, he only glimpses things, here and there, a flash of lips or eyes, wind whipping at long, dark hair, glimpses of skin and whispers of her laugh.

  She looks different from image to image… from time period to time period.

  Her face, her hair color, her height, even her gender.

  Yet he knows it is her.

  He never questions who she is.

  Folding his arms, he watches her past and future unfold and replay all around him. Like always, he pretends he is not looking for the present, not looking for himself in those images, meaning Dags Jourdain, the person he is now, in this version of time.

  He is looking, though.

  He is looking with everything in his being.

  He can’t find him. He can’t find Dags Jourdain.

  “Be patient,” his grandfather says.

  Dags lets out a genuinely angry snort.

  That’s too much.

  He has been patient.

  He’s done nothing but wait.

  It’s been almost ten years since these damn visions got implanted in his head, and Dags has been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.

  He scowls at the old man, about to lay into him for real, to take his complaining up a few notches into full-blown grievance⏤

  But his grandfather speaks again.

  “…aren’t you going to get that?” he says.

  Dags jerked awake.

  He sat up before he’d fully opened his eyes, half-lunging out of bed, aiming his feet for the opening of the alcove where he slept.

  He stopped right as he reached it, right as he’d nearly slid out of the low opening and onto the stone-tile floor. He caught himself on the wall instead, his legs and feet dangling out the opening, breathing harder than he should have been.