I, Angel

by JC Andrijeski

For an instant, it was silent.

  Then his phone rang, obscenely loud in the high-ceilinged space.

  God. Why the hell hadn’t he turned off the ringer?

  Then he remembered.

  He’d gone to bed in the early afternoon.

  He hadn’t turned off the ring-tone like usual because he’d come home from the police station, kicked off his shoes, and more or less passed out.

  The phone was still ringing.

  The hours before he returned to his underground apartment were slowly filtering back into Dags’ mind.

  After he’d gotten breakfast with Kara, she took him back to the station.

  He still wouldn’t let her record him without a lawyer there, so she just had him look at Asia Jackson’s police sketch of Jason Tig, and the mugshot they’d found. Like Asia, Dags confirmed it looked exactly like the guy he remembered from the alley.

  By then, a few cops had gotten ahold of people at the studios where Tig worked.

  All of them, upon hearing the news that Jason was wanted for questioning in connection with a violent crime, expressed nothing but complete astonishment.

  According to every single one of them, Jason Tig was a pussycat.

  They knew about his police record, which they said was from back before he got sober.

  The sober version of Tig was well-liked and respected by everyone he worked with. He also hadn’t had a single brush with the law since. Tig had no history of issues with women, of harassing anyone he worked with, of a violent disposition, or even a short temper. He had no recent history of any kind of alcohol or drug abuse.

  Those facts alone made him an outlier in Hollywood.

  The only weird thing Tig had done recently was to disappear.

  They’d been in the middle of a shoot, and he just didn’t show up for work one day. That was so unlike Jason Tig, to just blow off a gig like that, the studio sent someone to his house. They were genuinely afraid something had happened to him.

  Unfortunately, no one had been able to find him to ask.

  Remembering all of that now, Dags frowned.

  He knew the reason for the sudden personality transplant, but he couldn’t exactly tell Kara that, much less Tig’s studio employers.

  He’d have to talk to the studio people himself, of course.

  Dags’ phone rang again.

  The trilling sounded even louder.

  Exhaling, half in annoyance, he jumped down from the alcove, landing lightly on his feet. He knew the layout of his apartment well enough, even in pitch darkness, to follow the sound of the phone without turning on any lights. For some reason he’d left his phone on the coffee table by the couch; he almost always left it on one of the built-in shelves inside the loft-like space where his bed lived, so that was weird.

  He must have been more out of it than he thought.

  Picking up the phone, he noted no name came up on the caller ID. For some reason, he swiped the glass with a finger, anyway.

  “Jourdain,” he said, fighting a yawn.

  He leaned down as he said it, reaching for the lamp on one side of the couch and flicking it on.

  “Angel-guy?” a voice said on the line. “That’s you, right?”

  Dags scowled.

  “Could you stop calling me that, please?”

  “Were you ever going to call me?” Asia Jackson said, annoyed-sounding. “I’ve only left you, like, ten messages⏤”

  “I’ve been asleep.” Squinting briefly at the time glowing on the front of his phone, he put the device back to his ear. “It’s only six o’clock.”

  She snorted. “In the afternoon.”

  “So?”

  “So? You left the police station before noon.”

  Dags yawned again, still trying to get his brain moving, and now annoyed that he’d answered his phone. This had to be the tenth time in as many hours that he had someone yelling at him and demanding he explain himself.

  He wasn’t used to so many people being in his face.

  He glanced at the small window over his front door, and felt his lips twist in another scowl when he realized it was still light out.

  “What do you want?” he said, gruff.

  “They still haven’t found the guy,” she said, sounding put out. “Jason whatever. They found his apartment in East Hollywood. That lady cop called me and told me. They said he wasn’t there, and no one had seen him since yesterday morning.”

  “Tig,” Dags said, yawning again, rubbing his face with a hand. “Jason Tig. And I thought he lived in Venice.”

  “He did. Then he moved. To East Hollywood, apparently.”

  Dags frowned.

  “How long ago?”

  “Only a few days. Maybe a week. And he threw out most of his stuff when he moved, too, which is kind of weird. That cop said the new place is like, empty. Oh,” she added. “And you’re going to love this. His lease for the place in East Hollywood wasn’t listed under Jason Tig. It was listed under ‘Blank Blankman.’”

  Dags’ frown deepened. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. The cop only called me up to ask if I’d ever heard of anyone going by that name. She wanted to know if any of the threatening letters or things Phoenix got had that name on them, or any reference to that name.”

  “Did they?” Dags slumped down into the leather couch, rubbing his eyes.

  “No.”

  Dags stared off into space.

  Blank Blankman?

  Was that a demon’s idea of a joke?

  Or just a demon’s total cluelessness about how human names worked?

  “All right.” Dags exhaled, still fighting to get his mind back to the present, out of that dream world where he’d been. “I’ll look into it. Are you and your roommate going to be around tonight? I’d like to take a look at everything she’s gotten from this stalker.”

  “Oh, are you actually going to deign to work for us, then?”

  Dags scowled. “Maybe.”

  “Well, it would be nice if you actually told me that. I was wondering if we were going to need to hire someone else when you never bothered to call back.”

  Dags stared at his phone incredulously.

  He was wavering between hanging up on her, or making a not-very-friendly comment about saving her ass the night before, when⏤

  ⏤someone coughed.

  Behind him.

  Right behind him.

  Inside his damned apartment.

  Chapter 8

  It’s You

  Dags leapt to his feet, throwing himself backwards, towards the fireplace, away from the couch. In that one move, he put as much distance between himself and that cough as he physically could. He ended up with his foot braced against the white-painted brick, even as he fell into a fighter’s crouch.

  Panting, he stared at the person inside his apartment.

  The man stood there, in the dark, just past the range of the lamp’s light.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t copy Dags’ fighter pose.

  He just stood there.

  Dags could see his outline, but not his face.

  Even so, he found he knew who the man was.

  “Tig,” he said. “Jason Tig. Or should I say, ‘Blank Blankman’?”

  The shadowy form didn’t move.

  “What do you want?” Dags growled. “How did you get in here?”

  He glanced at the wall to his right, the one covered in swords and other assorted weaponry. None were missing, which was a plus.

  Still, Jason Tig stood closer to that wall than Dags did.

  Dags thought about the other, more modern weapons he owned. Those weren’t exactly easily accessible; the chances of anyone finding those without his help were slim to none. Dags kept them strictly in the unlikely event of some kind of dire, world-ending emergency.

  For the same reason, they weren’t easy to get to, even for him.

  No, it was a lot more likely Tig brought his own weapons.

  “What do you want?” Dags re
peated, louder.

  He didn’t realize he was still holding his phone until he heard a female voice shouting on the other end.

  “What is going on? Is he there? JOURDAIN! ANSWER ME!”

  Frowning, Dags considered telling her to call 911.

  Realizing the last thing he wanted was for the police to show up at his place, or to have to explain to Kara how the guy knew where he lived, he hit the hang-up button, instead. Shoving the phone in his back pocket, he glanced around, looking for potential makeshift weapons. He saw a few possibilities, none of them awesome.

  He held up his hands, focusing back on Jason Tig.

  “The police are looking for you.” Scowling as he realized something else, Dags added, “They’re likely on their way. What do you want?”

  When Tig didn’t answer him that time either, Dags frowned, watching the man stand there, arms hanging at his sides, shoulders set at an odd angle.

  Something was definitely weird.

  Demons didn’t act like this.

  Was he drunk?

  Dags focused on the man’s aura, realizing he’d been too freaked out to look at it before now. Once he had, he understood why he was more annoyed than alarmed by the other man’s presence.

  Jason Tig’s aura looked nothing like it had the night before. Instead of the dark clouds with black and red threads running through it, it was pale yellow, a surprisingly soft cloud with orange, blue and violet whispering around the edges.

  The night before, all Dags felt off him was malice, violence, intent to harm.

  No feeling had lived there, just a cold empty space where his heart should be.

  Looking at Tig’s aura now, Dags saw a lot of feeling, almost too much feeling. Defeat. Grief. Exhaustion. More than anything, a heavy sadness seethed through those pale lights, mixed with a confused tangle of regret that brought up more sympathy in Dags than anything.

  Going on his aura alone, Jason Tig didn’t even look like the same person as he had the night before. But how had he lost the demon’s presence?

  Had Jason Tig managed to extract it on his own?

  “Speak,” Dags growled. “I’m going to have to take you down, if you don’t. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. I can’t have people breaking into my place.”

  He didn’t like the idea of dragging him out of there by force, but Dags one hundred percent would do it.

  He’d talk to him outside, in the garden.

  Maybe with Tig tied to a chair.

  Hesitating when the shadowy form still didn’t move, or speak, Dags took a step in the man’s direction. When the other didn’t seem to react, he scowled.

  Damn it.

  This guy was really going to make Dags do it the hard way.

  He took another step, still watching the other man’s aura.

  If anything, it looked even softer and more fluid and less hostile than before. If Dags had run into the guy on the street, with an aura like that, he might have assumed he was ill, or maybe that he was in shock, that he’d been traumatized.

  He looked like⏤

  The man collapsed, his legs crumpling under him.

  Dags just watched it happen, too stunned to move until it was too late.

  Unfortunately, the man fell hard, like a wooden puppet after every string got cut. His head smacked against Dags’ stone tile floor with more force than it had even against the asphalt of the alley the night before.

  After he fell, he didn’t move.

  Dags just stood there.

  He waited, listening, half in disbelief.

  When the body still hadn’t moved, Dags walked cautiously around the couch and end-table, still moving warily, hands clenched in fists. He reached the edge of the couch, and walked around the man on the floor, making his way to the nearest light switch on the wall without turning his back on the body, or ever once taking his eyes off it.

  He flicked on the lights.

  Recessed lights over the couch and that half of the studio slowly rose.

  Dags watched in disbelief as the man twitched on the stone tile.

  In the end, he walked right up to him and prodded him with a foot.

  The body didn’t respond… other than to keep twitching.

  Dags bent his knees, lowering his weight to crouch over the body. When the man still didn’t react, Dags grabbed hold of his shoulder and carefully turned him over to his back.

  It was definitely Jason Tig.

  Dags reached for his throat, checking his pulse.

  It was weak, threaded. His auric light was chaotic now, clearly showing him to be in distress, but not in a way likely to make him dangerous. Again, from his aura alone, Dags would have thought for sure the man was injured or sick.

  “Hey,” Dags said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  The man opened his eyes. He shook his head.

  Then, shocking Dags even more, he reached out, grabbing Dags’ arm.

  Even his fingers felt weak.

  Dags stared down at him, his hand on his back pocket where he’d been reaching for his phone. He got lost in Jason Tig’s face, in his soft, unfocused hazel eyes⏤eyes that looked so different from the night before, Dags might have been looking at a completely different person.

  Of course, Dags was looking at a completely different person.

  “No,” Jason Tig said. “No. It’s okay. Too late.”

  “Mr. Tig⏤”

  “My dog,” Tig gasped, his voice growing weaker. “Take care of my dog.”

  Dags frowned. “What?”

  “He’s gone now,” the man managed. “…he’s gone.”

  “Your dog?” Dags said, confused.

  “No. The thing. Whatever it was. It’s gone.” He gasped a little, gripping Dags harder. “It’s too late. They’re coming. I wish I knew more. I wish I could tell you more. They had to start over. Ditch the apartment. Ditch me.”

  “The apartment?” Dags frowned, fighting to think. “You mean the ‘Blank Blankman’ apartment? In East Hollywood?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Cops there. Had to ditch it. No good now.”

  “Why is it no good?” Dags said. “What was it for?”

  “Shelter.” The man coughed. “Landing place. It’s all I remember⏤”

  “Shelter for who?”

  Jason Tig shook his head. “Don’t know. Just that he was supposed to live there. Temporary. Someplace quiet. Where no one knows him. Venice… no good. Too many people. Too many.”

  Dags frowned harder.

  East Hollywood wasn’t exactly devoid of people.

  The man stared up at Dags, and Dags could see the effort there, the intense concentration in his eyes as he fought to speak, to say something he clearly felt was vitally important.

  “It’s you,” he managed, his voice a bare whisper. “It’s you he wants. You… and her.”

  Dags blinked. “What does that mean?” he growled. “Me? Me and who? Asia Jackson?”

  But the man’s eyes were already closing.

  His fingers loosened on Dags’ arm. His head slumped to the tile.

  Seconds later, Jason Tig’s whole body went limp, every muscle unclenching as his head lolled, his feet flopping to either side. His skin and a few muscles continued to twitch while Dags watched, but Dags could see it already.

  He knew what was happening.

  Jason Tig was right. It was too late to call 911.

  Knowing that down to his core, Dags didn’t move.

  He crouched there, biting his tongue, watching as the man’s aura dissipated from around his lifeless form, leaving his skin like water vapor coming up off a hot stone. The yellow, blue, and violet lights grew fainter and even more delicate as they left.

  Eventually, the light turned white, losing its color entirely.

  Watching it go, despite everything from the night before, Dags felt an indescribable sense of loss. Looking at Jason Tig now, seeing the human version of his aura as it left his body, Dags wished he’d known that man, that he could
have helped him.

  In what felt like less than a minute, those wisps of aura were gone.

  The body lay there, dark.

  Dags continued to stare down at him, even after the light went out.

  Then he scowled.

  There was no way he was getting out of calling Kara now.

  Chapter 9

  Landlord

  Dags stood outside, jaw clenched, as the cops went through his apartment with a fine-toothed comb.

  Jane Harrow, who lived in the main house above, had already been dragged into this mess, along with a few of the neighbors as cops walked up and down the Hollywood Hills street, knocking on doors to see if anyone else had noticed Jason Tig on his way to Dags’ place.

  Involving the tenant in the main house inevitably resulted in supplying the cops, Kara in particular, with more information than Dags really wanted.

  It started with Kara treating Jane Harrow like the A-status citizen she was, all the while talking to and about Dags like he was some kind of criminal, living on the land illegally, maybe after putting a gun to Jane Harrow’s head.

  “We really apologize for this intrusion, Ms. Harrow,” Kara said politely, giving Dags a hard look before smiling back at the thirty-something movie producer. “It seems your tenant had a bit of drama on your property tonight⏤”

  Jane Harrow looked at Dags in bewilderment.

  Dags tried to wave her off, making the cut-off symbol with his hand over his throat, but Jane either missed it, or didn’t understand what he was telling her.

  Turning back to Kara, she flipped her coffee-colored hair back over her shoulder, frowning down at the homicide detective from her three-inch heels. She wore flowing, wide-legged pants, and a wraparound top with blue and black geometric patterns. Her light-brown eyes reflected a combination of confusion and what might have been borderline offense.

  “Our tenant?” she said, that offense audible in her voice. She gave a glancing frown at Dags, but aimed her words at Kara. “We don’t have a tenant. Who told you we did?”

  Kara paused.

  A faint smile touched her lips, one that held more than a hint of triumph.

  “Oh, my apologies,” Kara said sweetly, smiling up at Jane Harrow. “Were you not aware you had someone living in the guesthouse below your residence?”