The Axeboy's Blues (The Agents Of Book 1)

by Andy Reynolds

  The late night air smelled wild and alive as she stepped up onto the iron rail in her high heel shoes. She'd have to move faster than usual to make up for lost time, as she had another appointment of sorts in the morning. Her back flexed and her wings spread out as she stepped forward, off the railing and into the night.

  File 37 :: [The Angel of Death]

  Like a needle she slipped between the beams of light and life, lifted by thoughts of the living, their moods and the charged waves between them. Descending, she landed among them and was nearly unseen – perhaps a flicker of light in the corner of an eye, or a tiny flock of shadowed thoughts flittering up to brush the left side of a human's heart. She looked up at the building which towered above her bathed in the sun's light. Ascending the steps, her night wings withdrawing to coil against her back like snakes, The Angel walked through the massive glass doors.

  The clock-clocking of her shoes on the marble floor echoed up through the cathedral-like room with its chandeliers and desks and painting-lined walls. A lady sitting at a desk saw The Angel and quickly pushed a button on her phone, waving The Angel ahead. The woman tensed up and held her breath as The Angel passed.

  As she approached the office door, it opened for her. “Ah, an unexpected visit,” said The Wellington, inviting her inside. “I do so love unexpected visits, especially when they are of the mesmerizing sort.” His pudgy face was beaded with sweat despite the cold air conditioning of the bank.

  She walked into the office and there was a man with unkempt hair wearing a hideous Mardi Gras hoodie. “Hello, ma'am,” he said. “My name is Anthony Brillo.”

  “Anthony here is one of my associates,” said Wellington. “You can trust him.”

  “Is that so?” said The Angel. “Because his soul is insisting that his name is Dean Smith. I have a busy schedule, and will not waste my time with untrustworthy people. And if he enjoys his life at all, he'd be much better off not lying to me again.”

  The man in the Mardi Gras hoodie smirked and she sensed that her threat had only made him start to like her. “My apologies know no end. I am currently hiding from everyone and everything, for reasons that would surely bore you, so I hope I have not offended you to any great extent.”

  The Angel pulled off her thin brown jacket and hung it on a wooden coat rack by the door. Underneath she wore a black skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse. Her wings flexed a bit behind her, then coiled back up onto her back. She ignored Dean Smith and spoke to Wellington. “I've come to ensure that everything is set for the festival this weekend.”

  “Yes, of course! Trumpet Fest will be quite extraordinary! The newspaper and radio stations are really hyping it up, and all the best trumpet players in the city will be playing a set. I have my people advertising on those 'social website' things that folks like so much these days. Yes, I've covered all the bases, so don't you worry.”

  Dean Smith raised an eyebrow. “Trumpet Fest? So... you're fond of music then?”

  “Something like that.”

  Wellington pulled out the Trumpet Fest poster and unrolled it on his desk. It had the silhouette of a man sitting on a chair and playing a trumpet next to a giant, colorful bouquet of trumpets. Below that was a list of all of the city's trumpet players who were playing the festival.

  “I did have one question for you,” said Wellington. “Regarding the security.”

  “I told you, it's taken care of.”

  “Well, it's just that City Hall keeps asking me which company is handling the security.”

  “Throw some more money at them. Isn't that what you do?”

  “Yes, yes. But it's just getting tricky, trying to keep them distracted.”

  She took a cigarette from her silver cigarette case and lit it. “Then it's a good thing I'm hiring you to do exactly that. I told you in the beginning – I'm handling the security, you handle everything else.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you still have the map of Fulton Street Promenade?”

  “Yes.” He walked over to a shelf and pulled out a rolled up paper. He unrolled it atop the Trumpet Fest poster.

  The Angel looked it over and nodded. “I'm going to take this.”

  “For security purposes,” said Dean Smith, “surely.”

  She looked up at him and he was leaning back against one of the walls, smelling a thin, unlit cigar. “The Wellington may like your company,” she said. “And I'm sure he has his reasons. But I do not. You don't belong here – your spirit has been in the world of the living for far longer than it was meant to be, and if you step in my way, whether on purpose or by accident, I will release it from that silly, stupidly grinning body.”

  Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the cigar's scent. She sensed the life surging through his body. For whatever reason he was completely in love with life itself, and somehow that life was filtering directly into his cockiness.

  The Wellington laughed uneasily. “I apologize for my associate here, good lady. You see, he's been cut off from the world for an extended amount of time, and his social skills are still... erm.... reactivating... as it were. But he is an integral part of my operation from here on out, so I would beg you to leave his life intact.”

  The Angel grabbed her jacket from the coat rack and put it on, her wings stretching with memorized movements through the slits in the fabric. “Just make sure Trumpet Fest goes off without any hitches. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, let me know. You know how to get a hold of me.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Wellington.

  She put her cigarette out in an ashtray on a side table, then picked up the map of Fulton Street Promenade from the desk and rolled it up. She walked out through the massive bank lobby, people shivering and growing quiet as she passed. As soon as she walked out of the large glass doors, her wings stretched out to drink up the sun's heat, then she took to the sky.

  File 38 :: [Edith Downs]

  The morning was warm and thick and lazy, her dreams still drifting around like unconscious tentacles as she snuck across her apartment and opened the kitchen window as quietly as she could. She pulled out a can of pre-ground coffee that was probably too old and started up her cheap coffee maker. Edith had always meant to get a better one – a French press, probably – but since she worked nearly every day she was used to getting her coffee at the shop.

  In the living room Adelaide slept like the dead on an air mattress Edith had set up between the TV and the loveseat.

  Maurice stirred to life and lazily wandered over, meowing, though Edith could tell he wasn't actually hungry. She'd fed him earlier that morning when they'd got in and had even given him extra because she felt bad about feeding him late. Still Edith refilled his bowl, hoping that he and the sputtering coffee maker wouldn't wake up Adelaide.

  She looked out the window and her heart skipped as she saw a figure walking through the trees of the neighbor's house. Smiling to herself, she hurried out the door, down the stairs and into the side yard.

  “Wole!” she called out.

  She looked up and around at the branches and a moment later the strange man walked onto the branches of one of the trees in her courtyard. This time his vest was lavender, and the winding keys hanging from his belt sounded like wind chimes as they gently tapped against each other.

  “You're out a little early, aren't you?” asked Edith.

  He walked down to the lowest branch and crouched. Edith could have touched his boot if she jumped. “In the morning sometimes I carry messages between the various cicada tribes. I help them communicate with each other across the city – one of the ways I've found to help them all thrive.” He opened his hand and showed her a dozen tiny squares of leaf with scratch marks on them.

  Edith laughed. “Are you trying to tell me that those are tiny cicada letters?”

  “I suppose you could call them that.” He looked down at his palm, then back over her. “Edith, you look like a different person. More alive. The last several days have been good to you
.”

  She looked down, suddenly realizing that she was in a T-shirt and pajama shorts and that her hair was probably sticking up all over from sleeping. She didn't even let herself think about her makeup. “Sorry, I was working late last night. I guess I only get to see you when I look absolutely horrible. But – better than nothing I guess.”

  He shook his head, scratching his scimitar-like sideburns with the knuckles of one hand. “No, what I meant was that you look happier – more sure of yourself.”

  She shrugged. “I don't know about that, but... thanks.” Edith glanced back at her apartment window. “Would... I just made coffee if you want some. I mean, it's actually probably not good. I have milk, I think, and I might have sugar somewhere.” She laughed and shook her head. “I own a freaking pastry shop and I'm not sure if I have sugar in my pantry.”

  Wole looked down at the papers in his hands, his eyes skimming over the scratches on them. “None of these are terribly important. I could spare time for coffee.”

  “Oh.” Edith hadn't really expected him to say yes. She bit her lip, thinking. “I haven't cleaned in a while, and I do have a guest – a coworker – staying in my living room, but she's probably awake now anyway.”

  “If it's not a good time, we could postpone —”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off. “Sorry, I'm just bad at the social thing when I'm not at work. And not caffeinated. Please, come inside.” She motioned for him to follow her to the door.

  “I will meet you by the window. One of the peculiarities of my job is that I cannot touch the ground.”

  She looked down at the grass. “You can't touch the ground? Ever?”

  He shook his head. “It's never been a problem, though. In fact, I've found that there is much more room to walk and wander up above the ground anyways. You don't have things like buildings and cars to get in the way.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

  Edith turned and headed into the apartment building and up the stairs. When she got inside Adelaide wasn't in the living room and the water in the bathroom was running. Wole was crouched upon an impossibly thin branch by the open kitchen window. “Um,” said Edith, “do you want milk? I could look for sugar, too. I usually drink it black.”

  He shrugged. “I haven't had coffee in a very long time. However you take it is fine.”

  Edith poured three mugs, figuring Adelaide would want some.

  “If you could step away from the window...” he said.

  “Oh, are you coming in?”

  “You did invite me, didn't you?”

  “I thought you couldn't touch the ground.”

  “We're hardly near the ground.”

  Edith stepped back and he balanced himself on the branch with his arms and then squeezed his legs and hips through the kitchen window, practically unfolding himself into a sitting position on the counter as the rest of him slipped inside. It reminded Edith of seeing Cirque du Soleil when she was a teenager. He seemed to be careful not to get his boots on the kitchen counter, which Edith found endearing. He hopped down onto his feet.

  Now that they were standing on the same level, Edith could see that he was actually a tiny bit shorter than she was. Also, now that he was so close to her, she could smell him – he smelled like clove and flowers. She handed him his coffee.

  Meow.

  Maurice came over to greet the new guest. Wole smiled and crouched down and pet Maurice, who immediately decided that as long as the guest behaved himself he could stay for a little while.

  Wole sipped his coffee. “Thank you.”

  “The coffee at my shop is much better.”

  “I'll have to try it some time.”

  “Sure,” said Edith. “I can meet you on the roof or something.”

  He nodded, not realizing that she was trying to make a joke. Edith decided to just let it be. There were several floors of apartments above her shop, so she had no idea if she'd even be able to get to the roof.

  He held out his fist to Maurice and then turned his hand around and opened it. Inside was a little blue cicada, which twitched to life and jumped down onto the floor. Suddenly Maurice hopped up and landed in attack mode, frozen with his jaw on the floor and his butt up in the air. The insect buzzed and then leaped across the room and Maurice launched after it, unsuccessfully batting at the poor thing.

  “He might hurt it!” said Edith.

  Wole shook his head, laughing. “It's not alive. It's like a toy. A tribe of cicadas in Mid City make these to throw off predators. They don't even fly – they just jump around. He probably won't even be able to break it – they're rather durable.” He stood up and sipped more of his coffee. “If you get annoyed by it, just tie it up and throw it in a cupboard.”

  Adelaide walked out of the hallway and jumped to the side as the cicada and Maurice launched themselves past her. “What was that?”

  “Maurice's new favorite toy,” said Edith. “Adelaide, this is Wole.”

  She was wearing her pants, which was good (maybe she'd heard them talking from the bathroom and put them on), but she was still wearing the over-sized T-shirt Edith had given her to sleep in (a leftover from one of Edith's brief attempts at a love life).

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Wole. “So you work together? At the pastry shop?

  “Not really,” muttered Adelaide, her eyes half open. “Is that wonderful coffee smell real, or just a left over from my dreams?”

  “It's real!” said Edith. “Though it probably smells better than it tastes. Do you like milk? Sorry, I don't have soy or anything.”

  “You mean the bean?”

  “Um, never mind. You're better off not knowing.”

  “Milk is fine.”

  Edith pulled some milk out of the fridge, smelled it and poured it into the third mug. Then she handed the mug to Adelaide while speaking to Wole. “Adelaide is helping me... huh... I guess I don't have to lie to you...”

  Wole cocked his head to the side. “You don't seem like the kind of person who lies to people.”

  “Well, I'm not. But most people in my life wouldn't understand what's happened to me this last week, or what I've been doing. I don't suppose you've heard of The Agents Of...”

  “The Agents of Fateful Encounters?” said Wole. “Of course I have. That's like asking if I know who the mayor is.” He looked at the ceiling and sipped his coffee. “Well, actually the mayor I'm thinking of might be the one before the current one. I'm not sure I ever got the new one's name.”

  “Well, The Agents of Fateful Encounters are now just called The Agents Of, and I've temporarily joined them.”

  “So you're an Agent? That's wonderful, Edith! The last time I saw you you didn't know what you were doing with your life, and now you've got one of the most important jobs in the city!”

  “Well, I'm more of a consultant. Or a contracted employee.”

  He looked at Adelaide. “And you're an Agent as well?”

  Adelaide nodded, drinking her coffee quickly. “It's a long story, involving time skips and a loose fugitive, but I'm actually an Agent of Karma, if that means anything to you.”

  “Adelaide? You're Adelaide LaCoste!” Wole laughed. “The cicadas of Algiers Point still sing stories of how you hunted down the Dark Larva of the Caterpillars and forced it back into its cocoon!”

  Adelaide took a long drink from her coffee. “Many brave cicada warriors lost their lives that day, all to help a city that they themselves preceded. They were some of the bravest warriors I've ever fought beside.” She turned to Edith. “So much of the history of this city dies away, even back when I'm from. I'm sure that's at least one of the reasons that Roman wants to create a history of the Agents. Eventually there won't be anyone left who knows about the cicadas battling for the city in Algiers Point. People will still appreciate and love the city, but no one will know about the thousands of sacrifices that lie behind the shaping and protecting of the city.”

  Edith felt the coffee begin to wake up her insides.
“The history thing isn't something you have to talk me into. As long as Roman's right about me being able to do what's required, I'll help with that project.”

  “Do you need historical documents?” asked Wole.

  “I'm not sure what Roman needs, but my part, if I'm able to do it, is to make copies of peoples' memories. I'm not sure what happens after that – it might just be a stash of memory-files the Agents keep somewhere.”

  “Well I would be more than happy to let you copy some of my memories if it would benefit the Agents. I'm not sure how much of cicada history is relevant to the Agents' history, but at least a few of my memories should prove useful.”

  Adelaide pointed to Wole with her cup. “You see, Edith, you already have fans and resources.”

  Maurice sauntered out of the hallway and up to us then, the blue cicada buzzing in his mouth.

  “Quite the little hunter,” said Wole, crouching down to scratch him on the head.

  Maurice tried to meow without letting the cicada loose and failed. Immediately the fake insect bolted across the kitchen and Maurice launched after it, following it in circles and then back down the hallway. There was a loud crash.

  Wole winced. “Sorry, Edith.”

  Edith shrugged. “The price of keeping the beast happy.” Really the only objects in her apartment she cared about where the antiques – and most of those were high up on shelves.

  “When will the music start up again?” asked Adelaide.

  “We probably have a couple hours,” said Edith. “I figure some of the touristy spots might start up at ten or eleven, and then the Royal Street musicians will be going by noon.”

  Adelaide nodded. “We should head back downtown and check up on Roman and Mars and the movie set.”

  “That sounds good,” said Edith. “That way I can check on my shop and talk to Jason, my assistant.”

  Wole took another drink of his coffee and then set the cup on the counter. “I'd better go deliver these messages. Good luck with your mission.” Then he looked at Edith “It was good running into you. Thank you for the coffee.”