We froze in our tracks. I held the sword ready in a perfect front middle guard.
Mike took the opportunity to instruct us further in British history. “St. Michael’s Church. Founded in 1070, it’s original to the medieval walled city and a popular tourist—”
“Shut up, Mike,” I said. “Just tell us what to do now.”
“Pray.”
That’s when the Churkon let loose with a blast of fire that swept through the canyon of the street. We were toast.
Lesson #8
Pink Aprons Shouldn’t Come in Size 3X
Pedestrians scattered, screaming, as we leaped into a doorway. “You didn’t tell us it had a flamethrower!” I accused.
“Why do you think we were heading for the quay?” he shot back.
“Can we make it there?”
“It’s too far.”
I pressed my lips together and studied my guardian angel. Without his wig, his hair was dark brown and plastered to his head. I wished with all my heart that Ranofur was with us.
We risked a peek at the beast and I got my first good look. It was black, featherless, and reptilian. Instead of a beak it had a mouth full of fangs—sort of a giant gila monster with wings. It shrieked again and let loose another jet of flame. We had the sword, but it was no match against an enemy like that. And knowing our Schmiel gloves would preserve our fingerprints so the authorities could identify our charred remains didn’t comfort us nearly as much as you might think.
A man dressed in an argyle sweater vest and tweed trousers rushed into our doorway. “All right, mates?” he asked in perfect British form.
We looked at each other and back at him, speechless.
“All right,” he repeated, more as a statement this time. Then he was off again.
“What’s he doing?” Elena hissed.
The man rushed up the street at full trot, right into the range of the beast. We couldn’t resist the morbid lure of watching him get toasted like a human marshmallow. A moment later he had a bow and arrow in his hands. The Churkon raised its wings to take flight. As we watched, it recoiled and let out another grating blast of noise.
The man fired a second arrow into its chest, and the beast staggered and flailed its giant bat wings. As it took flight, the top of the steeple broke off and clattered to the pavement below. The Churkon rose into the air, flying erratically before plunging earthward beyond our range of vision.
“The River Test should put his flame out well enough,” Mike pronounced.
Elena and I stood quivering before the ancient church. “Who was that man?” Elena whispered.
“Oh, he’s one of us,” Mike answered, celebrating with a loose-jointed dance move that closely resembled a marionette. Apparently, our lucky escape from death had restored his confidence.
“An angel?” she asked. “You guys just roam the earth?”
“We never ‘just roam.’” Mike paused. “He’s probably been assigned some task of his own, but yes, we often mingle with humans and no one is the wiser.”
“Do they roam?” Elena asked. “Swaugs and Churkons, I mean.”
“That’s what they do. They prowl about, looking for trouble. Swaugs patrol the land, Churkons the air, and Wasitters the sea.” Mike frowned. “We rarely see them on consecutive days like this.”
“I’ve never seen them before at all,” she said.
“You won’t see any of us unless we want you to. Even then, people filter things through their own mind. Those who believe we exist see us more easily, but everyone sees what they choose, to some extent.”
“What are people going to say about all this?” I asked, indicating the scorch marks and the church steeple that stood out against the sky like a broken, jagged tooth. “There must have been fifteen witnesses.”
He grinned. “Just wait and see. Human interpretation is always highly amusing.”
“What about that?” I pointed to the totaled taxi.
“Yes, that.” He handed me some bills. “Go slip these in the glove compartment.”
I almost fell over. It was two American ten thousand dollar bills.
“We’re well-funded,” Mike remarked. “The cattle on a thousand hills and all. Elena, slide this under the door of the building we destroyed, and I’ll locate a donation box at the church. Then we really must make for the hotel. Ranofur will be getting worried.”
An hour later, after ditching the last vestiges of Mike’s costume and navigating two forms of public transportation, we managed to arrive at the Best Western disheveled but intact.
“A Churkon chased us from the airport,” Mike reported as we staggered into our suite. Ranofur raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. Neither did he reveal what he’d been up to. He just sent us to our rooms for hot showers and warm beds. I was more than willing to comply.
I awoke about one o’clock in the afternoon, UK time, to the amazing smell of food cooking. One pack of peanuts between monsters is definitely not enough to sustain a thirteen-year-old boy. I dragged myself into the kitchen area to find Ranofur briskly whisking a bowl of something white and fluffy. I was completely arrested by the sight of the giant wearing a frilly pink apron with the words “Kiss the Cook” embroidered above a pair of hot-pink lips. It was stretched across his physique like shrink wrap across the hull of a ship.
I stared for three whole minutes before Ranofur lifted his head. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
I pressed my lips together, trying to think how best to answer that question.
His tone grew slightly impatient. “Do you have an aversion to chocolate pistachio chiffon tarts?”
“Not to the tarts so much as to that apron,” I stated.
“Oh, er—” He stirred the fluffy mixture with a bit more force than necessary. “It was the only style that came in size 3X.”
I nodded politely and he turned back to his tarts. “Mike went for a pizza,” he threw out. “He’ll be back shortly.”
“Good. I’m so hungry I think I could eat a Swaug.” I flipped on the television to wait. After twenty very long minutes of a Mr. Bean rerun, I turned up the volume of a local headline news broadcast. “Ranofur, listen to this.”
“Southampton International Airport was the scene of violence this morning,” the reporter was saying. “Surveillance cameras captured the kidnapping of two children thought to be Ronald Tomlinson and Jacky Rodrigez. Their kidnapper is unidentified.” Footage showed a blurry image of Elena and I diving for the car while a clearly deranged Michael Jackson impersonator shoved the driver. It was a good thing Mike had whipped up those false documents.
“The car then proceeded down the A335 carriageway at high speeds. Several witnesses claimed to see the kidnapper protruding through the roof of the car brandishing a large sword. It is unclear how the damage to the roof was sustained. The car was later abandoned near St. Michael’s Square where it crashed into the Zen restaurant. Apparently, the kidnapper was stopped by the same freak lightning bolt that took the steeple off historic St. Michael’s Church this morning. There is no sign of the kidnapper or victims.
“Police have reported finding several American bills of large denomination at the site. A connection is being assumed, and police are investigating leads on several eccentric, wealthy Americans.”
I heard Mike’s footsteps in the hall. He came in wearing a ten gallon hat, red cowboy boots, purple jeans, a gaudy shirt, and substantial amounts of facial stubble that hadn’t been there two hours before. “Howdy.” He tipped his hat up with a thumb and flung two boxes onto the table. “I brought you some grub.”
Ranofur sighed. “I’m glad you’re keeping a low profile.”
The smell of food nearly drove me wild. I opened the top one. “Pepperoni, mushroom, and black olive!” I took a bite that would have made a great white shark proud.
Mike smirked. “I may not have been the most astute guardian, but I’ve been observant.”
“That reminds me,” I said after swallowing. “I’ve been mea
ning to ask you a few questions. Like, where were you when I was in second grade and had to climb the rope in gym class? I fell fifteen feet onto my back and couldn’t draw a full breath for an hour.”
Mike glanced from Ranofur to me. “You know, I think I left the soda pop in the lobby.”
He snagged a piece of my pizza and hustled to the door just as Elena stepped out of her room wearing low-rise jeans, a Western shirt, and a pair of brown cowboy boots. “Whatever you’re cooking, I’ll take ten,” she yawned then stopped dead at the sight of Mike. “Oh no. You are so not wearing that.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Mike asked, flicking one of the tassels on his shirt.
“We match!” She gestured between them like the problem should have been obvious. “You knew this was all I salvaged from the wreck this morning.”
“You don’t match,” I assured her with my mouth full, shaking my head for extra emphasis.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Just who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
It was Mike’s turn to look put out. “Toby Keith.” He broke into a chorus of “I Should Have Been a Cowboy” just to prove his point.
She raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “I promise I won’t tell him.”
“So, what’s with your rodeo getup?” I asked Elena as she helped herself to the second pizza—ham and pineapple. “You bought those on purpose?”
“You’ve never been to Montana, have you?” she asked dryly.
“Guess I haven’t.” Truth was, she looked good. The boots gave her extra height—not that she needed it—and the jeans and the cut of her shirt accentuated her slenderness. She came across as pretty and at the same time just a little rugged, like she could whip up flapjacks for a whole bunkhouse and wrestle a steer after breakfast.
“Eat up. We leave for Luxet at fourteen hundred hours,” Ranofur informed us as he set down a cookie sheet of three-inch tarts dusted with shaved chocolate and garnished with sprigs of mint. They could have come off an advertisement for a gourmet bakery. I pulled one from its tin and shoved it into my mouth whole.
I melted into my seat. “Where’d you learn how to bake like this?” I asked after licking every dab off my fingers.
“It’s just a hobby,” Ranofur replied with a modest shrug. “A stress reliever. Sometimes I enter contests on my weekends off.”
“These take first prize,” I declared, snatching three more off the cookie sheet.
“Oh, sure,” Mike muttered with mild annoyance, “Hercules can do no wrong.” With a stubborn thrust of his chin, he looked from me to Elena and pronounced, “I’m not changing my clothes.”
****
Fifty minutes later, Southampton gave way to the muddy green fields of the English countryside. I perched next to Mike, and Elena and Ranofur sat in front of us. We had no luggage aside from my backpack and the basket of leftover tarts Ranofur held carefully against the bouncing of the bus. At least he had lost the apron and looked normal in his Dockers and Polo shirt. I was wishing I could trade seats with Elena. No, I was wishing we could trade angels.
“Luxet is only about fifty miles outside the city, right on the English Channel,” Mike informed us. “We should be there in about an hour.”
I leaned my head back against the seat, feeling the hum of the motorway in my ears. We traveled twenty minutes in silence before I asked, “Ranofur, what did you do before you were assigned to Elena?”
“I worked as an agent, second class.”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s my rank. In angel hierarchy, your rank determines your position. The top three are military. As a second class agent, I was involved in instruction, special forces, secret projects. That sort of thing. First class is made up of high commanders and government officials. Third class is mostly rank-and-file military.”
I turned to Mike. “What’s your rank?”
He refused to tell me. “One’s position isn’t always indicative of talent and skill.”
“Oh, come on. I already know Ranofur outranks you. Were you third class?”
He coughed.
“Well?”
He glowered. “Agent, fifth class.”
My eyes flew open. “How many classes are there?”
“Five,” Ranofur explained. “The fifth being those assigned as personal guardians. Prior to the Tree of Life incident, Mike was a non-military administrator, fourth class, but was often given second class clearance due to his skill level. If he’s successful in this special assignment, he’ll be reinstated to his former position.”
I turned to Mike with a mixture of derision and curiosity. “What happened back there at the tree?”
He turned to face the window. A glance at Ranofur revealed only the back of his head. No more information there. I fished my iPod out of my backpack, popped in my ear buds, and watched the countryside pass.
We traveled through a number of small towns, stopping at some and rolling through others. Eventually, Mike stood up as we entered a little hamlet. “This is our stop.”
We were the only passengers to disembark.
“This is it?” Elena asked as the bus disappeared in a cloud of exhaust. It looked like any small town you might find in America but with a distinctly British air. A wall of dainty storefronts lined the sidewalks, and a few automobiles hedged the brick street. Behind them, rows of houses extended outward into the neighborhoods. Elena and Mike looked pretty out of place in their Western duds.
“No, no,” Mike answered. “This is Breston. Luxet is down the road a bit. The bus doesn’t stop there.”
“Just how far down the road?” Elena asked.
“About eight miles.”
For a moment, I thought she was going to deck him. But she sighed, turned, and led the way.
The road wound between low rolling fields edged with walls of stacked stone. Stands of trees, gray stick figures without their leaves, grew twined with underbrush, and one small stream murmured happily on its way to the Channel. We passed only three houses and as many barns.
Before reaching the town, Ranofur directed us into a wooded thicket. “We’ll be sheltered from eyes here,” he said as he pulled a small medieval arsenal from his jacket pockets: knives, hatchets, daggers, all having the same reddish tinge as my sword.
“Whoa!” I cried. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“I told you I had an errand to attend while you were on the plane.”
Elena examined a truly wicked throwing knife with a curved blade on one side, a long spike on the other, and a short spike near the handle grip. “Why didn’t you just buy handguns?”
“You can’t kill supernatural beings with an earthly weapon,” Mike answered, taking the knife and hurling it against a tree. It sliced the air with a whistle and thunked deep into the bark.
I let out a whistle of my own. “Wow.”
Mike sniffed, a little prideful. “I prefer projectiles to closing with an enemy.”
“These weapons were forged with metal mined from the asteroid belt in the Raybold galaxy,” Ranofur told us as he handed Elena and I each a dagger and a small hatchet. “You’ll find no better blades anywhere in the universe.”
Then he pulled out a crossbow. I made a dive for it, but Elena snatched it up first. “You already have the sword, Davis.” With a deft movement, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and cocked the bow. The size and tension fit her perfectly.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” I asked, more than a little impressed.
“They don’t have these in New Jersey?” she smirked, her dark eyes flashing.
Ranofur handed her a slim leather package. “There is one bolt in here. It’s all you’ll need. A multiplication agent has been applied to the leather. As soon as you withdraw the bolt, another will instantly take its place.”
Elena’s mouth dropped open.
“Ancient technology,” Mike assured her with an offhand wave. “Used millennia ago. Elijah and the widow’s oil. The boy with the loaves
and fishes.”
I watched with some jealousy as she fit a bolt into the groove and fired at the same tree. It made only a breath of noise. I rubbed my hands together eagerly. “What else have you got in there, Ranofur?”
“Just this.” He pulled his mace out of his coat.
I hefted it. Barely. “How’d you fit all this stuff in your pockets?”
“They’re lined with the same extra-dimensional material as your makeup case. It’s called Dim-ex. Standard issue.”
He raised his voice and addressed us all. “Learn to be proficient with your weapons. Practice regularly, keep them within easy reach.”
Elena received a handsome leather bag for carrying her weapons. I had to cram mine into my makeup case. “I’ll trade you,” I offered.
“Not a chance, Davis,” she grinned, slinging the strap across her body. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with that thing. Besides,” and she grabbed my cheek, “you look so cute carrying it.”
I knocked her hand away and shoved the pink case in my sweatshirt pocket with some dark mutterings. “How much farther?” I grumbled as we began walking again.
“Not far. Maybe three more miles,” Mike answered.
“You know, I don’t really get how chasing down Swain’s birthplace is going to help us relight the sword.”
“Our task is to relight the sword and stop Swain,” Elena clarified. “Right now our focus isn’t so much the sword as studying our enemy. We don’t know what he’s planning, so learning what we can about him will help us be prepared.”
“Seems like gaining the only weapon that can destroy him would be a better way to go about it.”
“Patience,” Ranofur rumbled. “A good soldier always follows orders.”
“Er,” Mike hesitated, “there may be a reason we were told to pursue Swain first.”
Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul (Taylor Davis, 1) Page 6
