by Brian Fuller
To distract themselves on the drive up, they had lost themselves in the fine art of morphing. Aclima had insisted he go first, his goal to look as handsome and refined as possible. To that end, Aclima coached him into growing his hair out from its normal buzzed state, critiquing the length of every lock until she pronounced it good. His body he had already shaped into a fairly good impression of a male stripper. The last touch had been to tan his flawless skin a little. His Ash Angel teeth were already perfect.
Once he had finished, Aclima got to work. She had climbed in the back seat to dress in her oversized clothes and transform into what she imagined was the antithesis of what Cain would want. Small details—a stray wart, a pimple, or a bulge—she had continued to add ever since until she had almost crossed the line into freakshow territory—almost.
They had rolled into Blaine on Thursday night, the day before the meet, and taken a room in the modest Northwoods Motel, their apparent mixed-attractiveness relationship eliciting a few double takes. They had spent the better part of their spare time driving around town like lost tourists, finding a few Dreads loitering around in cars or in bars. The numbers were fewer than Helo expected, but the rest of Cain’s help might simply have not arrived or were, perhaps, waiting on whatever boat they would likely take their hearts to.
But the time had come.
He left the mirror to check his phone one last time. The hotel room was modest, with two queen beds and furniture of a rustic, country style. Everything was clean, simple, and a little worn, just as he expected from an out-of-the-way motel, and it was way better than what Tela had been staying in.
He snagged his phone off the bedside table, expecting new messages from the singer. Her awful dream had returned full force over the last two nights, and the day before, she’d kept begging him to not do whatever it was he was about to do. He had told her two days ago he would be out of contact, but she kept sending messages anyway. Poor girl. He thought of Dolorem and wondered if his Old Master friend had seen any visions of her.
The bathroom door banged open. “Ta-da!” Aclima said deadpan, extending her arms and thrusting a hip out. Her hair she had morphed into something resembling Goliath’s pixie cut, a cut drowned out by jowls covered in a little too much blush. The hideous red lipstick and deep eyeliner totally ruined an otherwise naturally beautiful face.
Add a little black dress on a not-so-little person and she was perfect. Bulges bumped out everywhere, straps and seams strained to the breaking point. Aclima had morphed the fat rolls on her back to be bigger than her breasts, three of them cascading down the open back of her dress like bread dough. To top it off, a bulbous belly and a badonkadonk butt gave her a third dimension that would challenge airplane seats everywhere.
It was glorious, a masterpiece. He swiped his phone to get the camera up. The team had to see this.
Aclima was there in a heartbeat, grabbing his hand. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, throwing him a sultry look, which her makeup turned into something more threatening. “All of this is for your eyes only.” She winked. “Just kidding. Let’s send a picture. I really put some effort into this.”
She dragged him into her girth, and he snapped a selfie, sending it to the team. This is what we look like, he texted. There was an operational reason for sending the pic, right? The team had to be able to recognize them when they found them, after all.
“Hey, Aclima,” Helo said as she walked to the mirror he had just vacated. “Did you ever know any pirates?”
“A couple,” she said. “Why?”
“Well, I bet they would really like you now because—”
“No, no , no,” she said. “Stop right there. The pirates, chest, and booty thing. Been done.”
“No way,” he said.
“Yep, not by pirates, though. They were kind of a desperate, warped version of frat-house losers who took what they wanted. The pirate pickup line is more modern.”
“You should write a book,” he said, setting his phone back on the table. The electronics would stay with the room, which they had rented for a week.
She pulled at her hair one last time and turned around. “I could. But come here.”
She pulled him into a hug. So much to love. So soft. So engulfing.
“Thank you, Helo, for everything,” she said after a moment. “Let’s get through this, okay?”
She released him and straightened his bow tie.
“That is the plan,” he said. “One last touch for your getup.”
He snagged the pendant Faramir had cooked up off the desk. It was a thick square of black glass, rounded at the edges, with what looked like a single pearl in the middle. When the time was right, she would press the fake pearl, and two chemicals inside the pendant would mix and give off a unique heat signature. He put it around her neck and locked the clasp.
She frowned, fingering it and looking in the mirror. “I haven’t worn jewelry for such a long time.”
He extended an arm. “This one might save our lives. Shall we, my lady?”
She stuffed her beefy arm in his, and they left the room, heading for the lobby. “You know, Helo, you really are bad at coming up with lines to woo the ladies. What did you say to Terissa when you first met her, or did she come to you?”
“She was at a table with some friends,” he said, that night still so clear in his mind. “She’d been looking over at me. I went over and said something brilliant like, ‘Hey, how’s it going?’ Now Brandon, he was good at the lines. He was just born with it.”
The thought of his brother steeled him. This was a chance to avenge him, to find justice for someone Cain had destroyed.
“Well, keep trying,” she said, “but remember, from the moment we step foot on the dock, we are perfect strangers. Just a couple of colleagues thrown together. I will play the bitter woman who doesn’t care a whit for an immature man who hasn’t so much as lived a century, and you treat me like an unattractive former Dread psycho grandma you think might slit your throat. Got it?”
“Yep. And remember, don’t use your healing Bestowal unless it’s necessary. We need to keep your ability secret.”
“Thanks for reminding me yet again,” she said dryly.
The desk clerk—a young woman with blonde hair—grinned at them as they passed by. “Have a great night, you two. Looking good!”
Helo could only imagine what she really thought. Aclima was a sight to behold.
Outside, the sky was a blank nothing, a persistent gray darkening to an even darker persistent gray, like someone slowly closing a coffin lid. Everything was damp, though the intermittent rain had let up for the last hour.
He opened the side door of their rented white Chevy Malibu for Aclima, and she dropped inside, the worn-out suspension sagging a little. When he got inside, he found Aclima regarding him softly, staring at him, really, with a look both resigned and hopeful. Helo smiled reassuringly back and started the car, wipers he’d forgotten to turn off wicking away the droplets of water on the windshield.
“Here we go,” he said. After a silent prayer, he pulled the lever to drive and headed into the oncoming night. The harbor was barely a quarter mile away from the inn through two roundabouts. They had walked it a couple of times and both dreamed of chartering a boat to take them away from the whole mess.
Aclima stared at him the whole ride, the same soft look on her face, and as they turned onto Marine Drive, she reached out and stroked his cheek once, then settled back into her seat with a scowl on her plump face.
Time for him to get into character too. He straightened in his seat a little and slowed. Ahead, a gray van idled in a small parking area jutting out on the north side of the road. A thick, burly Dread leaned against the side, arms folded. He looked like his mother and father were both linebackers, nothing soft about him at all, his red aura adding more menace to an appearance already menacing.
Helo pulled in beside the van, and the Dread straightened, pulling a phone out of his dark leather jacket. He wa
lked forward and stopped by the driver-side window. Helo rolled it down. The Dread glanced inside like a cop checking for an open container of alcohol. Then he glanced at his phone.
“She doesn’t look like Aclima,” he said. Helo caught a glimpse of their pictures on his screen.
“We can morph, dumbass,” Helo said. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”
He glowered at them. “I said it doesn’t look like Aclima.”
“How’s this?” Aclima said, and in a few seconds she had morphed her face into something more like her own.
The Dread looked at her for a moment and then extended his hand. “Give me the keys. Get in the van.”
Helo killed the engine and handed them over. “License and registration, too?”
The Dread ignored him and marched over to the van, opening the rear doors. Helo got out, Aclima following suit. Her face was already back to its morphed, puffy self. She played the part of disinterested colleague well, not even looking at him, face set and hard. He did the same.
The back of the van was nothing special. No seats. They clambered inside, and the Dread shut the double doors. A second Dread in the passenger seat leaned around and shot them a crusty glare. He was a burly meathead like his companion, with the addition of a scraggly beard. He jammed a clip in his Dread-issue pistol so they could see it and sneered.
“Looks like y’all are ready for a fancy party,” he said in a thick Texas drawl.
A hick Dread. Just great.
“Well, good job, Helo,” the hick continued, “you picked yourself the oldest, fattest heifer in the herd, didn’t ya? Or I guess you might say cougar, right? You know she’s a might older than you, like, by a thousand years or somethin’. Probably got lots of experience, though, if you know what I mean.”
The first Dread climbed into the van and started it.
“Hey,” the hick Dread said to his companion, “why you figure these two is all dressed up like they going to some ball or something? I mean, they’d better put some extra joists under the floor for her, right?”
“Don’t care,” the first said. “Keep your mouth shut.”
Rather than drive out toward the boats waiting in the distance along the dock, the Dread did a U-turn and headed back toward town. Helo had imagined they would cut their hearts out inside a boat and then let them go or maybe kill them right there on the off chance Cain had tired of playing his own games.
Instead, they drove east, heading out of Blaine and into more sparsely populated country. The hick Dread kept leaning around his seat and flashing his gun and a row of sickly teeth as if to remind them he would be happy to blast them at any time. Luckily, he obeyed the first Dread’s command and didn’t say anything.
Dusk fell, though it had no visible effect on the Dreads. From what Helo had learned from Aclima, the Dread version of Rapture had no rapture in it whatsoever, only an immediate healing effect.
The van slowed, and the Dread driver turned into a gravel parking lot. The headlights played across what looked like an abandoned mechanic’s shop surrounded by a dense grove of trees eager to swallow the place whole. The shop had four bays, and the left-most door was open, another Dread standing just inside. Helo glanced at Aclima. There was a Sheid here, one he’d been sensing from a few miles down the road. Aclima had shut her eyes, fighting against the Vexus rolling out of the shop.
“We’re here, y’all,” the hick said, pointing his gun at them. “No tricks. Tricks’ll get ya a hole in the head.”
Helo really wanted to smash the rest of the Dread’s rotten teeth out of his face. Maybe he would get the chance. Where had they dug this guy up, anyway?
The van pulled in, and the bay door banged shut behind them.
The hick Dread kept his gun trained on them while the driver stepped out, leaving the van running. Aclima had her eyes open now, and moments later the rear hatch of the van swung wide. A desecration field already flooded the floor, the Sheid somewhere off to their left.
The Dread driver and a new Dread stood to either side of the opening. The new Dread was Asian and wore a tank top, gray cargo pants, and a bored expression. He was toned, though. Whatever kind of mortal life the evil menace had lived, it hadn’t been an idle one.
“Out,” the driver said.
Helo slid out. He almost turned to help Aclima out before he remembered he was supposed to treat her like someone he didn’t like or trust. Three white Cadillac sedans filled the other bays.
“You sure this is Aclima?” the new Dread asked as she worked her way out.
Then Avadan popped out from somewhere off to Helo’s right, coming toward them out of the dark. He was dressed like an American colonial soldier save for a pair of four-inch black heels he wore quite naturally. The Sheid was right behind him, morphed like Helo, desecration field pulsing out of its feet to cover the oil-stained concrete floor.
Aclima had told him one could recognize a Sheid by its feel, and Helo was well acquainted with this one, the one who had gotten away. The one who could summon storms and earthquakes. It was two Dreads away from him. If he could surprise them and kill it . . .
“It’s her!” Avadan said excitedly, clapping his hands together. “Mother!”
Like a six-year-old, the kooky Dread Loremaster threw his arms around her rotund frame and buried his head in her ample bosom. Aclima did not return the hug, face twisted in disgust. This was her son, but Helo couldn’t detect a single motherly emotion. She hated Avadan just like she hated Cain, familial blood notwithstanding.
Avadan finally stood back and put her at arm’s length. He swiped a hand across his cheek as if to dispel a tear Helo doubted he had actually cried.
“Well, I am glad they are feeding you, Mother, but you know how Daddy always liked you thin. But no matter! There is so much to catch up on! But you know Cain. No time for the kids when Daddy wants a little playtime with Mommy, isn’t that right? Not that you ever wanted any time with your boy, Avadan.”
His tone took on a sour flavor, his gaze like the burning edge of a knife for several moments. While Cain had reasons for his vengeance against Aclima, it seemed Avadan did too.
The Loremaster turned to the three Dreads standing around the van, and even the unhinged hick flinched when Avadan’s gaze fell across him. “Get my mother ready to travel while I have a private word with Helo. Keep the clothes nice or Cain might get angry like he does.”
Avadan strutted over to Helo while the Dread who had driven them shoved a black sack over Aclima’s head and told her to extend her arms. The Dread who had been in the bay when they arrived started going over her body with a metal-detector paddle.
Helo tried to focus on Avadan, the Sheid still a bit too far away for him to attempt rushing it.
“Helo, Helo, Helo,” Avadan said. The Loremaster looked him over and then brushed something off the shoulder of his tux. Then he pinched his chin in thought. “You know the little conversation we had at my house the other day about angels and you being born and so forth? Well, I just happened to be reading in Micah’s book the other day, and it reminded me of something. Did you know that those who are born, as we discussed, have the ability to get a Bestowal anytime they want? Fascinating, right? And handy. Ash Angels heal when they get Bestowals, from what I understand.”
Helo’s eyes narrowed. Was this true? They really needed to get a hold of Micah’s book, The Mysteries of Light, which Avadan had stolen. But it was strange. Just as he had in his prison, it seemed like Avadan was trying to help him, and from the Loremaster’s backhanded way of going about it, it was possible he hadn’t told Cain about Helo’s being angel born. But why would he keep that information from Cain? Avadan winked at him, and then Aclima screamed, sending every other thought flying.
The Dreads were breaking her down. They snapped her elbows backward, and in the desecration field, she felt every crack. Then they broke her knees while another Dread strained to keep her from collapsing to the ground—not an easy task. The hick Dread—who had done the br
eaking—wrapped his hand around her throat. His aura flashed, and Aclima immediately aged fifty years, skin wrinkling and sagging, hair graying. They dragged her away toward one of the three sedans parked in the other bays of the garage.
“Now,” Avadan said, whispering, “when one holds an advantage like not feeling pain in a desecration field, it might be best to try a little theater to ensure an advantage stays an advantage. You understand?”
Helo nodded.
“Good,” Avadan said, patting his cheek. “A smart boy. Well. I regret that my Sheid and I won’t be accompanying you to Cain’s little party. Seems he wants this to be his show and is probably afraid I would improve it for him. No invite for me. Selfish, really, but Cain can be such a little diva. I so wanted to see what he had planned since he has gone to so much trouble to set it up.”
Helo had a hard time focusing on Avadan’s words, Aclima’s pained whimpering demanding his attention until the Dreads crushed her throat to silence her and tossed her ungainly body into the trunk of one of the cars. Now out of the desecration field, her cries stopped, and he closed his eyes for a moment to control his desire to pound something. He was sure he could take all three of them if the Sheid wasn’t around, take them out and get Aclima away from the whole mess. When he opened his eyes, Avadan was regarding him with a calculating look.
“Interesting,” he said, apropos of nothing. The Dreads were on their way back over, and Avadan grinned and then twirled in his four-inch heels in a well-practiced move. With a glance over his shoulder, he said, “Remember the theater, Helo!”
Avadan was a weird one, for sure. How much did his bizarre behavior camouflage his cunning, and was it cunning or straight-up crazy?
The three Dreads walked up, and the last face Helo saw before the bag went over his head was the hick and his yellowy, half-absent smile. When he felt a sucker punch to the gut, it took Helo a half a second to remember Avadan’s advice and Cassandra’s “act normal” training. He doubled over in fake pain and sucked a breath through his teeth.
