Cosmopolitan

by Shayne Silvers

  I strolled past Madison Square Garden, dodging the numerous pedestrians milling about, the various urban scents mingling and brushing past: the acrid stench of pot, the clean, crisp scent of a man’s aftershave, the savory odor of seared animal flesh from a gyro stand at the end of the block.

  I picked up a few conversations as I went but understood very few; I heard the nasally exchange of French, the halting droll of Czech, the boisterous chittering of Mandarin. Funnily enough, what few English conversations I could make out were so smothered in New York flavor that they were more or less unintelligible, as well.

  Admittedly, I hadn’t always cared for New York. I mean, Yankee fans lived here. But I’d found that—the older I got—the more I valued what the Big Apple had to offer. It had something no other city, not even Boston, had—an edgy quality that pushed you to move faster, talk louder, and dress smarter.

  In Boston, it paid to be tougher than the nails they’d use to seal your coffin. In New York City, it paid to own the nails, the wood, and the mortuary—a fiscal lesson I’d learned in my late teens. A few months out of high school, eager to start my “adult life” and get out of the rut that afflicts those of us who graduate high school without direction of any kind, I’d packed my meager belongings, said my goodbyes, and left Boston. I was a penniless, gangly girl who hated having her personal space invaded.

  And I’d come to New York City.

  That’s right, people. I never said I was brilliant.

  I ended up paying fifteen-hundred dollars a month to sleep in a closet. That’s not a metaphor, either; I slept in a friend’s walk-in on a cot that she must have bought at a Guantanamo Bay Clearout Sale. I’d done everything I could to pay rent each month—waited tables, worked catering events, sold pot—when it got to the point that I had to choose between having a place to live or having enough to eat, I’d left with my tail between my legs, begging Dez to take me back.

  I’d returned a few times since with a progressively healthier bank account. Coincidentally, each time I came, I’d had a little more fun. Most of that could be attributed to shopping, but part of it was knowing—deep down—that I wouldn’t have to worry about where I was going to sleep, or what I could afford to eat. Money’s a funny thing. When you have it, you don’t really think about it; when you don’t, it’s all you think about.

  Frankly, I was glad to have checked off that part of my life—I had plenty of other shit to worry about. Shit like the homeless man with the smoke and sparks spewing from his eyes and mouth, waving at me, the dog beside him wagging her tail.

  A brief look around told me that I’d worked my way into the heart of Penn Station without realizing it, my feet taking me to familiar places. The man with his face on fire sat against a large tiled mural in a large alcove that curved towards the subway platforms, a cardboard sign in front of him that read “Ninjas Killed My Family: Need Money for Kung-Fu Lessons.” Everyone else, hurrying to catch their next train, passed by him without a second glance, even as sparks landed precariously close to their feet. The Ifrit—a breed of djinn rarely seen outside the Middle East—ignored them, but waved me over after flashing an expectant grin.

  I adjusted, snaking my way to his side, and shoved a crisp hundred-dollar bill into his cup. His dog, a half-blind Saluki—an Arabian Greyhound, deep-chested and long-limbed with brindled fur—nudged me with its head until I reached down to scratch behind its ears.

  “Talk to me, Karim,” I said, my mind racing with sudden possibilities.

  Karim was what you might call an informant. There were Freaks like him all over the city—information brokers willing to trade what they knew for a little incentive. Karim, like most of the Freaks living on the fringes of society, preferred cold hard cash. Easy to spend, hard to trace. He and I had met years ago, not long before I gave up on New York and headed back to Boston. I’d been riding the subway, headed downtown, when he’d stepped on—his eyes like liquid flame, his dreadlocks and beard made out of volcanic ash.

  I’d almost peed myself.

  He’d caught me staring as the train took off and approached a few stops later. At first, I’d planned to bolt, but there was something about Karim—his smooth, smoky tenor, maybe, or the chill vibe he gave off—that put me immediately at ease. Later I learned that only Freaks were capable of seeing through the illusion charm he wore—interwoven bracelets made of hemp that looped over each wrist. To everyone else, Karim appeared no different than so many of the homeless living in NYC—especially if those individuals were to channel the spirit of a Middle Eastern Bob Marley. It was a good disguise, especially in New York City; most people avoid looking too hard at the homeless. Karim used that anonymity to his advantage, keeping his eyes and ears open.

  Stumbling upon him now was pure luck.

  “Well hey there, zeebaa,” Karim said, his accent gruff and reeking of Queens, with only a trace of its Persian origins. “Been a while.”

  “Aye, it has. And how have ye been?”

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Livin’ the dream,” I quipped, shrugging. Karim’s dog hunkered down, forcing me to drop to a knee to continue petting her. I winced and resolved to get some new boots while in town; these were one of my cutest pairs, but my feet were already starting to ache, and New York was not kind to shoes, or feet. Being a girl could be frustrating like that: the better you looked, the more pain you were probably in.

  Karim chuckled. “I bet you are. So, you paid. Ask away.” He patted various pockets, then produced a pack of rolling papers and a dime bag full of pot. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t. As creatures of the Islamic underworld, Ifrits were traditionally hostile at best—I’d encountered a sultan’s djinn-laden security team once and had experienced their unfortunate temperament firsthand. Karim’s stoner tendencies mellowed him out considerably, so I certainly wasn’t going to stop him. I watched him prepare a joint and continued petting his pup, catching that sweet spot behind her ear. “I need you to tell me everything you know about a broker here in town. A guy named John Chapman.”

  Karim grunted, spinning the thin sheet of paper with remarkable precision. “Whatcha wanna know ‘bout the Nurseryman, for?”

  “The who?”

  Karim raised the joint, licked its edge, and pinned it closed with his thumbs. “The Nurseryman. Appleseed. Johnny Appleseed.”

  I pulled off my sunglasses so I could look Karim in the eye and see if he was fucking with me or not. “John Chapman is Johnny Appleseed,” I said. “Ye have got to be kiddin’ me.”

  “I ain’t seen that dude in forever. Used to come ‘round all the time. You know, for apple picking season up north. Pretty sure he started that trend.”

  “I just met him,” I explained. “He has somethin’ I need.”

  “Same ol’ Quinn,” Karim said with a chuckle, “always in a rush.” He lit the joint with his tongue—a simple flick. He took a deep toke before exhaling the smoke. It mingled with the haze of hot air that constantly wafted off his body. “Sorry, I can’t tell you much that you couldn’t find out yourself. He was one of the originals. The American legends.”

  “Next you’ll be tellin’ me all about John Henry and Paul Bunyan,” I scoffed.

  “Ain’t much worth telling. Bunyan wandered up to Canada, last I heard. Henry got into the jazz scene. You’ll find him wherever that’s kicking off these days.”

  I gave up on decorum and settled down next to Karim, half tempted to ask him to pass the roach. The idea that American legends were out there, still breathing long after the history books had set them aside, floored me. Of course, I shouldn’t have been that surprised. According to Othello, there were legends popping up all over St. Louis—Achilles owned a bar there. That’s right, the Achilles. In comparison, Johnny Appleseed seemed significantly less far-fetched. Of course, that also meant I’d been crushing on a long-dead folk hero.

  My luck in a nutshell.

  I sighed. “Anythin’ else ye can tell me?”
>
  Karim flicked the ash off his joint. “Well, I’d probably have told you this for free, but it looks like there’s something big in the works. Word is there’re big shots in town throwing their weight around. Most of my people have already gone to ground. Me and Jasmine here’ll be headed that way, ourselves, before long.”

  “Somethin’ big like what?” I asked.

  Karim shook his head. “Gotta be pretty bad to shake up this town. You know New Yorkers—nothing fazes ‘em. I caught a whiff of something the other day, though, which got me spooked. I was uptown for a change, and could’ve sworn I saw one of the Nephilim. I booked it out of there as fast as I could. One demon is as good as another to that bunch—they get confused easy and ask questions later.”

  I frowned. The Nephilim were half-human, half-angel servants of God. From what little I knew of them, they sounded a lot like a paramilitary organization—Heaven’s militia. What with everything that had gone down at the Vatican recently, though, I hadn’t expected them to pop up on US soil for a while. Not unless we’d had something to do with it. “Wonder what they’re doin’ here…” I muttered.

  “I wouldn’t stress about it, zeebaa. Wrap up whatever you’ve got going on with Appleseed and bounce.”

  “I would, but it’s complicated. I have to make a trade, but I don’t know what he wants.”

  Karim seemed to consider that. “I’ll ask around, see if I can’t find out. Maybe…” Karim paused. “Hey, this place look a little dead to you?” he asked.

  I followed his eyes and realized he was right; over the course of our conversation, our little section of Penn Station had become deserted. Which made no sense. Barring construction or freak accidents, Penn Station was never this empty. It would take a miracle. The sound of boots clipping the concrete echoed down the corridor and a figure made out of pure light strolled towards us.

  A miracle. Or, you know, an angel.

  The being stopped a few feet from us, the light it emitted almost oppressively bright. I put my sunglasses back on. “Hey, tone it down! I’m tryin’ to see here,” I yelled, mimicking Dustin Hoffman’s accent in Midnight Cowboy. The light dimmed, then faded altogether, revealing a primly-dressed man in a tailored navy-blue suit. He had a khaki trench coat folded over one arm and an umbrella in his other hand.

  “My apologies,” he replied. “Side effect. Clearing out any part of this city for any length of time takes a little doing. I tried it on Times Square once and glowed in the dark for two years straight.”

  I exchanged a look with Karim, trying to determine if I’d just heard an angel make a joke. The Ifrit was grinning maniacally. It was hard to tell if he was stoned—what with his eyes being made from roiling flames and all—but then he giggled. “This is some good shit,” he commented, admiring the joint.

  Totally stoned.

  The man’s attention shifted to the Ifrit. He sighed. “An infernal. Does this mean you’re with them?”

  “With whom?” I asked.

  “He thinks I’m a demon,” Karim said, nudging me. “I mean, I am a demon. But he thinks I’m, you know, working with the Christian demons. Pitchforks and horns and shit. Corrupting souls.” He took another hit and sighed.

  “You’re not, are ye?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “No way. Their benefits package sucks ass. Besides, they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘chill.’ It’s all Armageddon this and Armageddon that with those guys.”

  “It is closer than you’d think,” the man interjected. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I followed you from Mr. Chapman’s hotel. I’d like to know what you offered him, and who you’re working for.”

  “Why should I tell ye?” I asked, rising to my feet. This didn’t seem like the sort of conversation to have sitting down. Besides, I wanted fast and easy access to the gun at my back, if necessary.

  “Because we have already made a deal with Mr. Chapman, and it’s my job to ensure the handoff goes smoothly.”

  “And who are ye?”

  “I’m one of the Grigori. My name is Darrel.”

  Karim’s snicker earned a glare from the man, but the Ifrit held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. It’s just too funny.”

  “His name?” I asked, smirking.

  “No, you. You’re the only person I know who has shit like this happen to them. I didn’t even know the Watchers were around anymore, and you’ve got them watching you. If I bought into karma, I’d wonder what you did to deserve all the attention.”

  Sadly, I had to agree with Karim. It wasn’t so much that I went out looking for trouble; I’d had plenty of deals end amicably, with little to no bloodshed. But for most, a bad day at work could be solved with a bubble bath and a bottle of wine. My bad days, on the other hand, necessitated an Emergency Kit and prescription-strength painkillers.

  I studied the angel with the unfortunate name, weighing my options. My Biblical knowledge was limited, but after spending most of my formative years in Catholic school, I knew enough to get by. From what I could recall, the Grigori were angels tasked with monitoring mankind, which meant I’d done something to draw their attention. In a way, it was flattering. I mean, people prayed for angelic intercession every day, right? Guess that made me special.

  Thing is, I was a little underwhelmed. Ever since I’d begun tangling with creatures fresh out of storybooks, I’d kept an eye out for angels. Who wouldn’t after being raised in the Church? But they’d proven elusive; this was my first time actually meeting one. I guess I’d always pictured some gorgeous behemoth bathed in light with impossibly beautiful wings carved out of fire and glass. The reality—a smartly dressed, average-looking man of intermediate height—was disappointing. I guess it showed, too.

  “Quit looking at me like that,” Darrel the Angel said.

  “Darrel, really?” I asked, leaning this way and that to look him over.

  “What’s wrong with Darrel?”

  I shrugged. “Nothin’. Just wonderin’ where ye keep your crossbow.”

  “Oh, hah hah.” Darrel mocked, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s not even spelled the same. And it’s Darrel,” he said, putting the emphasis on the second syllable.

  “Whatever ye say, Reedus,” I teased, surprised he’d even gotten the reference. “So, what are ye givin’ Chapman for the seed?” I asked, hoping to catch him off guard.

  “Something only Heaven can give. Quit stalling. Who are you working for, and how were you able to pass through the wards we put around the hotel?”

  “Those were your wards?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course. Mr. Chapman requested a few days to…prepare. We agreed, but on the condition that he be monitored at all times. We intend to protect our investment. Which is why I’m here, talking to you.” Darrel said the last as if he were talking to a child.

  Karim turned his furnace-eyed stare to me. “You walked through wards drawn by angels?”

  I shrugged.

  “That’s so rad, girl,” he said, nudging me for the second time.

  Darrel coughed impatiently. “Your employer?”

  I wavered back and forth between telling him the truth. Othello hadn’t strictly forbidden me from mentioning GrimmTech’s interest in the seed, but then she hadn’t mentioned angelic meddling, either…or maybe she had. I played back our conversation in my head and groaned.

  “What?” Darrel asked.

  “Prepositions,” I responded, mournfully.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Under. Above.” I sighed. “Nevermind. Listen, I appreciate the position you’re in, but I canno’ go around divulgin’ information on a client. Bad for business, ye see.”

  The angel scowled. “I see. Well, it looks like we’re at an impasse, then. You don’t want to tell me who you work for, and I can’t have you running around the city screwing things up. So, you’ll have to leave.”

  “The hell I will,” I said, scoffing.

  “Oh, I wasn’t asking. Don’t worry, t
his won’t be painful.” Darrel reached for me, snatching at my forearm. Karim’s dog lost her shit, her claws scrabbling across the ground as she barked and snarled. I jerked back, but he was surprisingly quick—inhumanly so. Karim tried to intervene, but Darrel flicked a hand at the Ifrit, sending him flying into the tiled mural, pinning him in place with what looked eerily like The Force. A few chips of the wall broke off and drifted to the floor in slow motion, as if gravity had momentarily given up.

  Darrel’s light returned, momentarily blinding me.

  Chapter 13

  The light faded.

  I blinked away tears and yanked my arm free of Darrel’s grasp only to find he’d already released me. I looked around, not sure what to expect…but everything looked more or less the same—excluding the section of wall that had been shattered, and Karim, who had keeled over onto the ground, moaning.

  I turned, fully prepared to take on an angel, but Darrel’s expression was so bewildered that it would have felt like punching a baby. He spun in a slow circle. “I don’t understand…”

  “What were ye tryin’ to do, ye bastard?” I shouted.

  “Shhh, I’m thinking.”

  Oh, hell no.

  Who the fuck did he think he was talking to?

  I snatched him by his collar, drew back, and coldcocked him as hard as I could. I put the full force of my body behind the throw, twisting my torso, juking my ankle—my right hook was nothing to sniff at…unless I hit you with it, and then you’d be sniffing to keep the blood off your face. After what he’d done to Karim and his dismissive attitude towards me, I fully intended to break the angel’s jaw.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Darrel stared at my fist, which hovered a few inches from his face, in surprise. No matter how hard I tried to make up the difference, I couldn’t force my knuckles any closer; it felt like when you try to shove two magnetic poles together, as if I’d slide off to the side before I ever managed to touch him. Out of curiosity, I reared back and fired two more shots at him—a jab with my left, followed by a straight. Again, I was stopped short. Darrel flinched with each attempt, however—which likely meant he wasn’t the one responsible for blocking my attempts.