by Brian Fuller
“Why do you drink poop and pee, Sherman Lee?” the boy Alan continued.
“Because it reminds me of you,” Trace sneered back.
The entourage around them oohed and laughed. Maybe he could get the hang of this. He had an older brother, after all. It was all in there somewhere if he could just loosen up. Cassandra’s review after the first day was that he was wooden. After the second day she pronounced him unnatural, and he wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than wooden. Today he would shoot for “not awful.”
The class burst out into a partly cloudy, cool day and immediately formed teams for the daily soccer match. Thanks to his previous two days’ performance, Trace found himself picked first, which he found oddly gratifying.
“Shermie!” Cassandra said from behind him.
“Not now, Abbie,” Trace responded. “We’re about to play!”
“Shermie?” Alan mocked. “Shermie the wormy! Shermie the wormy!”
“Look flustered,” Cassandra prompted.
Trace tried, but Cassandra shook her head and signaled him over. Today she wore an impossibly white dress with shiny black shoes. She had managed to ditch all four hundred of her new friends, so whatever she wanted was important. Trace trotted over.
“Made any progress, Jarhead?” she asked. Cassandra the child was indeed a vision of cute loveliness. Watching her behave like a happy, innocent girl for nearly three days had almost made him forget her real nature.
“I’m doing better—I think. But how is it that you have clothes that look like they come from a designer catalog and I’m looking like secondhand Dan?” His frayed jeans and faded Pittsburgh Steelers shirt had clearly blessed a number of other children before they had come to him.
She smiled. “Mommy and Daddy love me more.”
“Hey, Wormy!” Alan shouted. “You comin’, or are you going to play princesses with your sister?”
Trace angled his head around. “Shut your hole, Alan!”
“Nice,” Cassandra complimented dryly. “I think you are getting better. I mean, not all kids are happy and carefree. Some of them are angry and antisocial. Serial killers have to come from somewhere.”
“Yeah, from families where their twin sisters are spoiled. You done?” he asked, noticing the game starting up out of the corner of his eye.
“Not quite. Look over on the sidewalk. See the jogger?”
He was creepy and hard to miss. Trace nodded.
Cassandra’s steely eyes followed him down the sidewalk. “He always jogs by three times, always at recess when the kids are out. He’s dirty. I know it.”
Trace watched him as he passed. He wore a diaphanous tank top and tiny black spandex jogging shorts despite the cool weather. “He’s got no aura and no spirit hanging off of him. Why do you think he’s ‘dirty,’ by which I assume you mean some sort of perv?”
“I was a cop, remember?” she explained. “After a while on the job you develop a sixth sense for these creeps. Come on.”
“What? Where are we going?” he asked.
She skipped off toward the fence without a look back, and Trace followed. She was going to confront him. Was that “procedure and protocol”?
“Hey! Shouldn’t we call this in? Just have HQ check this guy out?” Trace asked as they arrived at the edge of the playground. The fence around the grounds stood higher than their heads and consisted of closely spaced, black metal bars. Cassandra jumped up on the lower crossbar so that her head stuck up over the top.
She ignored his question. “He usually does two more passes. Get up here.”
Trace complied, glancing back over his shoulder to see if any of the teachers on duty might be concerned that a couple of second graders appeared ready to jump the fence. None were. True to Cassandra’s prediction, the man had indeed turned around and jogged back in their direction. He had a thin, malnourished face like he’d been living on a diet of grease while trapped in a cave. His bushy mustache popped out like a squirrel tail, and his black, stringy hair draped over his head with an oily sheen.
“Okay, this guy looks like the movie stereotype of a perv, Cassandra, but ten bucks says he’s just a harmless loner who makes poor athletic-clothing choices.”
“You’re on, Jarhead. Watch and learn.”
The man glanced at them as he approached, gaze alternating between the two of them. Trace expected him to move past, but he stopped, neatly concealing himself by jogging in place behind one of the brick pillars that interrupted the fence every fifteen feet.
“Hey, kids!” he said brightly, thin lips bending up in a friendly smile. “You two looking for something?”
“We saw a puppy go by a minute ago,” Cassandra lied sweetly. “You seen him?”
The jogger raised his eyes in surprise. “Did you see him? That’s my dog, Peetie! I’ve been running around trying to find him! Do you kids want to help me find him?”
“Sure!” Cassandra agreed. “He was sooooo cute!”
“That’s Peetie, all right!” the jogger said, stopping his jogging motions and craning his head to peer through the bars to see if the coast was clear. “If we find him, I’ll give you both ten dollars.”
Trace jumped in. “I don’t know, Abbie. We’ve got to get back to class.”
“Abbie? That’s a pretty name. This won’t take long. If we can’t find him, I’ll get you back to class on time. I had to have some kids help me find him last week, too.”
“I dunno, Abbie,” Trace warned. How far would she take this?
Cassandra winked at Trace and then turned back to the jogger. “Can you help me over?”
The jogger looked through the fence again. “Sure.” He reached his hand up. “Hurry, before Peetie runs farther away!”
Cassandra pushed up and held an arm out. As soon as he grabbed her forearm, she screamed, as horrible a shriek as Trace had ever heard, and then fell backward onto the ground, soiling her immaculate white dress. The jogger bolted. Tears burst out of her eyes, and Trace helped her up. Cassandra had formed a bruise on her arm where the man had touched it. “He tried to grab me,” she sobbed. “And you owe me ten bucks, loser. Flush your face. Act upset.”
Trace tried to get into the spirit of things, calling forth his best worried and scared. By the time the two recess attendants arrived, little Abigail was a mess of tears, snot, and dirt, crying uncontrollably with such sincerity that Trace was genuinely moved. Cassandra was good.
“C’mon honey,” a Mrs. Wright soothed. “Let’s get you inside. Tell me what happened.”
Within the hour, Goldbow and Prescilla arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Lee.
Prescilla, dressed in an obnoxious flower-print dress, came off as bewildered. Goldbow was no actor, either. While they got the hug and protect the kids right, the tenor of their emotion was off; Goldbow was too angry and not enough concerned, and Prescilla was too silent and sullen. But by the end of a long day at the school, hospital, and police office, the authorities had informed them they had collared a Mr. Alcott and started a full investigation.
“So how is that any different than what I did?” Trace complained on their way back to Trevex later that evening, a self-satisfied Cassandra undoing her pigtails in the seat next to him. “I have a hard time believing that was any more ‘procedure’ than my frame attempt.”
Cassandra shook her head disappointedly. “Jarhead, Jarhead, Jarhead. It’s the difference between art and a fraternity school prank. What just happened was a classic sting operation with an Ash Angel twist. The perp will be tried and jailed for crimes he actually committed or tried to commit and will probably be convicted. I’m sure a search of his home will turn up all sorts of revolting contraband.”
“My guys were jailed for stuff they did,” Trace countered.
Cassandra flicked an elastic at him. “And they were also jailed for being naked Nazi streakers in a school zone, which I’m pretty sure they would not have done. In fact, that whole bit will make it more likely for a jury to believe they were coerced, and
they could get set free due to reasonable doubt. In a way, you have made it more likely they won’t be punished.”
“Jarhead’s way still owns,” Goldbow added supportively. “Naked Nazi is officially epic at Trevex.”
“Thanks, Goldbow,” Trace said, “but the name is still Trace.”
Goldbow laughed. “Cassandra called the last guy she trained Chumpkins for nearly two years before she relented. Don’t worry. You’ll get to choose your Ash Angel name soon enough, and Cassandra will call you whatever it is sometime in the next decade.”
“Have you decided on a name, Prescilla?” Trace asked.
“Sapphire.”
“I like it,” Trace praised her. “Any special meaning?”
“One of the slaves on the Underground Railroad had been gifted a sapphire pendant from the sympathetic wife of her former master. She intended to take it north and sell it to start a new life, but after I had cared for her in secret while she suffered from a consumptive fever, she gave it to me as a gift. She died shortly thereafter, I’m afraid, but I always wore it. I was wearing it the night my husband beat me to death with a fire poker for harboring slaves under his nose.”
Prescilla’s story cast a pall on the car, though she didn’t seem the least bit perturbed as she steadily worked on her increasingly detailed angel.
Trace wondered if she was really as detached from the memory of her death as she seemed, or if she, like Trace, was trying to bury horrifying events under a mountain of productive activities. While other Ash Angels might have the benefit of distance, for Trace and Prescilla, their loved ones’ betrayals had happened scant weeks ago. Around-the-clock training kept thoughts of Terissa at bay, and he hoped he could soon stuff that memory away for good.
To keep up appearances, they skipped elementary school the rest of the week. Under orders from Ramis, Cassandra took him out of the regular Cherub classes, which were dwindling as ride-alongs and evaluations kicked into full gear. She rode him hard on morphing. Getting his hair right seemed almost impossible. Any style other than the one he had worn for years—short—took him what Cassandra termed decades. The beer gut he could pull off with acceptable speed, and while he’d improved at adding blemishes and warping his teeth, when Monday rolled around, Cassandra could only muster “slightly less pathetic” by way of praise.
When they arrived back at Olivetta, Trace again had to deal with the odd cognitive strain of seeing a woman who had chided and pushed him until he wanted to pound his head into a wall turn into the innocent, sweet little Abigail with her unicorn backpack and ruby-red shoes. Her posse of friends doubled, and Trace felt like a mop in a dark broom closet for all the attention he got.
Ms. Ruffner practically melted all over her darling Abigail, lavishing her with a big hug.
“How are you holding up there, sis?” Trace asked with mock sincerity as they headed out for recess two hours later.
“Go away, Sherman!” she ordered, eliciting giggles from her friends.
“Hey, Shermy!” Alan yelled. “How come you didn’t go catch the bad guy? If it was my sister, I would have jumped over the fence and squished his face!”
Cassandra smiled wickedly. “Sherman was scared. He peed his pants.”
Trace rolled his eyes up into his head. He knew how to act this one out. “I did not! That’s a lie! I’m going to tell Mom! She said if you didn’t stop lying she was going to take you to the head doctor!”
“Shut up, Sherman!” Abigail wailed, tears springing from her eyes. She darted away crying.
“I’m telling Ms. Ruffner what you said,” Alan taunted, turning back toward the classrooms.
Trace flew through the doors and out into the playground. If Ms. Ruffner wanted to get him in trouble, she was going to have to find him.
Cassandra sat on the swings wiping her eyes while her friends swirled around her. Cassandra could act like a schoolgirl to uncanny perfection, and Trace knew he had a lot to learn before he could even approach Cassandra’s skill level. Remembering to breathe and act huffy, Trace folded his arms and tried to find a place to get lost among all the playground equipment.
As he camped out underneath a double slide, the flash of a red aura out on the street caught his eye. A beat up Geo Metro driven by an innocuous looking Dread cruised by the school. The red aura was unmistakable, and the male driver looked long and hard at the playground as he passed, his excessive attention signaling some hidden intent.
Trace jumped to his feet and jogged over to the swings. “Go away, Sherman!” Cassandra pouted. “I don’t want to talk to you.” Her friends stared at him with loathing.
They had worked out the key phrase beforehand. “I found your red marker.”
She wiped her eyes and hopped up. “Show me where.”
It took some effort to escape her friends, but by the time they reached the doors, they’d managed to shed them.
“One just drove by on the street,” Trace reported. “Worn-down Geo Metro. He was scanning the yard looking for something.”
Cassandra nodded. “We’re blown. Did you get the license plate?”
“It was too far away to—”
“Sherman Lee!”
Trace winced as Ms. Ruffner’s shrill voice cut down the corridor. He glanced up, finding the teacher’s eyes bearing down on him with fiery indignation, an incensed goddess ready to smite a little devil for hurting her angel.
Alan, arms folded, stood behind Ms. Ruffner with a smug grin. Trace glanced at Cassandra, who quickly changed her mission-ready face back to the childlike Abigail.
“It’s okay, Ms. Ruffner,” Cassandra said, big blue eyes blooming with innocent goodness as she put her arm around her properly subdued brother. “We fight all the time. He said he was sorry. Didn’t you, Shermie?”
Trace went for bashful and nodded, eyes firmly fixed on the floor.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sherman,” the teacher scolded. “After what your sister went through. Just . . . get out of my sight!”
Alan looked a bit deflated by the fact that Ms. Ruffner hadn’t decapitated Sherman. He walked by with a sneer and banged the door open, heading outside. Abigail flipped back to Cassandra.
“You stay here. I’ll get my phone. We’ve got to leave fast.”
“But they can’t tell who we are,” Trace said.
“No, but they know Ash Angels are here. What could have tipped them off? This was clean. Hardly anyone knows about it.” Her musings took her inward for a moment as she tried to reason it out. “We’ll figure it out later,” she said, face determined. “We’ve drawn Dread attention here, and we’ve got to exit as soon as we can. Stay here. My phone is in my backpack.”
She skipped off humming a singsong tune, all appearance of concern gone. Trace leaned against a wall. How had the Dreads found them? Had something slipped through during all the interviews and attention from Cassandra’s improvised sting operation? Did Dreads have human spies that had picked him out because he wasn’t acting convincingly like a child? Perhaps it was dumb luck, but the sinister possibility still lurked: someone had leaked details of the training mission and the Dreads had come for them.
Cassandra was already on the phone when she returned, pulling him into an empty classroom. “I’m on the line with operations,” she reported. “They’re trying to get Goldbow and Prescilla for extraction. We can’t come back here, ever. The first rule above all others is to ensure the safety of the normals, and when this happens, we leave as soon as we can. You can imagine what kind of damage a firefight in a schoolyard would do. Dreads are callous enough to start one . . . Yes! Okay, good.”
She killed the call and stuffed the phone back into her sunshine unicorn backpack. “They’re calling it in to the office right now. Mommy and Daddy will be here in fifteen to take us out of school to visit Grandma. I don’t think we’re in immediate danger, but we need to stay away from the rest of the children as much as we can.”
“Sounds good. What do we do?”
&n
bsp; Cassandra poked her head out into the hallway. “Let’s move to the office. They should have called it in by the time we get there. It’s a new school, so it’s got a good view of the front for security reasons.” She shook her head as she started down the hall. “I just don’t get it. Where did we mess up? Even if they did cue in on Alcott getting busted, since when did they ever respond this fast? Or at all, for that matter?”
When they entered the office, the secretary smiled at them and told them a call had just come in and that they should wait there for their mother.
They took seats that allowed them a view—albeit a narrow one—of the drive out front. The normal hum of the office staff answering phones, filing papers, and pecking at computer keyboards relaxed Trace. Cassandra swung her legs back and forth while humming the light version of one of the metal songs he had heard her play in the car. By the vacant look in her eyes, Trace could tell she was still mulling things over.
Several minutes later, the junky blue Taurus pulled into the drive, the familiar glow of Goldbow’s and Prescilla’s auras beaming through the windshield. The car passed out of view, and Trace and Cassandra stood and started toward the door.
“Stay there and wait for your parents to come in and sign you out, okay, kids?” the secretary prompted. “School policy.”
A gunning engine and the screech of tires braking hard on pavement pulled their attention out the window. Everyone in the office bolted for a better view as a scream loud enough to penetrate the brick walls sent a chill down Trace’s spine.
Prescilla.
Trace and Cassandra bolted through the doors while someone yelled, “Lock down the school!” behind them.
As they shoved their way through the double doors to the outside, a blue van roared away, smoke pouring from its front wheel wells. Goldbow, dressed and morphed as their father, gripped his BBG but put it away as they neared.
