by Brian Fuller
“The vote is now active,” Primus reported. In seconds, the tally had come in, twelve for and ten against. Ramis and Magdelene voiced their disgust, but Dayspring had won the right of inquiry.
“First of all, Trace,” Dayspring began, “I am the head of operations over the Southwest area. Having seen your progress reports, your ride-along report, and this latest debrief, I share some of Ramis’s concerns about you, but unlike him, I believe your actions are being influenced by and even encouraged by Cassandra.”
“This is not an inquiry!” Ramis roared. “This is character assassination. Cassandra—”
“I’ll get to it, Ramis!” Dayspring interrupted. “Trace, has Cassandra ever said or done anything in your presence that you consider damaging to the Ash Angel Organization or seditious or contrary in any way?”
Trace thought for a moment. “She seems unhappy with me, but I think it’s on a personal level. She hasn’t done anything I would consider traitorous in any way. I get the feeling that something that recently happened upset her, though she hasn’t told me anything about it.”
“Do you consider her teaching methods effective?”
“That’s it!” Archus Magdelene said sharply. “You’ve got nothing, Dayspring. Ramis, I want you to set Trace up with a place of residence and give him a week off to rest or do Sanctus time. Trace, you’re dismissed.”
Trace looked to Archon Ramis, who nodded in approval. Trace stood to go.
Archus Mars threw in a parting shot. “If the Gabriels turn you down, get with me, son!”
Athena tailed him out of the room. He took long strides to avoid her, but she ran him down like a lion on a wildebeest. “Trace! I have some forms for you to fill out. Here’s the 101-F, the Unplanned Engagement Report. Please be thorough. Here is a 199-L, Lost Weapon and Munitions Report. Get with Cassandra for the serial numbers. Here’s a 155-TER so you can evaluate the training you received at the elementary school. And . . . let’s see, the 212-SEC Security Agreement stating you will not talk about the contents of the meeting you just participated in. Drop them off at my desk when you’re done.”
Fighting off the urge to burn the whole stack, Trace wandered around until he found a nice lobby with comfortable chairs. He had to beg a pen off someone’s secretary and pull a heavy manual to provide backing to write on. The 199-L had to be the longest winded way to say “I lost my gun, so sorry” that he could imagine. By the time he finished all the forms a few hours later, he caught himself massaging his writing hand out of mental habit, even though it didn’t hurt.
Relieved to be done, he returned to Athena’s office and slapped them down on her desk with a thud. “Done,” he said with finality and turned to leave.
“Trace,” she called sweetly, smile 66-6 bolted to her face. “It appears you’ll be given a nice little rest after your unfortunate experience. You really should be more careful. The guidelines are there for a reason, you know. I have called ahead to IDENT, and they are expecting you. Have a nice day!”
His own place!
At last he would have somewhere to call his own and stash his stuff, but he wondered how it all worked. Would he have to keep food in the place just for pretenses? He certainly planned to buy all the fatty, sweet food everyone felt guilty about eating for the express purpose of drowning himself in it. Would he get a car? Spending money?
By her wardrobe, car, and upscale apartment, Cassandra certainly did well for herself. As a rookie, he didn’t expect her level of compensation, but he sincerely hoped he wasn’t bound for a beat-up single-wide.
Trace hoped to find Poe at the IDENT office, but the secretary sent him to Adam, who was in charge of generating permanent cover identities. With a hearty greeting, the immaculately dressed Adam invited him into his office and had him sit in a modern chair meant more for looks than function.
“Let’s see,” he said, checking the virtual documents on his desktop. “The Archon has ordered me to get your first alternate identity setup today. It’s unusual for Cherubs to get one before graduation, but he states that there are extenuating circumstances. It shouldn’t take long. I just need your Ash Angel ID.”
As soon as “Ash Angel ID” came out of Adam’s mouth, Trace knew he had just set himself up for another bureaucratic nightmare.
“I’m not in the system,” he informed him, watching Adam’s face go from friendly to lost. “Security reasons, apparently.”
“You don’t have an Ash Angel ID? It’s sometimes called AAID or pronounced ‘aid.’”
“Nope. They purposefully didn’t give me one,” Trace explained again.
Adam was completely bewildered. After picking everyone’s brain in any office within shouting distance and making four phone calls, the informal committee ruled they would have to process Trace the “old-fashioned way” since the computer software simply wouldn’t function without a valid AAID. The old-fashioned way meant paper forms they had to drag out of the archives.
“It’s really too bad,” Adam lamented. “The Angel Alias software can whip up all the documents in a matter of minutes. Are you positive they—”
“Yes. I’m positive,” he reconfirmed, wondering what it would take to drive the point home. He had clearly ruined Adam’s afternoon, and the need to hand generate all the papers and documents set the entire IDENT office back for hours. Trace plowed through more forms, posed for pictures, and worked with Adam on a suitable cover name and profession. The apartment building where he would stay was owned by the Ash Angel Corporation.
After seven hours of tedium, Adam handed him a worn wallet with money, credit cards, a driver’s license, and even a gym membership.
“Okay, Trace, you are Jason Storm. I’m telling you, that sounds like a comic book superhero name, but we aren’t changing it now. You have $8,000 in Community Corners Credit Union, work as a freelance computer programmer and consultant, and are originally from Missouri. You’ll need to get to Trevex Substation 46. They’ll have a U-Haul there waiting for you in the morning full of furniture, clothes, appliances, etc. Your monthly stipend will be $3,000, and here are the keys to your apartment. Your car will be in the service garage. Good luck!”
“Thanks,” Trace replied, even though Adam’s ‘good luck’ sounded more like ‘good riddance.’ Since he didn’t have an AAID, he couldn’t have an Ash Angel phone, so Adam instructed him to go somewhere and get signed up with a regular wireless phone and then call in to register it.
His own car!
Trace left Trevex D with a spring in his step and jogged to the garage about a half mile away. Night had fallen, and he was anxious to check out his place and get a phone before the day was out.
The service garage, a large maintenance building near where they had collected the Ford Taurus, appeared shut down. Disappointed, Trace tried tapping on the greasy door anyway. A stout Ash Angel in a jumpsuit opened it.
“You Jason Storm?”
“That’s me.”
“Great name for a meteorologist. That your cover?” he asked as he picked some keys off a pegboard.
“No. Computer programmer.”
“Oh. Well, follow me. I’m afraid we had short notice on this one. We just barely got this one back from an operation on a border town, so . . . sorry.”
Trace’s expectations took a blow, but once the mechanic opened the door to the garage bay and flicked on the fluorescent lights, the blow turned fatal. Several seconds of speechless horror passed before his tongue loosened.
“Oh, come on!”
Chapter 13
Apartment 3B
When the mechanic had said, “It don’t look like much, but it’s solid,” Trace now understood what “solid” meant. It was the quality of the clanging sound produced by the transmission of the beat-up brown Toyota truck (with welded-on, oversized blue-striped camper!) when he tried to shift between second and third. While he technically didn’t need air-conditioning, the thought would have been nice.
The intermittent backfire of the demolit
ion derby veteran provided plenty of surprises for him and other motorists, and the blatantly non-aerodynamic shape of the vehicle plunged the gas gauge from right to left at an alarming rate out on the freeway.
He got his new phone sorted out just before Best Buy closed. After grabbing a puzzle from a local store, he went in search of his new home. A school night ensured that when he coaxed his ungainly, swaying beast into the parking lot of the Sao Paulo apartment complex, no one was hanging around outside to laugh at him. The twenty-year-old, two-level apartments with tan siding weren’t as horrible as he had first prognosticated based on the car he’d received, but they weren’t within throwing distance of Cassandra’s posh palace, either. The faded asphalt had cracked and been sealed enough times to look like a weave, and two sickly palm trees framed the complex’s office entrance, twin trunks shooting up from an unkempt island of grass.
Trace wondered how many other Ash Angels might live there, but from the parking stickers on cars one or two levels of crappy above his, he guessed the place was filled with broke college students and young families.
After a bit of hunting, he found the door to apartment 3B—his place, his castle, his refuge—and slid the key into the brass dead bolt. With expectations as high as the Titanic, he opened the door and fumbled for the light switch, the eco-friendly bulbs slowly brightening the room in front of him. Brown marbled linoleum overspread the entryway and the kitchen area, the chocolate-colored Formica countertops and cheap cabinets adding to the earthy tone. The shaggy, multicolored carpet was designed to hide everything from cookie crumbs to a murder, and the freshly painted, off-white walls gave off a fresh paint smell that helped the place feel new.
Not bad. He shut the door and wandered into the functional, clean bedrooms. It would do nicely for a place he probably wouldn’t visit all that often.
He spent the night in his new digs setting up his phone and doing a puzzle—a sylvan mountain range at dawn. As a courtesy to the other residents, he didn’t pull his drug-dealer-on-the-lam mobile out of the parking lot until he was sure most people had left and that any babies that might inhabit the complex were likely already awake.
He returned two hours later with a seventeen-foot moving truck full of unknown items that were now his. He tried to think of opening the back of the truck as something like opening presents at Christmas, but he tempered his expectations: Christmas had been a mixed bag so far.
With a heave the door rolled up, and he put his hands on his hips and looked over his stuff. While he couldn’t speak for the contents of the boxes, the furniture was nondescript and functional, a little worn and outdated, but not bad.
About halfway through unloading, two cute college women, Mindy and Scarlett, greeted him and offered to help. Talking to real people turned out to be a little strange, especially when he found himself lying about everything. They were nice and flirty, and when he got back from returning the truck, they brought some pizza to his new apartment and they ate it at the small brown table they’d helped him haul in earlier.
Scarlett, a busty brunette, touched his arm. “So, was that thing your . . . um . . . car?”
“It’s a loaner,” Trace lied, finding the chronic dissembling getting easier. “I’ll be getting my own shortly.” That was true. This afternoon, if he could arrange it, though the trade-in value wouldn’t get him a toaster. “You two in college?”
“I am,” said Mindy, a thin blonde with intelligent eyes. “Scarlett’s in beauty school.”
“I’ll trade haircuts for computer help,” Scarlett offered. “Mine seems so slow lately.”
Trace nodded. “Probably infected with something. I can look at it later if you’re around.”
“Sure!” she answered. “Should we feed him dinner, Min? You could introduce him to Randy. That’s her boyfriend.”
“Sort-of boyfriend,” Mindy clarified. “He’s having a bit of trouble with the C word. You know—commitment. We got in a big fight, and I don’t think he likes me much right now.”
Scarlett gave her friend a sympathetic and almost sincere squeeze. “I’m sure he’ll pull his head out.” She threw Trace a meaningful glance. “I haven’t dated for a while.”
A knock at the door saved him, and he threaded his way through the mess of boxes to the entryway, peering through the peephole. It was Cassandra, looking like a model who had lost her runway. Her hair was curled around her shoulders, and her breezy white blouse, tight dark pants, and high heels were complemented by designer sunglasses and silver jewelry. Did she have to get so dolled up? He was still rocking a secondhand hoodie and jeans. He opened the door and invited her in. His trainer’s amused face took in the apartment.
“Hey,” Trace said, not quite sure what to call her. “Good to see you. I’ve got some neighbors here that helped me move in. Come on in. It’s a bit of a mess.”
“Thanks, Jason.” She strutted inside, Mindy and Scarlett standing.
“Hi,” Cassandra said. “I’m Gwen.”
“This is Mindy and Scarlett,” Trace said. “They’ve been really great today.” He turned back to Cassandra, and his jaw nearly dropped. Something about her had changed since he first saw her at the door. Her aura was flared. While always attractive, Cassandra was now stunning. His vision couldn’t quite pick out the difference, but a feeling and a radiance about her now amplified her natural good looks.
Mindy and Scarlett, clearly intimidated, managed to squeak out a “Nice to meet you.”
Cassandra smiled at them, a goddess favoring her subjects with goodwill. “Thank you for helping Jason. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got some private matters I need to discuss with him, if you don’t mind.”
Mindy and Scarlett practically fell over themselves getting out the door, apologizing to Cassandra for getting in the way and reiterating how nice it was to meet her. After the door shut, Cassandra’s appearance immediately returned to normal, aura fading.
“Hanging with the local skanks, Jarhead?” she scoffed, clearing a box off a chair. She sat down after she was satisfied the chair was clean enough not to ruin her clothes.
“Hey. They’ve been really nice,” Trace objected.
“Oh, I bet,” Cassandra disparaged, looking around. “And Jason Storm? Really? Sounds like the pen name of a romance writer.”
He rolled his eyes and started unpacking boxes in the modest kitchen to see what the Ash Angel Provisioning Center had come up with. “I assume what you just did was your other Bestowal?”
“It’s called Beauty. Comes in handy when persuading people, especially men . . . or trying to get a job as a receptionist. I thought it only fair that I let you see it.”
“Fair?” he asked, pulling open a box full of mild chili.
“Yeah. Did you know that besides not putting you into the system, they completely destroyed the Scholus file they worked up on you? That meant I had to have lunch with Lear. Nice guy. A little off, though. He sends, let’s see . . . his ‘heartiest congratulations’ for Prescilla’s rescue.”
Had to have lunch with Lear? It took him a moment to process her meaning, and then he stopped. “That’s not cool,” he complained. “You didn’t have any right to go rifling around in my past.”
Her face hardened. “I may not have had a right, but I had a reason, Jarhead, so listen up. I was an Ash Angel for two years before I was torched for the first time. Skeletons I thought long buried crawled out of their graves and nearly took me down. Time dulls the sting of old wounds and makes the Spirit Shock more bearable. You’ve not been an Ash Angel for two months and have been torched twice. All the hurt and pain of your former life is still too fresh for you, and it will cripple you every time unless you face it. Today you start. You don’t have the luxury of time.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her designer purse, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it back in her bag after silencing it. “Goldbow has been nagging me for a date ever since your first ride-along. The man i
s relentless. Anyway, Maggie called me this morning. She has a mission that just came in from the Occulum that she’s entrusted to me personally. We leave tomorrow. You get to come along.”
“Maggie?”
“Archus Magdelene. The redhead from yesterday, remember?”
“Oh, right.” He wondered what this was about. “Didn’t she just order a weeklong vacation for me? And do you think I’m ready for an actual mission?”
“Plans change. And, no, you aren’t ready,” Cassandra stated bluntly.
“Then why did you pick me to go?” he wondered.
“I didn’t. Archus Magdelene did over my objections. And I don’t mean that as an insult. Blanks typically train for six months to a year on missions of gradually increasing difficulty and complexity. You haven’t been around for six weeks. You’re observant, and you’ve got guts, but you don’t have the experience you need. You morph too slowly, and Spirit Shock turns you into a pile of goo. And that’s not good, especially where we’re going.”
Her worried expression and leaden tone sent a chill down his spine. “Where is that?”
“It’s an area around Seattle inundated with different waterways. Even before the Dreads got organized, we called it ‘Davy Jones’s Locker.’ More Ash Angels have disappeared or died in that area than any other, especially in recent months. Typically that means a Sheid is involved. Even being in the presence of a Sheid causes a mild form of Spirit Shock.”
It took a moment to remember that Sheid was the singular of Shedim. He’d heard a few things about them from his classes. Shedim varied in power from little better than a Dread to ones so mighty they could whip up hurricanes. While Dreads could not alter their physical appearance, Shedim could at will. But the worst was that they were nearly indestructible, requiring a weapon sanctified by an Ash Angel’s life to kill them. Luckily, Shedim were few in number, but where they came, destruction followed. One question nagged him.
