by Scott Speer
Sylvester’s unmarked cruiser made its way toward Angel Boulevard, passing closed stores and shuttered cafés. Dark palms above shuddered in the night breeze. The city seemed naked, raw, without the neon, double-decker buses, and throngs of visitors. A pocket of drunken tourists staggered down the sidewalk on a side street. They had all bought matching SAVE ME! T-shirts and were taking pictures of each other. The detective shook his head. The Angels could only protect a few, but every year millions still dreamed it was somehow going to be them, that they were going to be on ANN with the Angels and other Protections, that they would be saved, and everyone would see it. They believed the lottery would come through. Or they’d make their millions and then have their own Guardian in no time, taking their rightful place among the Immortal City’s beautiful and glamorous elite. The detective knew better. He had spent too many years observing the dirty truth about Angel City to get taken in by what he considered a fairy tale. Through it all, though, the Angels still seemed to keep clean. They’d moved up to their houses in the hills years ago to keep from getting splashed with the mud from down below. Sylvester turned right on Angel Boulevard, leaving the group of tourists laughing in the night.
The crime scene was alive with activity. Floodlights illuminated a section of the Walk of Angels cordoned off with yellow police tape. An Angel City Police Department chopper droned overhead, its searchlight slicing through the night. Sylvester pulled up in his cruiser and waited for a moment in the car, observing the busy scene through his windshield. It was the first time in a long while he had been at an active crime scene. He had almost forgotten the chaos. The adrenaline. The rush. He opened the car door and made his way out into the cold and noise.
“Hey, you can’t come in here,” a uniformed officer said as he approached the tape. Sylvester fumbled out his badge. “Oh. Sorry, sir,” the officer said, and held up the tape.
Sylvester ducked under and took in the scene. On the sidewalk he saw a white sheet covering a lump directly over one of the famous Angel Stars. There were gangs in Angel City, and the occasional homicide was not uncommon. And it was certainly nothing that he was normally trusted with.
The one thing that caught his attention was that the bulge under the sheet looked small. Too small, he thought, to be a body. As he looked around for the sergeant, he thought he heard one of the officers mumble something as he passed. Burnout, he thought the man had said. Sylvester stiffened, plunging his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and tried his best to put the man—and the past—out of his mind.
When Sylvester finally found him, Sergeant Bill Garcia looked especially upset.
“Hey Bill, what’s going on?” said Sylvester. Garcia seemed surprised to see him.
“They put you on this?” Garcia said, worry edging his voice.
Sylvester nodded.
“Guess so. What’s this all about?”
When the veteran sergeant looked at him again, Sylvester was startled to see fear glimmering in his eyes.
“Come on, sir,” Garcia said. They walked together toward the sheet on the sidewalk. “Everyone keeps asking me if it’s ever happened before. I tell them I don’t know. I mean”—he paused—“not like this. I don’t know these things, Detective, I just do my job.”
“Settle down, Bill. What’s going on?”
“I mean, we’re running gang interdictions tonight, usual procedures, but this doesn’t even seem like our jurisdiction anymore—” Sylvester stopped and held up his hand. The sheet was at their feet.
“Bill, stop. What’s the big deal?”
Garcia pursed his lips.
“The big deal? Come take a look, Detective. I’ll show you the big deal.”
The sergeant knelt down and Sylvester followed. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvester realized the other officers on the scene were staring in their direction. Either watching him or curious as to what was under the sheet. Or both. Garcia took the edge of the sheet in his hand and raised it.
The gory mess on the sidewalk was perfectly reflected in Sylvester’s glasses. Two severed Angel Wings had been neatly placed over the Angel Star, crossed one on top of the other. Their ragged stumps glistened with thick, glittering Angel blood. Steam rose faintly from the wings in the cold night air. Whatever had happened, it had been very recent.
A jolt ran through the detective’s body. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Is this for real?” Sylvester asked.
“Yes, sir,” Garcia said, “This is for real. And read the name on the star.”
Sylvester pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and used it to lift one of the wings, just enough to look under. The gold lettering, though spattered in blood, was still readable.
“Theodore Godson,” he read aloud.
Garcia nodded. “Theodore Godson was reported missing earlier today.”
He pulled the sheet over the wings again, and the two men stood up. Sylvester looked down the length of the deserted boulevard. All of a sudden he seemed to have a terrible headache. He pulled his glasses off his face and began to polish them with the end of his shirt.
“What do you think, Detective?” Garcia asked.
“If someone cut off his wings, then he was probably mortalized.”
“Mortalized?” Garcia said.
“Yes,” Sylvester said. “He was made mortal.” Sylvester was surprised to realize he was out of breath. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Excuse me, sir, aren’t Angels immortal?”
“Yes, well . . .” He paused again and had to lean against a wall. The ground had begun to move under him. Garcia looked at him, concerned.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Just give me a second,” said Sylvester, clutching the wall. A sudden wave of nausea had risen in his stomach.
“Sir, are you . . .” The sergeant trailed off, peering back toward the other police.
Sylvester steadied himself and after a few moments turned back to Garcia. The sergeant was looking at him with concern. So were the other officers, the forensics team, everyone. He gazed back into their disbelieving eyes. No one thinks I can do this, he thought. The spotlight of the chopper cut through the scene again, pointing at the severed wings on the sidewalk like a white finger in the night. Sylvester peered down the street. A few straggling tourists had seen the light and were coming over to investigate what was going on. Sylvester straightened and put his glasses back on.
“Get that chopper out of the sky,” he suddenly barked. Then he turned to Garcia. “We’re going to keep a low profile starting right now. Absolutely no press. You keep your men buttoned up, okay?” Garcia nodded. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just a few of the responding officers,” Garcia said, surprised by the sudden confidence in the detective’s voice.
“Okay, let’s keep it that way,” Sylvester said. “Document the crime scene and then clean everything up like it never happened at all. Have those wings taken to forensics and find out who they belong to.”
Garcia had begun taking notes.
“Contact the Angels and get them involved. I want someone I can interface with on this, preferably someone close to the Council. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sylvester looked back at the other officers. They had all gone back to their work.
“So, what am I writing in the report then? Homicide?”
“Maybe,” Sylvester said as he walked briskly back to his car. “We won’t know for sure until we can find Theodore Godson. But if those really are his wings . . . it’s not good.”
“We’ve been getting reports of HDF activity in the run-up to the Commissioning. Do you think . . . ?” Garcia kept trailing Sylvester. “I mean, um, when was the last time something”—Garcia stumbled on his words—“well, something like this happened? In this way.”
“Something on your mind, Garcia?” Detective Sylvester paused. The sergeant shook his head and dropped his head. Sylvester looked off into the distan
ce as he continued, his expression hard: “It’s been . . . a while.”
Garcia crossed himself.
“I didn’t even know it could.”
“Walk with me,” Sylvester said gruffly. They rounded the corner, and Sylvester stopped in front of a darkened souvenir shop. It was Sylvester’s turn to question the sergeant.
“Garcia, are you going to be able to handle this?” Garcia considered, then nodded weakly.
“Okay, then I’m only going to explain this once. There are two kinds of Angels in the world. True Immortals and Born Immortals. True Immortals are, as the name suggests, truly immortal. Born Immortals can become mortal if their wings are removed and their supernatural powers are stripped. This is normally done for disciplinary purposes, by the Archangels, at the order of the Council.” Sylvester looked into Garcia’s eyes. “But last time I heard, Theodore Godson hadn’t missed a save. He’s not even in the Guardian ranks anymore; he stepped down from that a couple years after he was promoted to Archangel. Although judging by his recent behavior with women and drinking, he’s been a bit of an embarrassment to the Archangels. Anyway, it wouldn’t be like this.” He motioned toward the boulevard. “Not this brutal. The Council is much more . . . civilized. This would be impossible to do, except for the most powerful Angels.”
“Another Angel?”
“Only an Angel can kill another Angel,” Sylvester said. “We’re looking for an exceptionally strong, exceptionally powerful Immortal. Get on the horn with the Archangels and start taking statements from their people. Try to find out if Godson has any enemies among the bigwigs.”
“There’s an ex-wife. It’s all over the gossip shows,” Garcia said.
“Bring her in. Find out if she has a new man,” Sylvester said. “And we need immediate saturation patrols for Angels in the area tonight. We need to talk to everybody.”
“They won’t like that,” Garcia scoffed. “I know you haven’t been on the front lines in a while, so let me just tell you, the Angels pretty much pretend we don’t exist. I mean, they think they’re above the law.”
“Well, tonight they’re not,” Sylvester said flatly.
Garcia nodded and walked back to his cruiser to radio in the request. Sylvester stepped back to the darkened Walk of Angels and looked down the long, empty boulevard.
The whole thing felt unreal. Garcia was right to be afraid. Sylvester struggled to remember the last time an Angel had been mortalized. It had been a long, long time ago. And if it was happening again . . .
Garcia walked back over, his radio crackling. It echoed in the night air.
“Detective, lucky for you they’re all in one place tonight. There’s a big party down the street.”
“Party?” said Sylvester. “What for?”
Garcia grinned. “You don’t have a daughter, do you, sir? It’s a Pre-Commissioning party for Jackson Godspeed.” At the name, a moment of recognition flickered across Sylvester’s face.
Garcia’s radio squawked again, and he held the speaker close to his ear. “Okay. Everyone’s accounted for. Actually, wait, everyone except one. He was spotted leaving in a hurry without talking to anyone. No one knows where he went.”
Sylvester’s eyebrow raised. “Okay, let’s find him, and let’s begin questioning those other Angels at the party. And start knocking on Angel doors up in the Hills, too,” Sylvester said. “As for the one who left the party in a hurry, consider him a person—well, Angel—of particular interest. And before we hear otherwise, let’s consider him potentially dangerous.”
Garcia paused and looked at Sylvester. “You’re not going to believe who it is,” he said. Sylvester looked at the sergeant.
“Who?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jacks’s Ferrari spun through the crisp Los Angeles night, the city twinkling all around him. He headed east on Sunset, just driving. He felt himself becoming more real, more free, with every mile he put between himself and the party. Was this disconnected sensation going to chase him all his life? He needed to get over it. He was Jackson Godspeed. It wasn’t like he could just move somewhere and be anonymous. And, he reminded himself, he didn’t want to. He’d been looking forward to saving people since he was a little boy.
After ten minutes his phone rang over the car’s Bluetooth. Jacks checked the caller ID. It was Mark.
“That didn’t take long,” he murmured before picking up. “Hey Mark, I’ll be home in a bit. I wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to—”
“Never mind that now,” Mark said, cutting him off. “Where are you?” His tone was urgent.
“Somewhere in Angel City. Why?”
“Get off the road.”
Jacks sat up in his seat, alarmed. “What?”
“Something has happened. I’ll explain later, but right now I need you to get off the road, go somewhere out of the way, and just blend in.” His voice sounded almost panicked. “Make sure no one knows you’re an Angel. And don’t talk to any police. Do exactly as I say, all right?” “Is Mom okay? Is Chloe? What’s—”
“Don’t ask any more questions,” Mark snapped. “They’re fine, but this is serious, young man. Do as I say. When you’re somewhere safe, give me a call and I’ll come meet you.” With that he hung up.
Jacks’s pulse quickened. He had never heard Mark so upset. What was going on? He took a hard left and zigzagged up side streets, through an Angel City he rarely saw, with modest homes and small, neglected lawns. Making a hard right, Jacks slowed and looked around, trying to get his bearings.
He had never been in this part of town before. He saw only one sign lit up, up on the left, a diner called Kevin’s. His heart racing, he drove forward and pulled into the tiny lot. He parked, took off his suit jacket, and threw on a dark hoodie from the backseat. Then he looked at the diner again through the windshield. The place looked deserted. He wondered if this could all be about Vivian. No, he decided, it had sounded more serious than that. He should do exactly as Mark had said. He got out and pulled his hood up, locked the door, and walked toward the diner’s front door.
Maddy was running a mop over the floor when the door jingled open and someone she had never seen before stepped into the diner. It was past closing and she realized, with regret, that she had forgotten to click off the neon Open sign in the window. Standing in the doorway was a boy Maddy thought looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. He was oddly dressed in tailored formal pants and a hoodie, and he had the hood pulled up over his head. Stabs of straight brown hair cut across his eyes. Maddy picked the mop up and set it back in its bucket. He looked out of breath and confused, unsure of himself even, and after a moment of what Maddy guessed was contemplation, he turned to leave.
“Hey,” Maddy called after him. He turned around. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yeah,” he said. “A table for one, please? If it’s not too late?”
Maddy looked around at the nearly empty diner. Just a couple of regulars finishing up, one paying the check. By his tone she knew she could tell him they were closed, and he would accept that and leave. Still, it was her fault for not shutting off the sign. “No, of course not. Right this way.”
She pulled a menu from behind the counter and led him to a booth by the window. As they walked to the table, Maddy realized that even dressed as he was and hiding under a hood, he was absolutely, strikingly beautiful. It was strange how it seemed to radiate off him. She could almost feel it, could almost taste it on her tongue. Maddy’s head swam. Where was this coming from? She was around her share of what everyone would consider “cute boys”: at school, at the diner, even just around Angel City. And sure, maybe they were attractive, but she had never felt herself gushing he’s beautiful. That was Gwen’s job. Maddy was supposed to be the levelheaded one.
She took a breath and tried to collect herself. He was a customer like any other, Maddy thought, and he would be treated as such.
“Here you are,” she said, setting the menu down on the table. “I’ll be right back to take yo
ur order.”
Jacks slid into the booth and glanced at Maddy as she walked away. She was really pretty, he thought, even if she was just an ordinary girl. As she disappeared into the kitchen, he was surprised to realize he was still watching her. He pulled out his cell phone and texted Mark his location.
Kevin was hanging up his apron when Maddy appeared. “One more customer,” she told him.
“Really?” Kevin asked wearily. “You didn’t just tell him we were closed?”
Maddy looked down at the floor, thinking about her reaction to the cute stranger. “Uh, he seems a little shaken up. I didn’t want to send him away.”
Kevin gave Maddy a look. “All right, go get his order,” he said, putting his apron back on. “The sooner he gets his food, the sooner we can go home.”
Maddy poured a glass of ice water and placed it on her tray. She headed over. “Long night?” she asked as she set the water in front of Jacks and pulled out her notepad.
Mark’s text came in. Jacks glanced at it: STAY THERE, COMING TO YOU. Jacks flipped the phone over on the table and looked up at Maddy.
“Something like that. I just needed to get off the road for a second.”
“Well, you came to the right place. What can I get you?”
“Ah,” he started, then stopped. Maddy waited. His gaze had drifted outside. Maddy looked up. Two ACPD cruisers had just pulled into the parking lot.
Jacks picked up the menu. “What do you recommend?”
As Maddy ran through the specials, Jacks’s eyes darted outside again. The cruisers had parked in the lot, and two policemen stepped out.
“Any of that sound good?” Maddy asked, and waited for a response. Jacks watched as the officers examined his Ferrari with flashlights. At once they turned and looked in the direction of the diner. Jacks instinctively sank down in the booth, his mind racing. “The meat loaf’s good too,” Maddy continued, trying to spur a decision, starting to feel guilty that she was keeping Kevin.
“Actually . . .” Jacks said, trailing off. And then he noticed it. There was a sign in the window. Even facing away from him, he could still read the red lettering: HELP WANTED, and below that, scrawled in black Sharpie, Part-time position available. Jacks looked at Maddy. “I’d like to apply for a job.”
