Immortal City

by Scott Speer

  Sylvester drove his unmarked cruiser drove down Wilshire Boulevard, passing the designer stores, luxury car dealerships, and upscale office buildings of Beverly Hills. Though once located at the Temple of Angels itself, the corporate offices of the Archangels had long since been moved to a sleek, ultra-modern building off Beverly Boulevard. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze overhead as Sylvester drove. The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue.

  He turned right at Beverly and pulled into the parking garage entrance under the dark glass monolith of the NAS building. The ramp led him straight to the valet-parking booth. There was no self-park option. He grumbled to himself as he waited for the attendant to make his way over. Having to pay someone just to park your car for you seemed like a crime.

  After receiving his ticket, Sylvester called one of the sleek stainless steel elevators and rode it up to the lobby. The architecture of the NAS lobby was striking and minimalist, with dramatic full-length windows and near-futuristic furniture. On the walls, large flat screens played footage of recent saves on a continuous loop. Against the far wall was a glowing reception desk and, to the left of that, a hallway led back to the offices of the Archangels.

  Sylvester crossed the lobby to the reception desk and smiled sheepishly at the impeccably groomed girl with perfect skin and blond hair who looked up at him. She eyed his rumpled coat and scuffed shoes incredulously before pasting on a plastic smile.

  “Can I help you?” she said in a chirpy voice.

  “It’s Detective Sylvester to see Archangel Godspeed.”

  “Is he expecting you?” she asked with a flip of her hair.

  “Yes,” he said, irritated.

  “Have a seat, please, and I’ll let him know.” She gestured toward the couches while taking a sip of her latte. Sylvester shuffled over and sat awkwardly in a too-fluffy couch. He watched the saves play over and over on the flat screens. After ten minutes, a young assistant appeared.

  “Mr. Sylvester?” he asked. “This way, please.”

  Sylvester was taken past the reception desk and down the hall, passing rows of assistants on headsets busily rolling calls for the Archangels. At the end of the hall the assistant opened glass double doors to the conference room and ushered Sylvester in.

  The room was breathtaking. A long, thin conference table with twelve chairs sat in front of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Angel City and the entire Los Angeles Basin. In the corner of the room, in a glass display case, stood the armor and sword of an ancient Battle Angel. A reminder of a distant past. Sylvester looked at the armor, then turned and admired the view. After another ten minutes, Mark Godspeed appeared in a crisp, expensive suit.

  “I’m sorry, David,” Mark said, coming quickly into the room, “I was on a post-save conference call with a Protection. You know how those go. I had my assistant make some coffee; would you care for some?” The Archangel motioned to a coffee service tray that had been set up in the center of the table.

  “Yes, thank you,” Sylvester said. Mark picked up the carafe and filled a cup with steaming black liquid. He handed it to Sylvester, than began pouring one for himself.

  “There’s been another incident on the boulevard,” Sylvester said. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.” Mark paused, then finished pouring his coffee and carefully set the carafe back on the tray. “Another pair of wings was discovered last night. This time we recovered the body in the victim’s swimming pool, at his home.”

  “Who?” Mark asked.

  “Ryan Templeton.” The detective tipped the cup back, taking a pull of coffee.

  The Archangel was quiet for a moment. “Good Angel. I know his family.” Sylvester nodded silently.

  “The wings were found on his star. Right next to Theodore Godson’s star. Although we haven’t recovered the body of Godson, it’s likely he has also been murdered. We have reason to believe the order of the stars is determining the targets. Lance Crossman’s star is next. And sure enough, he’s also missing.”

  After a few moments, the Archangel spoke.

  “Angels killed in the order of their stars?” Mark asked. Sylvester nodded. Mark took a seat on one of the sleek chairs. “Does the press know yet?”

  “No. But we won’t be able to keep it quiet very long. People stand up and pay attention when Angels start disappearing.” He paused. “We need to act, Mark.”

  Mark stared out the window at the city moving silently beyond the glass. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call an emergency session of Archangels, then bring it straight to the Council. Put the Angel community on alert. Afterward, we’ll hold a press conference and announce the killings to the media. The whole city needs to be warned.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mark said insistently. “The public cannot know about this. Can you imagine what it would mean? Angels dying? How could the public trust us? We deal with this internally. Period.”

  “More could end up hurt, Mark,” Sylvester said. “This isn’t about Angel publicity anymore. Something much more serious is going on here. Don’t be a fool.”

  “There are those who don’t live amongst us. Those who have taken, well, how does one say it? A different path?” He turned and studied Sylvester for a moment. Sylvester ignored the implication.

  “Sure. Could be. The Archangels have made enemies. But whoever is doing this is ripping off their wings, in some kind of twisted version of the Council’s punishment.” Mark raised his eyebrow, but Sylvester went on. “We could consider the possibility that someone feels law and order isn’t going far enough, a zealot among the Archangels who wants more control. More of their . . . justice.” He cleared his throat on the last word.

  Mark stared directly at the detective. When he spoke, his voice was cold and sharp: “What’s past has passed, David. We Archangels didn’t make these rules, we simply administer them for the Council. The fact that the ACPD even has you on a case of this nature, due to . . .” Mark trailed off.

  “Due to what, Mark?” The detective stared at him coldly.

  “I think you know what I’m saying.”

  “I’m not sure I do, Mark.” Sylvester pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Do you mean to say I’m unfit for this case due to the fact that I had my own wings taken by the Archangels?” Sylvester almost seemed to shake as he spit out the words. They hung in the conference room, heavy.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mark Godspeed turned to the window. His voice was calm and even. “Bringing up the past will do no good. That you’re implying any one of my colleagues is involved in this bloodshed is outrageous. I hope you’re not spreading such filth around the ACPD. That would be unfortunate.”

  The detective didn’t blink.

  “The HDF has also been more active than usual recently,” Sylvester said. “Three armed operatives were arrested on their way to a safe house yesterday. Do you think a disgruntled Angel could’ve defected, be working with them?”

  Mark shrugged.

  “Or it could be something worse,” Sylvester continued. He placed his coffee cup on the table in front of him. “The severity of Ryan’s wounds . . . and the fact that this is potentially two Angels now in the same week . . . I think we should consider another possibility, too.”

  “Yes?” Mark said.

  “We could be dealing with a Dark Angel, Mark,” the detective said. Mark looked at Sylvester incredulously.

  “A demon?”

  “It’s happened before,” Sylvester replied.

  “Yes, thousands of years ago. You’re talking about stuff from the Bible,” Mark said. “They were wiped out. The blood of our ancestors, David, don’t forget.”

  “Maybe not all of them. And of the two of us, I’m the one who hasn’t forgotten,” Sylvester said.

  “I just find it hard to believe that some ancient creature that hasn’t been seen in millennia comes out of hiding now and starts killing Angels.”

  “Whatever you believe, do the right thing, Mark,” Sylvester said. “S
pread the word, and postpone any Commissioning until we know what’s going on.” He pointed a finger toward the gilded display case in the corner of the room. “I believe that armor stood for something once, represented certain—”

  “Don’t lecture me, Detective,” Mark said sharply, cutting him off. “I know exactly what that armor stood for then and still does now. Need I remind you that I’m the one who has stayed and done his duty?” He walked over to the door and held it open. “This conversation is over.”

  Detective Sylvester sighed as he stepped past Mark, buttoning up his jacket.

  “The next star after Lance’s has yet to be installed. But it’s ready. We made a call.” He paused. “It’s your own stepson’s. It’s Jackson’s star, Mark. He’d be next.”

  The Archangel said nothing.

  “I’ll show myself out,” Sylvester said, and disappeared down the hallway toward the lobby.

  Mark listened to the murmur of the assistants for a moment, then turned back and looked out the glass wall to the city. The door closed, leaving him alone in the silent conference room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After school Maddy had to tell another lie, after already hiding things from Gwen. She asked Kevin for the night off, saying she and Gwen had decided to work on their senior projects together. It was Kevin’s turn to be skeptical.

  “You hate working in groups,” he said as he plated a Reuben sandwich and fries. “You end up doing all the work yourself. Especially when Gwen Moore is involved.”

  “I know,” Maddy said, her thoughts racing. “I just thought I would help her out. If she doesn’t pass all her classes this semester, she won’t have enough credits to graduate. She’s really worried.” Kevin sighed deeply, sending a pang of guilt through Maddy. He picked up the diner’s old phone.

  “I’ll call Suzie and see if she can fill in.”

  Maddy thanked him, trying not to sound too relieved, and hurried up to the house. The light outside was turning long and golden as the sun set, sending a fresh wave of paralyzing anxiety over her.

  She closed the front door behind her and locked it. Upstairs, she walked down the narrow hallway separating her room from Kevin’s until she came to a small square hatch in the ceiling. She reached up and tugged at it. After a few smart pulls the hatch swung down with a groan and Maddy unfolded the wooden ladder that was attached to it. With a deep breath, she climbed up into the attic.

  The room under the eaves was hot, still, and silent. It smelled of stale wood and rat droppings. Dust particles danced in the air, swirling in the golden shaft of light from the window. As with most old houses, the attic was large and triangle-shaped, and Maddy found she could comfortably stand in it. She took a look around. Against the walls were stacks of cardboard boxes with labels written in black marker. Newer boxes had been added more haphazardly in recent years, mostly without labels, some even left open with their contents spilling out. Kevin was getting soft in his old age, she thought with a smile.

  Maddy had only ever been in the attic once before. It was when she was a little girl, and she had still been afraid of every little bump and sound the old house made. Kevin had lifted her up through the hatch one day so she could see for herself there were no monsters living over her bed. When she had looked around, she hadn’t seen any monsters, but she had seen something else. Today, she had come back for it.

  She pulled the boxes aside one by one as she worked her way back. The newer boxes held together okay, but the old ones were brittle and crumbled in her hands. She had to slide them across the floor, which made a terrific scraping sound, and she cringed as spiders went scurrying for cover. Finally, she saw it. Her heart gave a little leap as she spotted the box tucked far in the back, labeled with a single word.

  Regina. Her mother.

  Kevin never said much about her parents, and over time he had lost track of nearly all of their belongings. Her parents were gone, he told Maddy, and so it did no good to hold on to their things. So, it was with quiet amazement on the day she and Kevin went ghost-hunting that Maddy saw the box, and she had never forgotten about it.

  She worked it out to the middle of the floor and pulled at the cardboard flaps. The aged packing tape snapped almost effortlessly. She opened the box and peered inside. Jewelry. A watch. Some old books. A comb. She pulled the items out one at a time and set them carefully on the attic floor. It was a lot more emotional than she was expecting. These were her mother’s things. Maddy’s mother had bought them. Touched them. They had been a part of her—and now they were the only part of her that remained.

  After a moment, Maddy found what she was looking for.

  It was a stack of clothes, neatly folded. The faintest smell of perfume drifted up to Maddy’s nose as she carefully sorted out the dresses. It was sweet and somehow familiar. She picked up and unfolded a cream-colored vintage dress with a lace hem. She sat back and looked at it in the warm light.

  Her mother had style, that was for sure.

  Maddy dragged an old, cracked vanity mirror around, then slipped out of her shorts and pulled off her tank top. She slid gingerly into the dress, then gently pulled up the zipper. The fabric hugged tight around her curves, wrapping her body as if from memory. It had been a long shot, but Maddy was absolutely right. She and her mother were the same size. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt all the hair on her arms stand up. It was the closest she had ever come to meeting her mother.

  She blinked back tears and smoothed the fabric along her body. Then her eyes drifted back to the box and to the small pile of jewelry she had placed on the floor. She picked through the different pieces until she found an unadorned, gold-chain necklace. It was understated and elegant. She fastened it around her neck. Maddy took one last look at herself in the cracked mirror, then put her mother’s things back in their box and descended the wooden ladder.

  She checked the time. It was 7:52. She went into the bathroom, where she threw on a little eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Her hair was going to have to be okay as it was as well. She was just running a brush over her teeth when the sound of the doorbell sent her heart hammering against her rib cage. Through the small bathroom window she could hear the purr of the Ferrari’s engine. Running back to her room, she slipped on the only pair of heels she owned and fished out a black clutch that Gwen had forgotten over the summer from under her bed. Then with a deep breath and a tight grip on the rail, she descended the stairs toward the Angel waiting politely for her at the front door.

  When Jacks saw Maddy, he took a sharp breath and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, as if preferring to keep the thought to himself.

  “Hi again,” he said at last.

  Maddy looked at the nearly impossible sight of Jackson Godspeed standing on her porch. He wore a striking tuxedo jacket over a gray collared shirt, skinny jeans, and crisp, classic Vans. As usual, he looked like he had just stepped off a billboard. His eyes were darker than usual, more of a cobalt, and utterly intoxicating. Maddy collected her scrambled thoughts and tried her best to speak.

  “Hey,” she managed, and fidgeted in her heels. “Do I look okay?”

  Jacks’s expression was guarded again. “Maddy,” he said softly, “you are beautiful.” He stuck out his arm. Maddy took it and he led her down to the car.

  They rumbled down the Halo Strip, drawing looks from people in the restaurants and boutiques and waiting in lines outside the clubs. Maddy felt awkward. She wondered if Jacks could tell how foreign all this was to her. Getting dressed up. Going out. And she wondered what his guarded expression on the porch had meant. Was it possible he had completely changed his mind about her when he woke up this morning? Last night it hadn’t mattered who was a famous Angel and who was a waitress from Kevin’s diner. But maybe things were different now, after he’d had time to think about it in the daylight. Maybe he regretted the whole thing.

  “I’m really glad you decided to come with me tonight,” Jacks sa
id finally.

  “Yeah,” Maddy said, playing with the hem of her dress. “I don’t normally do stuff like this.”

  “You know,” Jacks said, grinning over at her, “they got a picture of us last night.”

  Maddy flushed. “I know, my friend Gwen showed me.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it, my publicist killed it.” Jacks smiled. “You’ll meet her tonight.”

  Maddy’s heart hammered. “Speaking of, what is . . . tonight?”

  “Oh, it’s just an event.”

  An event? Maddy felt her palms break out in sweat.

  “And what, exactly, is an event?” she asked cautiously.

  “Well, it’s like a party, but it’s also part of my Commissioning.”

  Party. Even worse. That word carried with it the near inevitability of another word, dancing. And Commissioning? Maddy wondered what would happen if she opened the car door and just flung herself into the street. Would Jacks keep driving and let her get away? Unlikely.

  Questions pounded inside her head like hammers. Who would be there? Others like her? And why had Jacks invited her in the first place?

  “That’s okay with you, right?” Jacks asked, snapping Maddy out of her self-induced panic.

  “What?”

  “Is it okay with you? That we’re going to an event?”

  Maddy bit her tongue. “Mm-hmm,” she lied, and looked out the window. Outside, the first stars of the evening winked in the purple sky. Jacks downshifted and turned, and they cruised down La Cienega Boulevard. Maddy could smell the organic, innovative delicacies of the restaurants and cafés at which she could never afford to eat. Somewhere below them, she could see searchlights knifing through the balmy night air. If she was going to do this, she’d have to do better than her usual Angel-illiterate self. She needed information.

  “And . . . this is for your Commissioning?” she asked sheepishly.

  “Uh-huh.” Jacks nodded. “Me and the other nominees.”

  Maddy hesitated, trying not to sound like a total idiot. “Is that when you become a . . .” Maddy paused, wishing she had actually listened to Gwen on so many previous occasions.