by T. R. Hamby
The message read, Nice try, asshole.
“Fuck,” he breathed, glaring at the screen. “He’s not an idiot.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “Maybe…” she began. She hesitated, then continued, “Mention the last murder. Say you saw it, and that you know it was random. Say you want to meet somewhere to discuss it.”
“He’ll think it’s the police,” he said incredulously.
“Probably. But I bet he’ll go anyway,” she replied, straightening. “To get a look at who’s onto him.”
He stared at the screen, thinking. Finally he nodded.
“We don’t have much choice,” he said. He started typing, and after a moment tilted the screen towards her. “What do you think?”
Saw you murder that guy in the park. Lost count how many times you beat him. You’re not the only one who goes to the park at night. Let’s talk...same place, midnight, tomorrow.
Nora nodded, and he hit send.
They were quiet for a moment, both staring pensively at the screen, until Michael stood, taking out his phone again.
“I’m going to…” he said, trailing off awkwardly and holding up his phone. Nora wagged her eyebrows at him, and he rolled his eyes, stepping backward and vanishing.
She was left alone. She cleared the dishes, her thoughts heavy, and started washing them in the sink. She thought of Mel, unconscious in Hell, surrounded perhaps by snow and writhing bodies. She thought of being together again--how wonderful his arms would feel around her. How happy they would be.
She imagined going on vacations with him--weeks-long holidays to one of his houses among the continents. She imagined resuming their piano lessons, listening to his terrible playing. Asking him to sing to her when she couldn’t sleep--the one musical skill he had accomplished.
She lifted a soapy hand, reaching for the next dish, when she caught sight of the scar on her finger. It was nothing but a pink line now, although every once in a while it twinged.
She was so weak, so fragile. A simple cut to her finger could get septic, could kill her. She could die from some illness...get into a car accident. It was all so easy.
She shivered, shaking her head. No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let Mel watch her die. She couldn’t leave him alone--to live forever without her, like he had had to do with Lilith. She knew he wouldn’t be able to survive it. There was only one way.
She would have to do what God asked. She would have to die.
Michael
Midnight came quickly the next day. Michael had dinner with Nora again, although she could barely eat, too nervous about his appointment later. She was paranoid that their killer was another Angel, and made him promise to come straight back when everything was over.
He called Gilla a little later, from his apartment in Berlin. Their last talk had gone well, despite his awkwardness. She hadn’t seemed to mind.
“How are your parents?” he asked, pacing. He couldn’t seem to sit still while talking on the phone. He still didn’t like it; Gilla’s voice sounded too...mechanical.
“You asked that yesterday,” she chuckled from Stockholm.
He actually flushed. “I did, didn’t I. Sorry.”
“My mother worries about me,” she said. “Being so far away.”
He hesitated. He wasn’t sure if this was the right moment, but he decided to say it anyway.
“Does she worry about...” He hesitated again, took a deep breath. “About what happened.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes.” Her voice was soft, shaky. After another moment she said, “Do you?”
He hadn’t expected that question. He looked out the window at the city, grinding his teeth together. “It’s been on my mind.”
Another silence. He paced again. He hated not seeing her face, not being able to read her emotions.
“Are you angry with me?” she finally asked.
He frowned. “Why would I be angry with you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know...I’m not the woman you thought I was.”
He closed his eyes, feeling a terrible ache in his chest. “That’s not true. You know that.”
“I’m not who I used to be. If you had known me before…”
“I know you now,” he said firmly. “That’s all I care about.”
A pause. He shifted on his feet, feeling antsy. He wasn’t used to these sorts of conversations, especially with humans.
Finally she whispered, so quietly he could barely hear, “Thank you.”
He hesitated, then replied, “You know I could...find him. Watch him.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice was a little stronger. “And I appreciate that...more than you know. But...maybe not yet. I just...can’t risk him knowing.”
“He wouldn’t know,” he said firmly. “Not with me.”
“But he would,” she said, and her voice shook again. “He always knows...he has contacts, friends…”
She trailed off, and Michael sighed. He had to admit that it would be difficult to look for him without alerting a friend of his.
He took a deep breath. “Well...I’m here, at least.”
There was a smile in her voice. “Yeah. You are.”
When they ended the call he stood there, thinking. He was worried, but it helped him knowing that she trusted him to maybe, one day, check up on the man who had hurt her. He wanted her to be safe...wanted her to be happy. He didn’t love her...he couldn’t love her...but she was special, and she was alone, and she was vulnerable. He had to be there for her.
He couldn’t love her. But as he thought this, he ached to see her again, to hold her again.
He didn’t know what to think.
It was ten till midnight when he appeared in the park, having Traveled from Berlin. He walked to the spot where the last victim was found--a young male jogger. Then he found a hiding spot, behind a large tree several yards away. He felt ridiculous hiding like this, but couldn’t think of any other way to get a look at the killer.
He waited. Fifteen minutes went by, and then twenty. He was late.
Suddenly a twig snapped behind him, and he turned. A man was standing a few feet away--a young man, barely in his twenties. He was holding a gun, studying Michael curiously.
Michael wasn’t afraid. He could tell the gunman wasn’t an Angel--he looked too young. And bullets couldn’t hurt him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Povero, I assume?” he asked in Italian.
The man frowned. “You were stupid to come. No one else is here.”
“I invited you. Maybe you were stupid to come.”
Povero cocked his head. “I wanted to see you.”
Michael studied him. He was tense, pointing the gun straight at his head, his thin face focused.
He couldn’t help but smirk. “Going to shoot me? A bit off from your usual method.”
“You’re a big guy,” Povero replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not police, are you?”
“No.”
“So what are you going to do?” he asked, clearly unnerved by Michael’s nonchalance. “Take the gun from me? Are you Superman, or something?”
“Something like that. I can make it easy on you, if you want,” he said quietly. “Just put the gun down...stay still...you can meet my friend…”
Povero swore, turning pale. “You’re fucked.”
Michael felt a flash of anger. “You won’t win either way.”
There was a loud bang as the gun went off. The bullet bounced off his shoulder, leaving a small pain, and Povero sprinted away.
Michael chased after him, moving deftly across the trail. Although he was stronger than humans, his speed wasn’t very different, and Povero was fast. It took him some time to finally catch up to the thin man, grab him by his hoodie and slam him into the pavement.
The force knocked him unconscious. Michael stood over Povero, who lied there, eyes closed and arms splayed out to the side. He looked too small to be a cold blooded murderer. But the evidence was righ
t there--slung in his belt loop was a hammer.
Michael sighed with relief. There would be no third victim. That was one good thing.
“Agatha,” he said, Calling for his sister to come do the deed that was usually Mel’s job.
But a few minutes passed, and nothing happened.
Michael frowned. “Agatha,” he repeated, a little louder.
Still nothing.
“Shit,” he breathed. He looked at Povero again, who was still out cold.
He didn’t want to leave him...but he didn’t have a choice now.
He stepped backward, falling upward through space, until he was in Agatha’s home, right by the hearth.
He was back in the Immortal World. Agatha’s house was a two storey clay building, the same as it was when she had first built it millennia ago. She was nowhere in sight.
“Agatha!” he called, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.
When she didn’t come, he heaved a sigh and went up the stairs to the second floor.
He looked around, and caught sight of her on the balcony, sitting by the fire. It was nighttime, and their moon glowed full and bright. Her short dark hair was tucked behind her ears, and she was working on sewing a gown. Like Mel was with his jewels, she was with her clothing.
She didn’t look at him when he stepped out onto the balcony.
“Agatha. There’s a killer,” he said insistently.
“No,” she said, still not looking at him.
He faltered a little, still pained by her coldness. “He’s killed two humans, Agatha,” he said gently. “Beat them to death with a hammer.”
She finally looked up at him, her little face full of anger. “Kill him yourself,” she hissed.
He sighed, opening his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “I’m finished being your little assassin. Once was enough,” she said, and he shivered. “I hate this Talent Father gave me, and I hate that he asks me to do it at your beck and call. If there was any justice, I would be using it on you.”
He stared at her, so stunned that he was frozen. It was a long time before he could find his voice again.
“Is that what you really want?” he whispered. He couldn’t keep the devastation out of his voice.
She had returned to her sewing. “I want us not to speak again. I can’t do it anymore.”
He stared at her. His chest was tight, so painful he almost doubled over. He couldn’t speak--could barely think--and after a silent moment he stepped off the balcony.
It took him a moment to get his bearings enough to Travel back to the park.
The man was gone. He had gotten away.
Michael
200,000 Years Ago
The air was wet down on Earth. Not at all like Home. Michael remembered the first time he had tasted it, breathed it in. It had been so strange at first. But now it was almost natural--the green, the animals, the Tree. Listening to the Man and Woman talk.
His chest had been hurting lately--a sort of tightness that he wasn’t used to. Mel had run away with the Woman. Let her eat the fruit from the Tree. He had disobeyed every command Father had issued, and had made Michael a laughingstock in the process. His own brother.
Now Mel was on the ground before him, slowly pushing himself back onto his feet. Michael had hit him, and had instantly regretted it. He had never done such a thing before. But he was so angry...so angry at Mel for humiliating him. For defying Father--as if he was somehow better. For sleeping with the Woman, Father’s precious Creation.
He remembered Father’s words, and he shivered, sickened.
They must die, Father had said.
Michael’s heart had grown cold. No, no. Not Mel.
You know what your brother has done.
“I know, but--”
These are not forgivable crimes.
He had shaken his head, desperate. “Father, please. You could banish him. Please.”
A pause. What will you offer in exchange?
It only took a moment. “My life.”
Your life in exchange for his?
“Yes, Father.”
But your life is so much more useful, so much more precious. You have not disobeyed me like Melkira has.
“I’m offering it.”
This time a long silence. Then, I will spare him, then. He will be banished. After you kill the Woman, there will be a great War. Your brother will kill you in battle, and our agreement will be upheld.
“The Woman...can’t she be banished, too?”
No, Father said warningly, she must die.
He hadn’t told a soul what Father had said, though many had asked. He hadn’t been able to sleep...had hardly been able to think. He was about to kill, something he had never done before. And then, very soon, he would be dead. Dead, sent to a Place no one understood.
He hadn’t been able to look Agatha in the eye. It was the only way--the only easy way for the Woman to die. There would be no pain. There was something in that.
Mel finally got to his feet, looking at Michael with his blue eyes piercing. He was practically shaking, holding up his hands in surrender, murmuring to him desperately. Michael could hear Judith moaning behind him, a pleading in her voice.
He wanted it all to stop. He wanted them both to be quiet; he wanted everyone to stop looking at them. All his friends’ attention, something he had desired so much, was now paining him. He wished Father hadn’t chosen him for this.
But he couldn’t disobey...Mel had done enough of that. And if he did, what would happen to Mel? To Judith, to Agatha?
“I have to follow Father’s orders,” he finally breathed, and he forced himself past him, towards the Woman, who looked at him and shivered, sobbing.
Mel started shouting, calling his name, and Michael squeezed his eyes shut, his chest aching. He looked at the Woman, who was so small, being held up by the Angel who guarded her. She looked at him with large dark eyes, shaking, Mel’s sapphire necklace hanging around her neck.
She was so innocent. So defenseless. He felt sick and looked away.
Why does she have to die? He thought, hoping Father would answer his question. But no answer came, and still Mel called to him.
He looked around for Agatha, who was just as small as the Woman. She caught his eye and shook her head, looking terrified. A nearby Angel took her by the arm and dragged her over to them.
“You can’t make me,” she cried, shaking her head wildly. “Michael--please don’t make me--”
“You have to,” he breathed. “She has to die.”
The Woman sobbed harder.
Tears spilled down Agatha’s cheeks, and she shook her head again. “Ask him not to,” she moaned. “Please, ask him.”
“I can’t change his mind. It’s decided.”
“No, Michael…”
He felt a flash of impatience. He just wanted it over.
“Think of your children,” he whispered firmly. “Look what’s happening to Mel; do you want something to happen to you too?”
She sobbed, holding a hand over her mouth. After a long time, she slowly went to the Woman, standing before her. He watched as they whispered, clinging to each other, crying, and he shook. There was something rising within him that he didn’t recognize at first...hatred. Self-hatred, and he wondered why Father would let him feel this.
Finally it happened. Agatha stood back at little, and the Woman looked in Mel’s direction. Michael felt a shift coming from Agatha, and then the Woman was on the ground, and Mel was screaming...screaming so horribly…
He looked away. He wanted to cover his ears. Mel was still screaming, and it was the worst sound he had ever heard.
Oh, god. What had he done?
After a long time Mel’s screams finally died down. Michael looked, and found Agatha and Judith beside him, holding him and crying together. He felt a stab of jealousy--Mel had always been their favorite.
It was over. The Woman’s body was still and gray, lying on the ground, her eyes open and star
ing.
Time to go Home.
But Judith and Agatha didn’t want to go. They looked at him, and he saw his own hatred reflected on their faces. Mel sat there, a ghost of himself, with a deadened look on his face.
Agatha stood up, her eyes fiery as she looked up at him. “You’ll never get forgiveness from me,” she vowed.
And she walked off, taking Judith with her.
Michael stood there, a terrible wrenching in his chest. His whole world had just been torn apart. And it was his fault.
He looked down at Mel, who was staring at him. There was hatred in his eyes, too--pure anger. Soon, Michael knew, Mel would kill him for his sin.
He couldn’t bear it. He left Mel there, vanishing into his house. He stood there, listening to the silence, marveling at how everything had changed.
He must have been the most hated Angel there ever was. And now he was utterly alone.
Nora
It was only a quarter to one when Michael returned, appearing in her living room.
She sat up, expecting a triumphant Michael to tell her every detail of Povero’s death. But instead Michael was shaking, his face pale, and he dropped onto the couch and held his head in his hands.
“Michael? What happened?” she asked, touching his arm.
He moaned a little. Then he muttered, “Do you have anything to drink?”
She got up and went to the kitchen, pouring some bourbon left over from one of their dinners. She returned to the living room, sitting beside him and handing him the glass.
He took it and downed the whole thing.
She stared at him. “Michael?”
He looked as if he was trying not to cry, and this unnerved her. Michael was never distraught.
“Agatha wouldn’t come,” he finally whispered, his voice hoarse. He was staring at his empty glass, his dark eyes glittering with tears. “I had to go to her...and she said she wouldn’t do it anymore.”
