The Given

by Vicki Pettersson

  Then the ship’s deck disappeared above them, and the heavens surged overhead. Lightning flashed, and Donel’s roar cut off with a chagrined yelp. For a moment, the fullness of the silence was deafening, the heavy hand of God’s presence stifling. Donel fell to his knees. Shifting, Sarge lowered his head and folded his wings behind him. Grif risked a skyward glance but saw only the deck closing back over them, plank by plank, though the air remained sulfurous and shocked.

  “I wash my hands of this, Francis,” Donel rasped, when time began moving again. His teeth were bared, and his voice rushed like rapids. “You are playing favorites with these mortals! You are interfering!”

  Sarge shrugged one tattered shoulder. “I’m not the one who just got reprimanded.”

  Donel unfurled his wings with a sharp snap. They spanned one end of the ship to the other. “This is all on you!”

  “Yes.” Sarge looked at Grif, no longer speaking to the other Pure. “It is.”

  Donel roared and shot up, directly through the newly built illusion of the ship. The report of the wood splintering was like cold and hot air crashing together. The other Pures followed his storm cloud, and, breathing hard, Grif watched them go until Sarge reached out and gently waved his hand over the breech.

  “Jesus,” Grif breathed, as silence again loomed.

  “No. That was His daddy.”

  Who else, Grif thought, could cow a Seraph?

  Sarge answered the thought by quirking one eyebrow. “Donel forgot himself. It’s not his place to impart lessons to the Chosen.”

  That’s right. It was Sarge’s job.

  “You knew what he was going to do.”

  “What, ambush you with prophecy? Yes. And I couldn’t stop him . . . there’s nothing anyone can do to stop prophecy, Shaw. Once it’s uttered, you are on a one-way street leading directly to your fate. You will either fulfill it or you won’t. But I could at least offer a little guidance.”

  He meant that even one-way streets could be littered with potholes.

  Grif nodded to show he understood, then licked his lips. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Donel was right. It’s time to figure out once and for all who killed Griffin Shaw.”

  “Fine. Tell me about this prophecy.”

  “And?” Sarge quirked one eyebrow.

  Grif huffed at the Pure’s knowing look. “And, yeah. I’ll go ahead and take that miracle now as well.”

  And sharing a dual thought of Kit Craig, Sarge and Grif both smiled.

  Grif normally traversed worlds using actual doorways. Windows worked, too, but a recognizable portal of entry into the Everlast was calming for souls who’d been traumatized by sudden death. Grif rather liked it himself, even when returning alone to the Surface. Fifty years of skipping along moon shadows, and the sudden emergence from the silky black cosmos onto the Surface—especially the Las Vegas Strip—was a bit jarring. So he took a moment to compose himself, imagining the time and location he wanted to reappear on the Surface, then reached out and opened the hatch that Donel had been blocking.

  As expected, he levered himself up onto the deck of a ship rocking beneath the weight of a faux pirate battle. The bridge between worlds was that simple for him. Sure, the wooden hatch bent like putty when he touched it, and rippled as if rustling wind lived inside the slivered surface, but for Grif it was like stepping from a dry sauna into a wet one. When you were both human and angelic, the membrane between worlds was rice-paper thin, and crossing from one to the other was as easy as blowing out candles and making a wish.

  “Hey!” The shout sounded behind him as he headed toward the gangplank, and he turned to see an actor squinting at him through a dashing black eye patch. The faux pirate rushed to block him, pointing at Grif with a wooden sword. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Grif muttered, shoving the sword aside like a turnstile, and leaping to the dock next to some wide-eyed tourists. Germans, if their tube socks were any indication. Ignoring them, he began heading south . . . on a Saturday night that he’d already lived.

  That was his miracle. Not a rush to Kit’s defense. Not, thankfully, an arrival on the scene to a murder in progress. No, this was a real miracle—a return to the Surface and to the past. Not only that, Grif was using his miracle to kill two birds.

  “How far back do you want to go?” Sarge had asked, leaving it up to him.

  “You mean do I want to go all the way back to 1960?”

  The incline of Sarge’s head indicated it was an option. “You can’t alter your own fate, of course. But . . . there is Evie.”

  Evie, whom he’d married in 1958, when he was already thought to be a confirmed bachelor at thirty-one, and she still a dewy-eyed twenty-two. Evie, whom he’d loved so much he couldn’t imagine living without her.

  Evie, who’d also fallen under attack because Grif had neglected to protect her.

  But these memories were dusty and light compared to the boulder of grief that’d slammed into Grif when Donel told him Kit was dying. That was a blow that’d stopped the breath in his chest, and made his lungs scream along with the denial in his mind. That was an event that, if true, made him want to simply lie down and die as well.

  Again.

  “Send me back to the time of Barbara McCoy’s death,” he told Sarge, with a nod of his head. “I can stop that murder, question her killer, and then she can help me find Evie.”

  From there, he’d go on to protect Kit and find out who killed him fifty years earlier.

  Easy-peasy. Right?

  “No,” Sarge had said, reading his mind again. Grif huffed in annoyance, but Sarge just crossed his arms, looking more like his old self. “It’s anything but easy. If you choose this path, if you go back in time, nothing will happen as it’s meant to. You’ll be rewriting history, and fate will try to rip the pen from your hand and scribble over your intentions. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. I get a shot at saving Kit’s life.” And nothing else mattered. “So let’s get on with it.”

  So Sarge agreed, saying he’d allow enough time to get to McCoy’s home before she was killed, and now Grif was quick-footing it down the infamous Las Vegas Strip, dodging tourists like a salmon swimming upriver. He ignored the scattershot music blasting from the giant LED screens overhead, the roar of cabs and car horns on the wide, joyous streets, and the river of cascading lights overhead, so bright that they shuttered out the heavens he’d so recently inhabited.

  The first time he’d lived this night he was playing cards with a bunch of old-timers in the back of the Italian-American Club, a social circle that’d been surprisingly hard to infiltrate. He’d been hoping they could give him some leads on the boys who’d run this town in 1960 . . . if any of them were left.

  No chance of that now. He’d stood them up, and there’d be no second invite, though he might not need it if he reached Barbara McCoy in time. It was almost seven at night. She was slated to die within the hour.

  He sidestepped, barely evading a body blow from a woman who was laughing as she looked behind her, swinging a neon drinking cup the length of her arm. A loud couple nudged by in the other direction, the male hitting Grif’s shoulder as they passed, but he ignored it, turned down Flamingo, and headed east. He overtook an older couple, both huffing as they dragged luggage down the sidewalk in search of McCarran Airport.

  “It’s farther than it looks,” the woman grumbled, steering wide of a homeless man slumped against the wall. He smelled of alcohol and was arguing with ghosts. Unlike on the main drag, the homeless were more evident here. Another reminder that frivolity existed in the same world as abject cruelty, not that Grif needed it.

  He paused before the man and handed him a few bucks. Then he thought about it, and handed over the entire roll. He’d been fresh off the craps tables when he died, plenty flush. Plus, no matter how much money he spent in this lifetime, the full amount would return to his wallet at the exact time of
his original death: 4:10 every morning.

  “What if I steal your wallet?” Kit had once asked, after learning of—seeing—his angelic nature.

  “Then I slap your wrist,” he said, playfully doing just that as she curled up tight, warm at his side. He linked his fingers in hers. “But it’ll be back in my pocket at 4:10. Same as everything I died in.”

  “So that explains the sweet vintage suit, the wingtips, the shit-hot stingy-brim.”

  Yes, it explained all of his clothes, along with the photo of Evie he’d carried in his wallet, the snubnose with four remaining rounds secured at his ankle. All that was missing was his wedding ring, his driver’s license, and the memory of his death. The latter was why it was so damned hard for him to move on. His thoughts were still caught in 1960. Yet how could he look to the future when so many questions remained?

  Strange, but the question no longer felt as important as it had before Nicole Rockwell had knocked him upside the head. Knocked some sense into him, too, it seemed, because Donel had been right about one thing. Grif’d been caught in an emotional limbo, stuck waiting for something, anything, to happen.

  And now something had.

  Gradually the streets shifted from bright and gaudy to a more muted chaos, and the Panorama Project, where Barbara McCoy lived, loomed before him. The high-rise was famous for its opulence and valley-wide views, which meant it was easy to spot as well. Good. The thought of having to ask for directions made him break out in sweat.

  Drawing close, he studied the billboards touting the building’s many amenities and, with unit prices close to the seven-figure mark, there were more than a few. It boasted its own grocery “boutique,” as well as a dry cleaner, a workout facility and spa, and conference rooms for executives who preferred to take a mere elevator ride to work. There was a secure underground parking garage for residents, and a private guard to assist visitors. Barbara’s death in the guarded and stacked high-rise should have been a near impossibility. Grif shook his head. He also wondered how the hell he was going to get in.

  He glanced straight up and took in the soaring twenty-floor facade as he approached the main entrance. Yet one look from the building’s guard, who gave Grif a good once-over as he circled the short drive, and a second glance at the security cameras dotting the shining glass entryway, and he knew he wouldn’t be entering from the front.

  “Just gimme a door,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He headed around the corner, pausing there for a moment.

  It was Saturday night, but this neighborhood purposely lacked a thoroughfare, making the depths of it quiet, a stillness enhanced by the evening’s chill. Yet the high-rise was in the foreground, and there a steady stream of limousines and taxis were ferrying couples along the complex’s circular drive. The men were in tuxes, the women in furs, and all were greeted by the doorman or the security guard before disappearing inside.

  Grif glanced down at his classic suit, smiled, and buffed his wingtips on the back of his pant legs. Then he straightened his skinny tie and decided to take a little stroll.

  He timed his approach as a powder-blue Bentley rolled into the drive. The sleek, humming ride had the doorman jumping to attention, and Grif waited until the man had his hands full with fur pelts and perfumed wrists, assisting a woman wearing heels so stacked they resembled hooves. The doorman steadied her on her pins as she tried to find purchase on the faux cobblestone, and Grif slipped behind him . . . then plowed directly into a most inflexible chest.

  “Good evening, sir,” rumbled the security guard. “Can I help you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “No, I’m fine.” Grif rubbed his chin and made to move around the guard.

  The guard—HOWARD, said the name tag—intercepted like a linebacker. But not before Grif spotted the placard directing guests to the pool house.

  “I’m afraid all visitors must check in with me, sir. Which resident may I call for you?”

  Grif wasn’t about to say Barbara McCoy, not with her pending murder, so he motioned in the direction of the pool house. “I’m here for the Hastings’ vow renewals.”

  He sidestepped the guard again, but Howard countered by widening his stance. Apparently, this was a full-on scrimmage. “Your invitation?”

  Grif turned up his hands and motioned down his body. “I’m the entertainment.”

  Howard’s brow remained low for a moment longer. Then a slow smile bloomed across his weathered face. “Of course! The funny hat should have tipped me off—”

  Grif crossed his arms. He suddenly felt like scrimmaging.

  But Howard motioned him inside, even holding the door wide as he pointed to the left. “Mr. Hasting loves all those old crooner tunes. Go on in. I think your band is already setting up.”

  He was being so helpful that Grif forgave the hat remark. “Warming up,” he said, shooting Howard a wink. “They need more practice than me.”

  The pool house lay tucked to the rear of the giant property, where a pert hostess in black silk cradled a clipboard, cheerily checking off guests’ names while a swing band was indeed setting up behind her. A normal enough scene, except that the band was suspended directly atop the pool. Vegas had to do everything bigger. He bet even the lemonade stands sported strobes and sequins.

  Grif strolled over to the twin elevators leading to the residential towers, and bent to tie his shoe. When he rose, he sent a warm pulse of energy into his hand, and flashed his palm over the security card reader. The doors slid open with a soft ding.

  Grif caught one last glimpse of the woman wearing furs and glittering hooves before the elevator doors slid shut, and he began his ascent. At least the paper had mentioned that Barbara lived on the fifteenth floor. When he stepped out again, it was into a hallway carpeted in elegant grays. A soft chime seemed to greet his arrival, but no . . . it was just the second set of elevator doors sliding shut, heading down. Good timing.

  Moving quickly, Grif waved his hand in front of a smoky, half-domed camera. A sizzling sound slithered through the air before smoke began trailing from beneath the dome. The celestial powers left to him after his return to inhabit flesh didn’t extend much beyond this simple magic trick, but sometimes it was enough.

  “Okay, Barbara,” he muttered, turning to face the long, silent hall. “Let’s find out why you think I deserved to die.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Suite 1509. The exact number hadn’t been in the paper—the one not due to be printed for another two days, he reminded himself—but Grif didn’t need it. The plasmic thread snaking down the hall was enough to tell him he had the right place, and that Barbara was home. Sarge hadn’t given him much of a lead.

  He considered knocking, but decided he’d rather risk frightening Barbara, and saving her life, than alerting her attackers to his presence. So he pulled the snubnose pistol from his ankle holster and placed his other hand on the door, which snicked open with one well-directed thought.

  The marble foyer was black and white, and flanked by two grand marble pedestals, each holding fresh flowers destined to live longer than the woman who’d bought them. Unless I have a say in the matter, Grif thought. Pistol up, he edged around the glossy center console.

  The arched ceiling thwarted his caution and amplified his footsteps so that his soles squeaked, even as he tiptoed, careful to avoid the crystal urns and ceramic statues clustered nearby. Dust catchers, he thought. Or that’s what they called them in his day, and they seemed to serve the same useless purpose now.

  A short hallway linked the entrance to the main room, and Grif craned his head to find a creamy pastel living area dotted with soft fabrics, cashmere throws, and velvet settees. It was vast, too. Grif could feel its size as he edged forward, taking note of the bold artwork hanging in ornate gold frames. The vibrant swaths of paint put Grif in mind of bodies intertwined, the whorls and loops somehow erotic despite the lack of function or form. One more step allowed a slivered view of the glittering valley from a floor-to-c
eiling window that was currently open at one end and sucking out room spray . . . and the scent of gunpowder with it.

  Gun braced before him, Grif swiveled around the corner, and pivoted left, then right, before straightening his knees. He sighed.

  “These dames and their white carpeting,” he muttered, and stepped into the blood-splattered room. A woman lay splayed on her stomach, facedown, or would’ve been if she’d still possessed a face.

  Softening his vision and allowing his celestial eyesight to rise to its forefront, he searched for signs of the plasma he’d spotted in the hall, but it was gone, as was the murdered soul and her assigned Centurion. Just as well. Victims of violent death could develop an emotional tic if they stared at their mortal remains for long. It made regret and grief harder to work out in the Tube.

  So much for saving Barbara McCoy, Grif thought, cursing himself as he ventured closer. His feet sunk into the thick carpeting, though he was careful to skirt the still-widening ring of blood. He thought of the elevator dinging just as he gained the fifteenth floor, and cursed again, knowing he’d missed this murder by minutes. Why the hell had Sarge allowed that? Bending, Grif inspected the body. Barbara had been wearing a white silk pantsuit, as if dressed to match the grand suite. It was probably what they’d call winter white—also an impractical color for death—but at least she’d look sharp for eternity.

  Grif slid his gaze up the body to where her head should have been. The shot had come from up close. Personal, he thought, glancing up and around. Despite all the crystal and vases and array of tchotchkes lacking any practical function, there were no frames, no photographs, and no way for Grif to see what the woman had looked like before someone took her head away.

  Eyes scanning the floor again, Grif also realized Barbara had already been prone at the time of her death. The blood splatter was wrong for a standing kill. The killer, or killers, had levered themselves low, too, eye-level with the victim just in case the bullet passed through the brain. It would then strike the wall, not go straight down into floor.