“Engel Storm. So this is your place.”
Hal smiled in response and glanced around as if to reaffirm to himself that, yes, indeed he was the owner and also to try and see the bar, as if it was for the first time, through someone else’s eyes.
“Angel Storm? Well, there’s one thing we have in common, Mr. Storm. Names that are conversation starters. Now, about my question…”
“No. I don’t have any money. And I don’t have any place to go. When you close this fine establishment, I’m going to be looking for a park bench and hoping it doesn’t rain.” Storm reached up and scratched his chin. “You don’t happen to have a big cardboard box back there, do you? And one of those plastic rain poncho things?”
“Look. Since you’re not in any hurry, why don’t you sit down there?” He pointed to the stool in front of him. “Let me check on my customers. When I get back, we’ll talk about that box.”
Storm watched Hal stop at each of the four occupied tables. Twice he returned to the bar with a tray full of empties, filled orders from memory, and delivered fresh rounds. There was a little digital clock behind the bar that caught his eye. It read thirteen minutes after eleven. He looked at his analog watch, which also read thirteen minutes after eleven – an exact twelve hour difference between where he sat and where he should be sitting having lunch with Glen.
Watching Hal take trays back and forth, he wondered if the bar had been busier earlier and, if it had, how Hal had managed to handle things without help. When he realized where his thoughts had taken him, he almost laughed out loud at himself. He was in an alien dimension with no money, where he knew no one, which probably went without saying, and he was pretty sure that his ID would come off just as fake as the money he had on him. The sane response to that predicament would be hysteria.
When Hal returned to his station behind the bar, he gave his hands a quick pass under the bar sink faucet, dried them on the towel he wore over his shoulder, and, just for good measure, wiped them on the white waist apron he wore. Luckily, Hal didn’t serve food. Just drinks.
“You probably noticed I’m here by myself. Had a girl working for me up until this afternoon.”
“That’s too bad.”
“At least she called, which was a refreshing change.” Storm nodded. “Thing is, I’m semi-retired. Or trying to be. I work during times when we need two people. When I find somebody who can handle it alone, I enjoy my golden years doing other things.” Somebody from one of the tables shouted something and Hal looked away. “’Scuse me a minute.”
He walked over, talked, nodded, came back long enough to grab a Texas long neck, delivered it and dumped empties into an already full sink. Turning back to Storm he said, “And that’s what it’s all about. So. You ever done any bartending?”
Storm sat up a little straighter as the conversation suddenly came into crystal clear focus. He was being interviewed for a job that, well, it meant he might not have to live in a box and steal for the bare necessities. Hal was treated to the full weight of Storm’s intensity.
“I’ve never done bartending, but I have worked as a bouncer and I helped my friend study the mixed drinks manual when he was learning to bartend.”
Hal lifted his chin. “I’d bet the farm that you’re a quick study.”
“You have a farm?”
Hal chuckled. “No, but I’ve got a studio apartment in the back. I put it in a few years ago when the wife and I were in a bad patch. It’s got a fridge and a nuke. Not much, but guys don’t need much. Right? It’s a sight better than a box.”
He leaned on the bar. “A year later she left town with a thirty-year-old. I reclaimed the house and moved back in. Now I got a girlfriend who rooms with me.” He winked.
“Anyway, it’s just sitting back there not bein’ used. You know?”
Of all the times to feel like a damn lucky son-of-a-bitch, being stranded wouldn’t be the most likely candidate. But there he stood agreeing with Hal that, indeed, a modest room and a job in a place where he had no resources and no way to prove he should exist, was feeling like a mighty big blessing.
“You could finish studying up on drinks. We don’t get a lot of call for Pink Poodle Saharas and shit. Most of my customers want just what you’d expect. Straight and easy. We get an occasional request for a somethin’-tini or a cosmo. That’s about it.
“I’m thinking that, if you help me work the late shift and watch the place after hours, you can have the job with the room thrown in. Package deal.”
Storm looked into Hal’s face for a couple more seconds. He started to say thank you, but his voice caught just a little and he had to try again. “Thank you.”
Hal grinned. “Nah. You’re the one doing me a favor, kid.” Hal opened the cash register and produced two keys on a generic chain, which he laid on the bar.
Storm looked down at the old-fashioned polished wood then reached out to finger the keys.
“This might sound ungrateful. I don’t mean it that way and I hope you don’t take it that way.” He raised his eyes to meet Hal’s. “Why?”
“Guy wanders in off the street looking lost, asks me if funny money is real, and then says he’s homeless. Who wouldn’t give that guy a key to his business?” Storm just stared, unsure what to think or say about that. Finally, Hal laughed. “Just pumping you. Truth is, night in, night out, bartenders serve drinks to people so wounded they’ve forgot how to keep their shields up. Enough years go by, a sixth sense of a thing starts to come on. Know what I mean?”
“You a mind reader?”
“Like the Dear Dora Psychic Line?” He shook his head, clearly amused. “It’s not mindreading. More like sensing the core of a person. Their real stuff. You know?”
Storm’s brows had come together. In an off-the-beaten-path sort of way, he did think he understood what Hal was saying. Maybe. The guy probably was part clairvoyant, part philosopher. “And your sense told you to trust me?”
“’Bout sums it up.”
“Okay.” Storm picked the keys up and put them in his pocket. “I’m much obliged. Just one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I, ah, might have to leave in a hurry and I might not be able to get the keys back to you. I wouldn’t want to leave you in a bad, um…”
Hal grew serious. “Don’t worry about it, kid. If you have to leave in a hurry, I won’t be any worse off than the way you found me. Right?”
Storm wanted to give Hal a smile in return, but was suddenly afraid that, if he tried to smile, he might mist up instead. So he nodded and looked away.
“Then it’s settled. Here’s the plan. We open at four and close at two. You’ll be on from six to two. I’ll come in and get things started at four and stay until one person can handle it. Like now. You’ll close up.”
Storm looked around. It wasn’t yet midnight and the place had cleared out except for one guy sitting by himself in a corner booth nursing a long neck like he was in an ice house. Of course, it was a week night. Weekends might be different. Probably were.
“Alright.”
Hal turned toward the cash register, opened it again, pulled out a small stack of cash and laid it on the bar where the keys had been.
“Consider this an advance. You’re going to need some stuff that play money of yours won’t buy. Hope you’re not hungry ‘cause there’s nothing open.”
“I saw a donut shop down the block.”
Hal’s eyes flicked over Storm’s upper body. “Guy your size needs real food. Not puffy fried cardboard dusted with sugar. There’s some frozen stuff in the apartment, but it’s probably not much better for you.” He waved his hand at the bar. “Obviously something to drink is not a problem.
“There’s a little pocket grocery two blocks east opens at seven. I think. Run by Chinese, but they carry regular stuff. Nice people.
“So I’ll close up tonight. You go on and get settled. Tomorrow I’ll show you the ropes.” He motioned toward a door behind the bar. “That way. Have a good nigh
t.”
Storm looked toward the door and back at Hal. “Thank you. I…”
“Okay, look. If you really want to thank me proper, then one of these days when you think the time is right, I’d like to hear your story. Got a feeling it’s a collectable.” He nodded toward the back. “Go on now.”
Storm wandered through the swinging door behind the bar. There was only one locked door, so he figured he was at the right place. Hal was right. It wasn’t much.
He closed the door. The space had a half bath, a little dinette with two chairs, although Storm seriously doubted Hal had ever entertained a guest. One window facing the alley had iron bars. A low two-shelf book case that was filled with books. Alarm clock. No TV. He was going to have the company of the constant hum of the refrigerator. It was white with a curved top, about as tall as his chest, and it looked like it could qualify for display in the Smithsonian Americana section.
There was an old porcelain sink with a few black scars where chunks of the porcelain were missing. The room seemed to be clean though. No dust. Bed was made. He hoped the sheets hadn’t been slept on. But beggars can’t be choosers.
Sitting on the side of the single bed that wasn’t really long enough for him, he indulged in a deep sigh while he studied the mock marble veins on the linoleum floor tiles and remembered the picture of his beautiful girls saying goodbye, thinking he’d be home in a little over an hour. He looked at his watch and thought, “Right about now.”
His mind wandered to a mental candid of his idea of a perfect day. He and Litha had bought their vineyard and given the previous owners the two weeks they requested to vacate. Since the newlyweds had nowhere in particular to be, they reasoned that there might never be another time so opportune for sightseeing Northern California.
The picture that came to his mind was of a day driving the red convertible Aston Martin south on the Pacific Coast Highway from Eureka. The top was down. A cloudless sky met a cerulean blue sea on the western horizon and the water shimmered with the magic of reflected sunlight.
As he looked over at his new wife, her loosely bound hair whipping behind her in the wind, he was thinking that paradise could not hope to be as perfect as that moment. As if reading his mind, she turned toward him and laughed.
He could almost hear the sound of that laugh bounce around the walls of the little studio apartment. He saw a drop of something fall on his jeans. Oh, shit no. Black Swan knights don’t leak. Not unless they’re Elora. At least not over something as trivial as being temporarily misplaced.
Storm considered that he didn’t have a lot of experience with sadness. He had parents who loved him. He’d gotten what he wanted for Yule when he was a kid.
From the moment Sol recruited him, he’d been busy learning and drilling. Then patrolling and fighting. He had a mission to occupy his drive and his needs were taken care of so that he could focus on the work.
The closest he’d ever come to sadness was when Elora chose Rammel, but if what he was feeling at the moment was sadness, then getting on that plane without Elora would have to be categorized as a minor annoyance.
He told himself to pull it tight and get ready to wait it out. He would be found. He knew that Litha would never stop looking until he was back at home.
His fuck up of a father-in-law would have to do something right for a change. Storm’s mood lightened a little when he imagined what Litha would be saying to the incubus when she found out. She’d put him through seven levels of Hades.
Litha.
CHAPTER 10
A week had passed without finding Storm. Both hope and enthusiasm were starting to wane. Every day fewer searchers showed up to help.
Litha’s friend, the angel Kellareal, was committed and pressed his crew to keep looking.
As for Deliverance, over the past eight hundred years, he’d made more fans than friends, most of whom were human women and, therefore, not equipped to help with the search.
There were hoards of Elementals who owed him favors though. Nothing kept a significant female from suspicion or curiosity like being preoccupied by her own tryst with an incubus, which meant that Deliverance was always in demand among philandering male Elementals.
The problem wasn’t that he had lots of favors available to collect. The problem was in trying to collect those favors. Many of the entities he could tap for a U. O. Me couldn’t be found unless they wanted to be found.
Nonetheless, between friends, fans, and favors, he’d produced a respectable search party. The fact that there was nothing to show for their effort really wasn’t because of lack of trying. Glen’s smart board had turned into a chaotic mess with the numbers of searched quadrants struck through.
Under his own authority and initiative, Glen hung photos of Storm, enlarged to poster size, around the conference room. He knew the Elementals who were searching weren’t using sight to find him, but being human, it seemed to him that a search and rescue war room ought to have photos of the missing person. Maybe he also needed a visual reminder to keep him from leaning toward despair, because he and Ram were both starting to show some frazzle around the edges. They had no way of calculating the odds of getting Storm back, but every day that ended without finding him made it feel like the chances were growing fainter.
Litha was a mess emotionally and constantly berated herself for that. Her little girl was being raised by other people while she searched. When her mother was at home, Rosie was exposed to pure stress and that made Litha feel even guiltier.
Rosie was three when Storm had disappeared. She now appeared to be around six and a half.
Just the right age to be learning to ride a bike.
She’d had that thought in the middle of having dinner with her little girl and had burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, Mama.”
“No. I won’t.” Litha shook her head, smiled, and tried to compose herself quickly. “I’m not going to cry. It’s just that your Daddy wanted to teach you to ride a bike and I think you’re at the perfect age right now.”
Rosie looked back at her with an expression of intelligence that was arresting. “Then I won’t learn to ride a bike until he comes home.”
Litha was grateful for that sentiment and feeling pensive. “Rosie. Do you remember your daddy?”
She beamed in response and nodded enthusiastically. “I know everything about him.”
Litha cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“I know everything from when he was a little boy.”
“I don’t understand. You mean you’ve heard stories about little boys?”
She giggled and shook her head like her mother was being silly. “No. I remember.”
Litha frowned. “You remember what exactly, darling?”
“I remember from when Daddy was a little boy.”
Litha felt her heart speed up, but tried to keep her voice calm.
“Rosie. Tell me a story from when Daddy was a little boy.”
“Okay. When Daddy was a little boy, his favorite thing to do was to go to work with his daddy.”
“What did they do at work?”
“They looked at the rows where the grapes were planted. They looked at the big barrels. Stuff like that.”
Litha knew that to be true because Storm had told her how much he loved going to the vineyard where his father worked.
“What else do you know about?”
“I know everything about you, too, Mama.”
Litha’s breath gushed out in a laugh or a sob. She wasn’t sure which. As if it wasn’t already unusual enough to have a little girl who was aging six months a day and transporting anywhere she pleased with a thought.
“Oh my.” More tears slid down Litha’s face as she made a mental list of things she wouldn’t want her child to know about her. Nothing said ‘lack of privacy’ like someone who had your memories.
“It’s alright, Mama. Until Daddy gets back we have Auntie Elora and Grandy and the seven monkeys.”
“Rosie! Don
’t call them that! It’s disrespectful. They’re monks.”
“I know. But they don’t mind. They laugh when I say it.”
“And don’t talk to me about Grandy.”
“He’s sorry, Mama. He really is. He didn’t mean to lose Daddy and he’s sad all the time that you’re mad at him.”
“Good.”
Rosie pressed her lips together and looked at her mother with condemnation. In a moment of turning the tables that was almost weirder than the rest of it.
“You can just stop looking at me like that because I’m not taking it back.”
Rosie raised her little eyebrows and perfectly mimicked that head jiggle mannerism that Deliverance had passed on to Litha. And now Rosie, too. Apparently.
“And we have Glen.” Rosie had the oddest little smile on her face, like she had a secret.
Glen finished another twelve hour shift almost too exhausted to think. He’d been running Jefferson Unit from the conference room. He was afraid that, if he stepped away, one of the searchers would return with news and he wouldn’t be there. During his shift, he ate his meals there, slept there, and had Barrock stand watch when he needed a toilet break. The stress of the constant barrage of emotion was scraping him raw.
He was furious with Deliverance and worried like hell about Storm. Every time someone or some thing popped into the conference room, his hope spiked like a jack-in-the-box and then crashed when it turned out to be nothing but a no-go report.
Of all the times for Sol to take a vacation. Of all the times for Storm to get lost. When he was in charge feeling like the furthest thing from a boy wonder.
In one of the few quiet moments, Glen summoned Monq to talk about the mishap and was shocked that he came.
“I’ve been thinking that you need to come up with a way to be certain this doesn’t happen again. Ever.”
“By ‘this’, you mean the displacement of Sir Storm?”
Glen glared at him, with too little energy left in emotional reserve to be polite.
“Yes. That’s what I mean. And for now, until Sol gets back and makes a final decision, we need to classify this accident as Top Secret. If it gets around that you can get lost when piggybacking the passes, how many employees or associates are going to volunteer for that ride in the future?”
Gathering Storm Page 9
