On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

  Half-an-hour spent staking out my own residence led me to believe it was safe to go in. I flipped up the collar of my coat and skulked to the door like a man with something to hide, appropriate given my status as a man with something to hide. The room looked like a drunk resided in it: exactly how I left it. I kicked aside an empty Gray Goose bottle and went to the dresser for a fresh pair of pants wondering what to do with the bloody ones. Things like bloody clothing leaned toward incrimination.

  Clean pants tucked under my arm, I headed for the bathroom and peeled the blood-caked pair gingerly off my leg, sucking air through my teeth against the expected pain. Expected, but strangely absent in spite of the brown blood caking my leg, groin to ankle. I doused a face cloth with warm water, squeezed off the excess, and patted my leg, careful not to aggravate the wound. The dried layer of blood washed away stubbornly, smearing at first and requiring several rinsings of the cloth before revealing the spot where Ashton buried his knife in my thigh. I stared at the pink skin of my thigh peppered with black hairs.

  “What the...?”

  No wound. Not even a scar.

  “How the hell?”

  “Raphael.”

  I spun, the once-white-now-pink face cloth dropping from my grasp as I raised my fists, ready for a fight. Gabe smiled making me instantly aware she’d caught me standing in the bathroom with my pants around my ankles.

  “Gabe? What are you doing here?”

  “Raphael,” she repeated. “Remember him? The Archangel responsible for healing? He left some of his power in you when he healed your gunshot wound.”

  “Right.”

  I yanked a towel off the rack, dried my leg and pulled on the fresh jeans. Standing in front of Gabe half-naked didn’t necessarily embarrass me, but the ideas it gave me required a pair of pants to hide the results. I didn’t need an angel to see she brought me to half-mast, not now.

  “Why are you here?”

  She reached behind her back and pulled a scroll out of the magical pocket. Without flourish, she held it out, her smile drilling dimples in her cheeks. Business as usual. Part of me feared what might be written on the scroll and wanted nothing to do with it, and that part managed to restrain the other urge to snatch the scroll away, tear it open and see whose name it held. I balanced the two and let her put it in my hand like slow motion relay runners passing the baton.

  “You probably shouldn’t stay here.”

  “No, I guess I fucked up my exceptional living arrangements, didn’t I.”

  My sarcasm appeared lost on her. “It’s not your fault, Icarus. Forces are working against you.”

  Comforting.

  In my opinion, her words qualified for a spot in the top five understatements ever put to words, but I didn’t bother mentioning it to her. Instead, I regarded the scroll in my hand, rolled it back and forth on my open palm, hesitant to open it. A surety boiled in my gut, bubbling fear up into my chest and throat: it would be Trevor’s name penned in beautiful script on the yellowed paper. In any case, the scroll held the name of someone marked for death and my opening it or not didn’t determine who or when, nor cause its postponement. No point delaying. I unfurled it, revealing the swooping calligraphy indicative of an angel’s hand an inch at a time. The fine, curving lines read like music to the eyes--they didn’t say ‘Trevor Fell’.

  I let out my breath.

  “You don’t have much time.”

  According to the time and date on the scroll, a couple of hours remained until the death of some guy named Dante Frank--a name I was relieved to find I didn’t recognize . Sounded like either a professional football player or a pimp.

  “I can’t do it,” I said. Gabe’s smile finally faded. “I have to find Trevor. The priest is after him.”

  Gabe grabbed my wrist and a thrill shot up my arm, through my shoulder and into my chest far more intense than the times Poe laid hands on me. The power in the Archangel must have been incredible.

  “Icarus, you have to.”

  “No, I’ve got to take care of my boy.” I dropped my gaze from her eyes. “If someone else goes to Hell so he’s safe, I’m okay with that.”

  “I’m not.”

  I pursed my lips and looked into her gingerbread eyes. It was the first time I’d seen a serious expression on her face.

  “Can’t you get someone else to do it? Surely I’m not the only harvester you have.”

  “There are others. They have their own assignments.”

  She let go of my wrist, the electric feeling siphoning away along with her touch, leaving behind an emptiness, a feeling of something special being taken from me, something I might never have again. I fought back unexpected tears at the loss but hid them by rolling up the scroll and setting it in the bathroom sink.

  “Forget Hell.” Her tone made it impossible to do anything but look at her. Sparks flickered in her eyes the way tears must have glimmered in mine. “What happened last time you let the Carrions take a soul?”

  I thought of Marty and Todd. Poe said they never made it to the drop point, but maybe they were still trapped here on earth, as ghosts or--more likely given their demeanor--poltergeists. Probably haunting a bar. The thought relieved some of my sense of loss. They’d be happy there.

  “Who are Marty and Todd?”

  “Not funny, Gabe. You’re the one who gave me the scrolls.”

  She tilted her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My drinking buddies, the last souls I didn’t collect when I was supposed to. You gave me the scrolls at the bar.”

  “No, I did not.”

  The time on the scroll was wrong.

  I suppressed a shudder and remembered the lack of tattoo on the back of her neck. The implications of someone--something--else disguised as Gabe leading me astray, tricking me, felt devastating. I fought against the sense of betrayal. It wasn’t her.

  “Then who--?”

  “I’m speaking of Father Dominic. What has happened since you didn’t collect his soul?”

  Right: that didn’t come out so well. If I’d taken his soul like intended, none of this would have happened, everyone would still be alive, Trevor would be safe. All the blame for the deaths, the danger stalking my son, lay with me.

  “It’s not about blame, Icarus. It’s about what you must do now.”

  “For Christ’s sake, will you stop doing that? Can’t a man have a little privacy?”

  She had a point. If the priest had come back for revenge, could others do the same? How could I protect Trevor from an army of the dead? Ignoring the scroll--this one or any one--could put Trevor and others in more serious danger.

  I had to go.

  “Good,” she said and I glowered at her, but my sour look did nothing to deter her. “We received a tip that this harvest is related to your priest.”

  “A tip?”

  “We have people everywhere. Collect your things and move on. It won’t be safe here long.”

  “So they tricked me.”

  “It would seem so.”

  I considered her with suspicious eyes. Fool me once, shame on you...

  “How do I know you’re really Gabe?”

  The dreamy smile remained on her face as her fingers caressed my cheek, seemingly without her having moved. The electrical sensation of pleasure rocketed through my head, coursed along my veins. My doubt disappeared.

  “Good. You should go now.”

  I did what she said grudgingly, the regret of deserting Trevor burning in my gut like an ulcer left running wild. Residue of Gabe’s touch ricocheted around my skull, making me feel simultaneously blessed and cursed as I jammed all my worldly possessions into a single back pack, slung it over my shoulder and walked out the door. I left the motel room key on the dresser but took the blood-stained wash cloth and jeans. The fewer things to tie me to this room and the crimes, the better. Sure, I’d left fingerprints everywhere--like Gabe’s touch left imprints on my soul--but the fingerprints of a dead man didn’
t prove much.

  ***

  It turned out I knew Dante Frank, but by a different name and gender. He’d been Danielle Francis when we knew each other, a downtown hooker who’d shared needles with me a few times. Everyone laughed when Danielle went on about being a man trapped in a woman’s body; it seemed the joke was on us.

  She cleaned up a few years ago, stashed away the money for a few choice procedures --breast reduction, testosterone treatment; the opposite of what every other woman would have done--and worked as a high-priced escort offering services to a different kind of clientele. As a woman, her bad complexion and stringy hair had kept her from being very attractive, but not enough to keep her from earning the money needed for her transformation.

  She made a better looking man.

  The resemblance between Dante and Danielle was enough that, if you recognized one, you knew the other. One strange step away from identical twins.

  I caught up to her--him--twenty minutes before his assigned time of demise on a street not far from the address on the scroll. He didn’t look like a working guy trolling for a John, more like someone wandering the city with no particular destination. Gabe had told me a soul’s fate couldn’t be changed once their name appeared on a scroll, but I as still willing to give it a try. Enough dead people nibbled at my conscience for me to sympathize with Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense; I wanted to avoid adding to the total if I could. No one said meddling was against the rules. Hell, Poe, Gabe, and Mikey hadn’t really given me rules, so maybe preventing a death wasn’t verboten, especially under these circumstances. One way to find out.

  I quickened my pace, catching Dante and walking beside him, matching him stride for stride. He seemed taller than I remembered. Maybe he wore lifts but I’d heard about surgeries to make people taller, horrible procedures involving a trip to China, broken shin bones, and a lot of pain and money.

  “Hi, sailor,” he said looking me up and down with an appraising glance. His voice sounded like a woman pretending to be a man, one area still requiring attention. “I’m booked right now, but maybe I can fit you in later.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Dante.”

  His demeanor shifted. “Do I know you?”

  “Once. A long time ago.” I put my hand on his arm to stop him walking, the firmness of the bicep under his shirt surprising me. “I need to talk to you. You’re in danger.”

  “Don’t touch the merchandise. Step down, or you’ll be the one in danger.”

  “Dante. Danielle--”

  “That’s far enough, mister.”

  I didn’t notice his hand dip into his pocket, but the cylindrical spray can he pointed directly at my eyes grabbed my attention. I held my hands out in surrender.

  “It’s not me you’re in danger from.”

  “Well, it’s me you’re in danger from.”

  “Look, I’m trying to help.”

  I shifted forward: bad mistake.

  The rumors about pepper spray hurting like a son-of-a-bitch are true. And it blinds you. And it makes all the mucus in your head flee for the nearest opening. I heard the clop of dress shoes on sidewalk as he ran off, but he’d left me in no condition to do anything about it. Luckily, I knew where he’d be going. I wiped snot off my face with the sleeve of my coat and promised myself never to cook with cayenne pepper again.

  By the time functionality returned and I trekked to the hotel--a much higher-priced hostelry than mine--no time remained to think about saving Dante/Danielle. And given the lack of conscience he’d shown assaulting me, I wasn’t altogether sure I’d stop it if there was.

  I can be a vindictive S.O.B.

  I crossed the hotel lobby’s polished floor without looking at the desk clerk, thinking if we didn’t make eye contact, he wouldn’t realize I didn’t belong. The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor took a few seconds, giving me time to ponder why superstition kept us from properly labelling the thirteenth floor of a building. Call it the fourteenth if you want, it’s still thirteen floors up. The elevator shushed to a stop and the doors opened, releasing me out onto new-looking carpet I’d call red but an interior decorator would give a more frou-frou name: crimson, vermilion, cardinal or the like. A brass plaque engraved with black numbers sent me down the hall to my right. Murphy’s Law: my destination was the last door at the end of a long hall. Halfway there, two men exited the room. They stopped, looked at me, then went the other direction, heading for a long descent instead of passing me to get to the elevators.

  “Hey!”

  I broke into a run. The men looked back, allowing me to see their faces.

  Marty and Todd.

  Seeing them gave me momentary pause.

  How...? What are they doing here?

  “Hey!”

  They slammed through the stairway door leaving me to catch up. By the time I reached the door, several flights separated us, their footsteps echoing up to the fourteenth floor landing. I debated whether to follow, but a peek at my watch convinced me not to; only seconds remained before Dante expired. It’d be a bad idea to leave his soul behind for the Carrions, even if the bastard did assault me with pepper spray.

  Like in every other hotel, the room door locked automatically. I leaned into it with my shoulder, but it didn’t budge. Other doors along the corridor cracked open, their curious occupants peering out to see the cause of the commotion. I resisted the urge to glare them back into their rooms, instead concentrating on opening the lock. It took a few seconds of focus before it clicked and I pushed into the room, away from prying eyes.

  Dante’s spirit was already free when I stepped across the threshold. His naked corpse lay on the bed, blood seeping from dozens of wounds hastily carved in the shapes of inverted crosses and pentagrams in a way suggesting they’d been drawn for continuity rather than torture. I doubted Dante suffered. The same wasn’t true for the spirit which recently made residence in the now-mutilated body.

  The ghostly figure stood before the mirror, shoulders slumped, tears streaming down its cheeks as it peered at the reflection of the female figure once trapped inside the earthly shell. I crossed the room to where Dante, now Danielle again, stood sobbing and put my hand on her shoulder. She shied away from my touch. When she looked at me, her eyes held a look of disconsolate sorrow. The scene was heart-wrenching--the dead body hastily carved, the soul’s tears--but through it, a nagging feeling nipped at the back of my mind the way an annoying puppy is always at your heels.

  “It’s okay,” I said, the platitude sour on my tongue. “Everything will be all right.”

  She shook her head, limp hair brushing scrawny shoulders. When she moved her lips to speak, they trembled like those of a child lost in a department store.

  “Look what happened to me.”

  I glanced at the body sprawled across the bed. The flat, hairy chest, and sculpted abs were the picture of manliness; the vagina below a disconcerting counterpoint. Half a dozen wounds seeped blood that soaked the white sheet the body lay upon. I turned back to her.

  “It’s only your earthly body.” Impatience brewed beneath my facade of compassion. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “Not that,” she snapped and gestured at the female form before me. “Look at me. I’m a woman.”

  No shit.

  I ground my back teeth together, fighting back the sarcastic response struggling to break free of my lips.

  “You’re not anything anymore.” She tried to move away but I grabbed her arm. “We’ve got to go.”

  She looked at her former body on the bed then back to the mirror. A shudder ran down her spine, and she resisted as I pulled her away, gently at first, then with increasing urgency. There were more important things to do than convincing a gender-confused soul to go on to the next life. Trevor still wasn’t safe.

  The nipping at the back of my mind took a big bite and held on.

  Why wasn’t Father Dominic here to kill Dante?

  “We’ve met, haven’t we?” Danielle asked. I barely
noticed she’d spoken as fear clamped down on my skull.

  “Yeah, a long time ago.”

  I led her through the door, into the hall. More doors opened and a few people stepped out into the corridor, so we went to the stairs Marty and Todd had fled down rather than passing the looky-loos on the way to the elevator. Danielle followed more easily, accepting her fate.

  “Icarus, right?” she asked as we descended the first flight of stairs.

  “Ric.”

  “I knew I knew you.” My footsteps echoed down the stairwell, hers remained silent. We managed two more flights before she spoke again. “Why did the two men who killed me say to keep you here as long as possible?”

  Panic and rage clogged my head as I raced down the stairs dragging the soul behind, each step teetering me on the brink of going ass over tea kettle.

  A setup. They were after Trevor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I dumped Dante at the address on the scroll--a hair salon this time, which seemed appropriate--and was about to leave to find my boy when the androgynous, near-albino angel spoke:

  “Icarus.”

  Its speaking voice was beautiful, enthralling. Never had my name sounded so good, but I didn’t have time for distraction.

  “Another time,” I said over my shoulder.

  The angel held his hand out toward me. “Gabriel left this for you.”

  I considered leaving anyway, but the item he offered stopped me. He held a scroll in his hands. Another death.

  Another delay.

  “I can’t.”

  I stepped through the doorway and bumped into the angel standing in front of me. I considered looking back to see if he might be twins but already knew the answer.

  How do they do that?

  “Take it, Icarus. Gabriel said it was imperative. That is why she gave it to me for you instead of finding you herself.”

  I couldn’t afford another side trip with Trevor in danger. In the end, the angel’s tone made me take the scroll. I stared at the roll of parchment he placed in my hand and, when I looked up, he’d disappeared, Dante/Danielle’s soul gone along with him.