by Speer, Scott
Taking the turn onto Melrose, Jacks passed the Pacific Design Center and flipped a quick U-turn into the valet for Urth Caffé, an Angel City landmark and hot spot for Immortals. Girls screamed, people shouted, and paparazzi reached their cameras over the car’s hood as Jacks eased the Ferrari into the sudden human swarm.
“JACKS! JACKS! JACKS! OVER HERE, JACKS!” A barrage of camera flashes erupted as Jacks stepped out of his car. “WHO’S GOING TO BE YOUR FIRST SAVE, JACKSON?” one of the photographers shouted. “ARE YOU BACK TOGETHER WITH VIVIAN?” another yelled. “SAVE ME, JACKS!”
A few security personnel managed the paparazzi and fans. These guards were also useful for the occasional weirdo stalker like the one who’d followed Jacks’s every move last year, who was now in jail, or for the wacko anti-Angel activists who arrived at the café every few months or so and started making a ruckus. Jackson waved the photographers and fans off with a friendly smile as he ran up the steps to the patio, where Angels sat at tables sipping lattes and socializing. All eyes turned to the brightest star in the Immortal City as he made his way through the tables.
He found Mitch sitting at a table drinking a green tea latte and eyeing the female Angels at the next table.
“There he is!” Mitch said, getting out of his chair. “Ready for your big week?”
“Not you, too,” Jacks said, groaning, and the two friends embraced. Mitch was short for an Angel but stocky, like an athlete. He had rich brown eyes and a dimpled smile for which he was famous. They sat and Jacks ordered coffee from a gawking waitress, who brought it promptly.
“Check it out,” Mitch said, nodding toward a female Angel with long black hair who had just sat down at a nearby table. She was stealing glimpses at Jacks as she chatted with her friends.
“That’s Elena. She just did the new Versace campaign.”
“Mm-hmm,” Jacks said absently, enjoying his coffee.
“And check out by the steps.” Mitch said.
Jacks glanced over and saw a tall, striking platinum-blond Angel looking in his direction.
“I’m just saying, look at those Marks. I mean, perfect, man.” Mitch whistled. The Angel turned and Jacks could see she was wearing a backless shirt that revealed her Immortal Marks. They were feminine and ornate, with curlicues and shimmering, delicate lines that reached all the way down to the small of her back. She looked over her shoulder to see if Jacks had noticed, but he was back to drinking his coffee. “You should go talk to her,” Mitch encouraged. “She’s incredibly hot.”
“I forget her name,” Jacks said, uninterested. Mitch sighed.
“Kelsie Godchild? The face of Burberry? She’s on the entire side of that building at La Cienega.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Mitch just shook his head. “So how excited are you for this week, man? This is going to be like a weeklong party. Last night was just a taste. Here, let me read you your schedule.” He grabbed Jacks’s iPhone from the table and pretended to scroll through it. “Party. Party. Party. Get drunk. Get drunk. Get drunk. Then get Commissioned. And then get drunk again.” He leaned back in his chair as if visualizing it. “I don’t know about you, dude, but I can’t wait.”
Jacks put his hands behind his head and looked at his best friend. Mitch loved the Angel way of life, and it loved him right back. He always seemed to be turning up on the pages of Immortal and Angels Weekly at various events and parties, always with a new Angel beauty on his arm. But the truth was, he was a genuinely nice guy, and a bit of a class clown. They had become close friends their first year of training, ever since Mitch had started making fun of Jacks’s wings, and had stayed that way ever since. Though the public knew very little about Angel training, the NAS released tidbits about Jackson and Mitch’s progress over the years, playing up their friendship. One photo in particular of them was famous: two cocky thirteen-year-olds with their arms crossed across their chests, Jacks with his luminescent wings behind him, Mitch’s wings showing intricate mazelike patterns. Together the two had gone through the mind-numbing math of Basic Aerodynamics, all the way up to courses such as Multiple Frequencing and Advanced Flying 406, until a few months ago, in a shock, the NAS announced that Jacks would be jumping a year in his class to become the youngest Guardian ever Commissioned. Mitch had been a good sport about the whole thing, but sometimes Jacks wondered if he still hadn’t been hurt by it.
“I don’t know, man,” Jacks said, taking his iPhone back. “I’ll go to some events, sure, but I don’t want to get too crazy.”
Mitch looked stunned. “Are you insane? Everyone knows the whole point of becoming a Guardian Angel is the parties. The females. And this is pretty much a once-in-an-eternity thing here, your early Commissioning. This is supposed to be the best week of our life, and you’re going to miss it?”
Jacks ran a hand through his hair and took a swig of coffee. “I just . . . I’ve got to focus, Mitch.”
“Oh,” Mitch groaned. “Here we go again. Why does everything always have to be perfect with you?”
“It’s not that it has to be perfect—”
Mitch set down his cup. “Highest grades in school. Top of the class in simulation training. First to fly in Basic Flying—”
“Okay, I get it,” Jacks said, mildly embarrassed. “But that first save does have to be perfect. You know what they say—you never forget your first save. It’s someone’s life. It’s a big responsibility. I just want to make sure I get it right.”
Mitch leaned forward. “As your best friend, let me tell you something you already know. You’re talented. Like ridiculous. Way more talented than me—”
“That’s not true—”
“That is true. And I can tell you, whoever your Protections are going to be, they’ll be in great hands. So please. Do me a favor and at least try and enjoy yourself this week.”
Jacks held up his hands in surrender. “I promise. I’ll enjoy myself.”
A Mercedes G550 pulled up to the valet at the curb. As much as the attendant was clearly trying not to stare, he couldn’t take his eyes off the driver—and neither could anyone else. Emerald-green eyes, flawless features, and glossy, dark brown hair: Vivian Holycross was without a doubt the hottest female Angel on the planet. Compared to her, the human supermodels at the next table looked downright plain.
Being only seventeen, Vivian wouldn’t be Commissioned for another two years, but she was already everywhere in the media. She came from one of the older, more powerful Angel families, and her life up to that point had been nothing short of charmed and effortless.
Fans and paparazzi swarmed as security guided her up the sidewalk and onto the patio. She wore a pair of leopard-print Miu Miu shoes and a red jersey tank dress that revealed her bra and Immortal Marks. Her outfit was perfectly accessorized with a Louis Vuitton bag and Bulgari sunglasses.
“Don’t look now, man,” Mitch said as he watched the chaos of Vivian’s arrival, “but we have an unexpected visitor. Vivian’s here.”
Jacks stiffened. “Great. Any chance she won’t see me?”
“I don’t think so,” Mitch said. “She’s coming this way.”
At that moment Vivian noticed Jacks and Mitch—or pretended to—and sauntered over. She made sure to put a hand on Jacks’s shoulder as she arrived.
“Oh hey, boys, didn’t expect to run into you,” she said in a seductive, soft voice. She turned her face toward Jackson. “Hey, Jacks.”
“Hey, Viv,” Jacks said casually. There was no bad blood between them, but run-ins with Vivian could get tricky. He didn’t have anything against her; he had just had gotten tired of playing the role of the “It” Angel couple—the events together, the ravenous photographers, the magazines covering every supposed change in their relationship. It was exhausting, and even though Vivian would seem outraged every time a piece of gossip about their private life surfaced, Jacks sensed it was mock outrage and that she was secretly into it. It had caused his feelings for her to gradually fade, and they’
d broken up that past summer. But since news had broken about Jacks’s early Commissioning, Vivian had resurfaced with a vengeance.
“What time are you guys going tonight?” she asked.
“You know, I hadn’t decided if I’m going,” Jacks said. Vivian blinked at him.
“It’s your cover and you haven’t decided if you’re going?”
“You know how those things go.” Jacks shrugged. “They’re all the same.”
Vivian smiled mischievously. “Well, if it would make you feel better, I’ll go with you and keep you company.” She looked deep into Jacks’s eyes.
“That’s okay, Viv,” Jacks said, backpedaling. “But if I end up making it, I’ll see you there, right?”
“You absolutely will,” she said, her green eyes twinkling. Vivian bent over and gave Jacks a kiss on the cheek. As she did, what sounded like thousands of shutters clicked from behind the hedges. Jacks knew she had done that on purpose—she had maybe even called the paparazzi and set the whole thing up. Vivian was a nice girl, but Jacks felt like she somehow tried too hard. After going out with her for five months, Jacks had started to feel more and more like she was with him just because he was Jacks and what that meant to the outside world. It was hard for him to explain even to himself, but sometimes when she was holding onto his arm, it felt like he wasn’t actually there. That he could have swapped in a Jacks look-alike and Vivian wouldn’t even notice.
He also knew how much Mark wanted to see them together, and though he was usually anxious to please his stepfather, in this case, conversely, it made him even more hesitant.
Jacks let out a long breath and glanced at Mitch, who gave him an encouraging look. Vivian tucked her hair behind her ear.
“So then,” she said, “I’ll see you tonight?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“There have always been Angels among us.”
New History of Angels, McGraw-Hill, 2nd ed., p. 1
• • •
Maddy sat curled up in her desk with her history textbook open in front of her, trying to keep from dozing off while taking notes on Mr. Rankin’s History of Angels in America lecture. The early-morning shift at the diner was starting to catch up with her, and she shifted in her seat, willing her eyelids to stay open.
“I hope you all did the assigned reading over the long weekend,” Mr. Rankin said as he paced down the rows of desks. “And no, having read Angels Weekly does not count.”
A laugh rippled through the class. Mr. Rankin was a small man of about forty with a trim beard and balding hair. He held their AP U.S. History textbook aloft as he spoke. “To those of you who didn’t do the reading, staying silent will not help you. The less you participate, the more likely I am to call on you.” The class let out a collective groan. Maddy might not follow the Angels, but she had done the required reading. However, she was always quiet in class. As Mr. Rankin got started, her eyelids grew impossibly heavy.
“So, who can tell me about the history of Angels before the National Angel Services formed?” A hand shot up in the front. Mr. Rankin pointed.
“Well, in the beginning, miracles were performed anonymously,” a boy said. Mr. Rankin nodded.
“And how were Angels on Earth governed?”
“There was a royal class?”
“Legend has it, yes,” Mr. Rankin said. He paced down Maddy’s row. “As with much about the Angels, they will not confirm or deny many things about their existence here on Earth, including much about their early history. Some historians speculate there was even a battle long ago between the Angels and Dark Angels, or demons, for supremacy on the planet, a battle won by these royal classes.” Maddy sat up in her chair again, trying to look as awake as possible as he passed. “So the Angels were anonymous. Then what happened?”
“The Civil War,” someone in the back called out. Maddy felt her eyelids closing.
“The American Civil War, correct.” Mr. Rankin went to the board and wrote Civil War. “After the awful bloodshed of that conflict, brother killing brother, Angels decided there was no longer any point to staying hidden and serving man out of kindness.” He paused. “To put it bluntly, we didn’t deserve it. So the original Angels, the True Immortals—twelve Archangels, mostly male, but we’ll talk more about that when we discuss the suffragette movement—came forward and presented their case to the U.S. government. They were led by Gabriel and came to be known as the Council of Twelve. With the help of President Grant, Angels made their power into a service and entered American capitalism.”
Mr. Rankin wrote American capitalism under Civil War and circled it. He began slowly pacing in front of the room again. “The Angels organized themselves into classes, formed families, and started having children. These Born Immortals matured to adulthood at a human rate, but then their aging almost came to a halt. Born Immortals do appear to slightly age over a very long span of time, although the Council officially claims they are immortal. They, in turn, had more children. As their numbers grew, the National Angel Services was formed. Now, who can tell me about the NAS?”
No takers. Mr. Rankin’s eyes scanned the room and fell on Maddy curled up in her chair, her head nodding.
“Maddy?”
Maddy looked up, surprised. “Yes?”
“We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
Mr. Rankin gave a tight smile and walked toward her. “Repeating the question won’t do any good if you haven’t done the reading.”
Maddy sat up and cleared her throat. She felt confidence flare in her quiet gaze, and the small history teacher stopped walking and stood where he was.
“The National Angel Services opened in 1910 in Angel City, and a group of Born Immortal Archangels was created to oversee it. The original Council of Twelve male True Immortals granted the NAS powers to regulate the employment of Guardian Angels all over the world, and the system was called protection-for-pay. The governing body of Archangels spread Angels across the globe, but everything stayed headquartered in Angel City.”
Mr. Rankin’s eyebrows rose. He opened his mouth to speak, but Maddy continued: “Still, no one knew where the Angels came from. Every religion and culture has their own stories of supernatural protectors and messengers, guides. According to the Council, and then the NAS, this was who the Angels were. Beyond that, where they came from depends on what church you attend—if you attend church at all. The Council left the debate to the scholars and preachers, keeping most of their secrets from the public. Most people just accepted the Angels, like you accept the sun coming up in the morning.”
“That’s right, Maddy, very good—”
“The Angels charged a lot of money for what turned out to be a priceless service, and as they got richer, they charged even more.” Then she stopped and added, “Not that I care, but it seems like a pretty lousy thing to do.”
The classroom went dead silent. Mr. Rankin opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a sound coming from the hallway, a sound that made Maddy’s blood run cold.
It was a scream. Raw and terrified.
Frantic footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by more horror-filled shrieks. A blond junior, Samantha Cellato, burst into the classroom, sobbing. Her shirt and hands were covered with dark crimson stains.
Blood.
Mr. Rankin blinked, then rushed to the girl. Maddy just stared, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
“It exploded. It just exploded,” Samantha mumbled over and over. “I think she’s dead.”
More muffled screams rang out down the hall. Maddy looked through the door to see kids running for the front of the school as smoke began to fill the corridor. Somewhere in the building a fire alarm wailed.
Reacting more than thinking, Maddy leapt up and ran out of the classroom. She wasn’t even sure where her feet were taking her, but she could see smoke pouring from the biology lab at the far end of the hall and headed in that direction. She burst through the doorway to the lab and nearly
gagged at the grisly scene in front of her.
The remains of an exploded propane tank lay on the ground. Mrs. Neilson, the bio teacher, was lying on the floor next to several other kids. Dark pools of blood were spreading out underneath them, reflecting yellow licking flames. Both of Mrs. Neilson’s hands were gone.
“Maddy?”
Maddy’s eyes popped open. She was panting, as if out of breath, and she could feel dampness on the nape of her neck. She looked up at Mr. Rankin, who seemed to be patiently awaiting a response. That tight smile back on his face. Maddy remembered what she was going to say.
“The National Angel Services was formed, and . . .” Maddy trailed off. A shaky, clammy sweat had broken out all over her body. She trembled.
“And?” Mr. Rankin looked confused.
All at once Maddy leapt to her feet and dashed down the row of desks. In a flash she was past Mr. Rankin and out the door. She knew she would have no more than a few seconds. She could only hope she wasn’t too late.
Running as fast as her legs would carry her, Maddy sped toward the biology lab at the far end of the hall. She burst through the door.
“Excuse me, young lady!” Mrs. Neilson shrieked, standing over her Bunsen burner. Maddy had already focused her eyes on the gray metallic lighter in Mrs. Neilson’s hand.
“Don’t!” she screamed.
Mrs. Neilson raised the lighter as she opened her mouth to respond, and in one fluid movement, Maddy lunged at her. She tackled Mrs. Neilson, linebacker style, and sent them both tumbling to the floor. Mrs. Neilson’s head hit the tile with a vicious crack, but she seemed to be okay because she began punching and kicking Maddy in an uncoordinated frenzy.
“Oh my God, help! Help! I’m being assaulted!” she screamed. Several of the students stood up, but no one made a move toward the front of the class. They all just stared at the bizarre sight of a teacher and a student wrestling on the ground. Maddy batted away Mrs. Neilson’s slaps and punches as she wrestled the lighter out of her hand, trying desperately to avoid creating any sparks. Mr. Rankin came running into the classroom.
