by Nancy Gideon
She sat still and trembling in her seat, caught between two worlds, two lives, not knowing which was real or where she fit within them. Perhaps it was all a dream, none of it real, not her job at the Amazon, not this strange stirring of familiarity beating within her breast, not the specter of her angel Gabriel who haunted her every moment. Or perhaps they were all entwined in some obscure purpose that continued to draw her, like a puzzle laid out on a table with all of its pieces scrambled. The urge to make them fit into a recognizable pattern overwhelmed her.
That's what she was, a jumble of segmented memories searching for someone to put them together.
Was that why she was here?
Was that why, night after night, she couldn't tear her gaze from the knight in black and silver? Because he was a piece of the puzzle, or the one who knew how the finished product was supposed to look?
The way she knew him.
Instinctively, without ever having seen his face, she knew him by the way he sat his horse, by the way he coaxed his mount into a powerful knot of controlled energy ready to unleash at his signal. The way he tilted his lance, the way he held his head in a bold, dead-on stare as he propelled toward his opponent. She knew these mannerisms as intimately as she was continuously surprised by her own.
They were both equal parts mystery and innate understanding. Enigmas for real, or just in the tangle of her mind?
The minute he rode onto the field, he consumed her with his air of nobility and ambition. And passion. Yes, passion for the confrontation to come and the rewards that would follow.
What would it be like to be that reward?
The question quivered through her heart in a shudder of dread and expectation. Why both things? Why dread at all? Why would she believe becoming the token of such a man's quest would be linked to any kind of unpleasantness? But men in this age no longer believed in quests. That was just the fantasy they played out beneath the spotlights to earn the cheers of a crowd more used to rooting for the home football team than any demonstration of noble intent. They didn't understand the holy mystique of this place and what it once represented. To them, it was just another amusement.
Why should it be more than that to her?
But it was. She knew it was as she watched her hero surge forward in a blur of ebony and quicksilver. Her hopes and fears rode as hard into her throat as he across the arena. And when the challenger's lance shattered against his helmeted head with a force that sent the protective gear flying, Naomi clutched her temples as she, too, felt the exquisite agony of it. The world spun in sickening swoops as she watched him fall as if in slow motion from his horse. Time suspended as he struck the ground and for a moment, for an instant, the field ran red. And she knew, even before she saw his face at last, who it was struck down there within the clouds of dirt and defeat. His name tore from her throat, from a soul releasing its pain in an expunging exorcism of grief and anguish as her vision went from crimson-splashed to the black of death.
And the next thing she remembered was a firm hand forcing her head between her knees, and the chill relief of a cold cloth against the back of her neck.
"Better now?"
She didn't know the woman's voice. Naomi attempted to straighten in alarm but, guessing at her response, suppressing hands restrained her shoulders.
"It's all right. You fainted is all. I can't have that kind of behavior in my section, or I won't get tips."
Through her yet-bleary eyes, Naomi recognized the flat slippers and ankle-length skirts worn by the hotel's waitress wenches.
"Where am I?” she muttered like a drunk coming around in the morning.
"In the ladies’ room. I felt such events deserved a little privacy. Unless you'd like a doctor. Please don't tell me it was your dinner."
"No. No.” It wasn't what she'd eaten. It was what she'd felt with the intensity of an emotional collapse. But how could she explain that? “Just felt a little sick, is all."
"You're not expecting, are you?"
It took a moment for Naomi to catch her meaning, then she shook her head, stilling it with a wince as pressure and darkness welled once more. She heard water run in the sink and then the blessed relief of fresh cloth to her neck, forehead and either flushed cheek. Finally, the room stopped its teeter tottering.
"I think I can sit up now."
"All right but take it slow."
Gentle, capable hands controlled the movement, bringing her up carefully so that the world steadied around her and the nausea eased to a quiet rumble. She got her first look at her rescuer. The serving costume was familiar but not the Amazonian who wore it. The other woman towered above her, probably close to six foot tall even in the flat slippers. With her height came no model thinness. She was broad shouldered and buxom with strong, handsome features and a slightly amused smile.
"You've made my first night here one to remember.” She put out her hand. “I'm Rita Davies."
"Naomi Bright."
They shook hands as if introductions were not being made in the washroom over the harsh scent of sickness.
"Think you can stand up, Naomi? Are you ready to go back to your seat for the rest of the show?"
The thought of the crowd and the heat and the noise brought the faint buzzing back to her head.
"I think I've had enough for tonight."
"Can I get someone for you? I kind of got the impression that you were alone."
"There's no one,” she admitted with a flat intonation.
"Are you in the hotel? Can I have someone see you to your room?"
"No. Actually I have to get to work. I'm going to be late and...” She tried to stand, and only Rita's quick catch saved her from going straight to the floor.
"I don't think you're ready to go anywhere, but this isn't exactly a great place to recuperate, if you know what I mean. Tell you what, I've got a room here just until I find an apartment. You're welcome to sack out there until I finish out my shift."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. You can call in sick from there and take a little nap if you like. I won't bother you for a couple more hours, and you can make yourself at home."
The thought of weaving through the crush of people in her weakened state lessened her usual work ethic. “I am tired. Maybe a little rest..."
"There you go. Now I can say I have my first friend out here. I just got off the plane this morning, you know. I had a friend of mine set up the job for me. Do you know him?"
"Who?” Naomi blinked, feeling the conversation slip away from her as they moved toward the service elevator and away from the noisy arena.
After calling out to a coworker that she'd be right back, Rita pushed the button for her floor. “Gabriel. You were yelling out his name just before you keeled over. That fall didn't scare you did it? It's all pretend, you know. Just show business."
Gabriel...
Then it came back with a tidal surge of remembrance.
"You're not going to pass out again, are you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Not a ghost. Not exactly.
"Gabriel,” Naomi began, startled by how smoothly his name glided off her tongue. “He's a friend?"
"Friend of a friend, really. Someone I used to work with in Detroit knows him and hooked me up for the job. I've never met him, at least not yet. Not until a couple of hours from now. He's coming up to my room to introduce himself."
Naomi didn't hear the rest. The background chatter faded away before one certainty. If she was still in Rita Davies’ room, she would be face to face with her guardian angel once again.
And perhaps, face to face with some elusive answers as well.
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Chapter Four
"Gabriel, my friend, this is not like you."
"Perhaps nearly having my head cleaved from my shoulders has soured my mood."
Rolland chuckled. “I don't think that's the problem. What are you hiding from me? Is it the woman or the work you ref
use to tell me about?"
Rolland had followed Gabriel outside where he'd hoped to get a glimpse of Naomi in the crowd. No luck, either in spotting his love or in ridding himself of his friend's suddenly smothering presence. Since he had no intention of telling Rollie what had his nerves twisted in as many loops and curves as the roller coaster swooping about the replicated skyline of New York across the street, he searched for a quick excuse. They stood in the center of a large mill of tourists where the heat and scent of humanity tantalized. The adrenaline of the joust still pumped through them, and with that heightened energy came a sharper, more insistent thirst. And the need to act upon what they were.
"I haven't fed in two days."
Since it was unlike Gabriel to ever discuss his appetite especially in such blatant terms, Rolland's surprise was the perfect foil. But he could see the truth in the tight pull of flesh over bone in his friend's face, in the red-tinged glint of his gaze. Could feel it in the sudden restlessness of a beast stalking prey to satisfy instinct rather than for preservation. They were alike in that which they could not control.
"Well, then by all means, see to yourself, since you prefer to do such things on your own."
Not taking the time to soothe over the obvious hint of hurt in Rolland's claim, Gabriel clasped his shoulder. “Thank you for understanding. I'll see you tomorrow night and then, perhaps, I can explain more about why I'm here."
That seemed to satisfy his friend. “Bon appetite," he spoke to the now empty spot beside him. Gabriel had already flown. He smirked and shook his head. “How like you to go for take out when we're standing in a buffet line."
But then Gabriel was forgotten as he turned his attention toward finding his own entrée of choice.
Just outside the sprawl of the Strip, within sight and almost reach of its glitter and excess, lay another community, one not geared toward the plundering of visiting riches but rather toward the simple struggle to survive day to day.
It started with one tent, one lost soul on a forgotten back street or open lot. Then another sprang up beside it and another, spreading like weeds the authorities grumbled, until an entire patch of the displaced had taken root so quickly, so voraciously, that they were almost impossible to yank out.
So they squatted in the shadows of the bright neon totems that beckoned the foolish to come play. A forgotten civilization like that found in any city, created around desperate necessity and fear instead of the search for reckless fun. In their tents and cardboard lean-tos, they broiled in the midday heat and huddled close against the chill of the night, unable to escape either with any success. Except for a fortunate few.
Charmaine Johnson drew a thin hotel towel up over the sleeping forms of her two youngest children. They didn't complain about going to bed hungry or cry at the discomfort of trying to find rest on a discarded bus seat amid the broken springs and sharp ridges of torn vinyl. They were too tired, too listless, too young to know any different kind of life. And that acceptance brought tears to Charmaine's eyes because this wasn't the life she'd wanted for her children. She kissed both their curly heads and blinked so they wouldn't see the sheen of her despair. Her oldest daughter noticed but wisely said nothing. Her oldest was a too mature fourteen and already a promising beauty much like her mother had once been before the business used her up and threw her away. And that was another cause for worry. Things of beauty didn't last long untouched or untried in such a place.
"Go to sleep, baby. Stay with the young ones while I go try to find us something to eat."
The restless teen Roxanne nodded somberly, knowing her proud mother hated for her to watch as she rummaged through the Dumpsters in hopes of their next meal. Roxanne was old enough to remember another life where she had her own room and her mother wore pretty clothes, smelled good and laughed often. But that was before the accident. Roxanne never talked about it because it made her mother cry. And her mother cried way too much as it was.
"I'll stay right here, Mama, and I won't let anyone take off with our stuff."
Their stuff. Charmaine glanced at the paper sacks holding what was left of what they'd once had. The stuff they couldn't sell for a loaf of bread or quart of milk for the little ones. Junk of value to no one but them. All she had in the world of the life she'd lived before. Who'd want to steal it? She would have wept but had no energy left for tears. Stoically, she kissed her daughter's brow and readied to make the journey into town to scurry with the others like rats in search of sustenance.
No, not exactly the life she'd envisioned for her family.
She was straightening as her daughter snuggled down into the ratty surplus sleeping bag when she heard the soft rumble of a car engine. Curiously, she glanced around, not noticing Roxanne's suddenly alert posture. Not many vehicles came down to this part of town, especially not a sleek classic car with its bulky profile, dim running lights and roof chopped to the point that the narrowed windows were squinting slits against the ink blue paint job.
And though she'd never seen the vehicle before, she recognized it from the rumors whispered over the steeping stew pots of spoiled meat and rotting vegetables.
It was him. The uptown Angel of Mercy.
She held her ground as the big car crept closer, its lights winking off so all she could see was a crouching shadow. But what if she was wrong and it wasn't him? What if it was one of the other kind that preyed upon those who couldn't protect themselves or expect any intervention from the law? The law didn't care what happened in their little shanty town, as long as it didn't interfere with the tourist trade. And one less homeless person was never missed.
As she assumed an aggressive pose before her children, ready to do whatever she could to keep them safe, the hulking vehicle eased to a stop. Slowly, one of the heavy doors opened. The car's interior loomed dark and sinister.
"Get in."
The voice, a man's voice, was low, soft and not in the least bit threatening. But still, the tiny hairs on Charmaine's forearms stirred in a ripple of warning.
"What do you want?"
"I won't harm you. You have my word you'll be back with your children by daybreak."
Charmaine's breath expelled in a shiver as she continued to hesitate.
"Go on, Mama. Don't be afraid. You know who he is."
She glanced back at Roxanne who was sitting up in the cocoon of the sleeping bag, her eyes dreamy, a knowing half-smile on her face.
"Listen to your daughter,” coaxed the unseen driver. “This is for them, as well as you."
Reluctance pulling at every move like restraining hands, Charmaine edged toward the vehicle. For the girls. For her babies. Anything to make their lives better.
The wide leather seat was cool on the backs of her legs. Before she had time to rethink what she was doing or to look back for perhaps what might be one last look at her children, the large door shut as if of its own accord and the vehicle glided into the night.
She couldn't see him behind the wheel but she could feel his presence.
"Where are we going?"
"To a hotel just off the Strip."
Charmaine took a deep breath. For the children, she reminded herself, as she folded trembling hands upon her lap and made herself stare straight ahead. They didn't speak again until the big Mercury slipped into a parking spot outside room Three at a secluded but not sleazy hotel. I'll take Door Number 3, Monty. She wondered what kind of prize lay behind it—the kind that brought reward or regret? She recognized the name of the hotel chain and knew they didn't reserve by the hour. So why was he willing to pay so much for a minute or two of her time?
She got a brief glimpse of him as he got out of the car, an impression of long, lean legs clad in denim and of a hip-length black leather coat. And pale hands.
She waited, trepidation jittering through her as he crossed in front of the car to her side of the vehicle. He opened the door so she could exit but stayed in the glare of the neon Vacancy sign so she had no clear impression of his features. She f
ollowed on rubbery knees to Room Three, and when he motioned, preceded him into the chill embrace of the room.
There was a light on in the bathroom. It cast a weak illumination just shy of where they stood next to the two queen-sized beds.
"I've never done this before,” Charmaine felt honor bound to tell him, so he'd know what he was getting for his buck. “I was a dancer, not a hooker."
"I didn't bring you here for that."
"Oh.” Did she sound too relieved? Her apprehension tickled back up her spine. Why then? She could think of worse things then a quick Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am. Before she could ask particulars, he gestured toward the bathroom.
"Perhaps you'd like to shower first. There's shampoo and lotion in there and something for you to put on."
Kinky stuff. Great.
But the temptation of a real shower, soap and shampoo overcame her worries. Whatever might come, she might as well be clean.
The shower was heaven. Such a routine occurrence was now a luxury to be savored for each sudsy moment. Finally, when the small room was heavily blanketed in steam, she stepped out and into a plush towel. She wiped a circle in the foggy glass so she could observe her face. She still held to passable good looks, though she knew they wouldn't last long in her current situation. Her café-colored skin was still taut, and wavy hair, lightened by the white blood of the father she didn't know, was still free of gray. But she felt old. Old and now scared of what was expected of her.
A garment was folded on the edge of the sink. She reached for it gingerly. But instead of some fantasy-inducing costume, she was surprised to find it was a two piece jogging suit. It was soft, loose and hardly seductive. She slipped into it, grateful to discard the shorts and tank top she had worn for the past week. A clean change of clothes was rarer than the change for the Laundromat.
Feeling fresh and somewhat optimistic, she stepped back into the outer room.
The first thing she noticed was the aroma of food. Her stomach roared in response. On the space next to the portable television was a tray of fruits, bread and cheeses, but it was the large bowl of creamy soup that tantalized her empty belly.
