by Bruce Blake
“Fine. Let’s go.”
I grabbed Tony by the elbow and led him through the train’s doors with Piper close behind. Every nerve in my body tingled, ready for whatever nightmare the subway might throw at us. But no door in Hell seems to lead where you think it should. It looked like we were stepping onto a brightly lit subway car and we ended up in a dark room.
“What the...?”
I turned back to see if the platform was still there, but the door slid closed behind us, locking us in before my eyes registered what room it was. I tried the door: gone. My hand still gripped Tony’s arm and I felt a presence to my left—Piper, by the feel of it—so it seemed we’d all made it through. Better check, anyway.
“Piper?”
“I’m here.”
“Where are we?”
I swear I heard her shrug.
I breathed deep, looking for a little courage from the air, but found only the dank smell reminiscent of a basement. With Tony’s sleeve bunched in my fist, I stretched my other arm out before me, waving it in the empty air, and followed that up by sliding my toe forward, scraping it along a bare floor. When I determined the floor remained solid beneath my shoe, I completed the step then repeated the procedure.
Pitch, inky, absolute; no night was ever this dark. A line of cold sweat formed on my forehead as I moved, never knowing what I might touch or when the floor might run out beneath my feet. In the still of the darkness, my breath sounded a monsoon in my ears, my pulse beat like a Japanese Taiko drum ensemble. The noise fouled my brain almost as completely as the blackness robbed me of my vision. I wiped the sweat on my forehead away with my sleeve.
The monsoon roared, the drummers hammered away and paranoia built in me like water threatening to overflow a dam. I rubbed my fingers together to feel the cloth of Tony’s shirt, hoping it would anchor me to reality, but I felt only the fleshy pads of my fingertips and realized it had been a very long time since I heard the sound of my companions’ footsteps through the din in my head.
“Still with me, Pipe?”
“I’m here, Icarus.”
The sound of her voice quieted my brain. “Ric.”
“Piper.”
“Whatever. Keeping up okay, Tony?”
No answer.
“Tony?”
Nothing. I stopped and Piper walked into the back of me, throwing me off balance and sending the usual jolt up my spine.
“Tony,” I called, louder this time, and looked around at the same black in every direction. “Where are you?”
My voice echoed from unseen walls then died away, replaced by what I’d describe as a grumble. Not an ‘I don’t wanna eat my peas, Dad’ grumble, but the grumble of distant thunder or the sound of a minor earthquake.
“What the fuck is that?”
Piper grabbed my arm in answer and rushed me into the impenetrable dark. I resisted but the shock of her energy flowing through me precluded anything except obeying her every wish.
Death and torture filled my head instead of lustful visions. Panic clogged my throat and I gave up any idea of resisting. If the panic I felt flowed from her to me, I harbored no desire to know its cause.
We stumbled forward and the rumble followed, creeping slowly closer with each step. Out of habit, I glanced over my shoulder, but saw nothing beyond the gory images Piper’s touch planted in my head. I followed her blindly.
We slowed and Piper jolted like she ran into something. The sound of metal scraping metal followed, overwhelming the grumble at my heels, and a gust of cool air against my cheek startled me. Piper pulled me ahead and my feet caught, spilling us through the emergency exit door she’d opened and onto pavement developing a rime of frost. My injured arm smacked the ground sending a lance of agony through me.
The door slammed shut behind us.
“Shit.” I sat up cradling my arm against my chest. “That fucking hurt.”
“Sorry.”
I forced the pain from my mind and looked around feeling a bit frantic.
“Where’s Tony?”
“I don’t think he made it.”
“Dammit.”
Logically, I should have been disappointed—all that work for nothing—but relieved was how I really felt. After what we saw of him in Hell, the decision of Tony’s salvation had been wrested from me. Did I actually want to bring him back, send him to Heaven?
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been brought back,” Piper said echoing my thoughts.
“Maybe.”
She rested her hand on my injured arm, filled my limb with warmth and forced dueling regret and relief from my head. No illicit thoughts or torture scenes this time; instead the electricity concentrated on one spot, clung to the break in my bone. The pain eased, overwhelmed by warmth. I looked at her hand, half-expecting a glow radiating around it, a pulsation, the sound of a choir singing. There were none of those.
When I looked up, she was staring into my face.
She smiled.
I smiled.
Like a scene out of a chick-flick Rae made me watch once upon a time, we leaned toward each other, static electricity jumping between us. After losing Tony, I didn’t know if this was the right thing to do. That, but also because she was an angel and the powers-that-be might not feel good about me fishing off the company dock.
But I couldn’t stop myself.
Didn’t really want to.
She leaned closer and I felt her breath on my lips. The tip of her nose touched mine sending a tiny shock into my face. We readjusted our angle.
Closer.
Closer.
Our lips touched and an indescribable feeling washed into my face and down my body like the tide overtaking the shore.
Suddenly, I thought I knew what it would be like to go to Heaven.
†‡†
The street lamp buzzed, flickered, then went out. Poe glanced up, neither startled nor afraid; street lights often malfunctioned when she was near, though she didn’t know exactly why. A result of her energy, she guessed.
She looked back to the plain, gray exterior wall of the warehouse. No signage announced its contents, but she knew it contained stacks of low-end patio furniture awaiting shipment to discount department stores. She’d been here before, as an observer, like this time, but this felt very different. Last time, when Icarus brought the detective, she only kept her eye on him, ready to keep him safe if anything went wrong—just doing her job. This time, however, a feeling with which she’d been unfamiliar for decades hung over her: dread.
She leaned against the brick wall of the building kitty-corner to the warehouse and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Half an hour passed as she waited, her mind examining the events of the last few days, forming questions.
Why did Icarus want to go to Hell so badly? What happened there? Who is Piper?
She didn’t have the answers, found herself unable to divine the motivations of a man like Icarus Fell even after all the years watching him, protecting him. Beneath all the questions and concerns about her charge lurked the one question she was afraid to put to words:
Why is Michael angry with me?
Maybe she wasn’t always the best guardian, wasn’t always around when Icarus needed her. She’d carried the guilt of his death with her every second since it happened, but everything turned out for the best. If muggers hadn’t killed him, who’d harvest souls? Wasn’t the balance better maintained with how things happened?
She couldn’t shake the feeling there was more at play here than she knew.
The clang of the fire exit door slamming open startled Poe, jarring her thoughts. Two figures stumbled through the doorway and tumbled onto the ground. From across the street, Poe heard the man grunt and recognized Icarus’ voice. She took one step, intending to rush to his aid, but stopped when she saw the second figure was a woman: Piper. She eased back into the shadows.
The two of them righted themselves, Icarus holding his arm against his chest, like it was injured. Her heart jumped and
the urge to rush to him sprang back to her limbs but she contained it. It was her job to keep Icarus safe, but she didn’t trust the woman, and her purpose for being here was to observe. She couldn’t interrupt.
The woman put her hand on Icarus’ shoulder and a shudder ran up Poe’s back—not cold or fear, but like a piece of her had been pulled free, yanked from the base of her spine and out the top of her head. Her head spun and she struggled to keep focus.
They leaned toward each other and she decided to make them stop. There was something wrong about this woman. Poe opened her mouth, intending to call out a warning, but no sound came from her throat. Her legs wouldn’t carry her forward. She watched, voyeuristic as their lips touched; her stomach coiled in a knot like watching Icarus die all over again.
It wasn’t my fault.
As they pulled apart—Icarus' eyes closed, lost in the moment—the woman glanced across the street and made eye contact with Poe, the corners of her mouth curving up in a look-what-I-did grin. Fire flashed in her eyes.
Poe threw her hands in front of her face and fled up the street without looking back.
†‡†
Poe disliked few people, places or things, but the motel Michael favored for use as his earthly office made the list. She supposed the things which made her dislike the place were exactly why he chose it: a dirty, run-down haven for prostitutes and junkies in a part of the city regular folk feared to travel through, let alone stop in. Who’d expect to find the archangel Michael here?
He met her in the dimly lit lobby. There was a small TV mounted near the ceiling in one corner facing a tattered couch, the sound of the shopping channel muted. A rack of out-dated brochures and fliers, most of them advertising tattoo shops or massage parlors long-since busted and closed, dominated another wall. Behind the plexi-glass barrier protecting the check-in-er from the check-in-ees, a scrawny man who could have been one of the junkie-residents rather than the proprietor sat in a chair, chin resting on his chest as he snored quietly and drooled on the front of his shirt. Michael lounged on the couch dressed in a black suit and white shirt open at the throat, a red rose in the lapel of his jacket, looking very much like she’d interrupted his evening of ballroom dancing.
“So?”
Poe tip-toed across the room, though she suspected the man behind the counter wouldn’t have woken if she’d brought a marching band. If the substance causing his slumber didn’t keep him from waking, Michael’s influence certainly would. She perched on the edge of the couch, as far from the archangel as space allowed.
“He’s been to Hell,” she said, her voice a whisper. She didn’t meet Michael’s eyes.
“I know. We have one extra soul in stock: one Elizabeth Elton. A former neighbor of our harvester’s, I believe.”
She nodded but said nothing. Michael’s tone held its usual calm, but she sensed something underlying it which made her want to get up and leave before she found out what it was.
“What else?”
“He went a second time.”
“And?”
“He didn’t bring anyone back.”
Poe’s eyes flickered to him as Michael’s narrowed, searching her face. She looked away.
“You are sure?”
Poe nodded again.
Michael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked up at the TV. Poe followed his gaze and saw a pretty woman with dark hair modeling a cubic zirconia necklace. When she looked away from the model, Michael was scrutinizing her again. Panic and regret exploded in her chest; she nearly fell to her knees to beg the archangel’s forgiveness without knowing what she should be forgiven for. She’d let him down in some way, that was obvious—something she’d never want to do given all eternity with which to work—and she wanted to make it up to him, no matter what it was.
“This is your fault.”
Poe’s breath caught in her throat.
“But...I...”
“It is your job to keep the harvester from trouble and harm.” He leaned back and threw his arm along the back of the couch. Normally, Poe would have struggled against the urge to snuggle in against him, bask in his energy. Not this time. “You have failed him, and you have failed me.”
Her airway tightened as she struggled to hold back tears. Her lower lip quivered.
“While he is indulging his whims, others are lost because he is not here to do his job.” He flipped his hair out of his face with a quick flick of his head. “Someone needs to get him back to work.”
“I’ve tried,” Poe said, her words coming in a rush. “He’s determined...to bring them all...back. He won’t stop...until he has. There’s this woman...a woman helping him. Piper. She’s making things worse. She--”
Michael held up his hand and Poe stopped speaking immediately.
“Who is this woman?”
“I don’t know. She says she’s a guardian.”
“Perhaps she will do a better job than you did.”
Poe looked away, afraid his accusatory glare might burn her soul.
“At any rate, souls need to be harvested. Any suggestions?”
Michael rose without waiting for an answer. He crossed the lobby to the door marked ‘stairs’ and glanced back before going through. Poe didn’t need him to speak to know he wanted her to follow. The man behind the plexi-glass barrier stirred as she passed, but didn’t wake. She pushed through the door and into the stairwell and picked her way through the garbage littering the steps. Two flights up, a door swung closed. Poe chewed her lower lip, dreading further confrontation with the archangel but knowing she had no choice but to follow.
On the third floor, Poe went down the hallway with its peeling wallpaper and worn carpeting to the door Michael had left open. She paused before stepping through. All these years she’d done her best. For Icarus, for Michael. As she stepped across the threshold, her life—the life she’d lost—passed before her eyes.
She couldn’t bear the thought of losing this one, too.
Michael stood at the end of the short hall blocking the sleeping area of the room. The laugh track of a television sit-com came from behind him. Poe closed the door.
“There have been rumors about you, Poe.”
She froze, eyes wide. What kind of rumors could there possibly be?
“I...I don’t understand.”
“Question about your loyalties. You have been on both sides.”
“No, I--”
Michael held up his hand again and again she fell silent though her mind worked feverishly. She’d worked so hard for so long...
“Your words are unnecessary. It is your actions which will set you free. As problematic as the harvester’s choices have been, his timing may have worked in your favor.”
The feeling of dread returned to Poe with enough force to make her head feel light. She put her hand against the wall to steady herself.
“What do you mean?”
“You will do the harvester’s job until he returns on his own accord or you convince him to come back. And you will take him with you.”
Michael stepped aside and gestured toward a figure lying on the bed watching TV. The motel’s neon sign shone through the open curtains, turning the person into silhouette. Poe took a few uncertain steps down the hall and saw the man’s unkempt hair and youthful features as she drew closer. When she stepped into the room, he faced her and she saw him in the glow of the television.
“Hi, Poe.”
The world wavered before her eyes.
“Trevor.”
Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter Thirteen
They stood on the sidewalk looking up at the window, mimicking the worshipers and miracle-seekers pressed close around them.
“Are you sure this is where we need to be? I was here before.” Trevor looked at the faces in the crowd. “A lot more people now.”
Poe looked from the window to Trevor’s narrow face, into his washed-out brown eyes.
He looks a lot like Icar
us.
“I’m sure. What do you think drew you here?”
“I don’t know. Because this is where shit went down, maybe.”
“Maybe. Or maybe because this is where your father went through.”
Trevor looked at her and she averted her eyes back to the stained glass Madonna.
“‘Went through’? Went through what? Where?”
She raised a finger toward the window. It was amazing it survived the blast; she understood why all these people were gathered on the sidewalk to beseech their creator.
“Went through there,” she said, then lowered her voice. “To Hell.”
Trevor grabbed Poe’s arm, but let go immediately, surprised by the shock the touch gave him. He gestured for her to follow and stepped out of the crowd.
“What do you mean Hell? The big guy said he’s out of town. We’re supposed to harvest a soul while he’s away.”
“Trevor.” Poe took him by the shoulders, saw the look in his eyes as her energy flowed into him. She tried to limit it. “Your father is in Hell.”
The teenager’s eyes stared blankly for a moment then, slowly, he looked back toward the window.
“Hell,” he repeated.
“Yes. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to him. I have to get him back.”
“But what about Michael? He’ll be pissed.”
Poe sighed heavily, her shoulders slouched. She didn’t want to anger the archangel further but the weight of her responsibilities pressed on her. If she’d done her job, been a better guardian for Icarus, he wouldn’t be in this situation, probably wouldn’t have met the woman, Piper.
Piper.
Her name stirred the memory of the kiss she saw them share and her gut clenched like someone ringing out a dishcloth. Something about the woman made her angry and afraid, but she didn’t know what or why. Was it something wrong? Was it jealousy?
No.
Trevor’s elbow prodded her side, pulling her from her thoughts, and she realized he’d spoken.
“What?”
He answered by pointing up the block to a white van; black, two-foot-high lettering identified it as belonging to TV19 news. A pudgy, balding man was pulling a camera out of the van while a pretty woman wearing a gray blazer smoothed creases out of her black skirt. Poe looked back to the crowd, which had grown since their arrival, and saw two policemen near the back, their police hats bobbing above the heads of the worshipers.
