Down in Flames

by P. W. Catanese

  “Portraits are my latest passion.” Fiasco stroked his beard and pursed his lips. “But remarkably, I have sold very few.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Angela said. She shot a wide-eyed glance at Donny.

  Donny looked at Fiasco’s expression closely, trying to figure out if he was putting them on. But the big fellow seemed completely genuine. Oh boy, Donny thought. He has no idea that his art stinks.

  “True genius can be difficult to recognize,” Fiasco mused. Then he thankfully changed the subject. “So, what is it you want to tell me? I hope it is good news, on such a glorious day!”

  “News of all kinds,” Angela said. “Let’s start with the latest happenings in Sulfur.”

  Fiasco chuckled and raised a hand, palm out. “My dear. You know I left that world behind forever. I have embraced the mortal world and all of its fragile, fleeting glories. The tropics! Music! Poetry! Fiestas! The sun dazzling in the palms! The moon glittering on the sea! Fiasco the terrible archdemon is no more. Now there is only Fiasco the artist who lives for the moment.”

  “Bear with me, Fiasco the artist,” Angela said. “There are a couple of things you ought to know.” She told Fiasco about the recent catastrophe in Sulfur, how Havoc nearly managed to wipe out the entire council, and the idea that it might signal the return of the Merciless. “If everything goes back to the way it was, you know what that might mean for the archdemons who’ve chosen to live on Earth,” she told him.

  Fiasco angled his head and tugged on his beard. “I do not know. What might it mean?”

  Angela rapped the table with her knuckles as she spoke. “They don’t like what you’re doing. You chum around with humans. You live the mortal life full-time. That risks exposure. They would order you to return, Fiasco. And considering that you fought for the reforms, they might even look for a reason to sentence you to annihilation.”

  Fiasco slumped in his chair and folded his arms. “You have control of the council, though. You have the majority.”

  “For now,” Angela said. “It’s dicey, though. Ungo Cataracta has joined, and he’s an ally. But Chimera has joined too, and he wants the pit back. If you joined us . . .”

  “No.” Fiasco shook his head. “Find another way. Don’t ask me that.”

  “If you joined us, the majority would be safe. You’re from an ancient family. They’d have to put you on the council if you asked. You are needed, Fiasco. We need your voice. We need your strength.”

  Fiasco chuckled sadly and gazed at the ceiling. “Impossible. The butterfly cannot be molded back into the caterpillar. I am transformed.”

  “You’re still an archdemon, Fiasco. Listen—you can have it both ways. You could come down for the meetings, and stay here otherwise. I’m up and down all the time; it’s fabulous.”

  “I never want to see Sulfur again. Or that horrible pit, even though it is extinguished. It reminds me of all the years I spent amid the flames, tormenting those wretched souls. How could I ever have been such a monster? I never want to take on my demon form again—it repulses me.”

  “Fiasco, you know this can’t last forever.” Angela reached across the table and took Fiasco’s enormous hands in hers. “You’ve been here so many years already. Your human friends must have noticed that you’ve barely aged.”

  Donny looked more closely at Fiasco. It hadn’t even occurred to him how old he must be. Archdemons lived ten times longer than mortals, more or less. Angela looked like a teenager but was around one hundred and fifty years old. Fiasco must have been close to five hundred.

  Fiasco lowered his gaze. “There have been comments made.”

  “See? Maybe it’s time to come home.”

  Fiasco shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Angela. When the time comes, I will leave this island and find another beautiful place. I will make new friends there. Maybe next time I will become a brilliant poet instead of a great artist.” Angela stifled a snort. “And when my new friends grow old,” Fiasco said, “I will move again. But I will not go back to Sulfur. It is up to you to keep that house in order. Don’t ask that of me.”

  Angela puffed air out of the corner of her mouth. “Well, then. Fiddlesticks.”

  Fiasco put his hand on his heart and bowed his head. “I am sorry, Angela.”

  She jutted her chin at him. “You can make it up to me by giving me a hand with something.”

  Fiasco stroked his beard and eyed her doubtfully. “So there is another card you have not played! A hand with what, may I ask?”

  “Not sure yet. Something is amiss on this island. In this vicinity, probably. A lot of souls have been intercepted.”

  The big man stood and turned away from Angela and Donny. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

  “You know something about it?” Angela asked.

  Fiasco spoke without turning. “I sensed that things were amiss. But I tried to ignore it. I feel a presence at times. But never have I seen anything.”

  Angela looked sideways at Donny. “A presence?”

  Fiasco turned back to face them. “An infernal presence. It is wicked and monstrous. That’s all I can tell you, and I’m not even sure about that.”

  Great, Donny thought. He was thoroughly creeped out. It felt like ants were crawling up and down his spine.

  “If you seek this thing out, you must be careful,” Fiasco said. He looked at Angela and then Donny. Donny nodded vigorously back.

  “That’s why we could use you,” Angela said.

  Fiasco clutched the hair on top of his head and gazed at the ceiling. “Angela Obscura,” he said. “Why must you shake me from this dream I am living?”

  “Come on—it’ll be fun,” Angela said.

  Fiasco looked at Donny and jabbed his thumb toward Angela. “This one has a strange idea of fun.”

  “That’s for sure,” Donny replied.

  “So you’ll do it?” Angela said. She broke out her most beguiling grin, and even batted her eyelashes. “It’s the least you can do after you turned me down about the council.”

  Fiasco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You would charm the rattles off a snake, Angela Obscura. Yes, I will do this.” Angela grinned again and tapped her hands together in silent applause. “But,” Fiasco said, pointing a finger at her, “I will not transform. You understand me?”

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re such a lovely monster when you want to be.”

  “I don’t want to be,” Fiasco said. He folded his arms across his burly chest. “Never again.”

  “Fine. It’ll still be nice to have you,” Angela said. She stood up, and Donny followed suit. “We’re tracking this thing down now. I’ll let you know when we need help.”

  “I would tell you that I look forward to it,” Fiasco said, “but I do not.”

  He led them out of the storage room, and they said their good-byes. As Angela and Donny walked away, Fiasco suddenly bellowed after them. “Wait! How could I forget? I have something for you! I have saved it for many months!”

  “Uh-oh,” Angela muttered quietly. Fiasco went to a stack of canvases in the corner, and searched through the pile. “Aha!” he cried. He pulled out a small painting and hid it behind his back as he approached. Then he sprang it on them, holding it up with both hands.

  “Oh my,” Angela said.

  “I painted it from memory, which makes the likeness all the more remarkable!” Fiasco crowed.

  Donny bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. The painting was a portrait of Angela, and it was absolutely ghastly. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked like she was standing on a giant open clamshell, rising out of the sea. The paint looked like it had been slapped on with a toothbrush.

  “I literally don’t know what to say,” Angela told him. Her hand was over her mouth, in the manner of someone who was about to be sick.

  “Because words are not sufficient,” Fiasco said with a hearty laugh. “It is a wonderful surprise, eh?”

  Angela nodded. Fiasco thru
st the painting into her hands, and she took it. “I can’t thank you,” she said. “Enough, I mean. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It is an honor, and a pleasure, to share my art,” Fiasco said, patting his broad stomach.

  CHAPTER 22

  What a catastrophe,” Angela said as they walked down the street. She glanced at the painting again, grimaced, and turned it around so the painted side was hidden against her waist. “Worst-case scenario.”

  “It was really nice of him to do that for you,” Donny said.

  “I suppose,” Angela grumbled, with a scowl that still managed to be appealing. They walked among tourists, past row houses painted yellow, orange, lime, and teal. At that moment Donny could almost forget the rift that had opened between them. Fiasco was right: Angela was bewitching. He had to remind himself about what he’d overheard, and how little he meant to her, no matter how she acted now.

  Donny noticed again how Angela drew attention in a crowd. Men and women alike would turn to look. A quick glance often led to a second, longer stare. One lanky young man, maybe eighteen, was using an expensive camera with an enormous lens to snap pictures of an Old San Juan cat, which slunk away as Angela approached. His mouth fell open when he saw her. She bedeviled him with a sly sideways glance and the slightest elevation of her chin.

  After they walked by, Donny heard the man call from behind. “I beg your pardon!” His accent was Scottish, or Irish, Donny wasn’t sure which. Either way, between those good looks and that appealing accent, Donny found himself grinding his teeth. If this guy only knew what he was really talking to, he thought.

  Angela stopped and turned to look back. “Yes?”

  “I, uh . . .” the man stammered, and lifted his camera. “I wonder if I could take your picture?”

  Angela responded with a dramatic sigh of relief. “Would you really?” She thrust Fiasco’s painting at the man. “It’s all yours. I don’t care what you do with it, honestly.”

  The man blinked rapidly, looked at the painting, and then laughed. “No, miss, I meant I want to take your photograph.”

  Angela’s brow furrowed for a moment, but then she grinned. “Sure, why not? Donny, hold these?”

  She handed Donny the painting and her handbag. For a solid minute she ran through a series of poses while the young man snapped pictures. She turned sideways, a hand on her hip, then smiled and looked at the sky, propped her chin on the back of her hands, folded her arms and gave a smoky stare, struck a ballerina pose . . . Donny didn’t think it would ever end. Some of it was ridiculous, but all of it was enchanting. The photographer was in a delirium. He flipped the camera horizontally and vertically, leaned forward and back, and circled around her, a bedazzled grin on his face. Donny wished with all his might that a meteor would fall from the sky and obliterate the man and his camera.

  “You remind me of something from a poem,” the photographer said. “Do you like poetry?”

  “All the best people do,” Angela said. She pursed her lips and looked over her shoulder at the lens.

  “Which poem is your favorite?” asked the photographer, snapping madly.

  “Oh, anything by Dr. Seuss, I suppose.”

  The poses went on until Donny was ready to scream. Even when that finally ended, there was another painful century where the guy showed Angela the shots he’d taken on the screen on the back of his stupid camera. She gazed intently at the pictures and passed judgment on each with a laugh, a scowl, or a happy nod. He stood at Angela’s shoulder, looking at her instead of the photos.

  After that era had finally passed, he asked, “Would you like me to send you the best ones?”

  Smooth, Donny thought, boiling on the inside. To his relief, Angela said, “No, thanks. I know what I look like.”

  The photographer plowed on. “Are you in San Juan for long?”

  “Let’s not make this personal.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s just . . .” the guy stammered. “Who are you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Angela linked her arm with Donny’s, and they walked off together.

  • • •

  Just tell her what you heard, Donny told himself. His anger had mellowed as he walked beside her. He wondered if he should just tell her how he was feeling, and why. But how could he even begin? So, I was around the corner on your pillar in Sulfur, eavesdropping on you and some guy. . . .

  Before he came close to starting, her phone rang from inside her handbag. She pulled it out and answered it. “Hello, Carlos! Any progress?”

  Donny listened to her side of the conversation, and caught just a few of Carlos’s excited words on the other end. “What? Already? I thought that might take all week. You’re amazing. . . . You’re welcome. Where? . . . How far away? . . . Oh. That’s so close! But you’re not sure what it is? . . . No, I understand. Definitely something infernal, though, right? . . . Okay. We’ll check it out tonight. We won’t take any action yet, but I’ll bring reinforcements, just in case. . . .” She looked sideways at Donny and grinned when their eyes met. “Uh-huh. We’ll see you at the hotel. Sound good? . . . Okeydokey. Bye.” She ended the call and pumped a fist in the air. “Makin’ progress.”

  “Carlos found what you’re looking for?”

  “He found something, anyway. We’ll check it out tonight.”

  Donny felt a surge of energy, like an electric current under his skin. It wasn’t a terrible feeling. The thrills were a factor in the equation he was trying to figure out. There was no doubt that part of this life he’d fallen into was exciting and amazing, even if it could be horribly dangerous at the same time. If he left Angela’s company, he would give all that up too: the weird grandeur of the infernal land, the hidden wonders of the mortal world, and the brushes with extraordinary beings and people with abilities he never knew existed.

  “But how does Carlos do it?” he asked. “He just . . . feels things?”

  “Pretty much. You’ve seen how some people are sensitive to my presence, right? Like that nasty old woman in Florence?” Donny nodded. He remembered the woman in the crowd who had pointed at Angela and called her a monster. “Well, Carlos is like that, but in a much more sophisticated way. He can sense supernatural things the way a shark smells blood in the water. And he can home in on it, which makes him super-useful.”

  There was that word again. Useful. She’d used it to describe Donny back in Sulfur, when he’d overheard that conversation. Is that all mortals were to Angela? Useful things?

  She went on, unaware of the dark thoughts crossing Donny’s mind. “Remember how we found the murmuros in Brooklyn? Carlos tracked him down. There can’t be ten people in the world with better radar than him. That’s what I call it: radar.”

  Donny nodded. “Okay. But about tonight—will this be dangerous?”

  She smiled with her mouth closed and shook her head. “Oh, Donny. It’ll be fine. Not every infernal thing is trying to kill you.”

  No, Donny thought. It just feels that way sometimes.

  “How did you find Carlos?” he asked.

  “He found me five years ago. Chased me all over New York, asking ‘What are you? What are you, really?’ I told Howard to check him out. He seemed like somebody we could work with.”

  Donny thought about that for a while. Carlos was still alive after all those years of helping Angela. Still, Carlos had never been to Sulfur, where some of the biggest dangers lay. He wondered if Angela knew what was obvious to him. “You know, I think Carlos . . .” He had trouble getting the words out.

  She looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “You think Carlos what?”

  “I think he thinks about you a lot,” Donny said.

  “Oh, you mean he has a thing for me? Ha! Line forms on the right.” She gave Donny a sideways grin.

  Donny rolled his eyes. It would have sounded obnoxious coming from just about anyone else. From Angela, paired with that particular expression, it was endearing.

  And true, utterly true.

 
CHAPTER 23

  Shortly after midnight they stood outside the hotel. It was still warm, but that didn’t bother Donny. It was a lot like the weather in Sulfur.

  Carlos leaned against his white rental car, his arms crossed. He wore a dark shirt and pants, and black running shoes. Angela had on a black T-shirt and black capri pants, and the black satchel slung over her shoulder. You guys don’t look too suspicious or anything, Donny thought. He looked at his striped polo shirt and cargo shorts, and wondered if he should have worn black too.

  “If he’s not here in a minute,” Angela said, “we’ll go get him.” Before the words were out of her mouth, a low hum arose. It quickly grew to the buzz of a small motor. Fiasco rolled into view on an Italian scooter that looked comically small under his sprawling bulk. His helmet was bedazzled with shells, beads, and bits of glass, but the work was so unappealing and sloppy that Donny instantly knew who the artist must be.

  Fiasco rolled to a stop, dismounted, and flung his arms wide. He wore the same paint-splattered clothes, with sandals over his socks. “My friends!” he cried. “And who is this?” He spotted Carlos and rushed at him. Carlos opened his mouth as if to scream, and looked ready to sprint away when Fiasco gathered him up in a crushing bear hug. “This can only be Carlos! A friend of Angela’s is a friend of Fiasco’s!” He pumped Carlos up and down as if Carlos were a ketchup bottle and Fiasco were shaking out the final drops.

  “Pleased-to-meet-you,” Carlos wheezed, with the fraction of air still left in his lungs. He wobbled when Fiasco released him.

  “So, where do we go on this lovely moonlit evening?” Fiasco boomed.

  “Bayamón, sir,” Carlos said, rubbing his chest. “Maybe a half hour from here.” He cleared his throat and gestured toward Angela and Fiasco. “I am sorry to say this, but it is a little overwhelming for me to have both of you so close.”

  “Fear not!” Fiasco slapped Carlos on the back and nearly knocked him down. “I will ride behind you. Lead the way!”

  “Can I drive?” Angela asked Carlos as they walked toward his car.

  “Under no circumstances,” Carlos replied.