Jovienne

by Linda Robertson

  Bombs.

  Extending her hands to sense energy via her palms, everything felt different, like searching for a needle in a few feet of mud. She wanted to attribute it to the weight of so many strong emotions, and believe that tension, fear, and great sadness could thicken the energies, but she wondered if the darkblood would hamper energy detection.

  There was no time to doubt and test her abilities right now, but neither could she afford to be wrong. She checked everyone twice more before she risked alerting a demon to her presence. No one reacted when she activated the quintanumin and did a quick sweep with the ghost hands.

  There was no sensation of burning or malign heat.

  Whether or not the bat wings were a punishment, it still remained that the darkblood might impact the quintanumin. She tested her enhanced sight as a reference and found it worked perfectly. All her information indicated there was no evil residing within these men, but that was not an acceptable answer.

  She tried combining her talents. Using the ghost hands, while inciting that other perception in her palm, Jovienne searched the men with guns and backpacks. They felt slimy and oozed a piousness that choked the voice of their conscience. This was especially true of the man leaning against the wall between two tables laden with fancy silk ties.

  Squeezing this man, she felt his hate like a clot immobilizing his heart. He would not be swayed. The detonator was in his hand. He was ready and eager to die.

  But there was no demon here.

  Bug face’s words echoed through her mind: A man’s evil is forgivable…

  “No,” she whispered. She disconnected her ghost hands from that man, but she couldn’t resist assessing the hostages. Most were clerks and businessmen who’d been in this department when the terrorists arrived. She intuited their thoughts with little effort. A salesman thought of his wife. A pastor prayed for his congregation. A single dad thought of his daughter’s upcoming wedding; she’d walk the aisle without him. A grandfather wept openly, mourning that he would not get to see the newborn grandson who bore his name.

  Throat tight and eyes burning, Jovienne jerked her ghost hands back. There were good people here. And they were all going to be forced into death for someone else’s senseless notions. She yearned to act, but Andrei’s words haunted her: Your duty is to destroy demons, not save mortals.

  Evil deserved her attack and required swift action, but a mortal breaking the law was off limits. It was her onus to let these terrorists do as they willed.

  Her gaze slid to the blonde clerk, curled in a ball and shaking uncontrollably. This woman’s daughter was barely eight years old. Her thoughts were all for the girl. They had no one, no family. Her fear was not for her own certain death, but for her child being thrust into a foster system and towards an uncertain fate. One maybe not unlike her own.

  Jovienne could not let another orphan be made, could not risk another soul being forced into the slavery she now knew. She could go invisibly, take the detonator, and subdue the man. She could end this.

  She would.

  She stood up.

  A terrible thunder rumbled and the world lit up in a white-hot explosion, followed by billowing orange under black smoke.

  THE SOUND OF distant sirens reached Jovienne’s ears. As she clawed around, she discovered she was buried under a mound of clothing and racks, some of which were burning.

  She crawled and dug her way free. The air, hot and thick with smoke, hurt her lungs. Though the fire glowed bright, she could see less than two feet in any direction.

  Checking that she remained invisible, and then calling the ghost hands to guide her steps, she rushed toward the spot where the people had been. Maybe someone survived.

  Jovienne was rigid as she made a circuit of the area. The carnage was sickening.

  Ahead, the air began to swirl. A gentle vortex of wind pulled smoke into a slow-spinning funnel. Then a dark figure, ten—no, twelve—feet tall, stepped out from that tornado.

  Retreating two steps, Jovienne stared as the darkness wafted away from that figure to reveal a birch bark cloak. The hood slipped back to expose hair like autumn leaves framing a pale face with dark eyes. The figure stood at the edge of the space where the hostages had been sitting. Wearing a calm and reassuring expression, the being made a visual search of the area.

  Jovienne reclaimed the two steps she’d retreated, moving into view, but the being gave Jovienne no notice.

  Small lights flickered in the smoke drifting along the floor. Each of these soft glimmering orbs blinked a few times and became a steady, warm glow. They floated toward the figure, growing larger.

  Geist?

  Arms extending, they reached up to this entity like children wishing to be held.

  Souls.

  The being lifted each in turn and even reached deep within the still-burning fire to gather some, picking them like wildflowers and nestling the bouquet to her breast.

  Is this the Angel of Death?

  Did her mother reach for this strange angel the same way? Did she glance back at Jovienne, the one left behind, the one who couldn’t follow, the one doomed to stay alive?

  Arms full, the entity flowed backwards. The smoke behind it swirled into a funnel again. Jovienne hurried forward. “Wait!” she called.

  The entity slowed, gaze locked on her.

  “Take me.” Jovienne lifted her arms.

  It did not reach for her. Jovienne’s hands shook, insistent in her desire to be held. “Please,” she whispered. Her fingers strained to span that distance, yet she knew the angel could not touch her. She would be an abhadhon forever, or she would be taken by the demons and tortured forever, but peaceful rest would never be hers.

  The entity did not look away, but it darkened as the tornado swirled forth to encompass it. A moment later, it was gone.

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday

  A RESCUE TEAM RAN past Jovienne who, invisible, walked out of the galleria and into the misting rain, heading up Market Street toward the Embarcadero. By the time her weary steps brought her to North Beach, the rain had stopped. The famous San Francisco fog settled in, as if the mist had followed to taunt her.

  I could have stopped it.

  If I’d acted sooner. If I hadn’t doubted myself and my abilities. If I’d stopped thinking about my own damned self and acted on what I knew was right—whether or not the quintanumin was working, and whether or not a demon was causing the situation.

  That was a stupid notion, anyway. All her teachings argued against any logical reason a demon would be suicidal. It couldn’t feast on the death energy if it was dead.

  So, who benefitted?

  God.

  His Angel of Death, who looked nothing like what Jovienne would have expected, had collected the souls.

  That was why she was forbidden to interfere in mortal events. She couldn’t interfere with the delivery of souls. No, no. God has a schedule to keep.

  As her thoughts turned to that single mom and her daughter, Jovienne’s footfalls became surer, harder. She felt warmer inside and recognized the stirring of the darkblood.

  Ahead, Bay Street ended. She promised herself by the time she reached the end of this road, she’d have that anger reined in. Breathing deep and pushing the emotion down, she felt quite calm when she made the turn south, toward home.

  Shifting her concentration onto her bigger goal, she considered the next step. Though she could create her own Call That Followed she couldn’t refuse the Call that went out at dusk. It was unlikely that a synchronized spell would cancel out a cinder’s ritual. She’d only have one demon incircle to deal with before she could pursue the other. This would double her share of grace, but it didn’t move her closer to freedom.

  Besides, there was no telling what kind of punishment would she face for a Hellgate second offense.

  It occurred to her that performing that particular spell seemed far riskier now that her blood had merged with that of a demon. She wondered if it would affect her abili
ty to resist dancing to the beat of the dusk drums.

  She’d find out the answer to that tomorrow…or rather later today.

  She turned on Fulton so she could pass the Painted Ladies on Steiner. The colors and details always brought a smile to her face, and she could use a bit of cheer. As she clomped down the incline beside Alamo Square, an oncoming car slowed and pulled over in front of her. Wary, Jovienne stopped.

  Seeing it was a cab, she thought the driver was going to ask if she wanted a ride. But that couldn’t be right, she was still invisible.

  The cabbie exited the vehicle and retrieved a suitcase from the trunk. A sandy-haired young man climbed from the back of the cab. He handed the driver cash and asked, “It’s the yellow one, you say?”

  “Yes sir.” The cabbie pointed. “That one.” He slid behind the wheel and drove away.

  The young man remained on the sidewalk studying the darkened house for a moment, and then scanned around, ready to cross the street.

  Jovienne noted his expression was more dejected than tired. His slumped shoulders straightened as he gave a stiff jerk of surprise. “Hello,” he called, looking right at her. “I didn’t see you there.”

  AFTER CATCHING THE late flight from Chicago to Denver, a two-hour lay-over ensued, followed by a turbulent flight to San Francisco. The thirty-minute cab ride was a quiet reprieve from the hustle and bustle of traveling. Seeing the city pre-dawn, traffic low and houses dark, satisfied him. It felt like he was sneaking into San Francisco.

  But Nathan Marshall had finally arrived at Father Everly’s home. Though aware that some Victorian homes in San Francisco were landmarks, he hadn’t expected to be staying among the meticulously kept Painted Ladies. He would have preferred a cheap hotel.

  The house was dark. Father Everly must still be sleeping. He glanced up the road, but the cab was gone.

  The young woman startled him, standing a few yards away. He guessed her to be a few years younger than he. “Hello. I didn’t see you there.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Though beautiful, everything about her painted a formidable image. Black leather. Thick-soled boots. Even her dark eyes were set hard. Like a black diamond.

  But this was a dubious time to be out. Maybe she was casing the area to rob someone. His smile faded.

  Lifting his suitcase, he proceeded up the steps to Father Everly’s porch. A whoosh of air made him turn back. The young woman was gone.

  He huddled into his wool peacoat and sat on the cushioned bench, using his suitcase like a pillow. He didn’t have the heart to wake the old priest yet.

  HOW DID HE see me?

  Jovienne was certain that she remained invisible, yet she had not detected a demon in the young man. To test it, she swooped down an alley over some employees taking a smoke break. None of them reacted.

  Reassured that the quintanumin were functioning, that meant it had to be something about the young man. He wasn’t possessed so that only left one thing: he was an angel.

  But why would an angel take a cab?

  She considered returning to Steiner Street, but exhaustion was claiming her. She headed to the warehouse and found sleep quickly once she lay down on the dirty couch. But it was fitful slumber.

  A dream of the hospital beset her again, and she stood looking down on her younger self, their separate bodies trapped together by that awful voice chanting her name without end.

  “Jovienne…Jovienne…Jovienne.”

  The image of that sterile room brightened like overexposed film. It was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.

  The echoing voice’s words suddenly changed, “Jovienne… Jovienne…I want you, Jovienne. I want you. I am coming. I’m coming. Jovienne, I’m coming for you…”

  An alarm sounded in the hall. The loudspeaker called out a code blue.

  Jovienne watched as the door opened in slow motion to reveal nurses rushing by, hurrying down the hall. She blinked and dropped her chin down to gaze on her child-self in the bed.

  Someone walked in; their footsteps echoed off the walls that were suddenly too close. The bedside Jovienne tried to look at this person, but she was stricken immobile. Even as the person came closer, all she could see was a small body dressed in white pants, white shirt. The person’s face evaded her dreaming view, but thin, white hands with every bone and vein visible reached toward the bed.

  The viewpoint of the dream fell from the bedside Jovienne, becoming dimmer and dimmer, as it neared the child-self. When the focus of the dream transferred fully, and the dreamscape was nothing but blackness, the child-self heard her older, bedside-self screaming, “Do something! Fight! Don’t be a victim!”

  Her insides twisted and knotted. Someone was there in her room, close. She could not rouse herself. She waited in her coma, in her black confinement, sensing that stranger reaching for her, praying that they wouldn’t touch her—

  With a shriek, Jovienne sat bolt upright, gasping. A coughing fit gripped her. Her mind registered that she was awake and in the remodeled elevator. Her childhood nightmare was over, but the fear still gripped her. Scrambling to her feet and rushing to the outer room, she heaved into the corner and vomited foul bile.

  A FEW MINUTES past seven o’clock an elderly man wearing a thick black robe shook Nathan’s shoulder to rouse him. “Nathan? Nathan Marshall?”

  He opened his eyes. “Yes. Yes, sir, I mean Father. It’s me.”

  “I’m so sorry, son. I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  Nathan sat up. “I didn’t ring it, Father.” He yawned.

  “Well, for Heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “I thought I’d let you sleep. Mr. Holder made my flight arrangements to fit my work schedule, not yours.”

  “My God, boy. You’re here to energize my parish, not freeze to death on my porch. Come inside!” He paused. “There’s a key under that flower pot there. If you need it while you’re here, use it.”

  Father Everly led him into the house and directed him to sit at the small café table within the kitchen. Nathan sat and situated his suitcase between his feet. His fingers fidgeted with the handle.

  “Lord, take your coat off and make yourself at home.”

  Nathan stood and draped his peacoat on the back of the chair.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Mister Marshall.”

  “Call me Nathan. Please. And the pleasure is all mine, sir.”

  A moment later the priest thrust a hot cup of coffee with a shot of whiskey into Nathan’s hands. “That’ll thaw you out.”

  Father Everly sat milk and sugar on the table then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across from Nathan.

  Under his scrutiny, Nathan found himself sitting straighter. “I’ll do all I can to help your church.”

  “I know you will.”

  Nathan licked his lips and sat the coffee cup on the table. “You know I cannot promise it’ll happen when you want it to happen. Or that it will happen at all.”

  The priest nodded. “I understand.” He took a gulp of coffee. “I’ve lost hundreds of parishioners to bigger, better-kept churches in safer neighborhoods. Without their tithes, I’ve spent the cash of my inheritance to keep the heat on. Keeping up with repairs, though…” He shook his head and sat his cup down, too. “It’s more cost-effective for the Vatican to close my doors and support fewer churches, I understand that. But Saint Timothy’s is where I was Confirmed. It’s always been a part of my life and…I don’t know how to let go.”

  Nathan wished he knew what to say.

  “The Vatican knows I’m old and sentimental. They won’t shut the doors as long as I’m financially afloat. They also know I’m sitting on this small goldmine.” A gesture indicated the house around them. “It was my parent’s home.” He fixed Nathan with an earnest stare. “Before I take a vow of poverty and sell this property to fund the repairs, I’m taking one more chance.”

  On me. Shoulders slumping, Nathan squirmed in his seat. “Father, please don’t make me the hinge your hope sw
ings on.”

  “Look, Nathan. I don’t like the exploitive nature of hiring you. I can see in your eyes, it takes from you more than it gives to you. Sentimentality may be my sin, hiring you may add to it, but I want my church to stay open, not in spite of it being in a poor neighborhood, but because it is in that poor neighborhood. The world wants a show. They want something to talk about. I’ve hired you to give them a show if you can. And I pray to God that you will because if you do then, then, we will have so much good to talk about.”

  Nathan sat silent for a heartbeat. “As I said, Father, I’ll do all I can to help your church.”

  Father Everly led him to the second floor. Breathless, he paused. “I must catch my breath before going on to the guestroom on the third floor.” He gestured Nathan to follow him into the room on the left. “Let us sit in the library for a moment.”

  Nathan left his coat and suitcase by the stairs. The library had mahogany shelves that rose from the thick baseboard to chest height. Crown moldings and plum paint on the small portions of walls were above the shelves. The few seats were old style. “Are these real antiques Father, or replicas?”

  “Oh, they’re authentic. Eighteenth century. Belonged to my great-great-grandmother.” He provided the details of them being wedding presents to her from other family in France, but Nathan only half-listened. Though he wasn’t savvy about real estate, he could appreciate the beauty of the priest’s home. The combination library-study was filled with various Bibles, books on Biblical scholarship, philosophy, theology, and classic novels like Moby Dick and a complete set of Agatha Christie.

  His appreciation of all this, however, did nothing to allay his worries. Everything in this house screamed, don’t bleed here.

  Father Everly announced he’d rested enough. As Nathan followed him out, he glimpsed a stack of newspaper clippings. He recognized himself in the picture. He looked so young. Nathan checked the date on it. He’d been about eight at the time. He thumbed through the stack, to the papers underneath. A realty company’s contract. The blanks were filled in, but the document was unsigned. Father Everly was truly prepared to give up everything to salvage the situation at his parish.