by Diane Capri
“Have I ever let you down?”
“There’s always a first time—which would, in your unfortunate case, be your last.”
“It’ll be there. Ahead of schedule. I’d stake my life on it.”
Lena smiled. “Your life is always at stake, always has been.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
IN ALL HIS GOING TO AND FROM the earth, relatively few things disturbed Nick to the point of actual worry. He’d never acquired that annoying human habit. But now, as he slowly traversed the distance between La Jolla and his next assignment, his physical form was becoming more of a burden to shed. Which was, well, worrisome. What he hated about flying while fully physical wasn’t so much the cold air or the tailpipe fumes on the freeway below but the queasiness and perspiration. With Lena and his assignments he was back in that state of flux, that neither-here-nor-there place.
With an important issue to resolve.
Am I actually going to push Hope back into despair and suicide?
If there were more asinine rules that said he must do whatever he was told with no adequate explanation, perhaps it was time to see if there were indeed real consequences for not blindly obeying them.
Blasted rules.
How had they worked out for him back in Victoria Station?
No.
Don’t get distracted.
Stop overthinking this and complete the assignment.
For no reason other than sheer instinct, Nick looked over his shoulder expecting to find that dark vapor looming about.
Not there. Perhaps he’d be okay.
As he got closer to his third subject, Carlito Guzman, his smartphone buzzed and chimed. The proximity sensor showed him which car on the surface road below was Guzman’s. The text flashed his assignment:
PROTECT CARLITO GUZMAN
There, stopped at a red light on Mission Valley Road with no other cars in the lanes next to him, Guzman’s car stood awaiting the signal change. But coming from behind without slowing down was another car—a black Cadillac that changed lanes to bring itself right next to Guzman’s window. And from the Cadi’s passenger window a gun protruded, its muzzle aimed right at his head. Guzman had no clue what was about to happen—he appeared to be singing.
Nick made himself invisible, flew down to the street, and stood directly in the path of the bullets.
The popping sound of semi-automatic weapon fire rang out.
Nick altered his molecular density so the few rounds that hit him went blunt at the point, then fell to the asphalt clinking like steel bolts. Cars on both sides of the road blazed out of the danger zone.
The gunman kept firing at Guzman. Nick kept shielding him from the onslaught. Then he tried that trick he’d learned from Lena outside Grand Central Station. Focusing on the oncoming bullets, he absorbed them into the spiritual layers, then sent them out into the sky.
It worked. The Cadillac raced off and took the on-ramp to the freeway. Nick saw Guzman look all over his body, all around the inside of his car, astonished he hadn’t been hit.
Nick passed into the car, where the cartel leader now sat perfectly still, his head resting against the steering wheel. He sat down in the passenger seat, which sank just a bit—apparently he’d brought weight and density with him even while invisible.
But then Guzman lifted his head and turned in Nick’s direction.
“Holy—!”
Nick instantly re-established invisibility.
With sudden jerky movements Guzman swiped his hand over and around the passenger seat, then spun around looking in back for Nick. He finally gave up, shut his eyes, folded his hands, and began to pray.
“Gracias a dios…gracias señor…”
It was, of course, the first time Nick had heard his voice. He could usually discern sincerity in a human’s tone, especially one who thought he was alone. Guzman, he sensed, was genuinely grateful that his life had been spared.
So what if, for a split second, the subject had seen him? So far as this part of his assignment was concerned, Nick had succeeded. He’d protected the drug lord from death. And according to Lena, Carlito Guzman would go on to do great things if given the chance.
Imagine, feeling happy for a drug lord! But saving a life rather than watching it end? That was refreshing. And judging by the look on this young man’s face, Nick sensed that something wonderful was happening within him.
This felt good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HOPE MATHESON WOULD BE AWAKE by now. Having muddied the waters, Nick wasn’t exactly sure what he ought to do about her. For now, better teleport back to the Broadmore. But as soon as he focused on the hotel, a dull throb started in his head.
Worse, the pain intensified every time he tried to teleport.
Most annoying.
Never mind, I’ll fly.
A murder of crows blackened the sky as they flew overhead heading northwest towards La Jolla. He’d have to fly in the same direction to get to his suicidal subject. Judging by the sun’s height over the eastern horizon, he’d better hurry.
#
By human standards, traveling from Mission Valley to La Jolla in ninety seconds would be extremely fast. But compared to teleportation, the trip had seemed interminable. Now, holding two shopping bags full of women’s clothing, size 8, he stood in the Broadmore’s lobby shrouded from physical sight and paused to think. Wouldn’t it be more enjoyable for Hope if the clothes appeared magically before her eyes?
Yet when he recalled the one time he’d tried something like that, how it worked, where it ultimately ended, he heard sounds from London at the turn of the 20th century. The squeal of metal, the screaming train whistle—
No. He’d vowed never to allow himself to go down that path again. And he had an assignment to complete.
With the snap of his fingers, Nick sent the shopping bags into what he called the oblivion locker, within which he could store physical items in an inter-dimensional state of limbo, to be retrieved at any moment.
He went to the elevator. He’d have to do something drastic to push Hope over the edge. But it just didn’t seem right.
Something about her...
Stop it! Were those feelings not the very ones that set him on the path to that fateful day in Victoria Station?
When he reached the third floor, he stepped out of the elevator and started the long walk down the hallway toward room 310. Sunlight flooded the end of the corridor, so brilliant that Nick had to cover his eyes for a moment. Yet another odd physical sensation he couldn’t remember dealing with before.
When he opened them he thought he saw something floating around the door to Hope’s room. It resembled a shadow that could not possibly co-exist with all that bright sunlight. But every time Nick blinked, it disappeared—only to reappear a few moments later.
The dark vapor.
It made him uneasy, though for several millennia it had never done anything other than hang about, as though watching to see what he would do in a situation where his choices were unclear.
But at this point Nick was fairly certain what he would do.
He’d waited all this time for a promotion and wasn’t about to let the weakness of human-based emotions cloud his judgment again. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. A part of him felt differently. And that part seemed to be telling him not to do this. It was sort of like that doctors’ oath—First do no harm.
But Hippocrates was a mere human with a limited perspective.
Nick stepped up to the door—right into the dark cloud.
Which to his surprise changed into a white vapor that rushed past him, sending a refreshing mist onto his face, and went straight through the huge glass window at the end of the hall.
That sort of thing had never happened before.
But it didn’t matter. He had an assignment to complete and had already lost too much ground.
He knocked on the door of room 310. When he got no answer after several tries, he placed his ear against its smooth pain
ted surface and listened.
No sound.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE DOOR WAS LOCKED. He’d have to pass through. It used to be simple, but lately, passing through solid material felt like rubbing against sandpaper. He’d started managing it faster to shorten the pain of scraping between the physical and spiritual layers, but the benefit was small and in any case cancelled out by the fact that the pain kept escalating.
This time it felt as though his skin was peeling off, all over his body. The pain was so intense he could barely think. But finally, he passed through into the room.
Teleportation was so much simpler.
Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, Hope sat on the bed, facing the window. In her open palm lay a pile of pills. A capsized bottle lay on the bed with its top off, more pills spilling out onto the sheets. A large bottle of Arrowhead Water stood on the nightstand.
It was the first time he’d seen her bathed and out of her filthy clothes—he wouldn’t have known her. Her wavy hair flowed just past her shoulders and glowed in the sunlight. The very sight of her eased Nick’s still painful skin to the point that he forgot about it.
But he couldn’t forget that the beauty of a mortal had once nearly destroyed him. And he could hear Lena telling him, You’ve got till midnight to persuade her.
Somehow, Hope had managed to get hold of pills that were about to make his job incredibly easy for him. Which didn’t make him feel any better. It made him feel something close to the despair on this beautiful young woman’s face.
You’re not causing her death. It’s her own doing. You’re just keeping her on track.
Right. Just think of how many you’re saving by simply nudging her to do what she’s going to do anyway. She must really be dangerous—there were no guardian angels protecting her or trying to convince her not to go through with it.
Hope let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t seem like the kind of homeless person who talked to herself—there was too much clarity in her eyes—so Nick prepared to listen in on her thoughts. Thoughts he’d have to collude with in order to encourage her to go through with it and swallow the pills.
Thoughts, as it turned out, he’d never heard nor heard of in the thousands of years he’d roamed the earth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PERCEIVING THE SPIRITUAL REALM IS NOT for the faint of heart.
Even if you’re an angel.
But for a human unequipped and unprepared, the lifting of the veil that separates the two realms can cause sheer madness. Nick had witnessed this first-hand in England. The very recollection was like ripping open an old wound.
What he now saw pouring out of Hope and surrounding her as she buried her head in her hands was neither angels nor demons. They were people. Humans. Not their physical form but her memories of them, their essence.
First a man dressed as though he were from the 1970s stood over her and said, “It wasn’t the cancer, Hope. I died because of you. What father with such a pathetic daughter would want to live?”
She didn’t lift her head, didn’t look at the man. The only sound she made was a bitter sob.
Her father’s apparition faded into a bruised purple vapor and disappeared into her ear. And now sitting on the bed next to her was the phantasm of a woman, her face and arms covered with black and blue patches and cuts. “Sweetie, if you’d been a good girl Daddy would have stayed. And Thomas wouldn’t have touched you or beaten you. I deserved what I got, that’s why I never said anything when he did it to me.”
Hope winced, cried out, and threw her hands up as if to block an onslaught of ravens.
Though the voices from within her were doing a fine job helping him complete his assignment, they infuriated Nick.
Others came out and accused. Finally they all surrounded her, talking over each other, stabbing prosecutorial fingers at her. The last tormentor floated out of Hope’s body and stood before her. She was the very image of Hope.
“You’re some kind of masochist to keep holding onto a life that gives you nothing but suffering. If there even is a God, he must hate you. Why else would he allow you to suffer like this? All those emails and phone calls to Hartwell Ministry’s life-line? Nothing’s ever changed, nothing ever will. You know why. Because you’re worthless and your life is meaningless. Stop being a coward and end it.”
These were not demons but internal thoughts, voices that resounded in Hope’s soul like cymbals struck over and over. No human could face them for long without losing her sanity—it was hard enough just listening to them. All Nick had to do was turn his head, shut his eyes, even leave the room and come back to find her dead, dark reapers taking her spirit to the Terminus. Thankfully, he’d never have to deal with that sort of business again.
Hope lifted her head and stared at the handful of pills.
Nick’s chest tightened. He tried to hold onto Lena’s warnings like a handrail on a subway staircase slick with rain.
Nearly a dozen of Hope’s inner voices surrounded her, chanting in a whisper:
“Do it...
do it...
do it...”
Faster and faster they spun, all speaking at once in a dissonant cacophony that resembled a profound electrical buzz. Then, in one collective scream, they shot into her head through the ears and eyes and mouth.
She gasped.
And brought the pills to her mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HOPE GRABBED THE BOTTLED WATER from the night stand, twisted the top open with her free hand, and gulped down the pills in her mouth. She gagged a little, and a couple of wet pills slipped out. Quickly she downed the next handful, gathered from the bed.
And the next.
And the next.
Though there were still some pills left, she’d taken most of them. She lay back in the bed, hugging the pillow.
A painful ache overtook her.
It wasn’t from the drugs. It was because of the image in her mind.
Her little daughter. That one refreshing dewdrop in the desert of her life.
Hope squeezed her eyes shut. But as the sorrow enveloped her, she saw her little girl’s face again.
She could barely inhale.
But as she let the breath out she whispered, “Chloe.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“CHLOE?” NICK WHISPERED. Yes, that was the name she’d spoken.
He rushed over to the bed and turned Hope over. Pushed her hair, still damp, from her face. Tried to get her to speak.
“Hope?”
He patted her face.
“Come on!” He picked up the empty pill bottle and patted her face repeatedly. “Hope Matheson!”
For a brief moment, she opened her eyes.
Ignoring a sharp pain piercing the center of his head, he drew on all his strength to create a mini-construct that slowed time enough for him to gaze into her eyes before she shut them again.
Just long enough to tell.
He had suspected before, but now that he’d gotten a good look at her eyes he was certain.
It was her—the mother of the last subject he’d taken to the Terminus, the adorable little girl who brought back such painful memories he’d had to resign from the reaper work.
Hope had emerald eyes, just like…Not for a hundred years had he felt this way for anyone, much less a mortal. Now he knew why he didn’t want to let her go.
“Come on, Hope. Hang on.”
But the construct fell apart even as his strength ebbed. Her eyes rolled back and shut.
Exhausted, Nick fell to his knees at the bed.
He reached out and gently cupped her face, which felt cold and moist. If he could just heal her...
You’re in enough trouble as it is!
But if she died, the dark reapers would come for her.
Think. If he failed this assignment again, then broke the angelic laws against unauthorized healing, he himself might be the one taken by the dark reapers.
Tormented, he grappled with th
e decision.
Then, placing a hand on Hope’s forehead, he reached inside her mind and projected a sliver of a construct. One that didn’t task all of her five senses, just enough to cause the necessary effect.
He grabbed the trash can under the nightstand and held it at the edge of the bed.
Hope lurched forward and let out a horrendous retching sound.
Carefully, Nick lifted and turned her head so that she vomited only into the can. With each heave she tossed out a mixture of water and pills, some partially dissolved.
Nick turned away. Of all possible times to be experiencing the full extent of human olfactory senses, why did it have to be now? He looked back to check on her.
Not done retching yet, but nothing was coming up now. He patted her back, told her she’d be all right. She made a whining sound, then finished.
As she sat back, Nick grabbed a stack of tissues from the box and handed them to her. He sent a small healing pulse into her body from his fingertips as he brushed them across her face. Technically, he hadn’t healed her—though his hand did glow. The vomiting had. Helping her feel better wasn’t the same as healing her. Not exactly.
She looked into his face.
“Oh, my—it’s you, again, Clive.”
“I’m afraid so. Clive?”
She waved her hand. Never mind.
“How did you—?” She slapped her hand over her mouth, grabbed the trash can, and completed her sentence with a final dry heave.
“I daresay you’ve tossed the last of them,” Nick said.
She got up, looked surprised that she’d managed it with ease, then went into the bathroom. Nick heard her running water, gargling, spitting into the sink. Then she came out and stood there dabbing her face with a white towel.
“Sorry you have to keep saving me. Really, I didn’t mean to be saved.”
Nick pushed aside any thought of what Lena would say if she found out. When she found out.
“Are you going to try again?” he said.
“I really thought I was going to die, this time.”
