Shadow & Light

by Stephen Ayer

  “To me you can. And to me you will. You serve squabbling hags and men who’ve sold their manhoods to demons and worse. I serve the one who created the universe. Think on that before you speak.”

  She opened her mouth as if it to speak and then closed it. A beat passed and she mustered her courage. “There are other universes, ones outside this creation. I’ve only had a glimmer of them, to see them fully I would need to be of purer blood.”

  “The cold and empty constructs of cold and empty minds. Your insipid vision quests bore me. Tell me more about the demon that runs this town. Tell me about his witch mistress.” He punctuated his last words with some mint tea to salve his cotton mouth.

  “I don’t know of a witch, out in the country they call all sorts of women witch.” Not like this one. “I was a poor girl and they said I was special.” Peter looked into her face with merciless eyes. Poor? Or just wanted more? “That I was related to a long line of medicine women and wise men. They only wanted to help! Many of the city’s poor can’t get treatment and die because the doctors are too busy. Where’s the evil in stopping that? They’re not demons and witches, it’s just a few businessmen that fund us.”

  “And it didn’t strike you as odd to hand out medicine in the day and have desert rituals at night?”

  “No one died! It was for play. Symbolic. They said the more we did it, the more it would strengthen our blood, make us stronger.” And left out the part where it chips away at your soul, no doubt.

  Peter put down his fork and took another sip. “Someone always dies. They just don’t trust you enough to do it in front of you. Tell me about these businessmen.”

  “There’s a lot. There’s Mr. Al-Hawwah, Jean LaVaire, Dhakir from Fez, Hanif Kassab, a bald one from Marrakesh—”

  Peter held his hand up. “Stop. Tell me about Hanif.” The name popped out at him as one he had seen from last night, though he had even less knowledge about his whereabouts than he did about Rajya.

  “He’s... Hanif. I don’t know what else to say. He doesn’t come and see what he’s paying for much, but he seemed like a polite man.”

  “Tell me what he does, where he works, does he go to rituals—”

  “We all wear robes, so I don’t know. I do know he’s taken the young boys in our group to his shisha bars. There’s Ali Salama’s in the middle of Quartier Hassan, one that’s near the port and one that focuses on tourists, The Vapor Den.”

  “He takes the youth into dens of vice and corruption. And no one does anything.”

  She shook her head and fidgeted with her ring “It’s not like that. There’s far less good men in the city than him. He’s kind and gives the boys hope, keeps them from murder and thievery.”

  “That he’s overshadowed by other’s sins does nothing to diminish his own. Worse, he’s not content to keep his spiritual rot to himself but spreads it like a disease. Which bar does he headquarter at?”

  “I don’t know... hookah isn’t my thing.”

  “Doesn’t resonate with you as much as satanic sacrifice, does it?”

  She looked at the angel with anger and frustration in her eyes. “Helping people is what I do.”

  “So you’ve said.” He finished his mint tea with one final guzzle and set it down. “You don’t know a lot of things. Lucky for you, you know enough. And if you were any more important I’d think you were lying to me.”

  “I’m not.” she said defensively.

  “Before I leave, I’m going to disabuse you of certain notions. Chief among them that you’re important, descended from great mystics. You have the blood of heathens, yes, but this is no special thing. Magic has a way of exacerbating temptations of the flesh, it’s no wonder that the fruits of foul seed have blended in with the rest of the population.

  “You have more of Adam’s blood pumping through your heart than not. As such you are like to derive more meaning from skipping a stone than be some great miracle worker. I advise you continue helping those in need, but stay out of the desert. A reckoning is coming to your kin, best not be around them when their world crumbles.”

  Anger and denial flashed across her face. “You’re wrong. They told me—”

  “What they tell everyone else. Everything they say and do is false. They say you are special when you are plain. They say they heal others and bring joy when they bring death in honor of their heathen gods. They do good to do bad.”

  She fought back her tears though the angel did not miss the unmistakeable sorrowful glint in her eyes. “How can you say that? You’re one of them... they said they saw a great man coming into my life... one who would teach me, guide me.”

  Amusement an offense roiled in the angel’s being. He would humor being confused for a warlock, the girl was too naïve to mean it. “They were right, in all the wrong ways as usual. They saw my coming and took it for another omen. Rest assured, I am not one of you and you will learn a lesson I have not taught in some time...” He watched her face fall into a forlorn cast and her eyes look down, afraid of the one question that lingered in her mind.

  “What’s the lesson?” she said, her voice like a faltering candle before the gale force wind of what would befall her.

  The angel sank back into his chair and relaxed his arm around its rest. “Only a lesson in the price of sin. You are like an unwary ewe, still stumbling in the world and led by a false shepherd. For that, you have not warranted death.” Her face lit up and a breath of relief seeped from her lips. “Only punishment. I’ve got larger hounds to collar but before I leave town, I’m coming back for that ring... and the finger.”

  Her face froze in disbelief and her voice was little more than a quavering whisper. “Please don’t... I told you everything I know.”

  “And you think this absolves you of wrongdoing? I wonder what the souls of those gutted in the sand would have to say about that...”

  “I won’t forget!” her words cracked with tears and fright.

  “With a finger gone I should hope not. And don’t make a scene. Be grateful it’s not your hand or your speech.” In truth the angel wanted nothing more but to take her finger now and be done with it. But not in public. Then I’d be no better than Frank. He fished into her handbag and found her identification, memorizing her home address. “Hm. Good. You may be tempted to run or go to the police. Don’t. You’d only be making things worse for yourself.”

  He left Rajya there crying in her hands, her life changed forever. With a long step he walked to change a few more.

  ***

  Hanif Kassab. It was a stab in the dark that the proprietor might have been here, much less at any of his three locations. He could have been out of the country for all he knew. But a stab was all he had.

  He looked at the simple, wood carved sign that hung above the club. The Vapor Den it read in scrolling letters and then again above it in fine Arabic script. He walked past the hookah puffing customers out front, noting the languid and calm atmosphere. It was a dead time of day, no rush yet. If there ever was a rush at a shisha bar. He walked into the establishment proper, and immediately felt a wave of cool air wash over him.

  Natural light flooded through the windows, illuminating the contrails of smoke that wafted near the entrance. To his right, against the wall, he noticed a bartender quietly chatting with his customers. His face was young and his demeanor was relaxed. To his left, people savored their coffee atop lush cushions, the caffeine in their drinks lending their conversations a noticeable buzz and speed absent in all others.

  None of them so much as looked at him as he pressed on. The deeper he went into the bar, the darker it became. The light from the front doors diminished like the warmth of the sun in the deep sea. Slowly, the light sources became brighter and more artificial. Intersecting lines of gold and red logos bedecked the walls, illuminating the rising coils of smoke like they were pieces of the heavens.

  The crowd had thinned considerably. When Peter looked to either side, booths would either be empty or there would be a sin
gle man, staring at the lamp in the center of his table. Other times there would be two men, and the sounds of their conversation turned conspicuously low to the angel’s ears as he walked by. They regarded him with dark eyes, barely illuminated by the warm light of the lamps.

  Pressing on even further, he began to wonder how expansive did a bar like this really have to be. He walked past the booth area and came into a part of the place reserved for dinner guests. It was wide, circular and dark, nothing but tables and chairs stacked on top of them in every direction. No more than a handful of people were here and they kept to the outer edges of the room, flitting past the scant light like shadows.

  Peter furrowed his brow, noticing that the furniture had not been used in a long time. Dust collected over seats, the finishes on the tables were cracked and pitted and a certain grime had encrusted itself on the legs below. He walked around some more before deciding to speak to an employee. One came to him instead.

  “Are you lost, sir?” The man was very well dressed for an employee, though much of his face was kept in shadow. The dim amber lights on the ceiling were all that kept he and Peter from total darkness.

  Peter turned his head like a hawk, regarding the man imperiously. No, my faith is pure and my cause righteous. He adjusted to a more mortal mindset. “Perhaps. Where is Hanif Kassab?”

  The man didn’t answer at first, but when he did, his tone turned cold and stern. “Busy. Who asks?”

  An angel that does not suffer liars. Though he had little qualms with white lies. Sometimes rats required a serpent’s touch. “Mr. White, Interpol. We have reason to believe he may have connections with an international terrorist group and are chasing down all leads.”

  The man choked with surprise. “Wha-what!?”

  “So it is you.” Peter gestured to a nearby table. “Please, take a seat.”

  Both pulled some moldy chairs down and sat by a table. Hanif fidgeted while Peter kept an artificial calm. Hopefully he doesn’t ask for credentials. That, and he hoped his manner of questioning seemed official. Much had changed in the intervening centuries, he hoped interrogations had stayed much the same.

  “Now... Hanif. May I call you that?” He nodded. “Five years ago you owned three shisha establishments.” Old newspaper articles floated to the surface of Peter’s mind, providing him information just as he needed it. “All on the brink of shutting down. Your location in Medina was infamous for its lukewarm coffee and incompetent staff. This one in particular was notable...” He quoted the taxi driver who told him about the place on his way, “for its ‘rats and coffee that tasted like ash’.”

  Hanif’s heart leapt in his chest and he gulped. “You are well informed, Mr. White.”

  “And now, look at you. Eight shisha locations across Morocco, two strip clubs and a major controlling interest in three hotels. I would say business school paid for itself with results like that.”

  “Yes.”

  Peter tilted his head, trying to scrutinize Hanif’s face in the dark. “Yes? Mr. Kassab, that was a jest. We both know you didn’t go to business school. Or any sort of mentorship for that matter.” Peter noted how the man bristled in his posture and how more of his men filled up the shadows. “Family money bought what prowess could not.”

  “Is that a crime?” he said sharply.

  Peter smiled. “Only when used for crime. One can only remark at what bravery you must have had, to endure setback after setback with your businesses, and just when things couldn’t get any worse... your father dies.” Old images of what he saw the night before, an old man torn apart before a chanting mass, surfaced in his mind. As they did, he saw the dim light reflected through the beads of sweat forming on Hanif’s face. “A bloody death, too. In retrospect however, you gained by his loss. Without his organs spilling on his walls, you would have never been able to spill beans on yours.”

  Hanif slammed his fist into the table. “Enough!” Peter heard a symphony of guns clicking all at once, and strained to remember if Morocco had a firearm ban or not. Not that it mattered now. “If you’re trying to imply that I had any hand in my beloved fath-”

  Peter raised his hand, seeking to calm him down. “Hanif. Hanif. Please. You mistake the matter. I’m not trying, I’m doing, and what I have done is inferred you killed your father. Albeit by second hand, certainly not your own.” He heard advancing footsteps behind him and looked to Hanif’s dimly lit hands. “Those are the hands of little employment, just as much unsuitable for callouses as they are for bloodshed.”

  “Thank you for your visit, Agent White.” said Hanif, his voice curt and clipped.

  “But that’s beside the point,” said Peter, ignoring his host’s dismissal, “because even with all this money, you still lack the business acumen to wield it. So what accounts for the success? Hmm? Is it a miracle?”

  “I said, thank you for your visit, Agent White.”

  Peter kept calm, and felt a displacement of air as someone moved behind him. “And I say, you’re welcome. But we’re not done.”

  Hanif stood up violently. “Oh yes we are!”

  Peter sighed. “Very well. Your familial wealth comes from raw material exports. I know how valuable metals and minerals mined from the earth are to certain people. And I know those certain people are your benefactors.” Peter felt a gun barrel nudge against his back, urging him to stand-up. “Give me his name, his full name... or her address... and off I go into the sky as if I never existed.”

  And pray the witch be near her pet.

  Hanif breathed heavily and manipulated a pistol handed to him by one of his men. He pointed the weapon at the angel’s chest. “If you don’t leave town in one hour, I can make it seem as if you never existed. And you wouldn’t be floating in the sky.”

  Peter felt frisking hands pat him down for any weapons. “Now Mr. Kassab, that is an implication. I feel threatened.” The men behind him snickered.

  “He’s clean,” one of the men said, “No weapon, no badge-”

  “And no Interpol.” finished Hanif, unlocking the safety on his weapon, “Which means you’re nobody. Which one of my competitors sent you? Heh, it doesn’t matter. The important part is that no one comes looking for you.”

  Peter adopted a smirk, betrayed by his forlorn eyes. “You could have made this so much easier, Hanif. Regardless, all threats, implied and otherwise, to a Son of God demand repudiation.” Peter’s eyes flickered with unnatural light and he looked to Hanif. “The name. Give it or suffer the consequence of your falseness.”

  Hanif looked to his other men and only raised his gun higher, smiling all the while. “Can you believe this shit,” he shouted, which was followed by a chorus of chuckles before he turned back to the angel. “The answer... is no.”

  Peter exhaled deeply. “So be it.” He elbow struck the man behind him, ripping away his gun while kicking out his left knee to a loud and sickening crack. The man screamed at the sudden violence, and then screamed even louder when the angel grabbed him by the wrist and used him as a human shield. Bullets tore through his shoulder as his comrades tried to avert their aim to a less lethal spot. Before he could be riddled with any more slugs, Peter kicked him forward, sending him tumbling into the table and into the arms of Hanif.

  Hanif cursed and fired his gun into the ceiling as he tangled with his bloodied henchman. Peter ducked and rolled underneath the sporadic fire of the remaining bodyguards. He broke one of the legs off of a fallen chair and used the muzzle flashes as his navigation source. Confusion rose with the gun smoke, and he heard customers down near the bar entrance screaming and storming out the doors while Hanif’s men made things messier with their shouting and shooting in the dark.

  Lurking behind a nervous shadow, Peter struck. He slammed his chair leg on the bodyguard’s knees, whacking him so hard that cartilage ruptured through skin and cloth. Peter lunged up and grabbed the man by the neck, commandeering his weapon and fired at the shadow clad form of a guard who had gone to help Hanif.

  Th
e man crumpled instantly. Three muzzle flashes bloomed out of the darkness in reply, and Peter took himself and his guard to the ground. The guard hyperventilated, hysterical at how close his comrade’s came to reducing his chest to mulch. Peter broke his wrist and pressed his fingers against his pressure point, knocking him out.

  “Kill him! Kill him now!” screamed Hanif as he pushed the wounded form of his groaning bodyguard onto the ground with spoiled distaste. Peter sensed more of the rooms light’s turn on but reached out with his aura to squelch them. The lights dimmed to his influence as quickly as they had brightened, but they had provided enough of a glimpse for Hanif’s men to render the table he was hiding behind into shredded wood. Splinters scored Peter’s jacket and raked across his face, leaving slight, bloody lines, all under the cacophony of submachine gun fire.

  Peter grunted in pain but willed himself to move. Under the cover of semi-darkness, he slid from cover to cover. Hanif’s men left nothing to chance, spraying everything in Peter’s general direction with a maelstrom of bullets. The angel felt numerous rounds whizz by, only for them to end up as minor graze wounds across his arms and the edges of his chest. He huddled behind a ruined, smoking table and whispered a benediction of gratitude to his father for his protection.

  He thanked him some more when he realized the remaining three were all reloading at once.

  He leapt over his table and smashed the arm of his closest assailant. Time was of the essence. He jabbed the man’s throat, dropping him instantly. He grabbed his still empty weapon and used the stock as a hammer, smacking the next assailant square in the face with a loud crack. Blood fountained out of his nose in a violent spray before he too fell, clutching the scarlet ruin of his face.

  One more. Time seemed to slow and Peter became aware of that dreadful sound of a clip slamming into the magazine well. Even in the tenebrous light, he saw the look of panic and fear on the man’s face. One that was quickly overcome with pain as heavy rounds ripped through his chest and made mists of red that bloomed like roses in spring.