The four brothers hadn’t been dissuaded. With Michael at the helm, they had marched the path faithfully. Never once did Zade dream that the mantle of leader would pass to him.
A lump rose up his throat. The memory of their last conversation filled his thoughts, Michael’s voice echoing in his head.
“Don’t we deserve more than our path? To love and be loved?”
Zade shrugged. “It’s probably better we don’t have time for love. A girl would only be in danger.”
“A girl,” Michael murmured, his gaze distant. “What about a man?”
Zade’s mouth dropped open. He waited for Michael to say something––anything––but his brother was silent. “Mike, what are you saying?”
Michael took a deep breath, a tremble shaking his body. It was the first time Zade had seen him nervous. He was the strong one. The leader. Zade felt as if he were looking at a stranger. “Remember when I said I kissed someone? It was another man. He was at the club last night and instead of following the path like I should have, I went with him. I love him and… I don’t know what to do.”
For the first time in his life, Zade wanted to lie. He wanted to tell Michael everything was okay. But he couldn’t speak the words. Instead, he said something that felt a thousand times worse.
“You have to ask Father to forgive your sins.”
Michael left a few days later and never returned. Joe and Gabe insisted on looking for him, certain one of their enemies had captured him. But Zade knew better. Michael was gone and it was his fault. He drove Michael away, letting him believe his own brother wouldn’t accept him.
Zade turned from the window and his guilt. A deep breath pushed the toxic feeling farther to the recesses of his mind. Joe and Gabe watched him, waiting for their new leader to take charge.
***
Without Michael, the path was invisible. Most nights were fruitless. Zade, Gabe and Joe walked the city until blisters formed. They bribed their way into dark and dirty places, only to be kicked out for disturbing customers.
The green from the stoplight illuminated the three brothers as they stood on the street corner. Across from them was a dingy bar, the windows blacked out. Garbage filled the parking spaces in front of the building. If not for the muffled, mournful tune drifting through the open door, Zade would have thought the place was abandoned.
“We’ve been down 4th Street already,” Joe said.
Gabe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, we haven’t. We went down 4th Avenue. We haven’t been to this part of the city yet.”
“Are you blind? We checked that place last week.” Joe stabbed a finger at the crumbling bar. “We found nothing.”
“Whatever,” Gabe growled. “You just want to go back to the room and sit on your ass.”
“No. I don’t want to waste time searching places we’ve already searched.”
“We haven’t looked there!”
Joe shoved Gabe. “Yes, we have, asshole.”
Zade threw himself between the two before more blows could be exchanged. “Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He examined the bar closer. “Joe is right. We searched this area last week and found nothing.”
Gabe glared at Joe and muscles in his jaw twitched. Joe met the hostility, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Guys, come on, cool it,” Zade said softly. “I know things have been tough since Mikey left, but we can’t give up on our duty. We have to find the Fallen and the half-breeds. Bickering lets the Fallen win. Do either of you want that?” He released a breath when his brothers backed off, apologies muttered and their heads hung. Close one. Next time he might not be able to stop the fight. Fuses were short.
He clapped their shoulders, forcing his lips into a smile. “I didn’t think so. How about we call it a night.” He eyed the bar. “This place might have… okay drinks. Tomorrow, we’ll go back out and find some Fallen.”
The three entered the dimly lit establishment. It was exactly the same as their last visit, right down to the patrons. Blue-collared workers getting a drink before heading home after a long day of hard labor. Men hunched over their drinks, cigarettes leaving their lips only for a swig of beer. A few women sat among the men and seemed equally worn out. One woman’s arms were covered in tattoos. Zade examined the faded ink, imagining the once-vibrant colors. The idea always intrigued him, but he’d never do it. He didn’t believe in defacing his body, and wasn’t sure how well the ink would show up on his skin. Still, the secret wish often whispered seductively of a simple design winding around his bicep.
Gabe and Joe claimed a table in the middle of the room while Zade flagged down the bartender––a balding man with huge beer belly. He scanned the rows of half-empty bottles and beer taps with peeling labels. A cracking sound made him jump. He turned and spotted a pool table in the corner, a game in session.
Zade pulled his ID out of his wallet and presented it to the bartender. The plastic was flimsy, but the weight of its importance made it feel much heavier. He still remembered the day it arrived as if it had happened yesterday. It had been their twenty-first birthday and five years since they had left home, but instead of celebrating, they were planning their next hunt. A knock on the door had interrupted them. The surly-looking manager offered Zade a slim package containing the licenses. Zade could barely recognize the person on his. He was no longer the round-raced boy full of innocence. Instead, the picture was of a grown man, dark eyes lit with determination to fulfill his mission.
Apparently, their path required IDs.
Beers ordered, Zade joined Gabe and Joe. Guilt twisted Zade’s gut as he sat, the fourth chair painfully empty. He held up his bottle. “To Michael. May he find his path.”
Gabe and Joe clinked their bottles against his, murmuring in agreement. No more was said as they sipped their drinks.
The door groaned open as Zade was ordering another round. A gentle breeze blew in, causing shivers to run down his spine. Out of habit, he tensed, ready to call his weapon. But no foul tang filled his mouth, nor were his senses jumping to high alert. The chill was nothing more sinister than the wind sneaking inside.
“Be with you in a minute, Zephyr,” the bartender grunted, popping the tops off Zade’s refills.
“No rush, Mannie.”
The low, feminine voice drew Zade’s attention. His jaw dropped to the floor. Wow.
Skintight jeans showed long legs, holes ripped up and down the fabric hinted at smooth, creamy skin. Underneath a loose, sheer flower print hoodie was a neon-pink shirt. But it was her hair that held Zade’s attention rapt. Bright yellow tresses like a sunflower peeked out from under the grass-green locks like they were keeping a secret. Long tendrils of green fell over her face and she swept them aside to reveal sapphire eyes framed by thick black lashes. She perched herself on a barstool, dropping a patchwork bag between her buckle-covered boots. One dark eyebrow quirked up as she met Zade’s stare.
“Can I help you?”
Zade snapped his jaw shut, his teeth clicking together. “No, no. I…I didn’t realize I was staring. Forgive me.”
“Well, you’re still staring and I like to drink without an audience.” Her voice was unlike any other. Each word purred like a cat.
“Sorry,” Zade stammered and focused on the rows of alcohol. But he could still see her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. The smile on her red lips made his knees shake.
The bartender cleared his throat. “Nine bucks, buddy.”
Zade fumbled for the cash, his focus scattered. The woman kept drawing his gaze like a magnet. Zephyr, the bartender called her––a unique name for a unique-looking woman. A smile twitched her lips and he realized he was staring again. He slapped the money on the counter and hurried back to his table.
***
“So I tell the guy, ‘You get your sorry ass out of here and don’t let me catch ya digging through my dumpster again.’ Bums, I tell ya. This city is overrun with them… Are you listening, Zephyr?”
Mannie blushed. “Like people would want to read the rantings of an old geezer like me. You’re better off writing about yourself.”
Zephyr sketched a picture of her beer in the margin of the notebook. Words filled the lines, only a few pages blank. Time to get a new one and store this with the others. “I doubt anyone would want to read about me either.”
“Why not? One look tells a story. I bet there’s plenty of layers hidden under your clothing.”
“And I bet you’d love to see,” Zephyr teased.
Red exploded across Mannie’s face. He muttered about decency and how he had manners. Zephyr chuckled. This was one of the reasons she loved the small bar hidden in the bowels of the city. Honest people sat on the stools. No one pretended to be something they weren’t or told tall tales. The people were themselves, the good, the bad, and the ugly. She stepped through the door and was accepted without question––something she didn’t always get.
Even before Zephyr had colored her hair brightly, judgment hung over her like a dark cloud. Friendship with her peers was hard to forge, and as a child, the isolation had left her self-conscious. It was a cold and lonely way to grow up––if not for her father. His encouraging words taught her to hold her head high.
“Words can only hurt you if you let them, my angel.”
Zephyr’s throat tightened as her father’s voice echoed in her mind. His death had been sudden. One day, he was happy and healthy, and the next he was gone. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye; he was dead when she woke. She had been ten years old.
Forcing her thoughts from the loss of her father, Zephyr watched the man who had been staring at her when she arrived. He sat in the middle of the room with two other men. They didn’t speak; each seemed to be off in their own little world.
Now that he wasn’t gawking like a fish, she took the moment to examine him closer. A plain, dark blue shirt showed well-defined muscles. Probably compensating for what was lacking in his pants. She smirked at the thought. His face wasn’t bad, though. Well shaven, nice lips and beautiful eyes that she couldn’t tell if they were black or dark brown. His neatly trimmed hair would be cuter if he let it grow out into long dreadlocks. She loved the style and thought it was beautiful.
When he caught her staring at him, she didn’t flinch. He quickly dropped his gaze to his hands.
Odd. Most men she crossed paths with had two reactions to her: either puffing out their chest like a strutting peacock, or sneering at her like it was an insult she was looking. Excuse her for checking a guy out. She turned her attention back to her notebook, dismissing him. Irritation bolted through her when she noticed a new poem scrawled around the doodle she had been working on.
They left behind their home
In you they seek the truth
With dark eyes the path lies
Truth revealed when he speaks
Listen please
Thy breath to keep
Less you sleep eternal sleep
She shoved the notebook into her bag quickly. A wary glance around showed no one paying her any mind. What a relief. The last thing she wanted here was questions about her poetry.
All her life, her hands had refused to listen to her. They wrote even as she slept. Every morning she woke with ink on her arms, cryptic messages smudged. When conscious, the urge was stronger. Her fingers twitched to abandon whatever task she was doing. Over time, she learned to keep plenty of spare pens around and a few notebooks handy.
Cautiously, she pulled the poem back out and reread it. It wasn’t much different from the others she had written. Someone seeking the truth through her. A few times she searched for the meaning of her words. Who were her poems talking about? And what knowledge did she possess?
She traced the words ‘dark eyes’. What a weird choice of words. Why not blue or green? A color that popped and drew attention. She sketched an eye next to the poem. Well, maybe dark eyes wouldn’t be too dull. Not if paired with ebony hair and brown skin, and a clean-shaven face… She whirled around, almost toppling off the barstool. The table the man and his friends had occupied was vacant. A few bills were tucked under the empty beer bottles.
Zephyr blew out a breath. Whatever. It was probably a coincidence. She had noticed his eyes and that’s how they wound up in the poem. Ignoring the feeling of something more, she waved Mannie over. “You got a tip.”
Everyone watched Mannie as he picked the money up and counted it. No one left tips.
“How much?” someone called.
Mannie’s voice was weak. “A hundred dollars.”
Saddie, a regular who Zephyr was certain slept at the bar, cackled. “You need your eyes checked, Mannie. The water you serve here isn’t worth a penny.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Mannie glared at his customers. “Shaddup or I’ll kick you all out.”
“How much did they leave?” Zephyr pressed when he returned behind the bar.
He showed her the five twenties before quickly stowing the money in the cash register. “A hundred.”
“Must have been really drunk.”
“They only had a two rounds.”
Zephyr choked on her beer. “For real? It’s got to be a mistake. They must have thought they were leaving ones. No one is that generous.”
Mannie shrugged and resumed his work. Zephyr noticed he stayed close to the cash register, his gaze darting around suspiciously.
After three more drinks, she paid her tab and headed home. The city streets were empty, the clomp of her boots the only sound. A shiver rolled up her spine as she walked. It felt like someone was watching her. More than once she thought she saw movement in the shadows, but when she looked there was nothing. Relief washed the paranoid feeling away when she reached the bus stop. She settled next to a woman who gave her a sour look and scooted away. When the bus rolled up with a groan, she let the woman go first.
“Hey, Zephyr.” The bus driver gave her a toothy grin.
She planted her hands on her hips. “James, haven’t you quit yet?”
James laughed, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He gave the steering wheel a loving pat. “They gonna have to tear me away from my girl once I’m dead.”
A smile filled her face. “I believe it.” She paid the fare and took a seat. As the bus resumed its route, she began to write in her notebook. These words she picked herself, dictating her day as if it were a grand adventure and not the same boring routine. She attended classes at the community college for eight hours, worked at the gas station across the street after class for another five hours, and stopped by Mannie’s bar for a few drinks before finally heading to her studio apartment, housed above a beauty salon.
Home, she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and made the short trip to the living room. The teal sofa she picked up at a garage sale called to her and she willingly fell into its soft embrace. She debated watching a movie from her vast collection piled haphazardly around the TV, but decided against moving to find the remote. It was late anyway. Morning would come too soon.
A meow drew her attention as she powered on her laptop. Her silver-and-black tabby, Phoenix, jumped onto her lap, either oblivious to the laptop or not caring. Probably the latter. She adjusted the device to accommodate the cat. It would be futile to tell him to wait. Patience was not one of Phoenix’s virtues.
One hand stroking his soft fur, the other absently typing a new poem, she settled back. She never tried to read as she wrote. It always confused her. Better to get the urge out and worry about the strange words later.
“What did you do while I slaved away to earn a degree and put food in your bowl?”
Phoenix purred and tilted his head to allow her to rub
his chin.
Zephyr nodded solemnly. “Very interesting. Maybe I should write your story.” Her fingers had stopped typing, so she set the laptop aside to lavish the cat with attention. His eyes drifted shut, giving him a blissful look. “The craziest thing happened at Mannie’s tonight. Someone left a tip. A hundred dollars. No lie. Who leaves those kinds of tips? Maybe they felt sorry for us poor saps drinking our lives away. Mannie should have split it with us, right?” She laughed at herself. What bar owner did that? “The one guy, though, he was kinda cute.”
Her thoughts turned to the dark-eyed man, remembering how bashful he had looked when she caught him staring. How confusing. What sort of guy acted like that when it came to women?
A gay guy, her mind answered and she snorted.
That would be her luck. It was hard enough to find a boyfriend. The few who had shown interest in her were confused by her urge to write. They couldn’t stand her vague answers and wrote her off as a crazy bitch by the end of the first date. If a guy lasted to the second date, a poem sent him running for the hills by revealing a secret he was hiding from her. On the bright side, it alerted her to losers before she could get too attached.
Phoenix meowed and batted at her still hand.
“Sorry,” she laughed and resumed scratching. “At least I have you. You don’t think it’s weird that I write poetry and I have no idea what any of it means. Or what about the book I wrote? Benny still has to get back to me about it. He’s certain I could make some money off of it. Maybe a publisher will sign me and I’ll become a New York Times Bestseller. I can see it now. My name at the top of the list. Number one.” She sighed and let her head fall back against the couch. “That will be the day you talk, eh?”
Michael (Path of Angels Book 1) Page 7
