Letting the sound sweep him to a dream—no, a memory—of beauty, and bliss, and brilliant light, he desperately searched within his mind for the meaning of this feeling. The origin of that sound. The memory itself.
But it was impossible to dwell on anything less than the divine music that called to his soul so intensely.
He had to find the instrument making that sound.
The song was a simple one, happy and plain, but Laphelle thought it was the most beautiful, intoxicating thing he'd ever heard, pulling at him harder than any desire he had ever felt before. It took his spirit on a journey, lifting him higher with the notes, swooping through the skies in a vibrant vibrato. Without thinking about where the music was coming from (it could have been miles away with his excellent hearing) he followed it.
The tall, antique lampposts alongside Mannsway lit his way, and he cracked a side smile, lost in his beautiful dream. He crossed the empty bridge over the quiet, starlit waters of the river.
…Destiny...
The sound was getting clearer. He felt a cold chill down his spine and warm cuddling comfort around his heart. The music evoked both complete joy and sheer terror within him. As the volume increased with each nearing step, his heart beat faster and all sense left him.
He could hear only the music.
It taunted his mind, pleading with him to remember. He tried, oh he tried, but he could not remember. He walked, past the back gate enclosing the grand gardens of Max's mansion to his left, following the road and the music. The adjacent path leading to Remington Auditorium was a step away to his right, and an electric charge went through him as he passed it by. But he ignored the feeling and kept his eyes forward.
What was making that music? His mission's importance grew with each passing second and soon he was no longer smiling but in a state of panic. He had to find it, had to.
While any human would have been completely exhausted after walking so briskly across the entire city, Laphelle's strength actually grew with each blessed note of the violin. He passed Country Club houses to his left and right, his bare feet numbed from the music. Looking everywhere for the origin of the sound, he noticed that the farther he went, the poorer the houses became. He turned left, walked a street, and turned right on another. Without the sun to soften their harsh appearances, the shabby houses around him looked as if they stood in a shadow of the apocalypse. Roofs were torn, yards unkempt. Dirty.
Then he reached the humble, little home at the farthest end of Edenton. It sat proudly atop the hill, looking outcast from the other houses that seemed to hug the valley.
It's coming from that house.
In a nervous state of awe, he walked up the narrow sidewalk that led to the abode's brown front door. The place had a comfortable, earthy feel to it. There were a couple young oak trees in the front yard. The clean windowpanes were painted a deep, rich brown, the view through the glass obscured by the lime green shield of stiff, old drapes.
Laphelle's hands trembled, itching to touch the instrument whose song grew in soulful power and magnitude with each awestricken step. He reached the porch, its low roof only inches above his head. Potted aeoniums hung around him, the blue-green rosettes seeming to silently stare as he approached. He would have broken each and every pot, just to be a wretch, if it weren't for the music coaxing his bestial soul. His heart jumped when he saw that the front door was ajar. Leaning closer to the crack, the light from within drew a slender line of illumination down the middle of his face, dividing it. He held his breath, pushed the door open, and quietly went inside.
The house was cluttered with strange items as different from each other as they were beautiful. On one shelf sat colorful masks from Africa, on the wall a green banner expressing a gold-lettered quote in Gaelic. Sparkling trinkets and glass music boxes lay on rich wooden desks, which were covered in used magazines and newspapers. Laphelle's curious eyes read some of the names of the books that graced bookshelf after bookshelf: The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Moby Dick, The Grapes of Wrath. Aside from the classics were great hardback volumes of medical dictionaries, manuscripts on travel, paperback thrillers, and art books. A curvy lamp lit up the hallway, shining through the yellow beaded jewels hanging off its faded gold shade. Following the hall, Laphelle saw another light coming from a room to his right. The musical pull engulfed him totally. The musician was in there.
Laphelle could have easily stayed in that hallway forever, happily lost in his frightening search for missing memories, if not for the startling interruption at his feet.
Jolting him from the heavenly sound, the frantic cries of an alarmed dachshund rang from below.
He looked down in horror.
The music stopped.
Jumping as high as its elongated, squat body would allow, the weenie dog yelped and cried warning that an intruder had entered the house. Laphelle was very disappointingly brought back to reality. He would now have to kill everyone present. But pity that music had to stop.
Oh, well. At least now I'll get to frighten the sense out of someone.
He grinned at the thought and stepped in the doorway, only to come face to face with the barrel of a pistol.
The angel halted in abrupt surprise. Standing almost a foot shorter than he, a middle-aged man of slightly heavy stature held the weapon. He had a head of reddish-brown hair, which fell shaggy over his ears. His nose was slightly lumpy, probably from having been broken before. The most befuddled look lit his round face. Laphelle mirrored his shocked expression, equally surprised.
Staring into the angel's icy eyes that were transfixed on the dark pistol barrel, the man held the gun steady in one hand. The incessant yapping from the dog was the only sound in the house. The man's alert blue-green eyes rotated to Laphelle's feathery black wings. He stopped to stare at them for a moment. Then he looked back into the intruder's eyes, and a deep-dimpled smile eased its way onto his face. He lowered the gun.
"I'm dreaming!" he said, walking to the dinner table behind him. "And it felt so real, too. I can't even remember going to sleep this time."
Laphelle let his wings relax, but his face shifted into an expression of pure bewilderment. The man had his back to him, and Laphelle couldn't clearly see what he was placing in a black container. After gathering some papers and a couple of dirty cups along with his gun, the man took the violin in his right hand and went into the adjacent kitchen. He flipped on the light and tidied up a bit. By then, the dog was nearly hoarse from barking.
"Hermes, will you shut up?" the man shouted from the kitchen. "You'll wake me up! I'm sure that if I fell asleep without realizing it, I was really tired." Bark, bark, bark. "Hermes!"
Hermes stopped. He frantically sniffed the angel's bare feet with a cold, wet nose, and licked them. Laphelle looked down at the little dog, its slick tongue tickling madly, but he didn't move. The man walked up to him, and Laphelle shifted his eyes upward from one anomaly to the next.
"Sorry about Hermes," said the man, picking up the canine. It licked its owner's face, wiggling. "He wouldn't hurt a damn thing. He's just the messenger, like the god Hermes, you know?" Laphelle's face went blank. "And I know what you're thinking, but it's not herpes; it's Hermes." His voice was pleasant. Easygoing. "It is really weird that I'm still asleep. Usually that barking would have woken me up. And it feels so real too. Excuse me—"
He walked toward Laphelle and brushed his side as he went around him to the front door. The angel stared into the dining room, wondering what in the universe was going on. Why hadn't he killed this man yet? Surely the human was mentally ill. He showed absolutely no shred of fear. Laphelle was not used to people who were not afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. Even the other angels.
"Come outside, I have to let the dog out," the man said. "What did you say your name was?"
Laphelle walked out to the porch beside him and said, "I didn't tell you my name, human."
"Oh! Right. Well, I'm Jack Chester. Nice to meet you."
He held o
ut his hand. The angel looked at it and a frown crossed his face.
"What," he said sharply, "are you doing, you wingless lout?"
"Gosh, just trying to make friends."
Friends? That was too much. It was one thing not to be afraid of him, but it was completely insane to try and be his friend. Did this human honestly not know what stood before him?
Jack lowered his hand. His eyes fell on the rogue's bare feet. He grinned and said:
"Hey, you don't wear shoes! I don't either, when I can help it. I hate shoes. They don't let you feel free enough."
"You obviously don't know who I am," Laphelle said.
"Nope." Jack stuck his hands in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans. "Should I?"
He gave a smile. Challenge was written all over his face.
Laphelle gave a quick, angry huff. He had forgotten why he was there. Hermes was at his feet once more, licking them. The other angels of darkness would laugh themselves into a riot if they saw him now. He couldn't take the shame. He reached over his shoulder and pulled out his evil sword.
Hermes whined and ran back into the house. Laphelle held the weapon, his arm straight and tense down at his side. The tip of the blade touched the material of Jack's white T-shirt, above his heart. Though Laphelle was angry, the black snake around the grip did not awake from its slumber, nor did his scars even lightly pound with his blood.
"If you die in dreams," Jack asked, yawning, "does that mean you die in real life? I've always wondered that, like if you fall off a cliff and actually hit bottom, bam, are you dead when you wake up?" His brow creased. "I guess if you were dead you wouldn't wake up. But you know what I mean?"
The angel's mouth fell slightly open. Never in his existence had anyone treated him this way. He was numb. He was shocked. He was insulted. But most of all, he was amazed. And because he honored anything that could amaze him—and Jack's apparent lack of fear, insane or not, certainly did that—he sheathed his sword and started to walk away.
Maybe I'm the one who's dreaming.
"See you around, no name," Jack called from the doorway.
At a loss for words, Laphelle jumped into the air and unfurled his wings. He silently landed atop the roof and stared down at the man.
"Wow," said Jack. "Maybe it was the five-year-old chocolate I ate earlier." Then, right as Laphelle shook his head and took flight, Jack laughed and muttered, "Wake up, man. Wake up."
***
Angie
The alleyway between Angie's apartments was dark and rank. Black beetles crowded around a sewage leak and roaches swarmed over piles of litter, drawn like little magnets to the sour stench of rotted food. But that was to be expected. Such efficiency homes were located in the poorest part of downtown Edenton.
Angie wrapped her arms around herself in a cold hug as she paced up and down the alley waiting for Bret. And the alcohol. She had downed her last bit of rum earlier that evening and the healthy buzz it gave her was now quickly fading away. It had been months since she was sober. And it was all due to Bret.
She pulled back her oily, blonde hair into a ponytail and pulled an envelope out of her back pocket. Bret's name was written in cursive on the front. Inside the envelope was a poem she had written. His poem. Angie was a writer. She took great pride in the words that came from her soul. She had never written anything for anyone other than herself, so this was a big step for her. She held the poem to her heart, closing her eyes.
Bret loved her, she was sure.
The twenty-five-year-old man had opened the young teenage girl to the adult world, bringing her alcoholic beverages to her heart's delight. He let her try a little weed, but she'd taken such a liking to spirits that he'd stopped sharing the smokes. Instead, he gave her nights of wonderful, pain-numbing escape in his thin, tattooed arms as he poured streams of numbing liquid down her throat. Straight rum was her favorite. It was an icy river when it hit her lips but once it reached her chest, her insides became a warm furnace as the chemicals did their dark magic.
Of course, she had to pay him.
It wasn't fair to make him pay for the drink. She'd been able to afford it until today and began to wonder what Bret was going to say when she told him what happened... She'd worked part time at a grocery store, but when she showed up drunk for the third day in a row, her excuse of taking loopy cold medicines didn't fly. Her boss could smell the truth on her breath. After she ran into a pyramid of soup cans, he'd yelled at her in front of everyone in the store, calling her a drunkard among other insults before he finally fired her. She didn't understand—why did he fire her when she was only acting like an adult? Wasn't it funny to look intoxicated? It sure was funny to be drunk. It was like being the only living person in a world of deadheads. Adults drank. She saw it in movies, read it in books, and beheld it in life. It was the thing to do. And the stuff tasted so good.
Bret even promised to introduce her to the world of drugs next, a magical escape into an existence where all troubles were lifted. He'd said something about buying some heroine once he'd sold the remainder of his pot.
The steady, grownup footsteps of her boyfriend approached her. Looking around to make sure her meddling mother hadn't followed her, she held her envelope tighter, the tips of her fingers numbed by the alcohol she'd consumed. Her parents had found out about her coming of age and had stoutly protested, grounding her constantly. But Angie didn't care. The world just didn't understand. But tonight that would all change. She was out of cash. Out of patience. She would ask Bret if she could move in with him. She was sure he would say yes. He had to. He loved her.
A skeleton of a man entered the alleyway.
Angie's heart leapt for joy at the blurry sight of her savior. Smoothing the wrinkles out of her dirty clothes and combing her thin, shaking fingers through her slick hair, she walked up to him, trying not to wobble, crunching cockroaches under her sneakers. Bret wore a tattered leather jacket, and his jeans were dirty like Angie's. His bloodshot eyes were sunken in; dark, ecliptic circles framed the orbs. While his unshaven face and sickly body may have appeared freakish to the rest of the world, to Angie he was beautiful.
"Hey," she said, her voice coming out younger than she would've liked.
"What's up, Angie?" he replied, grinning yellow teeth.
"I umm—I have something for you." She held the envelope behind her back.
"Oh, yeah? What is it, kid? I might have something for you too."
Angie loved it when he teased her. She handed him the envelope.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Just open it."
He lifted his brows, giving a coy smile. "Okay."
She could smell the strong odor of cheap beer on his breath. It made her want to kiss him simply to get the taste off of his tongue. He opened the envelope and read the poem. While her spelling was a bit off, her words were fantastic. They captured and enthralled the reader. His ego swelled with each compliment. So, she loved him. Good.
"This is really great, Angie."
"Yeah?" Her eyes lit up. "Do you think so? I've got a lot more things I've written—all in my room. There's several notebooks. I could show you sometime!"
"Yeah, that's nice, Angie. I'd like to see it. But you said in the poem you wanna live with me."
"Yeah."
"Well, actually, that's what I wanted to see you about."
The girl's hopes rose to the moon. It was all happening just as she dreamed. She couldn't hold back. Throwing her arms around his neck, she smiled the smile of a slave set free and thanked him over and over. She was a very lovable drunk.
"Wait just a sec, kid," he laughed. "Here's the plan." She released him. "I got kicked out of my apartment." The girl gasped. "Stupid management. You know how it goes. They don't understand shit."
He went on for a while, explaining, defending himself with what sounded like reasonable excuses. Then he reached behind his neck and scratched his shoulder, his eyes darting back and forth, not meeting hers.
"I, uh,
also quit my job at the warehouse. And so I gotta move. But the thing is, I got no money. And you told me you got a bunch saved up so I was thinkin'—that you and I could get our own place!" Big smile. "There's some houses in the north side of town that are real cheap. And if that doesn't work, we could move out of Edenton. But anyways, I'm gonna need your help at least until I get back on my feet, sweetheart."
Angie felt her heart turn into a heavy ball of lead.
"But, Bret, I have no money. I gave it to you to buy the drinks and stuff. I—I lost my job today."
"Oh." His face suddenly went colder than she had ever seen before.
"But," she struggled, fighting the fear that his coolness instilled, "together, you and I can make it! I'm sure we can! I love you, and, and you love me."
She went to hug him once more. But he pushed her away. Violently.
Stunned, Angie fell from her cloud, suddenly feeling very sober.
"But," she began, "I thought—"
"I trusted you," he hissed, his voice like an arctic breeze.
It was like he was a completely different being than the man who had spoken seconds ago. Like the very spirit of anger had possessed him, the soul of malice now swimming around inside his physical shell. Even his eyes had changed. They were now dark. Narrow. Selfish.
"I don't understand!" Angie cried. Her buzz was definitely wearing off. "This is just one of your Manic attacks. Your depression! You—"
"Ahh, SHIT! I can't believe I trusted a stupid child like you! You have no money?"
Her eyes welled up with tears. He had never called her such a name before.
"I don't understand, Bret!" She panicked.
"Of course you don't! You're completely worthless." Utterly aghast, Angie brought up her hand and covered her mouth. "Yeah, that's right. You're worthless. You know? I've had it with people. I can't rely on ANYONE!"
"But, Bret—"
"What have you ever done for me? HUH? NOTHING!" Her heart beat at her aching chest. "You hear me? You and I are through!" He turned from her. "I knew I shoulda taken Tina up on her offer."
"Who's—"
"Damn it! Then I would've had a place to go!"
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 7
