Shadow Train

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “Hey,” a voice said, and she turned around. It was Rick—but he wasn’t talking to her. Somehow he’d returned to his human form—by Halaliel’s magic, maybe—and he looked distinctly concerned as Johnny the Cop and Detective Zalewski approached him.

  “It’s a good thing you two are here!” Rick continued. “These Flatliner punks have been starting trouble again! I have a dozen witnesses that will tell you—”

  Johnny rested a hand on his gun. “Okay, Rick—hands where I can see them!”

  “What?” Rick said, incredulous. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Rick Banfield, you are under arrest for the murder of Emory Van Buren. Hands behind your back, kid,” Zalewski said.

  Rick seemed stunned as the cuffs clicked tight on his wrists. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Are you guys insane? Do you have any idea who my father is?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone knows who your father is,” Zalewski said. “And nobody cares.” He and Johnny escorted Rick toward the waiting cop car, while the Army of Light stood and watched. Rick was cursing and shouting all the way.

  * * *

  Even though Aimee could have teleported them straight to Azaziel’s throne room, she suggested they go by way of the tunnel and the Wheel of Illusion. She wanted time to apologize to Raphael again and to try to explain about Orias. Maggie had already told him that Orias had put some kind of spell on her and he’d told her no other explanation was necessary, but she felt she had to say more. She was sure he had so many unanswered questions.

  When Nass heard that Raphael was going with her, he’d insisted on going too, and Dalton told them there was no way she was staying behind. So the four of them had set out with flashlights and backpacks full of water bottles and snacks, walking deep into the tunnel. When they stopped for a moment to take a break and Nass and Dalton were busy looking at the strange carvings on the tunnel walls, Aimee took Raphael’s hand and led him a little away from them. She could see in the dim glow of their flashlights that he was frowning.

  “Raphael,” she ventured softly. She’d thought a lot about what she wanted to say. He looked down at her. “I’ll never be able to make it up to you—what happened with Orias,” she said. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, and she was afraid he was going to turn her down. And then he said, his voice catching slightly, “There’s just one thing I need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Did you and Orias—I mean—how far did it go, exactly?”

  She thought he was holding his breath, as if he dreaded to hear her answer and she hastened to reassure him. “No—oh, no,” she said. “It never went beyond kissing. He was very respectful about that. He didn’t try—you know—anything like that.”

  “Good. I don’t know if I—” but he didn’t finish the thought. He grabbed her and pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “I just want to forget all about that, once we get this over with,” he said. “The important thing is we’re together again. I love you.” He grinned. “And yes—I’ll definitely let you spend the rest of your life making it up to me.”

  She laughed, relieved. “Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s get this done.” She waved Nass and Dalton over and they continued their trek.

  It was amazing, Aimee thought, how different the tunnels felt now that the ring was in the church tower and the staircase to Heaven had been reopened. There didn’t seem to be any murderous monsters waiting in the shadows, and the frightening, oppressive feeling that the tunnels always held seemed to have been swept away.

  When they reached the center of the Wheel, Aimee instructed them to all hold hands. “Here we go,” she told them, and they slipped.

  * * *

  Orias was still in the cage. His shirt hung in tatters around his torso, and lash marks from the whippings he’d received oozed blood down his back. He could still see the hundreds of Irin assembled there, their dark, expressionless faces gazing out from the shadowy ring of columns surrounding him. The war was over, and somehow the fallen angels had lost. Azaziel had returned with what was left of his Irin soldiers and wasted no time in taking his fury out on Orias. Somewhere close but unseen, drummers pounded out a solemn beat on a pair of massive kettledrums. The black, flittering shapes of disembodied demons flittered around his head, looking at some moments like bats, at other moments like circling vultures. They cackled and whispered taunts in Orias’s ears, and occasionally paused to take small, painful bites from his flesh.

  He was thankful that Aimee would never see him like this, but his gratitude didn’t last long. She materialized in the throne room to stand right before the astonished Azaziel. Dalton, Nass—and Raphael—were with her.

  “Let him go!” Aimee ordered, looking defiantly up at Azaziel. Slowly he descended his throne.

  “Why should I?” he snarled.

  She held Halaliel’s scroll out to him. “He has received a celestial pardon,” she said. “You lose! Read it and weep.”

  Azaziel took it from her, broke the seal, and perused the document. And then he laughed. “He’ll never go for it,” he said.

  “Betcha anything he will,” she retorted. She took the scroll back and went to the cage.

  “Aimee, what’s going on?” asked Orias. She held the scroll out to him.

  “It’s true,” she said. “I talked to Halaliel and—”

  “And she offered to sacrifice her soul for yours,” Raphael broke in. “Which is a lot more than you deserve.”

  He looked at Raphael. “You’re right about that,” he agreed, and then he took the scroll and studied it. “Why would you do this, Aimee?” he asked. “After the way I used you—manipulated you.”

  “Yeah,” Raphael said bitterly. “It was all about getting the ring.”

  “At first,” Orias agreed. “But then I fell in love with her—and I thought, in time, I could make her love me.”

  “Well, it didn’t work,” said Raph. “Just so you know—it’s me she loves, and after this, I’m going to do everything in my power to see that she never gets near you again.”

  Aimee took Raphael’s hand, quieting him. “You don’t have to worry,” she told him. “I do love you—only you—and that’s not going to change.” She turned to Orias. “But even though you thought you were just using me, Orias, you were good to me. You gave me a safe haven when I needed to get away from my father. You taught me I could slip. You helped me to be strong. For that I’ll always be grateful.”

  Orias held up the scroll again, his eyes filled with deep sorrow. “And . . . this is for real?”

  “It’s for real,” she said. “But there are conditions. You have to agree that this is what you want and you have to be truly sorry for all the bad things you’ve done. And somehow, whenever you can, you have to find a way to try to make it right—restitution. That’s what the scroll says. You have to sign the pardon—and then you’ll be mortal. You’ll live a normal human life span, you’ll get old and you’ll die, just like the rest of us. And you won’t have any more super powers. You’ll be a regular guy. But your half soul will be whole, and you’ll have a right to heaven, just like all humans.”

  He read the scroll again. “I’ll sign it in blood, if that’s what it takes,” he said.

  “We can make that happen!” said Azaziel, reaching out his taloned hand and slashing Orias’s forearm with a claw. “If you’re sure that’s what you want. Don’t you realize you’ll be giving up a nearly immortal lifetime? Thousands of years of partying and pleasure. Don’t be stupid. Don’t sign it, and I’ll let you go. You can return to your almost unending life of debauchery. Or perhaps we could work together. With your father gone, I could use someone with your skills. Think of the glory. Come on, what do you say?”

  Orias looked at him with contempt. “
I say go to hell.” And he dipped one finger in the blood oozing from his wound and with it signed the document and gave it to Azaziel. As soon as the Irin touched it, it vanished in a plume of sparkling purple smoke. Instantly, the cage door sprang open.

  Aimee grabbed his hand and Raphael, still holding her other hand, grabbed Dalton, who grabbed Nass. “Let’s go,” she said, and they slipped back to the tunnel mound in Middleburg. The last thing they heard was Azaziel’s thunderous roar of rage.

  * * *

  When they’d finished materializing back in their own normal world, Nass laughed. “Wow!” he said. “We’ve literally been to hell and back. That was wild.”

  “Yeah,” Dalton said. “You did it, Aimee. Let’s go home.”

  They all started walking away, except Orias. When Aimee looked back, she was surprised to see that all his wounds were healed—but his eyes still looked tortured.

  “Aimee, wait,” said Orias and he sounded sincere, Aimee thought. Not arrogant, like he usually did. “I promised restitution, and I want to start with you. How can I make you know how truly sorry I am for what I did to you? I did love you—I still do—and I’ve lost you. I think that’s the worst punishment I’ll ever have. I will never feel anything more painful than losing you, but letting you go—I guess that’s my first step at making things right. I can never thank you enough for standing by me.”

  She smiled. “Just go home—and have a good life,” she said.

  “Uh . . . there’s just one small problem with that,” said Nass, and they all looked at him. “His house blew up. It was the only one that wasn’t restored after the battle. He’s got nowhere to go.”

  After a moment of silence, Dalton spoke up. “Oh . . . all right,” she said. “My grandma would skin me alive if I didn’t offer him shelter. We’ve always got room for one more. Come on, Orias—but be prepared. She’s a real stickler for that restitution thing. She’ll be on your case twenty-four seven.”

  They all laughed and walked down the tracks together.

  Chapter 32

  Four days later, Maggie was walking up to Hilltop Haven with Aimee. Aimee and her mom had been staying at Maggie’s house, and it was such a beautiful day, they’d decided to walk home from Emory’s funeral instead of catching a ride with the guys in the Beetmobile. The Flatliners and their families had all attended and even the Toppers were there to honor his memory. Myka and Raphael had given the eulogy, and Dalton had sung “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as a special tribute.

  “Hey, Aimes, you want to hang out?” Maggie asked. “You can come with me to Bran’s if you like. I want to see how he’s doing, and he wanted to hear about the funeral.”

  “Can’t,” Aimee answered. “Family meeting. My mom’s had the divorce papers drawn up. I don’t want to miss that.”

  They both laughed, and when Maggie turned up the walkway that led to Bran’s door, they parted ways. Maggie’s old crew had just come out of Bran’s house, and they were chattering about how cute he was when they caught sight of her. They all averted their eyes, and Lisa Marie bumped Maggie with her shoulder as she walked by. As they passed, Maggie could hear them mocking her.

  “Nice black eye.”

  “I know, right? Ugly much?”

  “And now she’s hanging out with Aimee?”

  “Freaks. They’re two peas in the same loser pod.”

  Maggie watched them walk away, feeling a kaleidoscope of emotions exploding through her like starbursts, from hurt, to outrage, to sadness—since she knew that only a few months ago, she had put Aimee through the same torture. But to her surprise, those feelings evaporated and she giggled, then chuckled—and then laughed out loud. Because she now understood: some day, all those girls would be outcasts, and someone else would make them feel like crap. The Wheel of Karma, she thought. And it would serve them right. Maybe it was the only way they could learn.

  Bran’s mother greeted Maggie at the door with a smile and directed her up the stairs to Bran’s room. He was lying in bed watching ESPN, tossing a football up in the air and catching it, clearly restless in his current, injured state. The room was filled with a half dozen Mylar balloons with messages like hang in there and get well soon written on them in bright, shiny letters.

  “Hey,” Maggie said awkwardly, and she realized suddenly that she’d never had a one-on-one conversation with Bran. To her, he’d always been nothing but Rick’s best friend, and he was her friend only by extension. Most of the time, they’d barely looked at one another. But they looked at each other now, as Bran pointed to a chair near the bed, gesturing for her to sit. They really looked.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Sad,” she said. “You know. But everyone was there and Dalton sang. It was nice. Emory would have liked it.”

  “Yeah.”

  As Maggie sat down, she took a big Toblerone chocolate bar out of her purse. “Here,” she said. “I didn’t know what to get someone who’s been . . . you know . . .”

  “Shot in a gang fight?” Bran finished in his charming Southern drawl. “I believe a do-rag and a bullet-proof vest are the traditional gifts, but chocolate always works for me. Wanna split it?”

  She nodded. Bran unwrapped the bar and held one end of it out to her. Their hands touched briefly as they broke it apart. As they each took a bite, his eyes caught hers. She was amazed at how blue they were, and when she looked into them, she was convinced that Bran was exactly what he seemed to be: a kind, good, caring, honest, funny guy. His aura was blue, too—a rich, unwavering cobalt that was as constant and lovely as a clear summer sky. She realized he was staring as much as she was, and self-consciously she touched her swollen eye.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I look like a monster right now.”

  “No, you don’t,” he told her, shaking his head. “You look amazing.”

  His words were so rich with meaning, and the connection between them was sudden and so deep that for an instant, Maggie felt breathless.

  “Oh, I’m so sure,” she said, and the tension that mounted within her became a quivering in her chest, and the quivering became laugher. Soon, Maggie and Bran were cracking up together, like a couple of best friends.

  * * *

  Aimee walked into her father’s study with her mom, who was dressed in a lovely beige suit, her hair beautifully coiffed and her nails freshly manicured. Unlike Emily Banfield, who seemed perfectly calm, Aimee felt tension building within her. Her father was always like a volcano on the verge of erupting, and since Rick had been arrested, it was worse. The scandal of Jack’s bigamy had spread all over town, and it was tainting his so-called clout. Savana Kain had filed papers to have their marriage annulled on the same day that Aimee’s mom had filed for divorce. Emily had hired the best attorney in the state, and Aimee had overheard her telling Violet Anderson that she wasn’t going to settle for less than half of everything Jack had.

  “And believe me,” she’d confided to Maggie’s mom. “I have my own ideas about what to do with his property and companies, once I’ve taken over my half of them—especially when it comes to the Flats. He won’t be bulldozing people’s homes on my watch.”

  Things weren’t going any better for Jack in his bid to win custody of Raphael’s little brother. Savana was now denying that he was the father, and despite his repeated requests, she refused to submit to a paternity test.

  But even in the midst of this major life implosion, the thing that seemed to gall Jack Banfield the most was that Aimee and Raphael were seeing each other again, and no matter what he said or how he threatened her, she refused to stop.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said to Emily when he opened the door. “I know that if we both behave like civilized people we can work all this out.” His voice was sickly sweet, even smarmy, and Aimee hoped her mother knew better than to trust him.

  “There’s not
hing to work out, Jack—except the divorce settlement,” Emily told him as she handed him the papers. “I know you’ve already been served by a disinterested party, but I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of giving the papers to you myself. My attorney says it’ll go better for everyone if we can come to some kind of agreement before we go to court.”

  His attitude changed. “Yeah, well—we’ll see about that. There’s nothing I can do for Rick, it seems, but I want my daughter to come back home.”

  “That’s not happening,” said Aimee.

  “No way,” said Emily.

  He ignored his wife and turned to Aimee. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you miss your room? I’ll double your allowance and we’ll start shopping for a car for you—”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  So he got tough with her. “Look—you either come back home right now, or I will personally take you back to Mountain High Academy and instruct them to lock you in and throw away the key.”

  Aimee shook her head sadly. “What is your problem, Dad? Why do you think you have to control everything?”

  “You are my daughter, Aimee—and you will not throw your life away by spending it with losers,” he told her. “You will live up to your potential, and you will appreciate the sacrifices I’ve made for you and for this family.”

  “What family?” Aimee said calmly. “Your family is gone—because of you.”

  Her father leaned close to her, his face white with anger. “You be very careful, young lady.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” she said gently. “That just doesn’t work anymore.”

  Jack snorted. “Well, we’ll see about that,” he scoffed.