Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  A strange, restless energy had filled Mike. "What a crazy woman. She doesn't seem to understand that I wasn't hers to begin with or remember that was what was supposed to happen, what she'd been paid to do. Crazy."

  "I disagree," Angel had said firmly. And she’d folded up the letter to keep.

  Catherine had sent a small gift for Christmas and another card and letter of congratulation when he’d made the college team. Both had ended with her contact information.

  Twice he'd spotted her in crowds at his ballgames, but she'd at least had the decency not to try to mother him in public. He supposed he was grateful to her for that.

  Her last letter had also asked him to call her "if he or Angel ever needed help." He'd crumpled that one up before Angel saw it, certain he would never need Catherine Berringer's or her stupid Ultraviolet organization's help. It rankled to find himself here now.

  The receptionist stopped in front of a purple door, but before she could knock, Catherine Berringer flung it open. "Michael! Come in, come in."

  Her brittle welcome made him want to run in the opposite direction. He could feel the pressure of her expectations like a twenty pound barbell on his chest.

  But, unfortunately, she’d saved their butts last night, so he had to be polite.

  Catherine was petite enough to make him feel tall, and she wore her blonde hair up in some kind of twist. She looked nothing like him. Her eyes were powder blue.

  They also shimmered with tears.

  Mike’s stomach hollowed out. Don't cry. He hated it when people cried.

  "I’m sorry,” she apologized. “It’s just—it was on the news that a boy was killed at the amusement park last night. They showed bullet holes in the entrance to the Threshing Machine. I hadn’t realized just how close—how close everything was.” Her lips trembled. She might as well have said, ‘How close I came to losing my son.’

  But he wasn’t her son.

  Shut up. If pretending to be your long-lost mother makes her help you, then let her. Be charming. Make her feel good.

  But the lie stuck. Instead what came out of his mouth was, "You're not my mother."

  She put her hand to her throat, stricken. Mike felt as if he'd just kicked a kitten. "I'm sorry, but I just don’t feel that way about you."

  Catherine pulled herself back together, but she still looked fragile. One of the things he loved about Angel was her resilience.

  Catherine spoke carefully, as if he were a grenade that sound waves could set off. "I may not have been there for your growing up years, but I am your mother. A day hasn't passed since I let them take you away from me that I haven't thought about you, wondered about you, worried about you."

  Mike shrugged. That might be true, but it didn’t change his reality. She was still a stranger.

  Catherine cocked her head. "You seem very sure that I'm not your mother, but answer me this: who is your mother, if not me?"

  The obvious answer was Betty Vallant, but her name stuck in Mike's craw. Betty had been self-centered and cold, her rare maternal gestures a show for someone else—and he'd known she was a fake when he picked her out of all the other applicants at age six. He’d deliberately chosen fake parents so that he wouldn’t forget that the new home the scientists had placed him in wasn’t real. So that he wouldn’t be lulled into forgetting to hide his intelligence.

  "I don't have one," he told Catherine. Angel's mother fussed over him sometimes, but she was, at heart, Angel's mother and not his. Angel had picked two actors, who had somehow metamorphosed into true parents who loved her and chose her well-being over their employers’ wishes.

  "No, I guess you don't," Catherine said sadly. "But you could have one if you wanted to. You could let me into your life." She held her breath.

  Mike closed his eyes to shut out the sight of her utter vulnerability. How could she open herself to rejection like that?

  He wanted to be brutal, to tell her off once and for all so she would stop bothering him, stop making him feel this terrible sense of panic. "I'll think about it," he said at last.

  Even that lame answer made her tear up again. If he'd made the slightest move, she probably would have hugged him. Mike didn't make it.

  He glanced longingly at the door, but he’d come here for a reason. “You want my trust? Stop hiding things from us. We know you know more than you’re telling.”

  Her lips firmed, and she looked more capable of running a foundation. This is how she appears to everyone else. I’m the crack in her armour.

  “I can’t betray client confidentiality,” she said.

  “So Devon Seawest is your client?”

  She inclined her head in assent.

  “Does Devon know that—that we’re connected? You and I?” Mike asked.

  A frown wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t believe so.”

  Yeah, he bet Devon wouldn’t have tried the amusement park stunt if she’d known Catherine thought of him as a son. He could expose Devon right now and crack Catherine’s files right open—but Angel had asked him not to. Mike still didn’t get why, but he wasn’t about to put a new wedge between them. He’d have to do this the hard way.

  “What about the other one?” he asked, taking a stab in the dark. “Is he your client, too?”

  She froze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mike leaned against the door. “Yes, you do. You worked with Dr. Frank—“ When she opened her mouth to object, he waved her off. “Fine, infiltrated his organization. You know that the Renaissance children came in pairs. Michelangelo. Leonardo da Vinci. Breeding pairs. If Angel has a clone, then so do I.” He wondered if New York had made the same mistake the scientists had made with Leona and Vincent: raising them too closely together so that they thought of each other as brother and sister instead of romantically.

  Kissing Mike had freaked Devon out

  Catherine looked down at her hands. When she lifted her head again, her gaze was troubled. “I agreed to Devon’s plan in part because I wanted to keep you out of this mess, but you won’t let it go, will you? Angel neither—it’s not in your natures. So, to answer your question: No, Gabriel Braive is not my client.”

  Gabriel Braive, a play on his own name, not a Renaissance name. Michael and Gabriel were both archangels. Vallant/valiant, Braive/Brave.

  Catherine bit her lip. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m afraid Gabriel was attacked by Nations Against ten days ago and is in a coma. The doctors aren’t sure if he’ll ever wake.”

  Mike jolted upright, his breath catching as if he’d been punched. The fate of a clone he’d never met registered only dimly. But now, suddenly, they had Devon’s motivation. Her best-friend-slash-brother fellow clone lay at death’s door.

  He didn’t know what her plan was, or why she’d gone to such lengths to get a golden ticket, but he knew in his gut she was out for revenge.

  Chapter Seven

  ANGEL

  While a flamboyant woman with a spiked halo of black-streaked orange hair and golden irises blathered on about NextStep, I cruised the back edges of the Golden Ticket Event orientation hunting for Devon. Frustration smoldered in my gut. Devon had to be here somewhere, but I couldn’t spot her in the thick crowd. In addition to five hundred ticket holders seated in the auditorium, the media was crawling all over the theatre.

  The Tiger Lady’s fluttering silks and enthusiasm grated on my nerves. I wanted to find Devon and get out of here, back to Mike.

  Since Devon didn’t know about the second ticket and wouldn’t be expecting to see me here, my plan was fairly simple: walk up behind her, hit her with a Knockout patch, then help my ‘sick sister’ outside. As for what exactly I would do to my clone afterward… that part of my plan remained a little vague. I was confident I’d come up with something.

  A round of applause caught me by surprise. Crap, the presentation had ended. Seconds later everyone stood. Since I wasn’t a giraffe, it abruptly became much harder to see. I was running out of time.

&nbs
p; My spirits perked up when the lady speaker ordered us to divide into two streams, one for blank golden tickets and one for By Invitation. Tiger Lady led the By Invitations, while the Blanks lined up behind a skirt-and-suit type. I hustled my way into a spot halfway down the blank ticket line where I could observe both ends. The ticket I’d given Devon and the spare one I held were blanks.

  Determination filled me. I would find her soon. No way was I going to actually take part in this dumb contest.

  Everyone else in line with me looked hyped to be there, standing on tiptoes, or talking in excited voice. I had to admit the five million dollar Grand Prize sounded pretty sweet, but in the end it was just another competition. I’d had my fill of those growing up.

  Plus, I didn’t want to be separated from Mike.

  I studied the people in line in front of me, ticking them off in turn. Male. Too tall. Too old. Square-jawed. Not my clone.

  To give myself an excuse for turning around, I struck up a conversation with the pretty black girl with a multitude of braids standing behind me. “What’s the difference between Blank tickets and By Invitations?” As I spoke, I kept scanning the line-up for Devon, being careful to look at faces in case she’d changed her hair. Not me, not me, not me….

  Braids gave an incredulous laugh. “By Invitations are for the crème de la crème. VR players who’ve impressed Kenneth Jones, sports stars, celebrities, anyone with a reputation. See how the cameras are all on them? We’re the nobodies, the long shots. Which is massively unfair. I earned my golden ticket: I figured out the ship-in-a-bottle clue before anyone else and had two other top ten finishes. And yet they get the red carpet treatment.”

  She brooded, hooking her thumbs into the suspenders of her denim overall cut-offs. “Kenneth Jones claims anyone can win, but when you look at the numbers you can see they’re skewed. There are one hundred celebrity tickets and four hundred blank tickets, but at least sixty percent of the celebrities will make the cut. Whereas only ten percent of us will even make it into the NextStep scenario.”

  Interesting. “So, we’re not entering NextStep now?” I peered past her. Maybe that blonde with the sunglasses? No, her nose was too long.

  Braids snorted. “No. The next four days are the Culling. How come you don’t know all this? How did you win your golden ticket?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “Then how—?”

  I shrugged. “I did someone a favour.”

  “You shouldn’t even be allowed in.” Apparently deciding I wasn’t worth conversing with, she turned away.

  The line moved at a good clip. All too soon I was five people away from the front. Soon I’d be forced to step out of line.

  My palmtop pinged, bringing up a text message from Mike.

  “Dev w/ green reporter. Where r u?”

  Crap. I ground my teeth. If Mike had seen Devon on the HoloTV coverage, that meant she was in the By Invitation line.

  There. No mistaking the ‘green’ reporter. His skintight jumpsuit made Tiger Lady look restrained; half of it was mesh, showing chest hair, and half of it was artfully torn. One leg appeared to have been shredded off. However questionable his fashion taste, he’d succeeded in stalling Devon two meters away from the exit.

  A blast of anger ripped through me at the sight of my clone. She’d almost gotten Mike killed.

  Unfortunately, she had her back to the wall where she could see everyone approach her. So much for Plan A.

  I looped the Knockout patch around my index finger—left hand for the surprise value. I also gave my throat a spritz of the anti-Knockout spray that I’d bummed from Catherine. Though I’d let Catherine think I wanted it to protect myself from Nations Against.

  I waited ten seconds for it to super-oxygenate my blood, then plastered a big smile on my face and rushed up to Devon. “Sis! You made it!” I opened my arms for a hug, nerves coiled, waiting to see how she would play it.

  Surprise widened her eyes, but she smiled back. “Angel! How wonderful to see you!” She stepped on my toe as she embraced me.

  I squeezed the scruff of her neck, but her hair prevented the patch from making contact.

  “You have a sister?” the reporter asked, gaze flicking from one of us to the other, obviously sensing a story.

  I stepped to the side, freeing my foot, but kept my right arm around Devon’s shoulders, thumb digging in. “Actually—”

  Devon interrupted. “We were adopted by different families and just recently found each other.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled it away.

  “It’s a tragic story,” I chirped. “When I was four and Devon was a baby, we were orphaned by a pirate attack. I did my best to take care of her, but she could crawl lightning fast. One day I fell asleep on the subway, after spending all day begging in the square, and when I opened my eyes she was gone!”

  “That’s not how I remember it,” Devon said sweetly. “You abandoned me in a park to play ball with some boy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How would you know? You were just a baby; you don’t remember anything. That’s what your mother told you so that you didn’t know she was a kidnapper.”

  “I was not kidnapped!” Devon bared her teeth, outraged.

  I addressed the reporter with a sorrowful face. “Devon is very loyal. She refuses to face the truth about her adoptive mother. Perhaps we should talk about something else.”

  The reporter looked torn between fascination and suspicion. Well, we had been laying it on a little thick. “Let’s talk about the competition. So you’re rivals who are sisters?”

  “Isn’t it 100% awesome that we both got a ticket!” I grinned at the camera. “I’m so proud of Little Sis!” I rubbed my knuckles on the top of her head.

  As I’d half-expected Devon slipped something out of her own pocket. A Knockout patch, I’d bet money.

  I stepped back, but she held out her hand. “Good luck, Angel.”

  I admired the maneuver. If I refused to shake, I would look churlish.

  “Oh, you’re much better at these things than I am!” I said cheerfully, shaking her hand. “I’m just here to have fun.” I blinked and then stumbled into her, clutching her shoulders as if suddenly dizzy. “I feel funny.”

  “Oh dear,” Devon said to the reporter, “she’s fainting. Can you get her some water?”

  “Uh, of course.” The reporter hurried off.

  “No…” I mumbled, eyes closed. “Don’t let her steal my ticket…” I let my full weight fall on Devon as if unconscious.

  I half-expected her to drop me, but instead she man-handled me into a plush auditorium seat. “Idiot,” she muttered. “You shouldn’t be here. What if Nations Against finds you?”

  So she had given them my extra ticket.

  “Me they’ll leave alone," she said, "because they have a chain on me, but you? Fair game.”

  Interesting. What chain did they have on Devon?

  I waited a moment more, hoping she’d divulge her purpose in the NextStep Immersion, but instead she stood up and started to leave.

  I grabbed her wrist. “Suddenly I feel ever so much better,” I said brightly.

  Her mouth gaped in surprise.

  “Nice try, but the Knockout was a little predictable.”

  Time to stop playing. While she twisted her wrist in my grip, I went for the tag with my left, aiming for her bare arm.

  “Here’s your water.” Sounding harassed, the reporter thrust a glass at me.

  Ruthlessly, Devon shoved the reporter into me. When we collided, I automatically put up both hands to push him away, and the Knockout patch made contact with his chest through the stupid mesh panel.

  A second later, I tagged Devon’s arm, but Knockout patches were only good for one use. She smirked while the hapless reporter stumbled and clutched his head. “I feel dizzy…”

  “Poor thing. Angel, give him a hand.” Devon off-loaded his slumping body on me. “Nice try, but a bit predictable,” she whispered when I grabb
ed his shoulders to keep him from falling face first on the floor.

  By the time I lowered the reporter into a sitting position against the floor, she’d whisked through the By Invitation door where I couldn’t follow.

  *MIKE*

  “At least consider cancelling your next game, until we have a better idea if Nations Against is aware of your identity,” Catherine argued from her seat on the couch beside Mike.

  “No,” Mike said shortly. She was being reasonable, but he had to force himself to be polite. He looked away from the HoloTV Golden Ticket Event coverage. “I’m sorry you went to all the trouble of faking my death, but it’s too close to the playoffs. Every game is critical.” He’d really hate it if all the effort he’d put into his baseball career had been wasted.

  “You could pretend you have an injury.”

  He shook his head. “No one will scout an injured player. I have to go to tomorrow’s game.” He held up a hand to stave off more protests. “Look, I’m not stupid. I have no desire to end up dead or in a coma. I’m perfectly willing to let Ultraviolet run security for me.”

  She relaxed. “Thank you, Michael.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “No sweat—especially since you were planning to do it anyway, weren’t you?”

  A wry smile. “Yes. Though it’s no chore to watch your games. You’re very talented.”

  The compliment made him uncomfortable as if his collar was choking him. He wasn’t talented, just genetically engineered to be athletic. “But,” he said.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “‘You’re very talented, but you’re wasting yourself in sports,’” he finished. “Isn’t that what you meant to say?”

  Catherine was silent for a moment. “I’m not going to lie. While playing baseball is a fine hobby, I do think it’s a waste of your talents as a career. I think in time it will bore you.”