The Urban Fantasy Anthology (35 page)

I know God can open any door for me that He wants to, so if my hunch is right why isn’t the door opening? Maybe there’ll be a mark on the right door—you know, a shadow that looks like the face of Our Lady, or the number 333, something—but before I can check the door for a sign, something starts flapping above my head and scares the shit out of me. I think it’s a bat at first—that would make sense—but it’s just a pigeon. No, a dove. Doves are smaller and pigeons aren’t this white.

I know my employer thinks I’m slow, but a
white dove
?

The idiot bird keeps flapping two feet from my head and now I see it—a twig of something in its beak. I don’t want to know.

The bird flies off, stops, hovers, and waits. I’m supposed to follow, so I do.

The door it’s stopped at is the third one down from mine, of course. No face of Our Lady on it, but when I step up to it, it of course clicks and swings open.

We go through the next doorway, and the next, and the next, seven doorways in all—from a library to a little museum, then another library, then an office, then an archive with messy files, then a bigger museum. Some of the rooms are empty—of people, I mean—and some aren’t, and when they’re not, the people, some in suits or dresses and some in clerical outfits—give me a look like, “Well, he certainly seems to know where he’s going with his musical instrument. Perhaps they’re having chamber music with
espresso
for
gli ufficiali
. And of course that can’t really be a pure white dove with an olive twig in its beak flapping in front of him, so everything’s just fine.
Buon giorno, Signore
.”

When the bird stops for good, hovering madly, it’s a really big door and it doesn’t open right off. But I know this is it—that my guy is on the other side. Whatever he’s doing, he’s there and I’d better get ready. He’s a vampire. Maybe he’s confused—maybe he doesn’t want to be one any longer—but he’s still got, according to the angel, superhuman strength and super-senses and the rest.

When the door opens—without the slightest sound, I note—I’m looking down this spiral staircase into a gorgeous little chapel. Sunlight is coming through the stained-glass windows, so there’s got to be a courtyard or something just outside, and the frescoes on the ceiling look like real Michelangelos. Big muscles. Those steroid bodies.

The bird has flown to the ceiling and is perched on a balustrade, waiting for the big event, but that’s not how I know the guy I’m looking down at is Frank. It isn’t even that he’s got that distinguished-gentleman look that old vampires have in the movies. It’s what he’s doing that tells me.

He’s kneeling in front of the altar, in front of this big golden crucifix with an especially bloody Jesus, and he’s very uncomfortable doing it. Even at this distance I can tell he’s shaking. He’s got his hands out in prayer and can barely keep them together. He’s jerking like he’s being electrocuted. He’s got his eyes on the crucifix, and when he speaks, it’s loud and his voice jerks too. It sounds confessional—the tone is right—but it’s not English and it’s not Italian. It may not even be Latin, and why should it be? He’s been around a long time and probably knows the original.

I’m thinking the stained-glass light is playing tricks on me, but it’s not. There really
is
a blue light moving around his hands, his face, his pants legs—blue fire—and this, I see now, it’s what’s making him jerk.

He’s got to be in pain. I mean, here in a chapel—in front of an altar—sunlight coming through the windows—making about the biggest confession any guy has ever made. Painful as hell, but he’s doing it, and suddenly I know why she loves him. Hell,
anyone
would.

Without knowing it I’ve unpacked my crossbow and have it up and ready. This is what God wants, so I probably get some help doing it. I’m shaking too, but go ahead and aim the thing.
I need forgiveness, too, you know
, I want to tell him. You can’t bank your immortal soul, no, but you do get to spend it a lot longer.

I put my finger on the trigger, but don’t pull it yet. I want to keep thinking.

No, I don’t. I don’t want to keep thinking at all.

I lower the crossbow and the moment I do I hear a sound from the back of the chapel where the main door’s got to be, and I crane my neck to see.

It’s the main door, all right. Heads are peeking in. They’re wearing black and I think to myself:
Curious priests. That’s all
. But the door opens up more and three of them—that holy number—step in real quiet. They’re wearing funny Jesuit collars—the ones the angel mentioned—and they don’t look curious. They look like they know exactly what they’re doing, and they look very unhappy.

Vampires have this sixth sense, I know. One of them looks up at me suddenly, smiles this funny smile, and I see sharp little teeth.

He says something to the other two and heads toward me. When he’s halfway up the staircase I shoot him. I must have my heart in it because the arrow nearly goes through him, but that’s not what really bothers him. It’s the
wood
. There’s an explosion of sparks, the same blue fire, and a hole opens up in his chest, grows, and in no time at all he’s just not there anymore.

Frank has turned around to look, but he’s dazed, all that confessing, hands in prayer position and shaking wildly, and he obviously doesn’t get what’s happening. The other two Jesuits are heading up the stairs now, and I nail them with my last two arrows.

The dove has dropped like a stone from its perch and is flapping hysterically in front of me, like
Wrong vampires! Wrong vampires!
I’m tired of its flapping, so I brush it away, turn and leave, and if it takes me (which it will) a whole day to get out of the Vatican without that dove to lead me and make doors open magically, okay. When you’re really depressed, it’s hard to give a shit about anything.

Two days later I’m back at Parlami’s. I haven’t showered. I look like hell. I’ve still got the case with me. God knows why.

I’ve had two martinis and when I look up, there he is. I’m not surprised, but I sigh anyway. I’m not looking forward to this.

“So you didn’t do it,” he says.

“You know I didn’t, asshole.”

“Yes, I do. Word does get out when the spiritual configuration of the universe doesn’t shift the way He’d like it to.”

I want to hit his baby-smooth face, his perfect nose and collagen lips, but I don’t have the energy.

“So what happens now?” I ask.

“You really don’t know?”

“No.”

He shakes his head. Same look of contempt.

“I guess you wouldn’t.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Well, the Jesuits did it for you. They killed him last night.”

“What?”

“They’ve got crossbows too. Where do you think we got the idea?”

“Same wood?”

“Of course. They handle it with special gloves.”

“Why?”

“Why kill him? Same line of thought. If he flips, things get thrown off balance. Order is important for them, too, you know. Mortals are the same way, you may have noticed. You all need order. Throw things off and you go crazy. That’s why you’ll put up with despots—even choose them over more benign and loving leaders—just so you don’t have to worry. Disorder makes for a lot of worry, Anthony.”

“You already knew it?”

“Knew what?”

“That I wouldn’t do it and the Jesuits would instead.”

“Yes.”

“Then why send me?”

Again the look, the sigh. “Ah. Think hard.”

I do, and, miracle of miracles, I see it.

“Giovanna is free now,” I say.

“Yes. Frank, bless his immortal soul—which God has indeed agreed to do—is gone in flesh.”

“So He wants me to hook up with her?”

The angel nods. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll love you—
really
love you, innocent that you are—just the way she loved him.”

“That’s it?”

“Not exactly… Because she’ll love you, you’ll have to stop. You’ll have to stop killing people, Anthony. It’s just not right.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Don’t think so.”

“But you will—because, whether you know it yet or not, you love her, too.” What do you say to that?

The angel’s gotten up, straightened his red Zegna, picked up the case, and is ready to leave.

“By the way,” he adds, “He says He forgives you anyway.”

I nod, tired as hell. “I figured that.”

“You’re catching on.”

“About time,” I say.

“He said that too.”

“And the whole ‘balance’ thing—”

“What do
you
think?”

Pure bullshit
is what I’m thinking.

“You got it,” he says, reading my mind because angels can do that.

Twenty-four hours later I’m back in Siena, shaved and showered, and she doesn’t seem surprised to see me. She’s been grieving—that’s obvious. Red eyes. Perfect hair tussled, a mess. She’s been debriefed by the angel—that I can tell—and I don’t know whether she’s got a problem with the Plan or not, or even whether there is a Plan. The angel may have been lying about that too. But when she says quietly, “Hello, Anthony,” and gives me a shy smile, I
know
—and my heart starts flapping like that idiot bird.

Boobs

Suzy McKee Charnas

The thing is, it’s like your brain wants to go on thinking about the miserable history mid-term you have to take tomorrow, but your body takes over. And what a body! You can see in the dark and run like the wind and leap parked cars in a single bound.

Of course you pay for it the next morning (but it’s worth it). I always wake up stiff and sore, with dirty hands and feet and face, and I have to jump in the shower fast so Hilda won’t see me like that.

Not that she would know what it was about, but why take chances? So I pretend it’s the other thing that’s bothering me. So she goes, “Come on, sweetie, everybody gets cramps, that’s no reason to go around moaning and groaning. What are you doing, trying to get out of going to school just because you’ve got your period?”

If I didn’t like Hilda, which I do even though she is only a stepmother instead of my real mother, I would show her something that would keep me out of school forever, and it’s not fake, either.

But there are plenty of people I’d rather show that to.

I already showed that dork Billy Linden.

“Hey, Boobs!” he goes, in the hall right outside homeroom. A lot of kids laughed, naturally, though Rita Frye called him an asshole.

Billy is the one that started it, sort of, because he always started everything, him with his big mouth. At the beginning of term, he came barreling down on me hollering, “Hey, look at Bornstein, something musta happened to her over the summer! What happened to Bornstein? Hey, everybody, look at Boobs Bornstein!”

He made a grab at my chest, and I socked him in the shoulder, and he punched me in the face, which made me dizzy and shocked and made me cry, too, in front of everybody.

I mean, I always used to wrestle and fight with the boys, being that I was strong for a girl. All of a sudden it was different. He hit me hard, to really hurt, and the shock sort of got me in the pit of my stomach and made me feel nauseous, too, as well as mad and embarrassed to death.

I had to go home with a bloody nose and lie with my head back and ice wrapped in a towel on my face and dripping down into my hair.

Hilda sat on the couch next to me and patted my arm. She goes, “I’m sorry about this, honey, but really, you have to learn it sometime. You’re all growing up and the boys are getting stronger than you’ll ever be. If you fight with boys, you’re bound to get hurt. You have to find other ways to handle them.”

To make things worse, the next morning I started to bleed down there, which Hilda had explained carefully to me a couple of times, so at least I knew what was going on. Hilda really tried hard without being icky about it, but I hated when she talked about how it was all part of these exciting changes in my body that are so important and how terrific it is to “become a young woman.”

Sure. The whole thing was so messy and disgusting, worse than she had said, worse than I could imagine, with these black clots of gunk coming out in a smear of pink blood—I thought I would throw up. That’s just the lining of your uterus, Hilda said. Big deal. It was still gross.

And plus, the smell.

Hilda tried to make me feel better, she really did. She said we should “mark the occasion” like primitive people do, so it’s something special, not just a nasty thing that just sort of falls on you.

So we decided to put poor old Pinkie away, my stuffed dog that I’ve slept with since I was three. Pinkie is bald and sort of hard and lumpy since he got put in the washing machine by mistake, and you would never know he was all soft plush when he was new, or even that he was pink.

Last time my friend Gerry-Anne came over, before the summer, she saw Pinkie laying on my pillow and though she didn’t say anything, I could tell she was thinking that was kind of babyish. So I’d been thinking about not keeping Pinkie around any more.

Hilda and I made him this nice box lined with pretty scraps from her quilting class, and I thanked him out loud for being my friend for so many years, and we put him up in the closet, on the top shelf.

I felt bad about it, but if Gerry-Anne decided I was too babyish to be friends with any more, I could end up with no friends at all. When you have never been popular since the time you were skinny and fast and everybody wanted you on their team, you have that kind of thing on your mind.

Hilda and Dad made me go to school the next morning so nobody would think I was scared of Billy Linden (which I was) or that he could keep me away just by being such a dork.

Everybody kept sneaking funny looks at me and whispering, and I was sure it was because I couldn’t help walking funny with the pad between my legs and they could smell what was happening, which as far as I knew hadn’t happened to anybody else in Eight A yet. Just like nobody else in the whole grade had anything real in their stupid training bras except me, thanks a lot!