All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (19 page)

When I looked up,
she was staring into my face.

She smiled.

I smiled.

Like a scene out of
a chick-flick Rae made me watch once upon a time, we leaned toward
each other, static electricity jumping between us. After losing
Tony, I didn’t know if this was the right thing to do. That,
but also because she was an angel and the powers-that-be might not
feel good about me fishing off the company dock.

But I couldn’t
stop myself.

Didn’t really
want to.

She leaned closer
and I felt her breath on my lips. The tip of her nose touched mine
sending a tiny shock into my face. We readjusted our angle.

Closer.

Closer.

Our lips touched
and an indescribable feeling washed into my face and down my body
like the tide overtaking the shore.

Suddenly, I thought
I knew what it would be like to go to Heaven.

†‡†

The street lamp
buzzed, flickered, then went out. Poe glanced up, neither startled
nor afraid; street lights often malfunctioned when she was near,
though she didn’t know exactly why. A result of her energy,
she guessed.

She looked back to
the plain, gray exterior wall of the warehouse. No signage announced
its contents, but she knew it contained stacks of low-end patio
furniture awaiting shipment to discount department stores. She’d
been here before, as an observer, like this time, but this felt very
different. Last time, when Icarus brought the detective, she only
kept her eye on him, ready to keep him safe if anything went
wrong—just doing her job. This time, however, a feeling with
which she’d been unfamiliar for decades hung over her: dread.

She leaned against
the brick wall of the building kitty-corner to the warehouse and
crossed her arms in front of her chest. Half an hour passed as she
waited, her mind examining the events of the last few days, forming
questions.

Why did Icarus
want to go to Hell so badly? What happened there? Who is Piper?

She didn’t
have the answers, found herself unable to divine the motivations of
a man like Icarus Fell even after all the years watching him,
protecting him. Beneath all the questions and concerns about her
charge lurked the one question she was afraid to put to words:

Why is Michael
angry with me?

Maybe she wasn’t
always the best guardian, wasn’t always around when Icarus
needed her. She’d carried the guilt of his death with her
every second since it happened, but everything turned out for the
best. If muggers hadn’t killed him, who’d harvest souls?
Wasn’t the balance better maintained with how things happened?

She couldn’t
shake the feeling there was more at play here than she knew.

The clang of the
fire exit door slamming open startled Poe, jarring her thoughts. Two
figures stumbled through the doorway and tumbled onto the ground.
From across the street, Poe heard the man grunt and recognized
Icarus’ voice. She took one step, intending to rush to his
aid, but stopped when she saw the second figure was a woman: Piper.
She eased back into the shadows.

The two of them
righted themselves, Icarus holding his arm against his chest, like
it was injured. Her heart jumped and the urge to rush to him sprang
back to her limbs but she contained it. It was her job to keep
Icarus safe, but she didn’t trust the woman, and her purpose
for being here was to observe. She couldn’t interrupt.

The woman put her
hand on Icarus’ shoulder and a shudder ran up Poe’s
back—not cold or fear, but like a piece of her had been pulled
free, yanked from the base of her spine and out the top of her head.
Her head spun and she struggled to keep focus.

They leaned toward
each other and she decided to make them stop. There was something
wrong about this woman. Poe opened her mouth, intending to call out
a warning, but no sound came from her throat. Her legs wouldn’t
carry her forward. She watched, voyeuristic as their lips touched;
her stomach coiled in a knot like watching Icarus die all over
again.

It wasn’t
my fault.

As they pulled
apart—Icarus' eyes closed, lost in the moment—the woman
glanced across the street and made eye contact with Poe, the corners
of her mouth curving up in a look-what-I-did grin. Fire flashed in
her eyes.

Poe threw her hands
in front of her face and fled up the street without looking back.

†‡†

Poe disliked few
people, places or things, but the motel Michael favored for use as
his earthly office made the list. She supposed the things which made
her dislike the place were exactly why he chose it: a dirty,
run-down haven for prostitutes and junkies in a part of the city
regular folk feared to travel through, let alone stop in. Who’d
expect to find the archangel Michael here?

He met her in the
dimly lit lobby. There was a small TV mounted near the ceiling in
one corner facing a tattered couch, the sound of the shopping
channel muted. A rack of out-dated brochures and fliers, most of
them advertising tattoo shops or massage parlors long-since busted
and closed, dominated another wall. Behind the plexi-glass barrier
protecting the check-in-er from the check-in-ees, a scrawny man who
could have been one of the junkie-residents rather than the
proprietor sat in a chair, chin resting on his chest as he snored
quietly and drooled on the front of his shirt. Michael lounged on
the couch dressed in a black suit and white shirt open at the
throat, a red rose in the lapel of his jacket, looking very much
like she’d interrupted his evening of ballroom dancing.

“
So?”

Poe tip-toed across
the room, though she suspected the man behind the counter wouldn’t
have woken if she’d brought a marching band. If the substance
causing his slumber didn’t keep him from waking, Michael’s
influence certainly would. She perched on the edge of the couch, as
far from the archangel as space allowed.

“
He’s
been to Hell,” she said, her voice a whisper. She didn’t
meet Michael’s eyes.

“
I
know. We have one extra soul in stock: one Elizabeth Elton. A former
neighbor of our harvester’s, I believe.”

She nodded but said
nothing. Michael’s tone held its usual calm, but she sensed
something underlying it which made her want to get up and leave
before she found out what it was.

“
What
else?”

“
He
went a second time.”

“
And?”

“
He
didn’t bring anyone back.”

Poe’s eyes
flickered to him as Michael’s narrowed, searching her face.
She looked away.

“
You
are sure?”

Poe nodded again.

Michael leaned
forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked up at the TV. Poe
followed his gaze and saw a pretty woman with dark hair modeling a
cubic zirconia necklace. When she looked away from the model,
Michael was scrutinizing her again. Panic and regret exploded in her
chest; she nearly fell to her knees to beg the archangel’s
forgiveness without knowing what she should be forgiven for. She’d
let him down in some way, that was obvious—something she’d
never want to do given all eternity with which to work—and she
wanted to make it up to him, no matter what it was.

“
This
is your fault.”

Poe’s breath
caught in her throat.

“
But...I...”

“
It
is your job to keep the harvester from trouble and harm.” He
leaned back and threw his arm along the back of the couch. Normally,
Poe would have struggled against the urge to snuggle in against him,
bask in his energy. Not this time. “You have failed him, and
you have failed me.”

Her airway
tightened as she struggled to hold back tears. Her lower lip
quivered.

“
While
he is indulging his whims, others are lost because he is not here to
do his job.” He flipped his hair out of his face with a quick
flick of his head. “Someone needs to get him back to work.”

“
I’ve
tried,” Poe said, her words coming in a rush. “He’s
determined...to bring them all...back. He won’t stop...until
he has. There’s this woman...a woman helping him. Piper. She’s
making things worse. She--”

Michael held up his
hand and Poe stopped speaking immediately.

“
Who
is this woman?”

“
I
don’t know. She says she’s a guardian.”

“
Perhaps
she will do a better job than you did.”

Poe looked away,
afraid his accusatory glare might burn her soul.

“
At
any rate, souls need to be harvested. Any suggestions?”

Michael rose
without waiting for an answer. He crossed the lobby to the door
marked ‘stairs’ and glanced back before going through.
Poe didn’t need him to speak to know he wanted her to follow.
The man behind the plexi-glass barrier stirred as she passed, but
didn’t wake. She pushed through the door and into the
stairwell and picked her way through the garbage littering the
steps. Two flights up, a door swung closed. Poe chewed her lower
lip, dreading further confrontation with the archangel but knowing
she had no choice but to follow.

On the third floor,
Poe went down the hallway with its peeling wallpaper and worn
carpeting to the door Michael had left open. She paused before
stepping through. All these years she’d done her best. For
Icarus, for Michael. As she stepped across the threshold, her
life—the life she’d lost—passed before her eyes.

She couldn’t
bear the thought of losing this one, too.

Michael stood at
the end of the short hall blocking the sleeping area of the room.
The laugh track of a television sit-com came from behind him. Poe
closed the door.

“
There
have been rumors about you, Poe.”

She
froze, eyes wide.
What
kind of rumors could there possibly be?

“
I...I
don’t understand.”

“
Question
about your loyalties. You have been on both sides.”

“
No,
I--”

Michael held up his
hand again and again she fell silent though her mind worked
feverishly. She’d worked so hard for so long...

“
Your
words are unnecessary. It is your actions which will set you free.
As problematic as the harvester’s choices have been, his
timing may have worked in your favor.”

The feeling of
dread returned to Poe with enough force to make her head feel light.
She put her hand against the wall to steady herself.