Authors: J Bennett
“Hmmm.” The angel leans up against the
car. His eyebrows part from their deep furrow. Just like that, the volatile
anger washes away, replaced by an expression of cool arrogance. “You’re welcome
then,” he says, and his eyes rove my body without apology. “Looks like you got
a good meal out of it. They all dead?”
He can see the faint glow beneath my
skin, evidence of my recent feeding frenzy. I nod and allow a casual smile. “Every
last one. You should be the one thanking me.”
“Oh, I plan to reward you for sure.” The
angel licks his lips.
“You know you’re ugly as sin right?”
“But I’m rich,” he quips back. “That
usually makes up for it. My ladies tell me my wallet is very handsome.” He
gives me another appraising look, and then pushes himself off the car.
The wind comes howling between us,
ripping at my hair and shirt, but I don’t feel the cold at all. Strong, I feel
so, so, so strong, and I don’t ever want to let this sensation go.
“I’m War,” the guy says.
“War?” I almost laugh but think better
of it. “Like a horseman of the apocalypse? Should I be shaking in my boots?”
“It’s short for Warren,” he says. The
sedative is wearing off quickly. His eyes and movements are growing sharper. “But
yeah, you should shake in your little boots plenty.” His expression returns to
wolverine mode, and the smile he gives me is a warning. “The apocalypse is
coming, and I plan to be riding front and center.”
“Whatever.” I wave him off like I didn’t
notice that little bout of crazy. Here comes the tricky part. “I only saved you,
because those Vigils were pissing me off. Now you’re awake, so you can go back
to wherever you came from.”
I turn back toward the car.
“Wait.” With one loping step, War is
next to me, practically breathing down my neck with bad breath.
“I never got your name.” He strokes my
arm.
I make a show of tucking my hair behind
my ear. “Buf…Beth. Elizabeth.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl.” War is
only a few inches taller than me, but I’m suddenly aware of his size, the
thick, muscled width of him looming over me.
“Here’s the thing Betsy,” he says in
that breezy, casual voice that is not actually casual at all. “My boss is looking
for a girl like you. One who wasn’t fully changed.”
His hand locks onto my wrist. At this
point, fear would normally rip my guts to shreds and turn my knees into Jell-O,
or pudding, or some other gooey dessert. And yet, my knees stay strong, my guts
untouched.
“I’m not that girl, I’m nobody,” I say,
while my mind churns, trying to re-route my plan.
“Orders are orders,” War says. His eyes
are dull brown, like muddy pebbles. I try to read something in them. “We’re
going to take a ride,” he says. “You and me, in this…fuck, a Cadillac? This
shit heap is older than I am.”
He marches me forcefully around the car
to the passenger side and leans forward to yank open the door. There’s an instant,
like a single grain of sand falling through an hourglass, where he’s
distracted. Tarren has taught me at least four ways that I could use this
instant to break his grip and either fight or flee.
I stand still, allowing the instant of
choice to melt away, and I hope that I didn’t just make the absolute dumbest
decision of my life. War pulls open the car door and throws me inside.
“Oh, and don’t try to escape or
anything, otherwise I’d have to kill you.” War wags his eyebrows like this would
be an exciting proposition before slamming the door shut.
I settle into my seat. I should’ve run.
Mousey Maya would have run.
Ascension – they’re making more angels,
I remind myself, which means this
particular group just jumped up to a whole new level of needs-to-be-shot-in-the-face-pronto.
I have to find them, and I have to destroy them no matter the risk.
His boss knows about me, but how much?
I’m not sure what to make of this
development, but it most definitely can’t be good. War lands heavily in the
driver’s seat and makes a big deal out of fumbling with the levers and latches
to readjust the seat. He’s really not that much taller than me.
“And where might we be going?” I ask,
still playing things casually.
War grins, and I think his smiles make
his face even uglier than his frowns. “To Diamond.”
War drives through the heart of Peoria
proper and up north on the 74. The homes grow larger until they start
disappearing behind high fences. He fiddles with the radio dial, settling on a
Metallica song. He hums along, hand resting easily on the top of the wheel and
his gaze flicking over to me like he wants to make sure I’m not going to bail.
I stare straight ahead, doing my best to
look casual as I memorize the route and try to cobble together a plan based on
the almost zero information that I have. There are two things I do know. They’re
Ascending humans, and I need to find a gun.
“You’re kinda hot,” War interrupts my
thoughts.
“What?” I look at him.
“Your face isn’t as puffy anymore.
Underneath all those bruises, you’re kinda hot. Ever consider a boob job? It’d
do wonders.”
“My girls are just fine the way they
are,” I mutter as I touch my face and explore my injuries. My nose is tender,
but it doesn’t throb, and the rest of the bruises are almost healed. Advanced
healing happens to be one of my favorite angel hat tricks, but I’ve never recovered
this rapidly in the past.
This is the way your body is supposed to
work,
the monster
whispers,
the way you’re supposed to feel
.
“Not as hot as my southern belles,” War
is saying.
“Who?”
War cracks a wide smile. “You’ll meet
them soon.”
I start an angel tally in my head.
War,
Diamond, southern belles, woman with the braid who killed the police officer.
Yikes,
my kill list is growing fast.
War maneuvers my stolen boat up the
circular driveway of an expansive house with a columned porch. A frozen wind
chime hangs silent above the door. My stomach drops as I count all the windows.
A lot of rooms to fit a lot of angels.
“I don’t suppose you’re renting,” I say
as I push the door open and sink my boots into the snow.
“We take what we want,” War says,
slamming his door behind him. He looks over at me, and I can tell he’s
measuring my reaction.
“What happens when the police come
around?”
“We kill away from headquarters and
don’t make a habit of settling down anywhere for long.”
“Hmmm, sounds solid.” I pull in a
lungful of the crisp air. I could run, right now. If I walk into that house all
bets are off.
The front door slams open, and a woman
squeals, “Baby!” with the type of fervor I would normally associate with a
Justin Bieber sighting. She bounds toward us, peroxide curls streaming. Her
large breasts bounce under a clingy, leopard-print top like they were spring
loaded.
“Rachel!” War says and opens his arms.
She stops short, her face clouding over.
“I’m Heather.”
“Really?” It’s clear to everyone except
Barbie that War is mocking her. “Prove it.”
Rachel or Heather turns around and
flashes an ornate tramp stamp on her lower back that spells out “Heather” in
curlicues of varying shades of fuchsia.
“You got a tattoo of your own name?” I
say.
“Folks mix us up. We’re twins,” Heather
says, her voice heavily flavored with a southern accent.
“So you didn’t just cut your hair or get
your ears pierced?”
Heather purses puffy pink lips. “Who’s
this War?”
“Yes,” a man from the doorway asks. “Who
is she? What is she?” He steps outside, and the last rays of sunlight seem to
take pleasure in shining upon the golden curls that fall over his forehead. I
think my mouth opens a little.
Holy hotness, Batman
.
War drapes an arm around Heather. “Probably
no one, but Diamond said to be on the lookout for ones that weren’t changed all
the way.”
“Ascended,” the other corrects. His baby
blues take in my appearance. “What happened?”
Heather finally seems to notice the
mottled bruise on War’s face. “Oh my god!” she cries. “You get licked by
someone?”
War’s laugh is big and broad. “Only
licking I get is from you and your sister. We just ran into some Vigils, that’s
all,” he says with manufactured casualness. He gazes at Blue Eyes, “I took care
of them.”
He pulls Heather into his body. “I
killed me some Vigils today, baby, what do ya think of that?”
Heather apparently doesn’t need to think
much, because in a second their lips are fused together, followed by some
particularly distasteful sucking and smacking sounds. I turn to look at the
other angel and try to guess his age. The soft planes of his face and hairless
chin deny him years, but the way he carries himself speaks otherwise. His well-fitted,
gray sweater looks expensive and hints at a defined body beneath. Those dark
jeans,
whoa
, they hug him in just the right places.
He grimaces at the middle school make out
session taking place in the driveway and touches a silver chain around his
neck.
“Come on,” he says to me, nodding toward
the house.
I take a hesitant step forward. War
disengages from Heather’s face for a moment. “Right behind you,” he says and
then dives back in. I follow Blue Eyes, wondering again if I’m signing my own
death certificate with every step.
Ten windows,
I think,
and that’s just the front of
the house.
With this pleasant thought in mind, I
follow my guide into a large, echoing foyer. The décor is…well, there are
really two design schemes going on. The first is a tasteful elegance that I
assume came from the house’s original owners. Supple leather couches fill the
living area, eclectic vases stand on tables and bookshelves, rich rugs protect
polished hardwood flooring, and tall, tapered candles sit on the mantel of a
large fireplace.
And then there’s what the angels have
done. Three of the vases lay shattered on the floor. The supple leather couches
are turned at odd angles, a decorative statue is bedecked in a lacey bra and
panties, and muddy footprints track across the rich rugs and hardwood floor.
One of the tapered candles is melted into a big puddle of wax. The other stands
tall and proud, untouched.
Angels. The house is filled with them.
Three lounge on the leather couches, arguing over the remote while a large
television blares a reality show. Two women chatter as they walk down a spiral
staircase. I hear clanking in the kitchen, and the murmur of voices upstairs. A
cackle of laughter erupts from another room to our left.
Not a single aura among them.
Six, seven, eight,
I count in my head. So many. Plus War
and Heather coming behind us.
Nine, ten…So this is what epically screwed
looks like.
We’ve never faced this many angels.
Never seen such a large group formed. How can they possibly feed together
without causing suspicion?
The angels on the couch stop their
bickering as they turn to look at us. The women on the stairwell also stop and
gaze in our direction. A man with a mop of red hair leans through the open
doorway of the kitchen with a plastic water bottle in his hand.
They’re all so young,
I think. Not one seems to be over
twenty-five.
New angels.
“Rachel!” War bellows behind me. “Papa’s
home. He wants some sugar.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk at me like
that,” a southern-tinged voice purrs from the top of the staircase. The voice
belongs to a leggy blonde who makes her way down the stairs. Her golden hair is
captured in a long, thick braid that swings like a pendulum with her steps.
She stops at the bottom of the stairs
and gives War an indulgent smile.
“I’m waiting for my sugar,” War says.
Rachel walks over and plants a quick
kiss on his cheek. Standing next to each other, the blonde women are clearly
identical twins, but they hardly look alike. Rachel wears no makeup, and her
curves are muted by a soft red sweater that hangs past her hips. Heather’s face
is a palette of colors, her eyes racooned with even more eyeliner than I use
when I’m in my Goth moods. Her jeans are so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if the
denim has fused to her skin.
Rachel looks at me, and I hold my
breath. She was the one on the rooftop, the one who drained the police officer.
She didn’t see me though…at least I don’t think she saw me.
“You’re not fully Ascended,” Rachel
says. “You the one Diamond’s looking for?”
“War killed himself some Vigils. He
killed Vigils!” Heather squeaks and jumps up and down clutching War’s arm.
Rachel looks at me, and I know she must
see that I’m the one with the glow of energy beneath my skin. She doesn’t say
anything.
“What are Vigils?” a girl on the couch
asks. I notice large, honey-colored eyes, wild brown curls, and a small heart tattoo
etched on the side of her neck.
“And why do you guys have stupid names
for everything?” the guy next to her adds.
“Let’s take this upstairs,” Blue Eyes
says.
“Vigils are big, bad, evil humans who
spend every waking minute of every day hunting down angels just like you!” War
says, his voice taking on an overdramatic, spooky tone like he was telling a
ghost story to kids over a camp fire. “There’s dozens of them, all ex-Navy
Seals who train day and night and use their government contacts to track angels
by satellite. All they live for is to put a bullet right through your head.” He
makes a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “BANG!”
Heather squeaks, and the young angels on
the couch giggle at her.
“Why?” asks the girl with the tattoo.
“Why what?”
“Why do they want to kill us?”
War frowns. “Cause they’re jealous. They
want to be like us.”
I keep my mouth sealed shut, but my
thoughts are spinning. He can’t actually think we’re Navy Seals, that we have
access to satellites. He must be playing to the room, right?
“Come on,” Blue Eyes says and leads us
toward the stairs.
“
SpongeBob SquarePants
,” the girl
demands behind us.
“
SpongeBob SquarePants
sucks!” the
boy complains.
“If, by ‘suck’, you mean it’s hilarious,
than yeah. Give me the remote.”
We climb the stairs. Blue Eyes is in
front, and War brings up the rear, an arm wrapped around each sister. I glance
behind, first at the retreating front door, and then at the boy with the red
hair whose eyes follow our procession. When he notices my gaze, he quickly
ducks back into the kitchen.
“Where’s Trevor?” War asks his girls.
“Went out with his Cherub to feed a
couple hours ago,” Rachel responds. “Should be back any minute.”
Eleven, twelve,
I think.
“Speaking of Cherubs, I suppose I should
go check on mine,” War says. “How’s she holding up?”
Heather wrinkles her nose. “All she done
is cry and holler.”
Rachel’s face clouds with concern.
“She’s upset about feeding yesterday.”
Blue Eyes looks back. “You should not
have Ascended her,” he says to War. “She was too young, and she didn’t accept
the gift.”
“I gave her a choice,” War says
defensively. “She just needs a little more time to adjust, and the loving
influence of a great mentor.”
At the top of the stairs, Blue Eyes
starts to the left, but War steers his ladies toward a thick oak door. He
disengages from the women and pushes open the door. Inside, a pretty black teenager
lies on a leather couch in a ransacked billiards room. Her hair is in disarray,
her face streaky with tears. She looks up at us with dazed brown eyes.
War clucks his tongue at her. “All
you’re seeing is the downside,” he says. “You said you wanted a new life.”
“I…I…,” she murmurs and then seems to
give up on whatever her answer was going to be. Instead, her almond eyes find
mine and alight with interest.
“Ohhhh, I think she likes to you,”
Heather whispers in my ear, “or maybe just that little ol’ aura of yours.”
“Well, you’ve got a new life,” War says
to the girl. He pulls Heather and Rachel closer. “We’re angels, baby,” he says
loud and proud. “We take what we want, and it feels so damn good.”
The teenager looks down and nods.
“You just need a little more fine
dining,” War says. “I’ll take you out tonight, find you a nice treat before we
pack up. By next week, you’ll look back on all this and laugh.”
The girl’s lower lip trembles. War backs
out of the room and kicks the door shut. He clicks his tongue again. “Here I
am, giving this bitch the time of her life, and she doesn’t even appreciate it.”
“Come on,” Blue Eyes says. “Diamond…”
“Already knows she’s here,” War
finishes. “What’s the weather like?”
Blue Eyes shrugs. “Clear skies.”
“Lucky you,” War says to me. “You ready
to meet the boss?”
“Got nothing to hide,” I say. Anger, hot
and crackling, threatens to turn my tongue into a blade. That girl was changed
against her will. A slave to the hunger. Her life stolen away. Forever a
monster.
Like me.