Her Black Wings (The Dark Amulet Series Book 1) (15 page)

CHAPTER

FORTY-ONE

Brandon

She just disappeared. Brandon didn’t know if what just happened had been real. He’d had a conversation with a dead person. On the side of the road. In his car. About something which haunted him for over twenty years. He’d been in and out of mental hospitals, foster homes, and had done a stint in Juvie. At twenty-seven, he was still a mess, a drunk and a broke gambler who owed money to a shit-load of people, one of whom would pay all his debts if he’d do him a favor. Or he’d kill Brandon. Death wasn’t an option he entertained. Above all else he wanted to wake up every morning. Alive.

Convinced the episode was a delusion brought on by his festering guilt, he ground his molars resolutely and drove off. What he needed was sleep before the big meeting to discuss his future. Instead, he headed north.

Brandon drove down a mostly abandoned street on the east side of the city. Old tires lined each curb, empty trashcans blew around, papers, Styrofoam cups, and overgrown weeds covered the lawns. The house he pulled up to had bars on the front door and windows. He turned off the engine. On the way there, he’d decided to accept the man’s offer no matter what it entailed.

Brandon trotted up the porch steps and knocked. A square panel slid over revealing a set of peepers. “What’s the word?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

Music blared cutting short Brandon’s quibbling. The eyes behind the door disappeared and the peep window closed.

The door swung open.

He was greeted with Damien’s laughter this time. As far as Brandon knew, the guy didn’t have a last name. How stupid. Everyone had a last name. Even an unwanted child like him had been given one. The guy was weird too, always sucking on his bottom lip.

“Didn’t think you had the balls to show. We was taking bets, Bobo and me. Isn’t that right, Bobo?”

“Uh huh,” Bobo grunted.

Damien handed Brandon a piece of paper folded into a small triangle. He lifted it up to the light like a moron. Bobo chuckled.

“You can open it. Won’t bite,” Damien said.

Brandon did what he was told. Written in block letters was a name and address in an affluent suburb of Detroit. His eyes widened.

“You know what that’s for, don’t ya?” Damien grinned and planted his ass on a ratty couch.

Brandon glanced around, wondering if the place may be a façade. All the good furniture might be behind a wall or in the basement, the front half of the house for business dealings only. Chipped paint covered the walls, the worn out hardwood floor had only spots of varnish left. Did this guy actually live in this shit hole with the kind of money he claimed his business brought in?

Damien snapped his fingers. “Hello,” he laughed giving Bobo a
this-dude-is-a-nut-job
look. “Do you know what I want you to do with that piece of paper I gave you or not?”

“Nope.” Brandon shook his head. He could guess. He just hoped it wasn’t the case.

“I want you to do the guy.”

Bobo handed Damien a 9mm Luger, hilt first.

“Can I ask what this guy did to piss you off?” Brandon asked.

“Let’s just say he owes me money.” The laugher that came next was chilling.

Brandon paled. Damien checked the magazine for bullets then handed the piece to him. Too light. The clip was empty.

“You understand why I gave that to you without the ammo, right?”

He did, and nodded. Brandon’s day couldn’t get any better.

“Good, you got a week. And that’s generous with the kinda money you owe. Shit.”

“Thanks.” Brandon took one last look around and backed toward the door. No need to be shown out. Bobo would likely toss him out. Literally.

Brandon sprinted for his car, threw the gun to the floorboard, and left black skid marks on the cement as he sped away from the curb. He couldn’t wait to get home. Well, not exactly home, but a place where he’d been crashing. The dude whose house it was hadn’t been seen in over a week. Either he was dead or left town in a hurry. A shiver traveled his spine.

When Brandon arrived in the blue-collar neighborhood he temporarily called home, the old lady across the street waved him over before he could get out of the car. He flipped his eyes toward the car’s interior roof in resignation. Sighing, he got out after shoving the pistol under the passenger seat.

She was standing in her driveway. “Could you help me please? I have all these groceries but my husband isn’t home. I don’t want the food to spoil before he gets…”

His mind wandered as she continued. Brandon had learned to let her talk. She wasn’t harming anyone, and the poor woman didn’t have a husband as far as he knew. He wasn’t sure if the woman had Alzheimer’s or plain old dementia.

Silently, he carried the two bags of food inside her house, all purchased at a local drug store. She offered him money for his help. Every few days this was their routine. He took the cash. Man had to eat. Oh, and buy bullets apparently.

CHAPTER

FORTY-TWO

Amalya

Angels could get drunk, eat,
poof,
and fly. And so could Amalya. In theory. She had already tested the eating, flying and
poofing
. The only thing left on the list was intoxication. She was a hypocrite. The night before she’d been angry with Elliott for doing exactly what she wanted to do right now.

She checked all of the kitchen cabinets, leaving each one open.

Empty. Well…not exactly, but there was no alcohol in them. Straight to the bathroom she went, only to come up with nothing. How was she supposed to get drunk? She had no money. Oh, what the hell was she thinking? She was a girl with female parts. And a tunic with no panty line. Perfect for getting some moron who thought he had a chance of getting laid to buy her a couple of drinks. Or ten.

Elliott had gone somewhere hours earlier. Being stuck in this ratty apartment alone wouldn’t fly.

“Bar night here I come,” she said into the empty apartment.

Amalya rode the elevator down to the lobby, partially to feel normal. Also, she needed some shoes and hoped to bump into someone she could borrow from. Unfortunately, the lobby consisted of a tiny vestibule with mailboxes and buzzers to each apartment. Knocking door to door was the only option.

Wait a minute,
poofing
could work. Out the front entrance she turned left. Across the street and down a block was a boutique specializing in “unique” fashions, mostly vintage clothing and stripper gear. It was closed. Even better.

In the window display, behind glass and a metal gate, nude colored platform pumps encrusted with crystals waited, wanting to be snatched. She peered into the window looking for a camera. However, with the amount of outside security, why would anyone bother with a camera inside? A couple of people loitered up the street so she ducked into the nearest alley. While still picturing the heels in her mind, she found herself on the inside of the shop, grabbed a pair of size sevens from the back room, and was out on the street within minutes.

She approached a group of men. This would have been stupid had she been alive. The tallest of the group looked her up and down.

“Hey, baby.”

Suppressing the need to smack him wasn’t easy. “Hey yourself. Can you tell me where I could get a drink around here?”

“You can have a drink right here,” he said, gripping his crotch.

You’re an idiot.

“No thanks, I prefer the alcoholic variety.

“Couple blocks down and three over. There’s a place; can’t miss it,” one of the nicer idiots interjected.

“Thank you,” she said, walking around them. Expecting one or two would follow, she was relieved when no one tailed her. Clearly the bunch was only interested in what was convenient.

The idiot was right; she couldn’t miss it. The neon sign took up half the outside of the club. Bright blue letters spelled out
‘Eternity’
.

How fitting.

The inside of the dance club was shrouded in a purplish hue. Tubes of black lights pinstriped the walls and ceiling. The effect created a ghostly feel. Blonde hair and light clothing glowed brightly. A girl bumped Amalya’s arm as she pushed her way past. Amalya rubbed her elbow.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry,” the girl said and continued on toward the dance floor.

Amalya let it slide. The bar was jammed with men and women all caught up in their silly little games, trying to get lucky or score some digits with lies and fake stories intended to make them sound more interesting. Petty bullshit, really. Of course, this didn’t stop her from wanting a piece of what they had, a chance to live a life she never wanted while she’d been alive. The life she took for granted as a teenager then pissed away. Stupid. And for what? A whole lot of nothing. She’d died afraid and lonely. Funny how your life could end in the presence of others, but you could still feel alone. It had been her own fault.

She squeezed in between two people talking and knocked on the bar top. The bartender down the way looked at her. His hand was on the counter and he felt the vibrations. He held up a finger. She nodded.

After a moment, he came over. Leaning forward he asked for her drink order. She had to yell so he could hear. He mixed her drink quickly, flipping the bottles in the air and spinning around. A real showman. Also annoying.

Standing at the bar she gulped the Blue Hawaiian then ate the cherries and pineapple.

The bartender eyed her. “That’s nine fifty.”

“Another.” She slapped the padding on the bar’s edge.

“Nine fifty.” He repeated, standing his ground.

What do I look like a thief?

“Yeah, and I want another.”

“Look, lady—”

“Just make me my drink, all right?”

The exchange caught the attention of a middle aged man on the stool next to her. She could only describe his skin tone as dark brown and his eyes amber. He handed a twenty to the annoying barman.

“Thanks,” Amalya said, then widened her eyes at the bartender.

“No problem. You look like you need the drink.”

And what is that supposed to mean?

She recoiled.
Prince Charming had beer breath and dirty hands. After a closer look, she saw his hands weren’t actually filthy but stained like he worked on greasy car engines all day.

A glass was placed on the bar in front of her. Without hesitation she poured the blue concoction down her throat.

“Hey, I’ll buy you another if you stay and chat with me for a while.”

Why the hell not?

“All right. But my drink first.” She rested her elbow on the bar.

Another bartender made her third cocktail. And way stronger. This time she sipped. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“What’s your name?”

“Amalya.” No reason to lie.

He stuck his hand out. “I’m Tanner.” After they shook hands, he dropped his eyes and his hand to the beer bottle resting on the bar.

She studied his profile as he swigged his beer. At one time he may have been considered handsome. Not that he wasn’t still semi-attractive, although with gray hair at the temples and smoker’s lines around his mouth, he appeared well-worn.

“Let me ask you something. Why would a guy like you come into a place like this?”

“A guy like me?” His brows knitted together.

“Yeah. I mean, you can’t tell me this is your crowd. It’s not even mine.” The stool next to her became vacant. Parting her invisible wings, she eased her butt onto the seat. She learned as long as she kept others from seeing them, people could occupy the same space they took up. But she still felt them and saw their translucent form.

“I missed my youth. I married young, had kids too young. Never let myself experience any of this.” He indicated their surroundings with a swoop of his arm.

Amalya could relate. Not about the marriage and kids, but about the choices she’d made. They had led her to share the same feeling as him. The same regrets. She nodded.

He glanced at her back. “I’ve never seen black ones before.”

“W-what?” Blood ran out of her face. She twisted a look behind her.

Tanner smirked. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Ducking her head, she scanned the area. “How can you see—?”

“Guardian angel. At your service. Well, not yours…his.” He pointed to the bartender who had insisted on payment for her drinks. A smile lit up his whole face and made his eyes sparkle.

“Really?”

“Uh huh. Weird right?” He chuckled.

Amalya sipped her drink. “How’d you get that gig?”

He sighed. “It’s an epic story. Involving my death, which I later learned was actually my murder. Bastard business partner. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I like to help people. Something I tried to do while I was alive.”

He leaned over and spoke directly into her ear. “What’s your story? Why the black wings?”

What was she supposed to say here?
I was a spoiled brat and lived my life like the world owed me something. Left home at sixteen because I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do then I turned criminal because I had alienated everyone who ever loved me and couldn’t go home. I was murdered and the Devil somehow caused me to grow black feathered wings. And everything was my fault.
Yeah, that ought to cover it.

She shrugged. “I fucked up everything I ever touched.”

“Ah.” He placed a hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze. The gesture’s effect was a reminder of how lonely her life had been. Tears stung her eyes.

“So how come you don’t have any wings?”

“There’s a long explanation. But really it comes down to me being born human. Simple.” Tanner flagged his bartender for another beer.

Then why did she have wings?
Oh, yes. That’s right. I was poisoned.

“Well, good luck with,” she swiveled her stool around and glanced up to the balcony glass walled VIP section, “that.” Her mouth hung open.

Holy shit!