On Unfaithful Wings (32 page)

I quickened my pace, catching Dante and walking beside him, matching him stride for stride. He seemed taller than I remembered. Maybe he wore lifts but I’d heard about surgeries to make people taller, horrible procedures involving a trip to China, broken shin bones, and a lot of pain and money.

“Hi, sailor,” he said looking me up and down with an appraising glance. His voice sounded like a woman pretending to be a man, one area still requiring attention. “I’m booked right now, but maybe I can fit you in later.”

“That’s not why I’m here, Dante.”

His demeanor shifted. “Do I know you?”

“Once. A long time ago.” I put my hand on his arm to stop him walking, the firmness of the bicep under his shirt surprising me. “I need to talk to you. You’re in danger.”

“Don’t touch the merchandise. Step down, or you’ll be the one in danger.”

“Dante. Danielle--”

“That’s far enough, mister.”

I didn’t notice his hand dip into his pocket, but the cylindrical spray can he pointed directly at my eyes grabbed my attention. I held my hands out in surrender.

“It’s not me you’re in danger from.”

“Well, it’s me you’re in danger from.”

“Look, I’m trying to help.”

I shifted forward: bad mistake.

The rumors about pepper spray hurting like a son-of-a-bitch are true. And it blinds you. And it makes all the mucus in your head flee for the nearest opening. I heard the clop of dress shoes on sidewalk as he ran off, but he’d left me in no condition to do anything about it. Luckily, I knew where he’d be going. I wiped snot off my face with the sleeve of my coat and promised myself never to cook with cayenne pepper again.

By the time functionality returned and I trekked to the hotel--a much higher-priced hostelry than mine--no time remained to think about saving Dante/Danielle. And given the lack of conscience he’d shown assaulting me, I wasn’t altogether sure I’d stop it if there was.

I can be a vindictive S.O.B.

I crossed the hotel lobby’s polished floor without looking at the desk clerk, thinking if we didn’t make eye contact, he wouldn’t realize I didn’t belong. The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor took a few seconds, giving me time to ponder why superstition kept us from properly labelling the thirteenth floor of a building. Call it the fourteenth if you want, it’s still thirteen floors up. The elevator shushed to a stop and the doors opened, releasing me out onto new-looking carpet I’d call red but an interior decorator would give a more frou-frou name: crimson, vermilion, cardinal or the like. A brass plaque engraved with black numbers sent me down the hall to my right. Murphy’s Law: my destination was the last door at the end of a long hall. Halfway there, two men exited the room. They stopped, looked at me, then went the other direction, heading for a long descent instead of passing me to get to the elevators.

“Hey!”

I broke into a run. The men looked back, allowing me to see their faces.

Marty and Todd.

Seeing them gave me momentary pause.

How...? What are they doing here?

“Hey!”

They slammed through the stairway door leaving me to catch up. By the time I reached the door, several flights separated us, their footsteps echoing up to the fourteenth floor landing. I debated whether to follow, but a peek at my watch convinced me not to; only seconds remained before Dante expired. It’d be a bad idea to leave his soul behind for the Carrions, even if the bastard did assault me with pepper spray.

Like in every other hotel, the room door locked automatically. I leaned into it with my shoulder, but it didn’t budge. Other doors along the corridor cracked open, their curious occupants peering out to see the cause of the commotion. I resisted the urge to glare them back into their rooms, instead concentrating on opening the lock. It took a few seconds of focus before it clicked and I pushed into the room, away from prying eyes.

Dante’s spirit was already free when I stepped across the threshold. His naked corpse lay on the bed, blood seeping from dozens of wounds hastily carved in the shapes of inverted crosses and pentagrams in a way suggesting they’d been drawn for continuity rather than torture. I doubted Dante suffered. The same wasn’t true for the spirit which recently made residence in the now-mutilated body.

The ghostly figure stood before the mirror, shoulders slumped, tears streaming down its cheeks as it peered at the reflection of the female figure once trapped inside the earthly shell. I crossed the room to where Dante, now Danielle again, stood sobbing and put my hand on her shoulder. She shied away from my touch. When she looked at me, her eyes held a look of disconsolate sorrow. The scene was heart-wrenching--the dead body hastily carved, the soul’s tears--but through it, a nagging feeling nipped at the back of my mind the way an annoying puppy is always at your heels.

“It’s okay,” I said, the platitude sour on my tongue. “Everything will be all right.”

She shook her head, limp hair brushing scrawny shoulders. When she moved her lips to speak, they trembled like those of a child lost in a department store.

“Look what happened to me.”

I glanced at the body sprawled across the bed. The flat, hairy chest, and sculpted abs were the picture of manliness; the vagina below a disconcerting counterpoint. Half a dozen wounds seeped blood that soaked the white sheet the body lay upon. I turned back to her.

“It’s only your earthly body.” Impatience brewed beneath my facade of compassion. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Not that,” she snapped and gestured at the female form before me. “Look at me. I’m a woman.”

No shit.

I ground my back teeth together, fighting back the sarcastic response struggling to break free of my lips.

“You’re not anything anymore.” She tried to move away but I grabbed her arm. “We’ve got to go.”

She looked at her former body on the bed then back to the mirror. A shudder ran down her spine, and she resisted as I pulled her away, gently at first, then with increasing urgency. There were more important things to do than convincing a gender-confused soul to go on to the next life. Trevor still wasn’t safe.

The nipping at the back of my mind took a big bite and held on.

Why wasn’t Father Dominic here to kill Dante?

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” Danielle asked. I barely noticed she’d spoken as fear clamped down on my skull.

“Yeah, a long time ago.”

I led her through the door, into the hall. More doors opened and a few people stepped out into the corridor, so we went to the stairs Marty and Todd had fled down rather than passing the looky-loos on the way to the elevator. Danielle followed more easily, accepting her fate.

“Icarus, right?” she asked as we descended the first flight of stairs.

“Ric.”

“I knew I knew you.” My footsteps echoed down the stairwell, hers remained silent. We managed two more flights before she spoke again. “Why did the two men who killed me say to keep you here as long as possible?”

Panic and rage clogged my head as I raced down the stairs dragging the soul behind, each step teetering me on the brink of going ass over tea kettle.

A setup. They were after Trevor.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I dumped Dante at the address on the scroll--a hair salon this time, which seemed appropriate--and was about to leave to find my boy when the androgynous, near-albino angel spoke:

“Icarus.”

Its speaking voice was beautiful, enthralling. Never had my name sounded so good, but I didn’t have time for distraction.

“Another time,” I said over my shoulder.

The angel held his hand out toward me. “Gabriel left this for you.”

I considered leaving anyway, but the item he offered stopped me. He held a scroll in his hands. Another death.

Another delay.

“I can’t.”

I stepped through the doorway and bumped into the angel standing in front of me. I considered looking back to see if he might be twins but already knew the answer.

How do they do that?

“Take it, Icarus. Gabriel said it was imperative. That is why she gave it to me for you instead of finding you herself.”

I couldn’t afford another side trip with Trevor in danger. In the end, the angel’s tone made me take the scroll. I stared at the roll of parchment he placed in my hand and, when I looked up, he’d disappeared, Dante/Danielle’s soul gone along with him.

I unrolled the document, opening it far enough to reveal the looping letters written on the first line. The name they spelled out didn’t surprise me but brought tears to my eyes nonetheless.

Trevor.

The rest of the scroll opened much more hastily, so fast I fumbled it but held on. In a little more than an hour, at a familiar address, my son would die. Rae’s place was on the other side of town--easily a two hour walk or a complicated bus ride of waiting and transfers. The priest had accomplished his objective: ensuring I’d have little chance of arriving in time to save my boy. Rules and what is be damned, I would find a way to save this soul instead of harvesting it.

I found the nearest pay phone and dialed 911.

***

I struggled to keep my voice calm as I gave the 911 operator Rae’s address. When she wanted more information, I hung up, then worried she might not send anyone.

She’ll take me seriously. They take all calls seriously.

The engine of the ‘98 Intrepid I boosted roared as I weaved through traffic and roared through stop lights. Horns blared, but I ignored them, fighting to remain focused on reaching Rae’s. I tried to ignore the fact I had just called the cops on myself.

With five blocks remaining, I raced past a side street and a car lunged out and struck the driver’s side rear quarter panel of my stolen vehicle. I gasped a surprised breath as the impact spun the ass end of my car around one-hundred and eighty degrees. I hammered the brakes and the car squealed to a stop, the engine stalled. Frantically, I groped for the ignition out of habit, desperation making me forget I didn’t have the keys. My eyes flickered to my watch: fifteen minutes left.

I consciously slowed my breath to quell the panic rising in my chest and restore concentration to resurrect the engine. I wasted no time looking to see who or what hit me; it didn’t occur to me my ‘accident’ was actually an ‘on purpose’ until a hand came through the window.

Glass rained in, bouncing off my cheeks, and I threw up my left arm for protection. Steely fingers clamped around my forearm, wrenched me toward the window so hard I thought my arm might come off my body. Knees and shins hammered the steering wheel as my attacker dragged me through the window. I grabbed at the window frame, tried to hook my feet on the shifter, scratched at my assailant, all to no avail as my mind whirled, a mental clock ticking off seconds in my head. An arm looped around my neck and I thumped to the ground, tail bone hammering the pavement, the impact jarring up my spine. Through pain and desperate panic, through exhaust fumes and the smell of spilt gas clogging the air, I caught the aroma of moist earth and burnt toast.

Father Dominic.

Rage exploded in my chest. I planted my feet against the car door and pushed away with all my strength, sending us tumbling across the ground. He relinquished his chokehold. I let inertia carry me and rolled to my feet, crouched to pounce as the priest did the same. He squatted in front of me wearing the same clerical regalia and bloody smile he’d worn visiting me in jail, though his teeth looked to have been filed to points since then. Inside me, a spark of hope lit: with him here, maybe Trevor would be safe. If I kept him occupied, my boy might live.

Or, better yet, if I killed the bastard.

“It’s over, priest,” I spat channeling Arnold Schwarzenegger. “It’s time for your last rites.”

He laughed, a grating sound like rocks rubbed together in his throat.

“No, Icarus, it’s just begun.”

I launched myself at him; he dodged, catching me with an elbow to the back of the head. Stars twinkled in my vision, but I kept the rubber on the road and twisted myself to face him before he caused more damage. He leered at me the way a cat looks at a mouse before pouncing.

We came together, arms swinging. He caught me in the gut with a heavy shot but I countered with a staggering uppercut, allowing me time to gasp for breath. The roundhouse kick I pulled off next probably surprised me more than it surprised him. My heel caught the priest square in the mouth, sending a spray of blood and broken teeth from his mouth. When his head came up, the leer remained on his lips. He spat a gout of bloody saliva onto the ground at my feet then signaled me to bring more like Morpheus in
The Matrix.

He launched a surprise attack, coming at me in a flurry of fists and feet. I dodged and blocked, absorbing punches and kicks on my elbows and knees, brushing aside his blows. My breath shortened, grew ragged accepting his attack and returning the same. We grappled for minutes, my mind silently counting down to the time of Trevor’s death, hoping Father Dominic’s presence here would keep him alive. I didn’t care if the priest killed me; I’d give up this existence if it meant Trevor survived