All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (7 page)

Two inches of
fluffy powder crunched under my feet and billowy clouds hung over
the city threatening more. By the time I reached the park, it was
criss-crossed by tracks marring the winter wonderland, but a layer
of untouched snow covered the bench next to the pond. I cleared a
spot for my ass and sat down to commune with the ducks, the bag of
bread I’d bought on the way dangling in my hand.

My banishment had
precluded me from visiting the place where Father Dominic took
Sister Mary Therese’s life. I stared out at the pond, the
ducks amending their paths toward me, and felt thankful I’d
gotten the Sister in time; I couldn’t have forgiven myself if
the woman who’d been so good to me—to everyone in the
world—went to Hell because I was a vindictive prick.

I shifted on the
bench and felt snow melting through my pants as I looked over my
shoulder at the near-empty park. No one was in the meadow rolling
balls of snow into Parson Brown yet: too early in the year.

I shouldn’t
be here.

The police would
likely consider me the prime suspect in the death of Detective
Williams. I didn’t care. Soon, I’d be gone to Hell to
reverse what I’d done. Somehow.

And I might not
come back.

Heart brimming with
remorse, I leaned forward and tossed a chunk of bread onto the
webfoot-trampled snow at the edge of the pond. Three green-headed
drakes and two brown females flapped and quacked to retrieve the
food. The sound reverberated in my aching head.

One more
excellent reason not to drink.

This spot was
Sister Mary-Therese’s favorite, feeding the ducks one of her
most-loved pastimes. Whether the ducks survived the winter without
her donations didn’t worry me—I was here because feeding
them made me feel connected to her, so I threw another piece of
bread despite my hangover’s protestations. My choices for
connection were lacking these days, so feeling connected to
someone—even someone dead, even ducks—seemed
particularly important.

A tiny avalanche
started in the upper limbs of the ancient willow over-hanging the
pond, the tumbling snow collecting and growing as it sieved through
the lower branches. I looked up and saw the flutter of wings amongst
the latticework of branches, but couldn’t see the bird causing
the disturbance. I squinted, shielded my eyes, and saw movement in
the top of the tree; about a dozen birds had taken up perches high
in its branches. Their presence lifted my mood as I sensed someone
on the bench beside me.

Gabe.

I faced her, happy
to have someone to talk to, though her arrival meant another scroll,
another death, more work. When I saw the woman seated beside me, the
greeting tickling the edge of my tongue died an early death.

Instead of Gabe’s
pixie-cut gingerbread hair, golden eyes and freckles, the woman
beside me wore her black hair long and straight, framing her blue
eyes and pale cheeks. A stud shone below her lower lip and part of a
tattoo that looked like it might be the end of a dragon’s tail
coiled around the top of her bare arm. I didn’t know who she
was, but her lack of warm clothes on a chilly day told me what she
was.

“
Hi,”
she said smiling.

“
Who
are you?”

A bird perched in
the tree squawked as if chastising me for my lack of politeness. The
woman didn’t take the same offense and extended her hand.

“
Piper.”

“
Piper.
As in--”

“
Like
the Pied Piper. I’m not too fond of rats, though. Or
children.”

“
And
you’re an--” I glanced around to ensure no one was
within earshot. “An angel?”

“
Oh,
see? They said you were a smart one, and they were right.”

In spite of the
sarcasm smothering her words like an excess of butter on a slice of
toast, a blush came to my cheeks.

“
Why
are you here?”

She leaned back,
one arm draped across the back of the bench, and gazed into my eyes.
I couldn’t have looked away if my clothing was on fire.

“
They
sent me.”

“
They
who?”

“
You
know...them.” She raised her eyes skyward.

My eyes flickered
toward the billowy clouds, then back. She didn’t mean the
clouds, I was pretty sure. No surprise there; only one question
remained.

“
Why?”

“
To
watch out for you. They feel your current guardian isn’t doing
the job well.”

My heart jumped.
“Poe?”

“
Right.
Poe.”

“
I
don’t understand.”

She admired her
manicure, keeping me in suspense a few seconds. I leaned toward her,
drawn in like a boy scout waiting for the scary part of the campfire
story.

“
I’m
not in the know on this sort of thing, but I’ve heard rumors
she’s not always there for you.”

“
That’s
ridiculous. She’s my guardian angel. She’s always there,
watching over me.”

“
Yeah?
How did life go for you?”

“
Well--”

“
Mmm
hmm. And what about when the priest died?”

“
She
was there when I went to harvest Father Dominic.”

A knot formed in my
gut: guilt and worry and now suspicion, too. If this kept up, my
future surely involved an ulcer.

“
Yes,
she was.”

I opened my mouth,
fully intending to mock her for her ludicrous accusations, but her
expression showed no sign of jest, no hint of putting me on. I
hesitated, thinking about what she’d said.

Why didn’t
Poe make sure I took his soul? She could have prevented everything.

The knot expanded,
forcing itself through my midsection, constricting my chest. I
wanted to look away from the woman, maybe turn and run from her
words, but the way the light glinted on the stud below her lip held
me rapt. She waited for me to speak but my reeling mind failed to
remember a stitch of the English language, so she carried on.

“
Frankly,
whenever she’s there, things go awry. Isn’t it odd
Carrions show up to so many of your harvests?”

I felt my forehead
crease.

“
I--I
never...”

My words ran out. A
few birds perched in the tree took to the air around the willow,
then settled back in. Sometimes I’d thought Poe wasn’t
the best guardian angel, but I assumed Carrions always showed up
when someone died, assigned to the case like me.

Piper leaned closer
and spoke in a whisper. “You know she’s been to Hell,
don’t you?”

“
She’s
hinted about her past, but--”

“
That’s
why she won’t help. It’s also why I’m here.”

I stared at her a
few seconds, my insides twisted with emotion and confusion. Poe
never seemed to intentionally wrong me and always appeared to have
the best intentions. I’d grown to like her in spite of her
penchant for always doing what Mikey said. But what this Piper woman
said made some sense. Some.

“
What
do you mean ‘it’s why you’re here’?”

A bird fluttered
out of the tree and landed on her shoulder; it was of similar size
to the swallows which accompanied Gabe, but lacked the color.
Instead of a dazzling blue-green back and white breast, this bird
was a uniform black with a sharp beak, like a miniature raven. It
eyed me; I expected it to utter a tiny ‘nevermore’.

“
I’m
going to help you rescue your friends.”

I shook my head to
clear whatever clogged my ears and made me hear her incorrectly. The
guilt and worry bundled in my gut loosened in favor of a nervous
excitement.

“
You’re
going to help?”

She nodded.

“
Why’d
Mikey change his mind?”

“
Don’t
know.” She shrugged and the bird bobbed up and down with her
shoulders. It let out a peep of protest and she reached up to stroke
its head.

Curiosity begged me
to pursue this line of questioning, but I stopped myself. Why look a
gift angel in the mouth? I’d already found archangels were at
least as fickle as my ex-wife.

I stood and the
bird on her shoulder took to the sky. The others in the tree
followed.

“
What
do we need to do?”

“
Nothing
now.”

She stood and I saw
she was only three inches shorter than my six-foot-two. The snow
where she’d sat hadn’t melted, yet when she touched my
arm, it gave me the same electric charge as when other angels
touched me. The feel of her touch differed slightly, hurt a little.

“
Meet
me at the church at five.”

She walked away,
ducks waddling out of her path as she went. I didn’t need to
ask her which church, there was only one church in my life.

And it was only a
few weeks ago I’d caused its destruction.

†‡†

I gaped at the
sight before me as I approached the church. I’d seen pictures
on the news, but the grainy, off-color image on the cheap television
in my motel didn’t do justice to the wreck left in the wake of
an archangel MMA brawl.

Yellow police tape
encircled the church grounds, torn bits of it fluttering in the
wintery breeze like a wind sock at a community airstrip. Beyond, the
church was unrecognizable as a house of God. The explosion created
when Mikey and Azrael clashed had toppled the steeple and knocked
over three of its outer walls, leaving only the south-facing one
standing. Incredibly, a stained-glass window in the wall remained
intact, its depiction of the virgin Mary whole and untouched. I’d
heard about this on the news, too; media and church officials called
the window’s survival a miracle and it had become almost as
popular as the image of Jesus burnt into a grilled cheese sandwich.
Even at dinnertime on a Wednesday, the sidewalk nearest the stained
glass image was jammed with people beseeching the virgin to solve
their problems. They huddled inside their snow jackets, some with
their faces turned Heavenward, some with their heads hung in prayer,
others holding candles.