Archangel Evolution (21 page)

“Unfortunately, you did not win the grand
prize of ten thousand dollars, some lady in Brooklyn did. Oh, you
should have seen her face, the surprise, the delight. Some days I
just love my job!” David was laying it on so thick that he almost
threw up in his own mouth.

“How much cash?” the guy repeated. The
skepticism had washed completely from his face, and every muscle
was tensed, as if focused on the tiny piece of information related
to what else?—money!

“Like I said, you didn’t win the first prize,
but you did get second, sir, which is quite an accomplishment. I
mean second out of all those thousands of entrants, it’s something
you should really be proud of…”

“How much!?” the man growled, truly believing
his life was about to be changed.

“Five thousand dollars,” David said
proudly.

The old guy’s jaw dropped to his knees.
“Five…,” he trailed off. Suddenly snapping his mouth shut like a
mousetrap, he said, “Give it to me.”

David reached in his pocket and extracted the
clip of crisp hundred dollar bills that they would be using and
reusing to set traps for their victims, and started to hand it to
the man. Just before the bills reached his outstretched hand, David
pulled back sharply. “Wait, I totally forgot. My gosh, I can’t
believe I….Of course, we need to verify some information, to make
sure we’re giving the money to the right person.”

The man’s face fell, like he already knew
that there had been some mistake, that the money was meant for
someone two houses down, someone more deserving than him.

David said, “Okay, first question: Do you
live at 45…”

The man’s eyes lit up. “45 Berkeley Street?”
he said.

“Yes. Berkeley Street. Number 45. That’s your
place?” David said, motioning behind the man.

“Yes, my place. Well, mine and my
wife’s.”

“Okay,” David said. “As long as you can
confirm that you live here, then you’re the winner. Do you have a
rental agreement or even a phone bill that proves you are living
here? You know, something that we can come inside and take a look
at?” David marveled at his innate ability to lie so smoothly, to
invite himself into the man’s home and yet make it feel like it was
the right thing for the guy to do.

“Yes, yes. Come inside, please. My wife takes
care of all the finances; she’ll be able to show you
something.”

Although the man looked creaky, old,
arthritic, he practically leapt up the stairs and shot through the
door, yelling, “Marta! We have company! Get out the bill
register!”

For the first time since they left the bench,
David turned around to look at his followers. He smiled at them. It
was time. Their expressions were indifferent, but he sensed a
challenge beneath their casual stares. Perhaps Lucas had won the
argument. He would be ready for them.

David led the way up the stairs and into the
man’s home. Once Cassandra and Lucas were inside, he closed and
locked the door.

His sword released a dull glow when he
unsheathed it. There would be no screams to hear. Day or night
didn’t matter.

A
fter watching
Little Rocky—who was now Big Rocky—train for an hour, Kiren and
Taylor grabbed a bite to eat. They talked nonstop the entire time.
It was good getting to know Kiren. They seemed to click on many
different levels. The conversation had drifted to family when
Taylor’s cell phone rang.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Clifford here. I’ve called a meeting. It’s
time to begin your mission. My office—ten minutes.”

“I’m with Kiren,” Taylor said.

“Bring her, too,” he said.

She hung up and Taylor relayed the
information to Kiren. They hurriedly finished their lunch and five
minutes later were on a transporter to the tunnel wing that housed
the Elders’ offices. Clifford’s was the last one. The door opened
before they reached it.

“You’re late,” Sam joked.

Taylor said, “Have you been assigned to this
mission, too?”

Sam laughed and said, “After doing time in
angel prison, I think I would prefer a few weeks of R&R, but
definitely put my name down for the next one.”

The three girls entered the office, in which
Chris already sat, facing Clifford. Sam had been invited because
even if she wasn’t, Chris would tell her everything immediately
after anyway. And Clifford liked her.

Although Taylor had been in Clifford’s office
several times before, for some reason she had never really looked
around much. After spending time with Kiren, she felt
contemplative. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, looking for clues
that might give her some insight into who the head of the demon
Elders really was.

Like most places in the Lair, the room was
dark, lit only by a dozen candles. It smelled of dust and old book
pages, which made sense because there were wall-to-wall bookshelves
on three sides. Each shelf had a thin layer of dust marred only by
gentle scratches where books had been removed. There was clutter
everywhere; evidently Clifford never threw anything out. A bronze
world globe on one shelf, a model ship in a bottle on another.
There were no photos or artwork.

The warm brown desk separating Clifford from
Taylor and her friends was the only clean surface. It was currently
being used only as a rest for Clifford’s folded hands, and a
support for Sam to lean her elbows on.

Taylor realized the others had already
started talking. Clifford was saying, “…no word yet, but they
haven’t been gone long. We expect to hear from them in the next
couple of hours.”

Taylor intuited that it was Gabriel and
Sampson he was referring to. She wasn’t sure whether no news was
good news.

Clifford said, “Shall we talk about your
mission?”

“Do you still have this crazy idea that you
are going to participate in it?” Chris asked.

Clifford smiled. “I know what you’re
thinking. Old Clifford has lost his head, he’s having a midlife
crisis and wants to do something adventurous.”

Chris said, “That’s exactly what I was
thinking.”

“Well, you’re wrong. For one, I am way past
the middle of my life, so if anything, it would be a late-life
crisis.” He paused to laugh at his own joke. Then he said, “Second,
without me, you have no mission. You have no bait. It would be like
throwing a hook in the water and hoping to catch a fish.”

“There are other ways, sir. Dionysus is
probably dying to get his hands on Taylor, too. She could be the
bait.”

“Not anymore. Now that she’s become an
angel—and an unpredictable one at that—and he has managed to evolve
his New Archangels, he has no need for her. No, he wants me more
than anyone else. I am going to do this.”

Taylor said, “Okay, Clifford. We’ll do
whatever you ask of us.”

Clifford sighed. “I know you will. And I know
I will be in good hands—the very best actually. That’s another
reason I feel this is a risk worth taking. Is everyone with
me?”

The question was directed at both Chris and
Kiren, but Clifford’s eyes never left Chris’s.

Kiren immediately agreed, but Chris just
stared back at him, as if he was trying to use telepathy to change
Clifford’s mind. After thirty seconds, Sam said, “Of course the
stubborn one agrees too, don’t you?”

Finally breaking his stare, Chris said, “Yes,
but I do so under strong advice to pursue another course of
action.”

“Noted,” Clifford said rigidly. “Now, for the
plan.” He rubbed his hands together rapidly.

For the next forty-five minutes, Clifford
explained his proposed plan. Chris made recommendations for
improvements several times, each of which Clifford readily
accepted, but the overall nature of the plan remained unchanged.
Clifford would contact Dionysus under the guise that he was tired
of fighting and that he wanted to face him once and for all.
Although Taylor didn’t believe Dionysus would go for what felt like
the oldest trick in the book, Clifford assured her he would be able
to convince his angel counterpart. Once the fight started, Taylor,
Chris, and Kiren would rush in to help him kill Dionysus. They
fully expected Dionysus to have plenty of backup, in the form of
the New Archangels, but at least he would be temporarily exposed
and they would have a chance to take him out. Chris and Kiren would
try to hold off the Archangels while Taylor went after
Dionysus.

Once every last detail had been agreed,
Clifford adjourned the meeting and promised to contact them once
the timing had been set. The foursome left together, hoping to find
an open pool table so they could waste away the day.

U
nbelievable. It was
a call that Dionysus had always hoped to receive, but never
expected to. For years Dionysus had tried to lure Clifford out, but
he had always declined, using important words like leadership and
duty as excuses for his cowardice. While he knew his demon opponent
was spineless, he also knew that he wasn’t stupid. Which meant that
this would be a trap. Clifford was playing on his pride and lust
for revenge in an attempt to get him out in the open. But Dionysus
was fine with that, because it would force Clifford out into the
open as well.

He finally had a chance to cut the head off
the demons, and he wasn’t about to waste it just because of some
pathetic demon trap. After all, he would have three of his New
Archangels with him. He considered calling the other three back to
Headquarters, but decided against it. With David and the other two
assaulting New York and Dionysus killing off the head of the demon
Elders, his enemies would be stretched too thin.

He had taken the call in his room, where he
had been admiring himself in the mirror. He turned his attention
back to his naked reflection—his evolved perfection. The time of
the humans had passed; the time of the demons had passed; even the
time of the angels had passed; the Archangel Evolution had begun,
and it wouldn’t end until they ruled the earth.

G
abriel checked his
watch again, for the tenth time that afternoon. 4:30—another ten
minutes had passed, slowly.

After they had raided Martin’s
refrigerator—building triple decker sandwiches with roast beef,
ham, turkey, and all the salad fixings they could possibly
want—Gabriel and Sampson had listened to Martin work the phones. At
one point he had three phones going at once, a feat that even the
most capable executive assistant would be in awe of.

Anytime Gabriel tried to ask how it was
going, Martin said, “Later, later, my boy,” and shoved another bite
of sandwich into his mouth before dialing another number. At around
4:45, Martin hung up one last phone and said, “It’s done.”

Gabriel had long since finished his lunch and
had resorted to picking rye seeds out of his teeth with a toothpick
to pass the time. Sampson chose to spread out on the couch and read
a classical music magazine for about two minutes before passing out
with the reading material on his face. His light snoring buzzed the
pages with each exhalation.

Gabriel shook his friend, who said, “What?
What?” as he scrambled back into a sitting position, the periodical
flapping wildly to the floor.

“What’s the plan?” Gabriel asked.

Martin said, “Midnight. It’s the earliest I
could get. Babysitters have to be lined up, night-workers need to
call in sick, arrangements must be made.”

“That’s fine. Who?”

Martin smiled. “You did come to the right
place, Gabriel. About seventy-five percent of the adult angel
population in New York will probably be there. That’s New York
state, not city.”

Now it was Gabriel who was smiling, ear to
ear. Sampson, still groggy, was blinking rapidly as if trying to
come back to reality from some dream world that continued to flash
before his eyes. Gabriel said, “Uncle, you’re a miracle
worker.”

Martin said, “No, Gabriel. This was nothing.
The real miracle needs to happen tonight.”

Gabriel nodded solemnly. “It will, Uncle. It
has to.”

T
wo strokes and the
lucky prize winner and his wife were dead. The geezer was rummaging
through an old file cabinet, presumably looking for proof of
residence, when he was killed. The wife had been making some tea.
Neither made a sound—David caught them well before they hit the
floor. It was professional, precise, easy. And it was fun—for David
anyway. In fact, he enjoyed it immensely. The other two just
watched like a couple of useless piles of crap.

On the way out, David said over his shoulder,
“Lucas—call 9-1-1. We need to report a crime.”

“Do it yourself,” Lucas retorted.

David stopped, still inside the old guy’s
apartment. Here it came. The coup de` etat. Turning around slowly,
David said, “Must I remind you of the chain of command and the
penalties for not following it?”

“Screw the chain of command,” Lucas said.
“We’ve got our own rules. It’s based on seniority, so I’m in
charge, with Cassie second.”

David’s eyes narrowed. Although the two
standing before him had evolved, like him, they were messing with
destiny. And everyone knows you can’t mess with destiny. As a
distraction, David started to say, “I suppose we could work
something—” and then with incredible speed of hand—faster than any
pickpocket, or card-hiding cheat gambler, or magician with a
renowned disappearing act—he extracted his sword and backhanded it
at Lucas, who stood a few feet away.

Lucas reacted quickly, grabbing his own sword
hilt, but it was too late. David’s sword pierced the skin on
Lucas’s left breast, leaving only the silver hilt in view at the
front—David assumed at least half the blade-end of the weapon was
now protruding from Lucas’s back. By the time the blade had pierced
his once-upon-a-time master, David had already moved in its wake;
he was now close enough to grab the handle once again.