On Unfaithful Wings (26 page)

“Now what?” she asked as I stepped past her into the corridor.

“I don’t know.”

I headed for the door, passing a row of empty cells; apparently I was the main attraction on an otherwise slow night. At the far end of the hall, a uniformed cop slouched behind a desk in a room with transparent walls--the guy responsible for unlocking cell doors and watching the prisoners. Drawing closer, we slowed until it became obvious he wasn’t simply one of those sleepy cops every escaping convict hopes to bump into. Even from a distance, I saw the streaks of red on his cheeks.

“Shit.”

We stepped up to the glass wall, stared at the ragged, upside-down cross carved on his right cheek. The markings were crooked and messy, hastily done, not meticulous like the ones carved in Phil’s flesh. His body emanated a faint glow as the soul residing within clung tightly to the last vestige of life. The glow flickered and dimmed to almost nothing as we watched. Poe grasped the door handle, closed her eyes for half a second, and pushed it open.

“He’s still alive.” I grabbed his wrist looking for a pulse, not sure exactly where to find it or why I bothered. Perfect, now my fingerprints were on this victim, too. “But not for long.”

The words were barely clear of my mouth when his body quivered. His final breath exited his lungs, spattering blood on my shirt, and then the man died, a victim of wrong place, wrong time. I held my breath, waiting for what would come next. After a couple of seconds, a figure emerged from the cop’s body and my jaw fell open: a girl, perhaps sixteen-years-old, stood before me.

“What the hell?”

“It happens sometimes,” Poe whispered like she didn’t want the spirit to hear.

“Damn it. We have to get out of here. I don’t have time to baby sit her, too.”

The girl looked at Poe then at me and finally down at the corpse she’d vacated. The look on her face didn’t show the surprise or shock one might have expected.

“I’ve been wanting to get out of there for years,” she said.

“It’s over now,” Poe said, touching her shoulder. “Everything will be fine soon.”

“If we can get out of here,” I muttered. “There must be dozens of cops on the other side of the door.”

“Eight,” the girl said.

“What?”

“Eight cops on the other side of the door.” She looked at the white-faced clock on the wall near the desk. “Shift change is in forty-five minutes. There’ll be more then.”

“Good, only eight guns waiting to shoot me.” I faced Poe. “Any ideas?”

“I think so.” She took a step toward the cops body. “I haven’t tried this before, though.”

“No time like the present.”

With the demonic version of my childhood tormentor looking to make my adulthood a living Hell before killing me, I was willing to give anything a go. Poe grabbed the girl’s hand and led her to the deceased cop.

“One last time.”

The spark deep in the angel’s eyes flared as she sat on the cop’s knee and pulled the teenage spirit onto her lap. The three of them melted together, features blurring and running like different colors of candle wax captured on a plate. I watched, mouth open and breath held. I didn’t imagine that when I said I’d try anything. The mish-mash rectified itself back into the cop, his face free of carvings, cheeks clean of blood. His eyes fluttered open and I stumbled back a step. I let out my breath.

“Poe? Are you in there?”

The cop nodded and pushed himself up out of the chair, lurching to his feet like a marionette controlled by an over-excited kindergartener. After a second, his legs steadied and he straightened his uniform, zipped his jacket to hide the blood stains on his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

The cop, Poe and the teenage girl spirit, stacked together somewhere inside the body like a cheerleading pyramid gone awry, all ignored me. They pulled a pair of handcuffs from the cop’s belt and tossed them at me.

“Make it look like you’re wearing those.”

I did what they said, flicking the cuffs onto my wrists in front of me but grabbing the open ends in my fingers, hiding them. It wouldn’t take much effort for someone to see they weren’t closed.

“Stay close.”

My guardian angel and her new friends pushed a button on the dead cop’s control panel, waited for a buzz to sound, and opened the door to the squad room. I gritted my teeth tight together, trying to control my nerves as Poe pushed me through and followed close behind. Everyone in the room looked at us. I counted seven pairs of eyes.

Where’s number eight?

“He took a nasty bump on his head.” The animated cadaver’s voice sounded more like the cop’s must have, but Poe’s voice sing-songed under it, a precious whisper. “Taking him to the hospital.”

She steered me through the room, fluorescent lights buzzing in the silence as the cops watched us pass. No one said a word. Surely this wouldn’t normally happen. Paperwork would have to be filled out when moving a prisoner, a process followed, so I assumed Poe’s influence must be involved. Perhaps I’d have to rethink my assessment of her performance in the guardian angel department. The tired cop in the rumpled suit wasn’t among the cops in the squad room, or whatever they actually called it. When we reached the doors to the foyer, Poe used the dead cop’s finger to punch in a code and open it.

“I’ll make sure no one follows,” she whispered into my ear. “Don’t worry about the girl, I’ll take care of her. Go on. I’ll meet you later.”

I nodded, slid my wrists out of the handcuffs and put them in my pocket--you never know when a pair of cuffs might come in handy. I burst through the doors and ran past the reception desk leaving Poe and her hijacked body behind.

“Hey. Stop!” Cop number eight.

He’d have to get out from behind his bullet-proof-glass encased reception desk before he’d be any threat, so I ran through the main doors into the chill night and galloped down the concrete stairs to the street. The cool air refreshed my lungs after the stale air of the jail cell and the unsettling odor of the dead priest, revitalizing me. The feel of it in my chest buoyed me enough to actually think I’d made it until I heard a familiar-sounding voice.

“Stop,” the man roared above the sound of passing traffic. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the tired cop, his .38 service revolver levelled at my back.

Why didn’t you go home?

I moved like I was going to raise my hands and surrender like a good little perp, then plunged into the street in the path of an on-coming car, thinking of the Carrion pinned between two cars and wondering if the same could happen to me. I banished the thought; if I put myself amongst innocent bystanders--innocent by-drivers--the cop wouldn’t shoot and risk hitting the wrong person. I reached the sidewalk unscathed and came close to gaining the intersection, planning to dart down the cross street, when a bullet slammed into my shoulder, throwing me off-balance.

Cocky bastard.

I kept my feet and lurched around the corner, slamming head first into a guy who would have asked me for change if I didn’t run him down first. My shoulder throbbed, but I stumbled on, zig-zagging between the smattering of pedestrians, keeping them between me and my pursuer. I rounded every corner, tipped newspaper boxes over in my wake. The toy store where I’d dropped Alfred’s spirit was the only place I could think of to go, but it was a long way.

I don’t think I can make it.

Cold air tore at my lungs, shortening my breath, and my pace faltered. Blood ran down my arm, dripped from my hand; each drop hitting the ground felt like it flowed directly from my head, robbing me of energy. The world wavered and tilted. A block ahead, someone waved at me, gesturing for me to come to them. Without any idea who it was or what their intent, I blundered toward the person. A few feet separated me and the person before I recognized Poe. I collapsed into her arms. She scooped me up like a child and carried me through a doorway as the gray at the edge of my vision spread, stealing my sight.

***

I opened my eyes to bright, silver-gold light and nothing else. Warmth filled my body but brought no sweat to my brow--a comfortable warmth, like curling beneath a duvet sharing body heat with a loved one on a stormy night. A long time ago, it would have been Rae beside me, but not anymore. Despite the warmth, I shivered a little; the last time I saw nothing but light, I was dead.

“How do you feel?”

The voice belonged to a man, but the words were so melodious and soothing, they might have been sung by a choir. I blinked, squinting to see past the light, to no avail.

“Who’s there?”

The radiance dimmed, stealing more of the warmth with it. The outline of a man formed amidst the shine, an indistinct shadow resolving into a kind face framed by curly brown locks as the room’s illumination returned to normal. The warm comfort disappeared, forcing me to concentrate in order to keep my teeth from chattering.

“My name is Raphael.”

“Of course it is. Where are the other ninja turtles?” I moved to sit up, but my body would have none of it. “Where am I?”

“You are safe.”

“That’s not a place; it’s a state of being.”

My neck refused to move my head, so I settled for peering around the room. File cabinets and shelves lined the walls, and white cardboard boxes with lids like businesses use to store receipts and sundry items until enough time has passed to be sure the tax man won’t ask for them anymore. A store room, maybe the back room of someone’s office. I glanced back at Raphael. Other than hair color and style, the guy was a dead ringer for Mike and Azrael.

“How are you feeling?” His voice sounded more like a normal man’s with the light faded.

“Confused.”

“That’s not a feeling; it’s a state of mind.”

“Touché.” I tried to wiggle my fingers and failed. “Actually, I can’t move.”

“I know. Do you feel any pain?”

It took a moment to figure out how my body thought I should answer. My muscles screamed to move, my stomach seemed unimpressed with the entire situation, but no pain.

“I’m uncomfortable, but nothing hurts.”

“Good.” Raphael stood from his spot at my side and with him went a pressure I hadn’t noticed pushing down on me, holding me in place. This time, my fingers wiggled satisfactorily. “You should rest for a few hours. After that, you will be fine.”

“No time.”

I pushed myself to a sitting position and regretted it. My head spun the way it used to when, as a kid, I’d crouch down and hyperventilate, then stand quickly to make myself pass out. I must have been seven--my first instance of doing anything possible to kill off useless brain cells, but the safest and least addictive by far.

“Rest. Michael won’t be happy if anything happens to you.”

“I can’t rest. People are in danger. You’re an Archangel, can’t you do better?”

“Some things need time to heal them.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

Poe brushed hair off my forehead, startling me with her touch. I hadn’t noticed her crouched at my side. She offered a paper cup full of what was no doubt water rather than the shot of vodka I’d have preferred, putting it to my lips. Not until the cool liquid hit my tongue did I realize the thirst burning at the back of my throat. I gulped and gulped, drinking more water than the little cup could possibly hold, and it didn’t run out until I finished. When I swallowed the last drop, she took it from my lips.

I looked around the room: only the two of us remained.

“Where’d Raph go?”

Poe looked over her shoulder and didn’t seem surprised he was gone. “Probably off to help someone else. He’s like that.”

“Hmm.” I held out my hand. “Help me up.”

“But Raphael said you should--”

“Help me up.”

She hesitated before slipping her hand around mine. The feel of her supple flesh, her soft, smooth skin hinted little at the physical power hidden within. Her touch may have held the same tingling sensation as the other times she’d laid hands on me but the weight of what lay ahead and the intoxicating residue of Raph’s presence made me too distracted to notice. She pulled me up in one smooth movement, my knees popping, hips screaming in agony. I’d have tumbled back to the floor if she didn’t catch me under the arm.

“This isn’t a good idea, Icarus.”

“Ric, damn it.” I wobbled but managed to find my balance, then pushed her hands away. “Everyone I know is in danger. I have to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know who the killer is.”

“Who?”

I peered into her golden eyes, the twinkle in them convincing me she knew the answer. “Father Dominic.”

“I was afraid of that.”

I’d have preferred a different reaction: a surprised ‘what?’ or maybe a ‘look what you did.’ ‘I was afraid of that’ made me suspect everyone else knew better what was going on than I did.

“You thought it might be him?”

“The deaths were too targeted. Sometimes Hell sends spirits back in more human form to release more souls.”

“And by ‘release more souls,’ you mean kill people.”