Rising (10 page)

“He’s a handsome one,” Puma Mask says,
that chilling smirk in place. “You two an item?”

The unconscious angel who Milo and Rain handcuff
to the chair next to me is, in fact, not handsome at all. His body is short and
thick, and his face is comprised of a weak chin, heavy brow, and a nose that
looks like it was squashed on by a five-year-old. The only attractive parts of
him at all are his clothes, a tailored blazer and slacks, and a glinting Marc
Jacobs watch on his wrist.  

He groans and rolls his head.

Rain’s aura jerks as he steps back from
the angel. “Should he be coming around this early?”

Puma Mask shrugs. “They’re all
different.”

“Then let’s put another pair of cuffs on
him.”

Puma Mask frowns. “A pair on each wrist
is enough. They’re not
that
strong.”

“We don’t have any more cuffs. I told
you we needed more. Lots more,” Milo says.

“If I say two pairs are enough, they’re
enough,” Puma Mask insists.

I’m not liking this one bit. This angel
looks strong. Beneath his fancy clothes, I can see the outline of hard muscle. Rain
looks at me, and I see a reflection of my worry in his eyes.
Careful,
I
mouth to him. He frowns and looks away.

The lock pick burns under the sole of my
boot. All I need to do is pull my wrist out of the right cuff, grab the pick
from the floor, and disengage the single lock of the left cuff. I could do it
in under twenty seconds…if all my captors would be good enough to turn their
backs.

I can fight with the chair.
It’s heavy but manageable, and with one
hand free, I could swing it in front and use it as a weapon. But could I take
them all out without winning another tranquilizer? And what about…

The angel groans again. His hands flex,
and the skin peels away from his palms in an X pattern.
Crapola
. His
eyes open, and he looks around.

“Unnnnnnnnnhhhh,” he mumbles.

“Finch, upstairs,” Puma Mask orders. He
watches the angel rouse and bites his lower lip as his aura hums with those
sick greens.

“I…I want to stay,” the girl says,
though her voice clearly betrays apprehension.

“It’s not going to be pretty,” Puma Mask
assures her with pride.

“I know…I want to see…how you….” The
girl trails off. Her aura is pumping heavy shades of lust, and Puma Mask’s
cocky grin indicates that he is well aware of her puppy love.

“What the fuuuuuuuuuck?” the angel
groans and tugs against his cuffs.

“Someone needs to monitor with Bear,”
Puma Mask says. “Tiger, upstairs.”

“It’s Chain,” Milo spits back. “I’m not
doing the fucking code names. And I’m not going up. I can handle myself.” He
eyes Rain, like clearly if anyone should be sent away, Rain is the better
candidate.

I watch as red hues of anger lick at the
edges of Puma’s aura. I look again to Rain, wondering why in god’s name they
let the psychopath be in charge. Is this his house? Did he get the tranq guns
somehow? Did they just pull straws?

“Dissention in the ranks?” the angel
slurs, “That’s not good.”

“Go,” Puma Mask orders Milo in a voice
edged with petulance. Milo glances at Rain who shrugs, before flipping a middle
finger at Puma Mask and stomping up the stairs.

“A well-oiled operation you’ve got here,”
the angel says. The slur is quickly dropping out of his voice. I notice the
seams of his blazer stretching as he clenches his muscles. I quickly try to
catalogue all the possible abilities he could be getting ready to unleash on
the unsuspecting Totem members – fire, lightening, acid mists. Maybe he can
just cause people’s brains to explode in their heads. Gabe once told me about
an angel that spit gobs of burning goo.

Puma’s grin widens. “Oh, you’ll see just
how—“

The angel lunges against his restraints.
Finch lets out a cry, and auras flare with fear all around. I’m right there
with them, my breath hitching up in my lungs and my adrenaline spiking. Even Puma
Mask steps back.

The metal cuffs groan, but hold, sending
the angel slamming back into the chair, almost toppling it over.

“Boo,” he says and chuckles.

“Funny,” Puma Mask says. “I’ve got a
joke too.” He steps forward and punches the angel across the mouth. The loud
impact rocks the angel’s head back. Puma Mask smirks and shakes out his hand.

The angel looks back at him, all the
humor gone from his face. “I give back twice what I get,” he says, the
heaviness from the tranquilizer completely gone from his voice.

“Well that would be kind of scary…except
you’re chained to a fucking chair,” Puma Mask says, though he can’t hide a waiver
of doubt in his voice.

“Oh, am I?” The angel looks down at his
wrists, red and beginning to purple from his lunge.

Super strength, maybe it’s super
strength
, I think,
eyeing the bulge of well-defined pecs beneath the angel’s shirt. All angels
enjoy physical enhancements that easily match and sometimes exceed top human
athletes. Tarren explained once that certain angels develop extraordinary
physical capabilities beyond even this. I may be strong enough to flip over a
car, but if this angel is rocking some super strength beneath his blazer, he
could probably juggle sumo wrestlers without breaking a sweat.

The angel’s eyes sweep across the
assembly. “So you’re the big bad Vigils, huh? Look like a bunch of little
bitches to me.”

“Vigils, is that what you call us?” Puma
Mask is obviously proud.

No,
I think,
Vigils is what they call us.

“The interrogation,” Rain says to Puma
Mask.

“This is the interrogation,” he snaps at
Rain.

“Those masks. Very sharp,” the angels
says. “Got a good Halloween vibe going. Oh, and love the sweatshirt,
sweetheart,” he calls out to Finch.

Puma Mask lets another fist fly, this
time bringing blood to the angel’s lip. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t talk to anyone
but me.”

Ignoring him, the angel looks me over. “And
what exactly are you?”

“Just me,” I reply lamely.
Please
don’t let it be super strength. Please, please, please not super strength.
My
muscles are tensed, waiting for my brain to come up with a brilliant move that
will kill the angel, incapacitate the humans non-lethally, and get me out of
this basement without a reintroduction to the trippy land of Transqville.

Yeah, and maybe my coat, scarf, and guns
will be waiting for me at the front door too.
 

“Looks like someone mistaked your mug
for a punching bag,” the angel says as his brown eyes fearlessly rove my body. “But
the rest of you ain’t too bad. A little too human for my taste, but I can fix
that right up for you, baby.” He licks his thin lips. “If you say please.”

“This is my interrogation,” Puma Mask
says, clearly peeved. He cocks his fist back again.

“Is it?” the angel asks softly. He
lunges again, and this time the room fills with the screech of breaking metal.  

Fast. The angel moves so fast.

Puma Mask barks something unintelligible,
but the angel is behind him, those thick arms curled around his head.

A swift twist.

Loud crack.

Puma’s aura disappears like a torch
doused in a barrel of water.

I’m moving too, pulling my right arm up
and free from the unlocked cuff.

As Puma’s limp body crumples to the
carpet, the angel lunges at Rain, who gives a cry of alarm and struggles to
pull his gun from his holster.

The angel is on him, open palm
connecting to his aura.

Oh no you don’t, fucker!

I take two long steps forward, swing the
chair around with both hands, and slam it against the angel’s head.

The bastard collapses on top of Rain. Pain
flairs in my left wrist, cascading up my arm. I stumble back, the chair
dragging with me. Holding my cuffed wrist, I kick at the left arm of the chair.
Once, twice, each kick sending sharp, lacerating chords of pain from my wrist
to my shoulder. On the third kick, the arm of the chair comes loose, and I
slide the cuff out.

Adrenaline holds fear and uncertainty at
bay. Thoughts, regrets, and strategy can come back later. I need a weapon,
preferably a gun, in case the angel isn’t dead.

Rain untangles himself from the angel
and climbs to his knees. His face is as colorless as milk, but the angel didn’t
drain much from him. His aura is still strong, churning so fast and hard that my
thoughts scatter like a deck of cards caught in a tornado.
Hands.
I look
down, and yep, they’re pouring heat, open, and throbbing.
Damn.
No time
for this. I grit my teeth and force the skin to unfurl back over my palms,
pushing the feeding bulbs down into their chambers. They resist; my entire body
resists. So close to breaking.

Steady,
Tarren whispers in my mind.

I stalk over to Rain. He sees me coming,
makes it to his feet, and pulls his mask off. His brown hair is wild, and his
aura heaves with spectacular reds. He stands between me and the stairs.

“Go on,” he says in a husky voice.

I want to.
Oh yes.
Feeding bulbs
straining against the weak seams in my palms.
Control, control, control,
I
chant to myself.

I strike Rain – a fast, sharp blow to
the side of his head with the palm of my right hand, just as Tarren taught me.
It works beautifully, and Rain drops like a stone. I catch him, and for a
moment there’s nothing else in the world except me and his aura, all those
inflamed reds stroking my palms. The reds seep away, returning to a pure sky
blue.

Want to, want to.
The monster inside me purrs. I let him
down gently,
trembling hands,
and back away. My bones almost hurt for
that sweet energy.

Deep breath.  

I turn and look into the barrel of an
extended gun. A shaking gun.

Tears stream from beneath the girl’s
bird mask, and her whole body quakes as she presses the trigger on the gun
again and again. Her aura is a cloak of glowing red. It’s somehow appropriate
that fear, anger, and pain express as different shades of the same color.

“Safety’s on,” I say as I walk toward
her. “I used to make the same mistake.” The girl just keeps pressing the
trigger. I snatch the gun out of her hand. Her knees give out, and she slides
to the floor.

“See?” I click off the safety, point the
gun at the angel who is trying to push himself up off the floor, and shoot a tranq
dart into his neck.

The angel gropes drunkenly for the
tranq, tears it out, and then collapses backward.
Nighty night you bastard.
May angels kick thee in thy balls.

Another aura approaching.
Oh no you
don’t!

I swing the gun around and point it at
Milo. He creeps down the stairs, chain now wrapped around his knuckles.

“Good try,” I say. “Sit down, nice and
slow. I don’t want you breaking your neck on the stairs.”

Milo stops but doesn’t sit. His aura hiccups
with agitation, but his voice is calm and focused when he speaks. “One-on-one
combat, you and me.”

“What?”

“No weapons.” He drops the chain onto
the stairs. Behind the mask, his eyes are hard as black diamonds. Was he always
like this, or did Poughkeepsie good and truly ruin him?
No good deed…

“No.” I shoot a tranq into his chest.

He looks at the dart with disgust.
“Coward,” he slurs.

I run up the stairs and grab hold of him
as his knees buckle. My left wrist howls at the pressure of his weight, but
this is a good thing. The glowing coals of pain keep my focus away from his
aura. Okay, not away, exactly, but I get him down the stairs and on the ground
without snacking on him.

Sprawled bodies litter the basement room.
The only movement is the girl, who crawls slowly toward Puma Mask.
Okay,
okay, what next?
My veins hum with adrenaline, and my thoughts are all
cutting ahead of each other in line as I simultaneously try really hard not to
lose my shit.

I need to kill the angel, but there’s
still another Totem member upstairs who couldn’t have conveniently missed all
the sounds of chaos going on down here. He’s probably calling for backup or
loading up a double-barrel shotgun.

I nibble on an open wound in my lip and
realize how much I need Gabe and Tarren right now. Tarren would know what to
do, because he always knows what to do or at least barks orders so convincingly
that you’d never guess otherwise. And Gabe, he would be giving me a smile right
now and probably cracking an inappropriate joke, because he takes death and
danger just as seriously as everything else in life.

I’m going to mess this up. Actually,
already did. Someone’s dead. I taste blood on my tongue.
Damn.
I’ve
opened up my lip.

“Garret?” Birdy whispers as she gets to
Puma Mask. “Garret,” she says again and touches his hand.

I kick my brain out of its own pity
party.
Do something,
I think.
Just do something.
Anything.

The angel isn’t going anywhere, and
whatever smidgeon of fight Birdie had in her is gone. I need to deal with the
unknown Totem member upstairs. Decision made.  

My legs pump as I run up the stairs,
skipping three steps at a time. My ankle doesn’t like it, but takes my weight.
When I reach the landing, the basement fills with an anguished wail. I know
that terrible sound. I made it the night Ryan died. Three months ago, when
Gabe’s heart stopped while I drove in a mad rush to Dr. Lee’s cabin, I screamed
then too. Long. Loud. All feral animal.

For a moment I stop and listen, pressing
my hand against the wall to hold up my pudding-strong knees.
Move, dammit!
I
churn up more stairs, allowing my predator sense to roam. It locks onto a
strong aura on the other side of the house. I crest the stairs and move through
a small, clean family room. Very clean. My boots eat up distance as I pass a
brown couch covered in a sheet of plastic. Not a single speck of dust clings to
the blinds, which are closed tight against the world. The entire room is
perfumed with Febreze, and a line of collectible plates hang on the yellow
walls. Each plate features a picture of baby animals.

It’s disconcerting. Gun in hand, I make
my way past a basketful of kittens, a fuzzy chick with a bright red bow around
its neck, two baby lambs curled against each other, and a puppy and kitten
touching noses.

Bear
,
they called him. There was no
Bear’s mask in The Totem’s internet video. Maybe he’s a new member or was
holding the camera. I try to remember what happened in the alleyway this
morning. Is this still the same day? Hell, I don’t even know how long I was out.
I dig through my memories, but there are no Bear masks.

What if he’s their leader? What if he’s
waiting for me with a machine gun or is some kind of trained samurai warrior?

I have a vision of him preparing to kill
me, his muscles glistening as the overhead light kisses the steel of the katana
clutched between his expert hands. I hold my gun higher and take a steadying
breath. The pull of his aura leads down a narrow hallway filled with more
commemorative plates, this set featuring Catholic saints.

Whose house is this?

Three closed doors present themselves in
the hallway. God, this is like the world’s worst game show.
Behind door
number one was a lifetime supply of kitty litter, but you chose door number two.
Let’s see what you win --  it’s a guy in a bear’s mask waiting to spray you
with machine gun fire. Congratulations, and rest in peace!
 

I wonder briefly what it actually feels
like to get shot. Gabe says that if you’ve got enough adrenaline going, it
doesn’t hurt at first, but he only got nicked in the leg once.

I plaster myself against the wall next
to door number two, where the aura emanates. Saint Jerome hangs on the opposite
wall, holding up his hand in benediction. I only know he’s Saint Jerome,
because his name is scrawled in frilly cursive at the bottom of the plate.

You wouldn’t happen to be the saint of
not getting shot in the face, would you?

I take a deep breath, possibly my last,
and twist the door handle. I push the door open, and wait for the explosion of
gunfire or the hum of a katana cutting the air.

Nothing.

I exhale, loud and long, and stare at Saint
Jerome’s blissed out face before swinging around and sweeping the barrel of my
gun across the room. My target options include two large computer monitors
sitting on a desk, a sweating can of Diet Coke on a coaster, a big rubber
exercise ball leaning against the leg of the desk, or about a dozen plates on
the wall, each featuring a Thomas Kincaid painting.

I flatten against the inside wall,
hitting a god damned plate in the process, and point my gun at the closet door.
Not a very inventive hiding place, but I guess it was that or underneath the
red futon in the corner.

“Come out,” I say, “I’m not going to
kill you.” My voice sounds a lot steadier than any part of me actually is.

Silence.

“I can feel you. I know you’re in the
closet.”
God, the puns Gabe would be spewing if he were here.
I shake
the thought of my brother away.

If Bear Mask had a gun and intended to
use it, this is when the bullets would come ripping. I wince in expectation,
but all I get is more silence.

I try to make my voice sound stern, hard,
Tarren-like. “Don’t make me—”

“How do I know that you won’t kill me?”
a soft voice comes from behind the door.

“Hear that?” I ask. The girl still wails
below us in the basement, clearly audible even to human ears. “I didn’t kill
her.”

“She doesn’t sound happy though,” the
closet says.

“She’s not. The other angel, he killed
Garret.”

Quiet from the closet. Then, the soft
voice speaks again, “What about the others?”

“Alive. Unhurt. Just out of commission
for a while. Nifty tranq guns you’ve got, by the way.”

Another pause. I should just go in there
and drag him out.

“I told Garret,” the closet says.
“They’re too strong. Too unpredictable.”

“You were right. Come out.”

“That policeman in the alley….”

“I didn’t kill him either. I know that
sounds crazy, but—.”

“I know.” The closet door opens. I’m not
sure what I expect, but the portly, balding man is not it. Both hands are raised
in submission, and a plastic bear’s mask is shoved up on his glistening
forehead, revealing beady brown eyes and a plain, round face. He reminds me,
absurdly, of my high school math teacher.

“Why?” he asks eyeing the gun I train on
him.

“Seriously? You’re the ones who captured
me.”

“No, sorry, you misunderstand.” He
swallows. “You didn’t kill the policeman. I saw it on the cameras. You came
afterwards. I told Penguin and Puma, but none of them…”

“Cameras?” I glance at the computer
monitors. The screens are split into four tiles, each showing a flat, gray city
or suburban image. They almost look like separate video feeds. As I watch, the
tiles blink to different scenes.

“My questions is, why were you in that
alley, and why aren’t you killing us?” Fear is a heavy red stain in Bear’s
aura, but there’s something else too. Streaks of lime. I’ve seen a similar hue
in Tarren’s aura. I think it’s curiosity.

“We’re not all the same.”

“But you want to. Your hands.”

He’s right. My palms are open, still
glowing. I curl my left hand into a fist, hiding the mutation, but that doesn’t
change the pull of temptation. My legs tremble with it.

“Perhaps I have a conscience,” I say to Bear
Mask and wonder if he actually believes me, or if he’s just playing for time.

“Can I…” He lowers his arms. “Sorry, it
was getting hard.”