Читать книгу Nephilim - Mary Ann Loesch - Страница 6

4

Faye couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, little snatches of a dream flittering in and out of her subconscious. The part of her aware that she dreamed tried to push away the dark vignettes, but only succeeded in pulling herself further in to the seedy depths of another person’s mind.

Faye could never completely make out the face of the black-haired boy in the dreams, but she felt his emotions, heard his thoughts. There were times she caught a clear glimpse of his eyes, or the twist of his mouth, but other than that, his face remained a swirl of gray in her mind. She watched him prowl the city. The dark alleys and cross streets offered infinite places to become one with the shadows, and were as familiar to him now as his childhood home had once been. Of course there was nothing left of that old white house with its peeling paint and shoddy floorboards. He’d made sure of that. The fire that burnt the building to the ground had been magnificent to watch, and the sense of freedom that came with it–Faye knew he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

The knife kept him going. Faye watched him crouch down, pull the weapon out, and caress the blade. A tiny drop of blood welled at the tip of his finger. The boy examined it, fascinated when the crimson liquid pooled and fell to the ground.

“Momma,” he said. The knife had belonged to his mother, Faye was sure of it, and she knew the boy viewed the weapon as an extension of her. A little picture of the woman flashed in Faye’s mind–tall with weathered skin and oily hair the color of dishwater. Her lifeless eyes reminded Faye of a shark.

The boy held the knife with reverence and examined the bone handle. There were carvings deep in the surface, along with letters written in an unfamiliar language. He ran a finger over them, tracing their bumpy outline, and smearing his blood on the handle. It seeped into the pores of the bone, leaving no trace behind to mar the knife’s appearance.

The blade looked dull and dirty, but if flashed just the right way, it sparkled. One could almost hear it sing of the agony it rendered to those unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

He stood and swung the knife out at Faye, though she knew he couldn’t see her. She watched him pretend to battle an imaginary opponent for a few minutes before delving deeper into his mind. Faye tried to get a sense of who the boy pretended to fight, but his only thoughts were of his mother. He wondered how Momma had gotten her hands on such a special knife. After all, she was just a common killer with no sense of the greater picture. He could only assume it had been given to Momma to pass along to him when the time was right. Perhaps it had been a gift from his father. Shame the man hadn’t been around to teach him how to use it!

The boy had discovered on his own it could do more than just kill.

A man crept into the alley, staying just on the fringe of the shadows. Faye pulled a name from his head. Tom. Her heart quickened as she sensed his intentions–sex with the young teenager.

“Watch out!” Faye called, but her words were not heard in the dream. Helplessness planted itself in her stomach, a sick little flower that blossomed strong.

The boy turned and stared into the shadows before sniffing at the air. Urine, sweat and alcohol–Tom’s body odor gave him away, and he lumbered out from his hiding spot.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Tom stepped toward him. Faye’s heart beat faster, knowing the man lied.

“But I’m going to hurt you, mister, if you come any closer,” the boy said, brandishing the knife.

Tom chuckled and took a tentative second step. “Don’t make this hard. I hate it when they struggle.”

The boy lowered his head, but not before Faye had seen anger flash in his eyes. She shivered and pressed a hand to her mouth, as Tom, with an overconfident swagger, edged closer to the boy.

“I promise to be quick, kid.” Tom rested his dirty hand on the boy’s shoulder and Faye felt the bile rise in her throat. She wanted desperately to intervene, to step forward and break the confines of the dream. Her heart pounded louder, almost blocking the sound of the boy’s voice.

“Me too,” the boy said as he plunged the knife into the soft belly of the man before him.

* * * *

Faye gasped for breath. Damn. She hated those dreams. They’d been occurring regularly the last few months, but whenever she woke up, she couldn’t quite remember all the details. The boy always starred in them, though she struggled to remember what he’d been doing, or the contours of his features. Whatever happened in the dream, whatever sight she’d seen that caused her heart to race, would be erased from memory, though often the boy’s residual emotions would remain behind. This time wasn’t any different. Already the visions faded, but the sense of loss, of utter abandonment stayed. Or were those her own feelings? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Faye rolled over in bed and grabbed the little notebook on her nightstand.

Momma. She wrote the word down and circled it twice, knowing it meant something important. It was the key to…her mind struggled to make the connection.

“It’s the key to…” she said, her voice shaky.

The significance of the word would not come. Frustrated, she placed the notebook back on the nightstand and sank down in her bed. The morning traffic rumbled outside of her apartment on busy Lamar Street. A soothing, normal Sunday morning sound, she relished in knowing her shop, the Flower Pot, would be closed. It was definitely a perk of being self-employed.

The Flower Pot had once been an old gas station leftover from the fifties. Faye had purchased it seven years ago, seeing the potential in the abandoned location and its unique two-story design. It had taken some time, but now the run-down gas station with its curved arches and old-fashioned feel was a small thriving florist and plant nursery. Flowers bloomed in bright pots outside. The exterior of the building, once a mixture of whites and greens, had been given a cheery yellow makeover. Painted daisies grew all over the sides of the shop, intertwining with the business’ name printed on the front wall.

Faye escaped there, content to be one with nature, and satisfied her plant world would bring her peace. From time to time, loneliness crept in, but that’s what her stint at the Black Cat was for. Most people would see it as artistic release, not a cry of despair. Admitting to such a feeling would have been tantamount to asking for help. That wouldn’t do.

The small room above The Flower Pot served as Faye’s personal living space. Nothing more than a simple efficiency apartment, she’d done her best to create a soothing environment with soft brown and olive tones. The tiny kitchen and dining area appealed to Faye’s need for open space–no places for unwanted visitors to hide.

This morning, as the last remnants of the unsettling dream slipped away, depression twisted in her stomach, battling with the anxious butterflies that had made it home when she’d seen Azal in the audience last night. Her gaze flitted for a moment on the only picture she allowed herself to have out and then just as quickly, she glanced away.

She hated being spied on, manipulated. For seven years, she’d managed to fill her time with things that kept her from wondering too much about the Others, and with the exception of Azal, the other angels left her alone. Fine. She wanted solitude. Yes, there were times when the loneliness almost consumed her, but she didn’t need a bunch of pious hens cackling over her misfortunes, offering sage but useless advice. Speaking with Azal, agreeing to assist him in any way, was like opening the door for the rest of the angels. Would they start dropping in and asking for favors too? No way would she be going down that path again!

“Hell, no,” she said to the empty apartment as she got out of bed.

She started the morning routine–stretch, start coffee, find food not expired in the fridge–and forced her thoughts to focus on Nathan Ink. Tall and good-looking in a hard sort of way, she couldn’t help but admire the black, shiny rock star hair that swung loose and free at his shoulders. She pondered the tattooed line she’d seen running up from his chest and around his neck. What kind of tattoo would an angel have? And those big muscles–Faye wondered if angels worked out at the gym, or was that just the natural form of his mortal shell?

And what a sexy mortal shell it was, Faye thought, stirring her coffee.

His wary attitude gave her no clue about the real nature of his activities, which she was supposed to be checking on. Of course that was only if she chose to do so. Right now, that was feeling like a pretty big if.

A soft thud outside her door announced the arrival of the morning paper. She glanced at the clock and stretched again. Only six hours ago she’d helped someone cross to the other side of the veil. The after effects always took a toll on the body. She winced at the various aches in her muscles.

Faye opened the door and picked up the morning paper from the welcome mat, relieved the paperboy had managed to throw it up the stairs for once. Though winters in Texas were typically mild, barely getting below fifty, she didn’t relish walking down the cool steps in her bare feet to fetch the Statesman. Faye slipped off the plastic cover and skimmed the morning headlines. The slight breeze rustled her hair, and a scent, delicate and soft, tickled her nose. Her senses went on alert.

“See anything interesting?” Azal asked.

Faye turned back to the interior of her apartment.

“I thought I smelled shit,” she said, and pointed down the stairs. “Get out. I didn’t say you could come in, Azal.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Faye shut the door, frustrated. She moved about the room, snapping open the shades, which allowed light to flood the place. Azal stood in the center. Sunbeams gathered around his brown hair, giving him a glow that would have caused awe in most people. Faye had seen the show before, and while she might have still been impressed by it, she would never let Azal know that.

“Did you talk to Nathan?”

“Yes. I don’t know why you bother to ask. I’m sure you already know the answer.” Faye went into the small kitchen and opened the fridge. “Is this going to become a habit? Are you planning to drop in whenever you want?”

“I brought éclairs.”

She peered at him from over the top of the refrigerator door. “What kind?”

“Chocolate covered.”

“With custard or whip cream for the filling?”

“Whip cream, of course.”

“Okay, you can stay for a few minutes, but only because I’m hungry.”

“I figured as much.” Azal watched her plop onto the sofa and grab the box he’d placed on the coffee table. “I like your apartment. And your shop. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“I see you kept the MG. Your father loved that sports car. I remember when he bought it, how proud he was to drive your mother around in it.”

“Can we cut the small talk?” She didn’t want to think about her father and the MG. It had taken her a long time to stomach driving it again, the memories almost too much to bear at first. Faye picked up an éclair, and then offered the box to Azal. “You want one?”

“I need to know about Nathan. How did he seem to you?”

Faye bit into the sweet pastry, observing his body language. His shoulders were tense, and impatient energy crackled through him. “He seemed fine to me. I don’t know the guy, so I don’t know what his normal temperament is like.”

“Did you notice anything odd?”

“He’s an angel who tattoos people. Where should I begin?” At his small sigh of frustration, she continued. “He’s in the habit of glamoring things so no one finds his lair or his shop unless he wants them to, but that’s not out of the ordinary. Lots of earthbound angels do that in order to keep a low profile.”

“True. What about his shop then? Did you see anything there?”

“I didn’t go in, but I did watch him and an assistant finish a tattoo on a client.”

“An assistant?” Azal asked, and Faye could almost see his ears perk up. He sat down next to her. “Man or woman?”

“Woman. Young and black with long dreadlocks.”

“How did this customer seem when he left the shop?”

Faye bit into her éclair again, thinking back to Curt. He’d staggered on his way out of Hell’s Leak, and there had been that strange glow flickering just under his skin. Not to mention Heidi and the way she’d been drawn to Curt by his smell.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought something was different with him. There was this light that pulsed through his body, but when I followed him…well, he turned out to be some average guy with a hard-on for every woman he sees. I think I was just picking up on his pheromones. It happens sometimes.”

“The assistant’s name is Judith. She’s actually an apprentice, and we’ve been watching her closely for some time.” Azal leaned back on the sofa. Faye stole a quick glance at him, surprised to see sadness crinkling the lines around his eyes. On impulse, she reached up and smoothed out one of his curls.

“You’re tired. I’ve never seen you this bad off.”

His eyes closed at her touch.

“Everything has changed,” Azal said. “I loved you so much, Faye. I loved what was yours, and I’m ashamed that I lost them.”

Her hand dropped like a stone. An image of Chris popped into Faye’s mind, followed by thoughts of her parents. They were all gone. Dead. Doomed to be murdered when their protector was distracted. All a part of God’s plan. Her gaze flicked to the picture frame on her bedside table.

“I try not to think about what happened,” she said, getting up. “I try not to think about you or the other angels. I’m surviving.”

“Yes, you are. But are you living?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine.” Azal snapped his fingers, and the television clicked on to Austin Daily, the local morning news program.

“Police are still trying to find the man responsible for a string of murders in the central Austin area. If you have any information, please contact A.P.D at the number on your screen,” the newscaster said. “In other news, the body of a young man identified as Curt Brown, a student at the University of Texas, was found early this morning outside of a Fifth Street establishment. Authorities are still looking into the cause of his death, which has not been released at this time. Police say that foul play was not involved.”

“Oh, shit.” Faye felt the pain in her head grow worse. “Oh, shit. I should have kept following him. Maybe I could have saved him, or at least eased his pain when he passed.”

“But then you would not have been there to help Julie cross over.”

“You knew about that?”

“I sensed what was occurring.”

“You could have stopped it. You could have helped.”

“That was not what fate intended.”

“Fate? Is that your excuse this time? Are you sure you weren’t distracted again, caught up in the magic of the colors of a street lamp or something? No, that’s not it. You were probably staring at a candle in some seedy bar, entranced by the miracle of its little dancing flame. You’ve been around for thousands of years, Azal, and yet some things never change!”

“Faye, you know how our rules work.” Azal stood. “We can’t save people if their time has come, even if it comes about by what could be construed as unnatural means. Fate has written the cards for every person’s life the second they were born, and Julie’s moment had arrived. It’s unfortunate, and it was a terrible way to go, but at least she had you. You were fate’s gift to Julie.”

Fate’s gift? Faye shook her head. An old argument, one they’d had many times before, and Faye knew there was no way to win it. Her mind rebelled, feeling free will determined fate, but there was no point in saying that to Azal.

She watched him move to the window. The sunbeams swirled around him again, giving him the angelic glow artists so often tried to capture in paintings. “Curt is a different story. It wasn’t his time, but due to Nathan Ink’s interference, Curt’s life ended. I believe Nathan severed the connection on purpose, without regard to fate and the natural order.”

“Then why didn’t you stop that?”

“Because we couldn’t see it coming.”

“Are you saying God can’t tell what Nathan, one of his own special servants, is up to?”

Azal grew quiet, his face unreadable.

“Azal, you’re not telling me everything.”

“I’ve told you what you need to know for now.” Azal turned from the window. “I need your help. You see, Nathan is still relatively young to this way of life. He still finds certain aspects of being an angel…distasteful. He doesn’t play by the rules. The things his clients endure…”

“Like Curt? What really happened to him?”

“I want you to find out, but be careful.”

“He can’t read my mind. I’ve blocked him.”

“Nathan is powerful. Don’t forget that. I need to know more than ever where his loyalties are!”

The words echoed in the small room, and Azal crossed his arms, contrition on his face as if he’d given too much away.

“Why? Why is it so important? What are you not telling me?” Faye touched his arm causing a tiny spark. She knew Azal’s feelings manifested themselves in various ways. When he was happy, everyone got lucky–in one way or another. His anger could cause a room to go up in flames. But sparks, sparks were a sign of defensiveness. Or secrets he didn’t want to share. She stared down at the small scorch mark on her palm. “How worried should I be, Azal?”

“You can handle Nathan,” Azal stepped back. “And don’t worry. I’ll be close.”

“How do you know I can handle him? Have you seen my fate?”

“I don’t need to. You’ll be fine.”

He faded away, leaving a soft glow in the air. She breathed in the scent he left behind, reminded of her father.

Don’t go there, she cautioned herself. Focus on the here and now.

Faye wondered what would happen to Nathan if he turned out to be a rogue. What did God do to punish undesirable angels these days? Thoughts of her father pushed their way to the forefront of her mind again, and she remembered all too well how God had punished him. Would the same fate befall Nathan?

Would his soul be extinguished too?