by Jim Butcher
You have been chosen ...
Zeke looked around the small restaurant. All the tables around them were empty. The only other customers were seated at a bar, talking to the waitress. "You didn't hear that?"
Mary scowled at him. "Hear what?"
"You have been chosen."
"What are you? On crack?"
"Not yet, but I am thinking it might behoove me to find some, except that they make me take a urine test every other day for work, so no fun there."
"You're not right, are you? God, I hope that's not genetic since Duncan and I are trying to get pregnant."
"Again with the ick stuff. Stop!"
You have been chosen ...
Zeke growled at the voice. "And that means you, too. Damn. My life is bad enough. The last thing I need is to be schizophrenic."
"I don't know. Given your job, schizo could be fun ... 'No, lady, I didn't turn you down. That was the voices in my head telling you to shove that claim where the sun doesn't shine.'"
"I really hate you," he said with a laugh.
"I know. It's why you tried to feed me Drano when we were kids."
He shook his head at the memory. "Yeah, but you're the one who traded me for a wagon."
"You do know that when you turned sixteen, Mom told me that we should have kept the wagon."
"I've no doubt."
You have been chosen ...
Zeke raked his hands through his hair. "Call the shrink. I've lost my mind."
"Sweetie, you lost that a long time ago. Now eat your sandwich. The voices in your head are probably hungry."
Zeke rolled his eyes at his sister's curt dismissal. He'd just turned back to his sandwich when something that felt like an electric current went down his spine. It truly felt like a razor blade skimming his soul.
And something inside him raised up like the hackles of a dog. He turned toward the door at the same time a well-dressed man entered. Wearing a suit and tie, he looked completely respectable.
Cheats on his taxes and wife. Misappropriated funds from his clients earlier tonight. Beats his kids. Total douche bag. Will eventually spend ten years in jail for fraud. Damned to hell on his deathbed. Nothing will redeem him. His ego won't let it.
Zeke shook his head to clear out the strange voice that wouldn't let up.
"Richard Cheatham."
The man stopped next to him. "Do I know you?"
Zeke looked up and blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You just said my name. Do I know you?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did. You said 'Richard Cheatham.' I heard you." His dark blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "Did my wife hire you?"
"Dude, I don't know you and I have no idea what you're talking about."
Richard started to grab him.
Zeke caught his hand and whipped it around, twisting Richard's body as he rose. He held Richard against him while the man struggled and cursed.
Stunned, he glanced to Mary, who was as shocked as he was.
He released Richard, who scurried out of the diner. "What the hell was that action?" Mary asked.
Zeke had no idea. He didn't know how to move like that. How to defend himself. God knows his ass had been kicked enough in his life to prove it to him.
You have been chosen ...
Chosen for what?
"I don't feel good, Mare." He pulled out a ten and dropped it on the table. "I think I need to go home and rest. Thanks for coming with me." He didn't give her time to say a word before he bolted.
He quickly got into his silver Nissan, parked beside hers, and headed home. For the entire two-hour trip back, he kept waiting for the voices to return.
They didn't.
But his car radio was whacked out. The CD player wouldn't work and every time he changed the station, some weird-ass song would play. AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." "Hells Bells." "Evil Walks." Godsmack's "Releasing the Demons." Papa Roach's "Roses On My Grave." "What the hell is up with my radio?" Every single station had something weird to do with death, demons or hell.
"Well, I know this damn car ain't Bumblebee." For one thing, he'd been driving it for over nine years. If it was an Autobot in disguise, surely it would have transformed before now.
No, this was like one of those Twilight Zone episodes they showed on the SciFi Channel.
Maybe his voices had possessed his car. Yeah, right.
By the time he reached his house, he was really starting to freak himself out with psycho fears that the devil was after him or that aliens were about to pull him on board for an anal probe. His heart racing, he parked the car in the driveway and got out. Before he reached his door, the neighbor's dog came running up to him to hump his leg. "What in the world is wrong with you?" He pulled the dog gently from his leg, then ran like hell to his door. He fumbled for the keys while Tiny was trying to make time with his shoes. Opening the door, Zeke slid inside, then slammed it shut. The dog whimpered on the other side. "This is the weirdest day of my life." "Just wait. It gets stranger." Eyes wide, Zeke turned toward the deep, scary voice
Where Angels Fear to Tread • 247
behind him to find what had to be a man who was so beautiful he would have made a hot woman. Tall, thin and blond, he had eyes so blue they could only be called celestial. "Who the hell are you?"
"Wrong direction, actually. But my name is Gabriel."
Zeke tightened his grip on the doorknob, ready to bolt outside again. "And you would be in my house to ..." Rob me blind and kill me, was the thought in his head.
"Explain the weirdness that surrounds you."
Call the cops, Zeke. Now.
That would only be a waste of your time.
He gasped at the sound of Gabriel's voice in his head.
"You have been chosen," Gabriel said in that same spooky voice he'd been hearing.
"For what?"
"To be an avenger."
Zeke tried to open the door, but before he could, it vanished. Anger and fear mixed inside him. "Yo, Hotel California, I want my door back."
"And so it'll return once we have this settled."
"Settled, my ass. I'm not Emma Peel and I'd look like shit in a black catsuit. Find her for your avenger. Now let me go."
Gabriel tsked at him. "You can't fight your destiny, Ezekiel. Besides, you asked for this. We couldn't have fulfilled Michael's choice had you been unwilling."
Zeke swallowed as he turned around slowly to face Gabriel. "How did I choose this?"
"You asked for your life to change. You wanted to be special. To make a difference. Michael heard and so he chose you to be his replacement."
"Michael's dead."
Gabriel shook his head. "After all these centuries of fighting, he's retired. You're the new seraph who will take on his duties."
Yeah, the dude was on crack. "What duties?"
"To maintain the natural order of the universe. Good versus evil. We allow evil a certain latitude to fulfill its part, but whenever the demons take their duties too far, we are the ones who rein them in."
"Bullshit!"
Zeke ran for his bedroom. He slammed the door shut and locked it, then froze as he caught sight of himself in the mirrored door of his closet.
His short black hair was now snow white and long. His clothes were gone, replaced by a black shirt and pants and a long, full, black leather coat. Three spikes stood out on each shoulder and a red chain was wrapped around his left arm.
On his right hip was the cross hilt of a sword that looked like an ancient cross. As he watched the hilt in the mirror, the center opened to reveal two pale blue eyes and a small mouth.
"You can call me Jack."
Zeke screamed, ripping the hilt off and throwing it to the ground. He turned to run to the window only to find Gabriel there.
"I see you met Jack. Don't worry. Most people scream like girls when he does that."
"This is a whacked-out dream. I'm going to wake ..." He trailed off as "Jack" mutated from a cross hilt into a
large metallic man.
"All seraph have a minion and a guardian. I'm yours."
Zeke's head whirled at what was happening.
"Breathe deep before you hyperventilate," Jack said.
"What are you?"
"I told you. I'm your guardian and your minion. Anything you need that's metal, from transportation to weaponry, I can be. When you need a hand fighting, I look like this." He indicated his armored human form, then pounded his hand against his breast. "The best armor in the world. Nothing, except a handful of demonic weapons, can mar me."
Gabriel clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the fold, Ezekiel."
Suddenly something warm swept through Zeke. It felt as if his very blood was on fire. His breathing ragged, he turned back toward the closet. His eyes were a vibrant red and his face was every bit as perfect and ethereal as Gabriel's.
Zeke lifted his armored arm to make sure it was him.
It was.
"What about my job?"
Gabriel looked a bit sheepish. "There's no payment for being a seraph. Sorry. But you will have a whole new set of skills. Just wait."
That sounded ominous.
"And there's one more thing."
Of course there was. "And that is?"
"Michael notwithstanding, the average life expectancy for a seraph is ... two years."
Zeke laughed nervously. "Oh no, I definitely decline. You can take this crap and stick it."
Gabriel reached behind his ear and pulled out the coin
Zeke had taken from his uncle's house. "The minute you willingly took the medallion, you sealed your fate. You have been chosen, my brother. The only way out now is death."
"You're shitting me."
Jack clapped him on the back. "But on the upside, your seraph form will never age. And the only way to die is by a demon blade. As long you survive fighting them, you're immortal to the things that would kill a normal human. Think of the money you'll save on medical bills."
That was so not an upside.
Gabriel gave him a gimlet stare. "And there's one more thing."
"Neutering?" That would be Zeke's luck.
Gabriel grinned. "No." He snapped his fingers. An instant later, a black mist appeared by his side. It swirled into the small form of a raven. No sooner had the bird appeared than it exploded into the form of a tall, gorgeous woman with long black hair and coal black eyes. Dressed all in black, she was striking and tough. "Ravenna is also your helpmate."
"Oh yeah, baby." He reached for her, only to have her grab his wrist and flip him onto the ground, where he landed with a painful oof.
She wrenched his arm and put one perfectly spiked heel on the center of his chest. "Keep your hands to yourself or lose them." She pressed the heel in, making him grimace. "And don't call me 'baby.' "Then she released him and moved away.
Gabriel's eyes danced with humor. "Ravenna is your contact with the other side. She's also your eyes and ears, both to me and to Lucifer's posse. You guys get acquainted. I have duties to attend." He vanished.
"But—"
"There are no buts," Jack said, laughing. "You, my
friend, have been chosen."
Ravenna nodded her agreement. "Always be careful what you wish for. You just might get it."
Yeah, and in this one wish, Zeke had definitely been screwed.
A Very Special Girl
A Harry the Book Story Mike Resnick
I am reading the Daily Racing Form in my temporary office, which is the third booth at Joey Chicago's 3-Star Tavern, and coming to the conclusion that six trillion to one on Flyaway in the fifth at Saratoga is a bit of an underlay, as there is no way this horse gets within twenty lengths of the winner on a fast track, a slow track, or a muddy track, and I have my doubts that even a rain of toads moves him up more than two lengths. I conclude that this horse cannot beat a blind sea slug at equal weights, even if he has the inside post position. Suddenly a strange odor strikes my nostrils, and without looking up I say, "Hi, Dead End," because one whiff tells me that it is Dead End Dugan, who simply cannot hide the fact that he is a zombie.
He also is an occasional employee that I use when some goniff does not wish to honor his marker, and indeed he has just returned from Longshot Lamont's, where I had sent him to collect the three large that Longshot Lamont bet on Auntie's Panties to come in first, and indeed the filly does come in first by seven lengths, but she comes in first in the eighth race after she goes to the post in the seventh race thirty minutes earlier.
"So do you pick up the three large that Harry the Book is owed?" asks Benny Fifth Street.
"Of course he picks it up," says Gently Gently Daw-kins. "After all, he is half as big as a mountain, and is covered by almost as much dirt, and how much can three large weigh anyway?"
They immediately get into one of their arguments, Gently Gently saying that a three-thousand-dollar diamond weighs less than a cigarette, and Benny replying that it all depends who is manning the scales, and that his cousin is the clerk of scales at Belmont and has been weighing Flyboy Billy Tuesday in at 120 pounds every day for years, even though the Flyboy has not topped 108 pounds since eating some bad chili three years ago. This drives Joey Chicago, who has been standing behind the bar, wild, because he has been betting against Flyboy Billy Tuesday's horses all year, and now he learns that they've been carrying twelve pounds less than they should, but Benny points out that it's okay, because 108 pounds of Billy Tuesday is more of a handicap to a horse than 130 pounds of most jockeys, and Joey Chicago has no answer for this, so he goes back to cleaning the bar around Dead End Dugan, which requires cleaning every time Dugan moves.
"So does Longshot Lamont pay with a smile?" I ask Dugan.
He gives me that puzzled expression—he doesn't think as clearly as he used to before he became a zombie—and says, "I thought you wanted money, Harry."
"Money is even better than smiles," I say to comfort him, and because it is also true. "I trust you have it with you?"
"Well, I had it," says Dugan. I was going to say "says Dugan uncomfortably," but the fact of the matter is that nothing makes him more uncomfortable than being dead, which is a permanent if not a stationary condition.
"If you do not have it anymore, you had better tell me where it is and why it is not in my hand right now," I say.
"I am in love," says Dugan. "I meet the most wonderful girl this afternoon on my way back from Longshot Lamont's."
"Is this not a bit early in the relationship for an exchange of three-thousand-dollar gifts?" asks Gently Gently.
"Do not be so fast to misinterpret," replies Dugan. "This girl is just half a step short of perfection."
"Then she will understand that that was not your money to give, and she will be happy to hand it over to me," I say.
"Uh . . . that is the half a step I was referring to," says Dugan, brushing away flies that are starting to play field hockey on his face, as they always do when he stands in one place for a few minutes.
I decide to be the reasoning father figure, partially because I am a saint among men, and primarily because I have not yet figured out how to threaten a man who is already dead, and I say, "Tell us about this remarkable lady who has won your heart."
"She has left my heart right where it has always been," answers Dugan. "She is much more interested in my brain and my soul."
"I can't imagine why," says Benny. "You never use the one, and you are no longer in possession of the other."
"She is kind of a collector," explains Dugan, and it is the first time in my life I ever see a zombie swallow uneasily, or swallow at all, for that matter.
"What does she collect, brains or souls?" asks Benny, who has a healthy curiosity about such things.
"I get the impression that she is not all that choosy," answers Dugan.
"Where do you meet her?" I ask. "I am passing Creepy Conrad's Curiosity Shop, and I see her through the window, nibbling on a little snack in a feminine way, and it is love at first sight."
"What kind of snack?" asks Gently Gently, who at 350 pounds and counting has a serious interest in such things.
"I cannot see through the window," replies Dugan, "but it is wiggling its tail just before she swallows it."
"But she swallows it in a feminine way," I say, though my sarcasm is lost on Dugan.
"Yes," he says. "She is just beautiful. And very precise. Why, she drains an entire fifth of Comrade Terrorist vodka and does not spill so much as a drop."
"I figure the tail accompanies both ears of whatever it was as a prize for her feminine appetite," says Benny.
"She should skip the Olympics and go pro," adds Gently Gently.
"Does she eat anything else we should know about?" I ask.
"Like what?" asks Dugan.
"Like small children," I say. "Or even big ones."
"You are speaking of the woman I love!" says Dugan heatedly.
"I am speaking of the woman who is holding three large that belongs to me," I say. "Maybe you should introduce me to both of them."
"Both?" asks Dugan.
"Your girl and my money," I say. "I will take it from there."
"All right," says Dugan. "I am dying to see her again anyway."
"Poor choice of words," notes Joey Chicago from behind the bar.
"But you have to approach her gently, Harry," continues Dugan, ignoring Joey's unfeeling if accurate remark. "She is a sensitive thing and takes offense easily."
"I will approach her so gently she will hardly know I am there," I assure him.
"She will know," he assures me. "She is very perceptive." He pauses. "I think it is the extra pair of eyes."
"She has four eyes?" I say.
"At the very least," says Dugan.
"Has she got four of anything else important?" asks Benny, suddenly interested.
"She comes equipped with all kinds of extras," says Dugan. "This is why I have fallen in love with her. She is unique, even among women, who are all unique, each in their own alien way."
"What kinds of extras?" I ask.
"Teeth," says Dugan. "Claws. Eyes. Tails. Well, it is only one tail, but compared to everyone else it is extra." "I cannot argue with that," agrees Benny. "And how many women can lift an entire car?" says Dugan proudly.