Angel Fever

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 39

 

  Failure to comply brought Kara Mendez to mind; he scowled as the half-finished walls of the new Eden came into view.

  When it had come time to transport Kara to Salt Lake Eden, Raziel had, just as he’d planned, engineered things so that she could make a run for it. For if Willow and the others were still alive, why not let feisty little Kara lead him to them? If they weren’t, it would be simple to recapture Kara and present her to the Salt Lake hordes after all.

  Except that it hadn’t been simple – because her microchip hadn’t worked.

  He’d been in his Denver office when he got the news. “It what?” he’d asked, stunned.

  “It, um…appears to have malfunctioned,” repeated the miserable lackey at the other end. “She got away like you told us, but now there’s no trace of her. ”

  “How?” Raziel had demanded from between clenched teeth.

  “We don’t know. I promise, sir, we’ve had no problems at all with these chips before. It’s as if she was…was protected from it somehow—”

  He’d hung up, uninterested in pointless excuses. And scarcely an hour later, he’d authorized for that particular lackey to enter the general feeding pool. No point sheltering an imbecile.

  That had been over six months ago; no sign of Kara since. Not technically a defeat – hardly anyone knew he’d had her – but it grated.

  More than grated, it was unnerving: far too reminiscent of other things that seemed to be slipping from his control. There were definitely murmurs of dissent now from the other angels. Not many, perhaps, but enough to bother him, enough for him to keep Bascal’s force well-maintained and ready to defend his empire at a moment’s notice. Yet he did not want this to happen. For if there was civil war, then what exactly would he be left in charge of?

  It won’t happen – they wouldn’t be that stupid, Raziel told himself, and wished he believed it. He glided into the high, peaked roof of the newly completed church and changed back to his human self. He was now in a luxurious apartment of muted blues and golds, with an office adjacent. In every Eden, they completed the church first, with special quarters for him.

  He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He studied himself.

  Seven months after the Separation, he was finally getting used to the silence inside his head. But some angels had refused to try – the loss of their psychic connection on top of the Council members’ deaths had apparently been too much.

  Raziel had seen footage of one of the now-infamous “final parties”: a group of over twenty angels, at first simply enjoying a lavish gathering. Then they’d all stood in a circle, their shining wings touching, and one by one had stated their names:

  I am Vardan. I cannot live this way.

  I am Dascar. I cannot live this way.

  And at a given signal, each angel had taken a knife and reached for the halo of the angel next to them.

  There’d been dozens of these suicide parties; maybe more that Raziel hadn’t heard about. Cowards, he thought, his lip curling. He should have left them in the angels’ world to rot along with the dissenters – see how they felt about being separated when they realized they were slowly dying along with the ether. They’d have been howling before he even closed the gate, just like the abandoned angels who’d opposed him had surely done.

  He strode restlessly to the living room. The view featured cranes and bulldozers. No other angels yet – most stayed strictly to the completed Edens, still fearful to venture out unless in groups. When they weren’t feeding, many spent their time huddled together, talking and talking – fervently sharing their every thought in an attempt to recreate psychic closeness.

  “A little ironic, isn’t it?” he’d snapped at Therese when he’d discovered her in one of these sessions. “Before, we spent all our time trying to hide our thoughts from each other. ”

  Therese was beautiful, as all angels were, but now her eyes looked tormented. “I know you understand, Raziel… Don’t act like you don’t,” she whispered. “You’re as much an angel as any of us. Even if you pretend not to be. ”

  “I pretend nothing – and I’m a better angel than you,” he’d replied coldly. “At least I have enough pride not to wallow in this like a pig in muck. ”

  The demoralized angels were bad enough; the ones who muttered against him – who gathered in small groups that went silent when he appeared, their eyes hard and secretive – were even worse. Raziel had new, grudging respect for the human leaders of old; how had anyone ever managed to stay in power, not having any idea what those around them were thinking? Without knowing who to trust?

  His cellphone went off: Lauren. “Yes?” he answered tersely.

  Though Lauren had lasted longer than any of his other human girls, her voice was still weaker than it used to be. “Raziel, someone named Gallad called. There’s trouble in Mexico City. ”

  He frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure; it has to do with that Eden they built in Teotihuacán. He said to tell you they’ve found six more people like – wait, I wrote down the name. ” There was a pause; Raziel scowled out the window, tapping his fingers. Lauren came back.

  “Like Kara Mendez,” she said.

  Raziel stiffened. Mexico City. Kara was there. So was Willow. The puzzle pieces made no sense but seemed darkly ominous.

  “I’m on my way home now – call Gallad back and tell him I’ll contact him very soon,” Raziel ordered. The only phone network currently linked to Mexico was in Denver.

  The main roads between Illinois and Colorado were new and smooth; he made the trip as quickly as possible, blasting Prokofiev all the way – his own trick for combating the inner silence. When he entered his penthouse, a sunset was touching the Rockies with fire. Lauren stood waiting, her lovely face tired but relieved.

  “Oh, good, you’re back,” she murmured, wrapping him in a hug.

  As Raziel returned it, he was disturbed to realize how natural her body felt against his – her body, not just any human woman’s. He’d gotten far too used to Lauren.

  He stepped away. “Get me the phone,” he ordered.

  A brief conversation later, he was no more enlightened. Near the remains of Mexico City, an Eden had been built around ancient Aztec ruins, its residents the survivors from the Mexico City quake. Gallad had moved down there some months ago – one of the few angels who knew about Kara Mendez.

  “And you’re sure they’re like Mendez?” Raziel demanded, pacing the living room.

  “Well, they’re nowhere near as stoic, but they can’t be fed from and don’t seem affected by our touch,” said Gallad, sounding uncharacteristically shaken. “I guess we can’t really know if they’re resistant to being read psychically, though – since that particular angelic skill is so feeble now. ”

  Raziel ignored the implied criticism. “They haven’t just been marshalled somehow?”

  “No, it’s more than that. It’s not just that they’re unpalatable; they can’t be fed from. It’s as if we’re forcibly expelled when we try. ”

  Just like Kara indeed. Feeling a stirring of something almost like fear, Raziel stared out at the last sliver of sun. “Who are they, anyway? Did they have any connection with the Angel Killers?”