Angel Born

by Brian Fuller

  She wiped both her eyes, hands trembling. She was terrified. Dawn was almost broken. It was time to tell her.

  “Well, about hearts,” he said. “I’ve got a little gift for you.” He reached down and out of his pocket pulled the heart he’d been carrying around for half the day. Her heart. “Here you go. You’re not going anywhere. Happy birthday.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But . . . how. Whose heart . . .?” Her eyes shot wide, and she yanked his shirt up, revealing the extraction cuts.

  “No!” She shrank back, hand over her mouth. “You . . . the purse . . .”

  “Look, if I don’t make it, tell Tela I got reassigned to Madagascar or something. Tell Dolorem I’ll see him soon. Let’s see, tell Lear his only white son couldn’t stay out of trouble. And tell Terissa Corinth is a great guy and I approve. Oh, and tell Faramir to shove it.”

  The phone in his pocket sounded the dawn alarm. Ten more seconds.

  Aclima flung her arms around him. He wrapped her in his. Her embrace was crushing, as if she thought squeezing him hard enough would make his body stay put.

  “It was supposed to me, Helo,” she cried. “Why? Why did you do this?”

  “Find me if you can,” he said. “Bring the cards.”

  The alarm on his phone rang in the dawn. A wash of white light filled his vision, and he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Avadan the Magnificent

  Rapture spilled out of him more quickly than usual, and when he came to, he knew why. Someone was Desecrating the floor on which he lay. Lay was a generous term. He was crammed in a tiny bathroom on his side, his torso near the toilet and his legs half in a shower so small only one person would fit in it. The door was shut, but the red glow of desecration stretched into the room from whoever was generating it outside—a red carpet welcome meant for Aclima.

  The desecration brought his senses back to life. Without it, the cold linoleum floor wouldn’t have registered to his Ash Angel body, nor the corner of the shower digging into his shins. The weak light barely tinted the skylight above him, and vibrations from the floor jostled him with the steady thrum and bump of tires on pavement. The Dreads had dropped his heart in the bathroom of a travel trailer. He shifted and hauled his naked body upright and found an old cardboard box on the modestly-sized sink.

  “Good morning, Mother!” someone said in a theatrical male voice from outside the door. “As you can see, your favorite son has afforded you some privacy. Isn’t that nice? While I’ve seen a great deal of the human body in my time, I couldn’t bring myself to see my own mother naked. You’ll find a box with the unfortunate clothing the Ash Angels gave you. Really, really sad. No sense of fashion whatsoever.”

  Helo’s mind spun. Avadan had come to see his mother—or been assigned to. Maybe Jumelia had passed the task of dealing with Aclima to him. This was an opportunity, but with the desecration running, his Bestowals were useless. If he could use his Strength to pop Avadan in the face . . .

  He pulled the box flaps open, finding all the clothes Aclima had worn for her meeting with Jumelia, including the shirt. The shirt with the tracking device! He pulled it out. All the buttons were undone, and he began frantically snapping them together.

  “Nothing to say, Mummy dearest?” Avadan joked. He spoke with an odd accent, like someone who had learned British English from the 1800s as their second language. “It’s been such a dreadfully long time since I’ve seen you. Get it? DREADfully long time? No? I am trying to remember if you ever had a sense of humor. You always seemed like such a bitter cucumber back in the early days.”

  The buttons were all done up, but he had no way to know if the transmitter was working. He guessed sixteen hours had passed since the Dreads thought they had absconded with Aclima’s heart. With that much time and travel, he doubted the Ash Angels were in receiving range, but it was worth a try.

  First things first. He had to get out before Avadan discovered his mother was not in the bathroom. Helo stood on the toilet to get out of the desecration field, relieved as his numbness returned. The skylight was too small to climb through.

  “Really, Mother,” Avadan said. “You must say something, even if it is something nasty. I long to hear your melodious voice say those vulgar words you so often reserved for my tender ears.”

  He couldn’t risk a fight with Avadan. A Dread Loremaster had all the advantage. Helo scanned the bathroom. There had to be something he could use, but he came up empty.

  “Mother!” Avadan said, irritation underscoring his words.

  Helo probed the trailer walls. They were thin. If he couldn’t climb out, he could bust his way out. But how much Strength should he use? Like the cockpit door of the Dreamliner, he would just have to guess, and this time he wasn’t going to guess low.

  He pulled in his Virtus, toes gripping the edge of the flimsy toilet seat, and launched himself at the wall of the travel trailer, shoulder first. Plastic and insulation gave way, exploding outward. His body made it halfway out, hanging awkwardly, wind slapping the back of his head and shoulders, his butt and legs still inside. The trailer lurched hard to the side and began to fishtail along the tree-lined road.

  Squealing tires and the undulating trailer whipped hard to the left and then turned over, taking the truck off the side of the road. Helo pushed with his arms, flinging himself free. The trailer disintegrated and the truck slid onto its side and slammed into a tree with a horrendous crunch.

  Helo hit the pavement butt first and rolled awkwardly, flesh scraped and peeling as he bounced and then finally skidded to a stop. He popped to his feet. They were on a lonely stretch of some two-lane highway, dense trees and hills on either side. His left arm hung out of socket, shoulder feeling a little soft.

  His legs were intact, though, and naked as the day he was born, he bolted into the underbrush. Flaps of skin bounced around on his legs and back. If Avadan could Desecrate the ground again, his injuries would howl like he had been dipped in a vat of saltwater.

  Motivated to avoid that fate, he powered into the forest, pushing through the snagging undergrowth and punishing fir branches. He had no destination other than away from the road. Deadfall and thickets scored marks into his skin, clawing branches and unseen rocks hidden beneath the leaves tearing up his feet.

  “Mother!” Avadan shouted from somewhere behind him. “You really shouldn’t have made this so hard. I don’t enjoy a nice walk in the woods like Admah, you know. Why don’t you stop so we can have a nice little chat?”

  Helo froze and listened. A stream up ahead gurgled happily in the lonely forest at dawn. If he could get to it, perhaps it might cover the noise of his passing. Twigs snapped, and leaves crunched behind and to the left of him. From time to time the footsteps would speed up to something abnormally fast and then just as suddenly slow. Avadan or someone else was using Speed. How many Dreads had been in the truck pulling the trailer?

  As quietly as he could, he pressed forward, trying to find clear ground to set his feet on and finding the task nearly impossible. No one had walked these dense woods, maybe ever, and scrubby trees crowded in around thick, mature trunks as if to deny him passage almost everywhere he turned. Footsteps still dogged him from behind, though they came less frequently now.

  After a quick jog through a low thicket, he found himself at the edge of a shallow stream that had carved a curved path along the forest bed. Shrubs and tall grasses clogged his view of it, but a wide, charcoal-colored rock created a small landing on the other side of the water.

  He backed up and then ran forward to take the jump, aiming for the space between two low bushes. Just as he planted his foot to take the leap, a red desecration field spread beneath him and his wounds lit up like fire. His jump turned into a stumbling flail, and he landed, right shoulder first, on the rock on the opposite bank, grateful the desecration field didn’t extend across the stream when he felt his collarbone snap in half as he rolled.

  A glowing Dread landed behind him, and the desecration burned
across the small clearing, sending Helo spasming to the ground, the scrapes and breaks in his body howling. He fought the pain, trying to clear his vision. Another red aura was there, but his pain was so bad he couldn’t focus on it.

  “Well, Mother,” Avadan’s said, tone light, “it appears the sex-change operation went well . . . though perhaps not as well as the ladies might have liked. Snippety snap him if you wouldn’t mind, Hawk.”

  As had happened in the Hammer Bar and Grill, Hawk snapped Helo’s arms and legs with rough hands and booted feet until his limbs were useless. Thankfully, Avadan extinguished the desecration field and the pain faded away.

  Helo craned his head, trying to get a good look at his attackers. Hawk was a thick brute with a bald head and each ear pierced several times with hoops and dark metal studs. He wore thick work boots, jeans, and a black leather jacket.

  Aclima had described Avadan as unstable, and from his looks, Helo could believe it. It looked like he had woken up and gotten dressed while forgetting what century it was—several times. As Avadan took a seat on a nearby rock, he pulled a velvet top hat off his head, revealing a greasy blue baseball cap underneath. He had on a tie-dye shirt and a Scottish kilt along with a long brown leather coat an old-time cowboy might have worn. On his left foot was a moccasin, and on his right a Converse high-top sneaker.

  “Well, well,” he said, crossing his legs and resting his top hat on his knee, “hard to forget someone like Helo, now, isn’t it? Or shall I say Mr. Trace Evans? I must confess I’m a bit disappointed not to see my mum. Family: it’s about time, you know?”

  Helo wondered how he knew his real name, guessing Cain had told him, but he was still trying to understand the man’s wardrobe. He could see Aclima in the Dread Loremaster’s face—a handsome one with a neatly trimmed beard. But the thing that really set him apart from any other Dread Helo had encountered were his eyes. There was no hardness, no world-weary jaded stare. His were the eyes of a child, a Dread who really enjoyed who he was and what he was doing.

  Avadan opened his mouth to speak again when another Dread ran up and leapt over the stream, round face questioning as his eyes fell on Helo’s broken form.

  “This ain’t Aclima,” he said with a thick Southern drawl.

  Avadan regarded the new Dread balefully. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. What’s the situation on the road, Lee?”

  “Trailer’s all tore up,” he reported.

  “You don’t say?” Avadan continued, eyes mischievous. “Is that why I had to crawl out of its rubble? The truck, Lee. I need to know about the truck. Will it run?”

  “Totaled,” Lee reported. “Big mess up there.”

  “Well, Lee, get back up there and be a nice injured driver,” Avadan ordered. “Have Hawk bust your arm up and cut on your face a bit to make it look good. Tell the cops you were alone.”

  Lee looked crestfallen. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, Lee,” Avadan said, pulling his kilt over his knee. “If the state troopers find an accident with no victims, they might start combing the woods looking to see if the driver wandered off in delirium. Now run along, please.”

  Lee walked over to Hawk, who pulled a knife out of his back pocket and opened it up. After a few breaks and knife gashes, Lee looked like a crash victim or the subject of a brutal scuffle in a back alley.

  “Don’t forget to bleed, Lee,” Avadan called after Lee as the downcast Dread jogged back toward the road. Avadan watched until he was out of sight before pulling a cheap wristwatch on a golden chain out of his long leather coat.

  “You know,” Avadan said after replacing the watch, “there is one more act in Cain’s play entitled ‘Punishing Helo’ before he actually wants you dead. We weren’t supposed to get to you just yet, but your little heart switcheroo with Aclima has put an interesting wrinkle in Cain’s plan.” He stood up. “That means I have to make a phone call.” He fished an old-model flip phone from another pocket. “How I hate these things. So impersonal. I shall return. Hawk, go ahead and get his heart out in case we need to move.”

  Avadan and his bizarre outfit tromped out into the wilderness as Hawk retrieved his knife.

  “Avadan is crazy,” Helo said. “Why do you follow him around? Are you his faithful little dog?”

  Hawk flipped his knife, and the blade flashed out. “Shut up, Trash Angel.”

  Hawk knelt, and Helo could only watch as the Dread gashed his abdomen open and stuck his hand inside. Avadan’s parting instruction to Lee reminded Helo of something, an act of defiance practiced by both sides. He willed his body to bleed, and after Hawk yanked his forearm out of Helo’s chest, his arm, hand, and jacket were stained and dripping with blood.

  Hawk stood, pocketed the heart, and kicked him in the head. Helo felt his neck snap with the force, but a broken neck was just a minor inconvenience at this point.

  After mumbling gruffly under his breath, Hawk went to the stream to wash, accompanied by the wailing of emergency-vehicle sirens somewhere near the road. Helo hoped the button transmitter would do its job, though even if the Ash Angels managed to find him, twenty-four hours later, he would end up with Hawk and Avadan again.

  Avadan strolled back into the clearing. Helo couldn’t move his broken neck to adjust the view, getting an eyeful of Avadan’s legs.

  “Can we kill him?” Hawk asked. “Stream’s right over there.”

  “Dear me, no,” Avadan answered. “Cain would be furious. You know how Cain is about a plan. He simply must have it just so.”

  Hawk grunted. “How much longer you gonna take orders from him? I say we kill the Trash Angel and get back to the prison.”

  “Loose lips sink ships, Mr. Hawk,” Avadan returned in a singsong voice. “Now, Helo . . . but, oh, dear, your neck is snapped. I believe you only have a view of my shoes. One moment.”

  Avadan walked off and returned a few seconds later with a rock, which he shoved under Helo’s cheek to tilt his head up.

  “Much better,” Avadan proclaimed as he retook his seat and returned the top hat to his knee. “So, you’ll be happy to know Cain doesn’t want you disposed of before he does his final act, though I believe he is powerfully angry at you for cheating him out of Aclima again. I think he rather hoped to resume marital relations again with her soon. Well, I’ll let him take that up with you. But I do have a question for you. Were you surprised when your adulterous wife became an Ash Angel?”

  Helo’s eyes widened. How could he know that? It was impossible. He kept his mouth shut.

  “And that confirms it,” Avadan said. “Imagine how surprised I was when my mother turned Ash Angel. Quite the shock. I’m positive she was much higher up the naughty list than your wife. Such a tragedy to lose a mother, but I’ll get her back, and she can make me lemonade and read me bedtime stories. So, how is Mummy? Now, don’t pretend you don’t know her or haven’t seen her. You switched hearts with her, after all. Well?”

  “She’s fine,” Helo growled.

  Avadan removed the baseball cap and placed it on top of his top hat. “Oh, come now. I’m not asking for any delicious Ash Angel secrets here, Helo! Does she say please and thank you now? Help old ladies cross the street? Is she dating anyone? She always did choose the most obnoxious partners.”

  “She’s been very helpful,” Helo said.

  Avadan chuckled. “I’m sure. Tell me, does she enjoy morphing?”

  “Yes,” Helo answered.

  “Yes, yes, I thought so,” he replied. “Being stuck in one form is terribly tedious, especially if you died fat and ugly. Well, I can see you won’t be very useful until I can get you back to my residence and show you a few of the tricks I’ve learned.”

  Avadan stood. “Hawk, we need to walk back to the town we just passed—don’t say its name!—and procure transportation there. Well, you’ll procure the transportation. I’ve dressed a bit too noticeably today to be seen in company. Then we will proceed to the prison. Cain will pick up our boy there when he is ready for his big show. Helo, it�
��s been nice chatting with you. I look forward to more enlightening conversations. And just in case . . .”

  Avadan stooped down and touched Helo’s chest. Darkness poured out of his hand, suffusing Helo’s body with Vexus so his heart couldn’t be healed. When finished, he stood. “Hawk, stuff his body out of sight somewhere and let’s walk. How I hate a hike in the woods!”

  Helo couldn’t see Hawk, but the Dread grabbed his ankles, dragged him across the lumpy ground, and stuffed him behind a rotting log covered in ants. After a parting sneer, Hawk kicked the desiccated log, sending wood chunks and insects crawling all over Helo’s skin. Then his two tormentors tromped away into the undergrowth without another word.

  For hours, nothing kept Helo company but the songs of forest birds and the distant sounds of emergency vehicles coming and going while they cleaned up the wreck. The gurgling brook took over when there was silence, providing an accompaniment for the ants journeying all over his body. As evening came on, a wind kicked up, shaking the tree branches and propelling swollen clouds through the sky above them.

  Then rain, nightfall, and thunder. He closed his eyes, now rendered useless by the pitch-black. He had forgotten how vulnerable the raw elements could make him feel, Ash Angel or no. Nature spoke with power in the deep of the night, and he turned to his meditation to take his mind off the storm and whatever Avadan had in store for him at his mysterious “residence.”

  In his mind, the silver ball and blazing sun came effortlessly, throwing his mind into emptiness and peace. Time faded into insignificance, taking with it the tumult and fear that had been his constant companions since rejoining the Ash Angels. Here in the trance he could rest, be free. Here he could contemplate the stubborn mystery of why half of a sphere should remain permanently in darkness.