Angel City

by Jon Steele

  There was a second where nothing happened. Harper hoped the guard was startled enough not to notice there wasn’t a clip in his SIG, and that his threat to pull the trigger, while true, was complete and utter shit.

  “Do it!”

  The guard in the office pulled his sidearm and dropped it on the desk. He hit the button to open the outer cell door. The door buzzed open. The guard put his hands on his head, stepped out of the office and into the cell block. Harper nudged his captive forward.

  “Mains sur la tête, lentement.”

  The guard raised his hands, slowly. Harper pulled the guard’s sidearm, stuffed it in his coat.

  “Move inside.”

  He herded the two men into the hall between the cells. Keeping his eyes on them, he reached in the office, grabbed the second gun, stuffed it in his belt.

  “Ouvrez la porte du prisonnier,” Harper said.

  The guards looked fit to piss themselves. Obviously, a jailbreak was something new in these parts, Harper thought.

  “Je ne peux pas.”

  “Pourquoi pas?”

  “Le déverrouillage est à l’intérieur du bureau.”

  Harper glanced in the office, saw four buttons controlling access to the cell block. He checked the cells. Astruc was in number three; he was beginning to stir. Keeping his eyes on the police again, Harper reached in, hit the release to cells one and three: bzzzz, clack, clack.

  “Les portables sur le sol, lentement.”

  The police unhooked their mobile phones, dropped them on the floor. Harper signaled the police to get inside cell one; they obeyed. Harper moved quickly, kicking closed the cell door, kicking the phones across the hall. He reached in his pocket, pulled out the guns, tossed them in an empty cell. He turned to the police.

  “Je veux que vous me regardiez dans les yeux et que vous m’écoutiez.”

  The police obeyed again. Harper waved the palm of his right hand before their eyes: “Dulcis et alta quies . . .” The men slumped to the floor before he finished the rest of it. Harper looked at his watch: 12:06 hours. He turned to cell three. Astruc was sitting on the edge of his cot now, staring at Harper.

  “Hello, Padre,” Harper said.

  Astruc rushed from the cot, pushed open the cell door, charged at Harper. Harper cut left, caught Astruc’s ankles, dropped him to the floor. The sedatives made Astruc’s reactions slow, but he swung his fist wildly and caught Harper’s jaw. Harper fell back, came up with his foot and drilled Astruc in the balls. Astruc went down, had trouble getting to his feet. Harper knocked him back down, knelt next to him, pinned his head to the concrete floor.

  “You’re dead!” Astruc shouted. “I buried you!”

  “And three days later I rose from the dead. It’s been known to happen.”

  Astruc tried to pull away; Harper shoved the muzzle into his neck.

  “Listen, Padre, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you’re going to Lausanne Cathedral.”

  “Why?”

  Harper rolled him over, stood up, pointing the SIG at Astruc’s head.

  “Because you’re as fucked up as I am. Get up.”

  Astruc wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “Goose?”

  “Your son, you mean.”

  An expression of horror crossed Astruc’s face.

  “Relax, we all have our failings, Padre. Just now, all you need to know is he’s still alive. You want to see him, you come with me.”

  “You are one of the Dark Ones. You live by deceit and betrayal.”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Who cares? You want to see Goose, you come with me. Or you can stay here, because in a matter of minutes, a squad of police from Toulouse will come down those stairs to arrest you for a sixteen-year-old murder. If it was up to me, I’d let them take you. Choice is yours.”

  Astruc got up from the floor. They hadn’t cleaned him up, and there was blood on his clothes and hands. He glanced at the guards in the cell.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Killing the innocent is more your line, padre, not mine.”

  “The innocent?”

  “Gilles Lambert. He was just a man; a lonely, innocent man with a soul, and you killed him.”

  Astruc looked at Harper.

  “That isn’t possible. I looked into his eyes.”

  “Told you, you’re fucked up. Move.”

  Astruc turned, headed up the stairs. Harper followed, thinking sooner or later, someone was going to figure out there weren’t any bullets in his SIG. Top of the stairs, Astruc saw the copper sleeping in his chair.

  “Out the door,” Harper said. “Go left, walk across the road. Quick, but don’t run. There’s a bread truck directly ahead in the parking lot. Wait at the back. I’m right behind you. Take off, run away, you’ll never see Goose again.”

  Astruc walked out the door. Harper gave it five seconds. He holstered his SIG, walked out the door, saw Astruc crossing the road, walking toward the back of the truck. Serge saw Astruc coming, turned over the motor. Then an alarm sounded from the gendarmerie. Harper didn’t look back, kept walking at a steady pace. He got to the back of the truck, pulled open the door. Astruc threw up his arms.

  “Demon!”

  Harper slammed into the big man, shoved him into the back of the truck, jumped in.

  “Drive!”

  Serge put the truck in gear, pulled away with the back door still open. Astruc twisted and kicked, and Harper nailed him in the face. Astruc fell back, slammed into the side panel, practically knocked the truck over. Harper pressed the heel of his boot into Astruc’s windpipe, pressed down to hold him in place.

  “Merde,” Serge laughed. “It seems they have some improvements to the gendarmerie.”

  Harper glanced out the windshield. A small army of French coppers running from the compound, weapons drawn. Harper reached under his coat, pulled two vials of flash and fog. He threw them to the snow-covered street.

  “Et facta est lux.”

  A blue flash exploded and the world seemed to disappear. Astruc knocked away Harper’s foot, jumped up and grabbed Harper by the throat, pulled him to the floor. Harper rammed back with all his weight. Astruc slammed into shelves, croissants flew. The bullet clip and killing knives flew. Harper rammed his elbow into Astruc’s stomach, the big man let go, and Harper spun him around, hook-punched his sides. Astruc cocked his elbow, came up with his forearm. Harper flew across the compartment, slammed into the side wall, and the truck almost went over on it’s side again. Astruc kicked under Harper’s feet, dropped him. He grabbed a knife from the floor, jabbed. Harper rolled, but the blade cut through his shirt, sliced along his flesh.

  “Shit!”

  Astruc raised the knife, held it over Harper’s throat.

  “He is not my son, he is the light of the world!”

  Serge caught the action in the rearview mirror and pounded down on the brakes. Astruc flew forward, smashed his head into the back of the driver’s seat. He was out cold and missing the fun of a Citroën H-Type bread truck spinning around the traffic circle and heading for the river. The truck went up on its right wheels. Serge steered into the skid, and the truck came down on all fours. Serge cut the wheels back, steadied it, headed for the train station.

  “Are you all right back there?” Serge said.

  Harper sat up, checked his chest. The blade had slashed his left side over the heart, and it was oozing blood. The wounds on his palms were bleeding, too.

  “I’ll live.”

  “We are coming to the train station.”

  “Is there a bus stop out front?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone there?”

  “No.”

  “Pull over.”

  Fifteen seconds later, the bread truck stopped. Harper picked up his SIG, the c
lip. He reloaded the gun, holstered it. He picked up the killing knives, slipped them in their sheaths. He kicked open the back door, slid out.

  “C’mon, Padre.”

  He reached in and grabbed Astruc’s ankles, dragged him half out the back. He looked at Serge.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Or someone like you.”

  Harper slipped his right arm under Astruc’s arms, lifted, balanced the big man against his chest. He reached in the truck, grabbed a croissant from the floor, held it up.

  “One for the road?”

  “Help yourself.”

  He stuffed it in his mouth, stepped away, and kicked closed the door. The bread truck drove away into the storm. When it was ten meters away, Harper lost sight of it in the snow. He hauled Astruc to the bus stop, dropped him on the bench.

  “Now stay there.”

  He looked both ways. Nothing either way, and dead ahead, the train station was barely visible.

  “Bloody arctic adventure this is.”

  He sat next to Astruc, kept him from falling over. There were two sparrows sitting at the other end of the bench.

  “Greetings, Earthlings.”

  Harper took a bite of the croissant, saw the shell hanging by a leather string around Astruc’s neck. He yanked it off, looked at it, stuffed it in a pocket of his coat.

  He checked his watch: 12:15 on the nose.

  He looked up, saw halogen lights cutting through the snow, coming his way. Then yellow side lights, then blue lights running along the chassis, then a black bus emerging from the storm and pulling to a stop in front of the bus stop. A hydraulic pump went shhhhh, and the door opened. Blue lights on the steps and Karoliina from Tampere in the driver’s seat, flipping her japa mala beads.

  “Fancy that, I was just thinking about you,” Harper said.

  “Nice to see you again, too. There’s blood on your croissant.”

  Harper looked at it, dropped it on the snowy ground for the birds. They flew down and shredded the croissant with their beaks.

  “Bon appétit,” Harper said.

  The birds chirped their thanks.

  Harper lifted Astruc, carried him over the snow and onto the bus. Karoliina closed the door behind them, put the bus in gear, drove ahead. Krinkle was at his audio control panel, headphones on his bopping head. Harper dropped Astruc on the floor. Astruc began to stir. Harper tapped Krinkle on the shoulder, and Krinkle looked back at him. Harper heard music blasting from the headphones.

  “We’re live, and I’m in the middle of a serious segue,” Krinkle said.

  “Swell, but Father Astruc is a raving lunatic and he’s about to wake up.”

  Krinkle kicked open a lower drawer. Harper saw a dozen auto-injectors all in a row, each one a different color.

  “Use the green one. No, wait, the police gave him fentanyl—use the blue one.”

  Harper grabbed the blue one, pulled off the cap, leaned over Astruc. Astruc’s eyes were open and he saw the injector in Harper’s hand. He tried to get up.

  “No!”

  Harper slammed him into the floor, rammed the injector into Astruc’s thigh, and hit the release. The needle popped and the potion rushed in. Astruc grabbed the lapels of Harper’s coat, but his grip was weakening.

  “Have you killed me?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Orders.”

  Astruc’s pupils dilated, his eyes lost focus, his hands fell from Harper’s coat. Harper stared at him; he was deeply asleep. Harper picked up Astruc’s hands, crossed the arms, and rested them over the chest.

  “Qui dormit non peccat.”

  Harper got up, saw Krinkle fast at work on one of his laptops. All of the screens were streaming code like mad, the reel-to-reels along the shelves all rolling at once. Harper walked to the front of the bus, sat in the seat behind Karoliina, looked out the windshield. The bus was heading out of Foix and winding through a forest. Even though it was midday, darkness was coming down, and no matter which direction the bus turned, the snow seemed to be coming straight at them. Karoliina had one hand on the steering wheel, one hand still flipping her beads.

  “Bit of a light touch on the wheel, isn’t it? Considering we’re in the middle of a blizzard,” Harper said.

  “Krinkle’s bus practically drives itself. All I have to do is nudge it to where we want to go. Prochain arrêt, Lausanne.”

  “What happened to the boys in the band?”

  “In the back, sleeping. We had a long night last night.”

  “The concert.”

  “After the concert. That’s when we do our real work.”

  Harper turned around, saw the door to the back. A sign read DO NOT DISTURB.

  “Which is what?” Harper said, turning back to Karoliina.

  “You’re funny,” she said, giggling.

  Harper watched Krinkle work his laptops, watched Astruc out on the floor. He heard droning sounds, felt harmonic vibrations. At first Harper thought it was coming from Krinkle’s headphones, but it was rising from underneath the bus.

  “What’s that sound?”

  “The motor,” Karoliina said.

  “What sort of motor goes ommm?”

  “Soon as we find a straight patch of road going east, you’ll find out. There are battlefield med kits under your seat.”

  “What?”

  “Your hands are bleeding.”

  Harper looked at them. Wasn’t bad, but bad enough. He reached down, pulled open a compartment. Inside were two black boxes. One marked Us, the other Them.

  “Which one?”

  “You and Krinkle are Us. The other one is for civilians.”

  Harper opened a bag; it was jammed with saline solutions, auto-injectors, potions, and bandages. He pulled out two field bandages, one patch bandage. He opened his shirt, set the patch over the slice on his chest.

  “Which one would you be?” he said.

  She kept her eyes on the road.

  “You mean am I human or a half-kind?”

  “Sorry?”

  She glanced at Harper in the rearview mirror.

  “Half-breed is a vile term when talking about children born on this side of the light. I mean, they’re as much one of the club as you, aren’t they?”

  Harper opened the field bandages, set the cotton wads in his palms, wrapped the tails around his hands.

  “Maybe. Doesn’t answer the question, though. Which one are you?”

  “You looked in my eyes on the train to Lausanne, you know what I am.”

  “You’re human.”

  “Oikein hyvä.”

  “How did you know about the prophecy, then?”

  Karoliina made a wide turn, eased down a snowy slope of a road.

  She smiled at him again in the rearview mirror.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “She dreamed it, brother.”

  Harper looked back. Krinkle had spun around in his swivel chair. Headphones down around his neck. He was pouring boiling water from a kettle into two cups.

  “What do you mean, she dreamed it? When, where?”

  “In Portland, Oregon, before the comet appeared above Paris.”

  Harper got up, walked back, sat in the chair across from Krinkle. Astruc between them on the floor.

  “What were you doing in Portland?”

  “A concert. How was the jail?”

  “Everything but the horses.”

  “Whatever that means, sounds cool.”

  “Where’s the kid?”

  “I put him on another bus. One with an operating room for our kind.”

  “You’ve got more than one bus?”

  Krinkle replaced the kettle on the heater, kept tal
king as if not hearing the question.

  “Blood traces from the attackers were found in the kid’s wounds.”

  “Dead black?”

  “Yup. Looks like the bad guys tried to tear him to shreds. There was one bullet wound in the kid’s left calf. HQ traced the blood to the kill site. Nothing but a pack of dead mountain dogs. Big white fuckers.”

  “I just saw one of those dogs. He was friendly and smart as hell.”

  “Your dog was a dog, not a transmuted monster bred to kill. All of them had been shot to hell. Adds up to Astruc getting to the kid after the attack started. Astruc emptied nine clips into the dogs. Can’t believe he only shot his son once. Then again, he was damn good with a crossbow. Weird thing is the kid had a scallop shell around his neck. His hands were closed around it, like he was protecting it more than himself.”

  Harper reached in his coat, pulled out the shell he’d pulled from Astruc.

  “Like this?”

  Krinkle looked at it, nodded. “Like that.”

  “What is it?” Harper said.

  “Pilgrims wear them walking the Way of Saint James across northern Spain. It’s an act of penance for one’s sins. The walk, I mean. The scallop is letting the world know you’re a sinner.”

  Harper flashed it from somewhere: Le Chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle. Site of the buried remains of James the Apostle, carried there by boat from Jerusalem in 40 AD. Bloody hell, that’s how it happened; that’s how the sextant, the broken cup, the one nail got to Spain. Harper bounced the scallop shell in his hand, then he shoved it back in his pocket.

  “We’re on the highway,” Karoliina called from the front. “Satellite shows a twenty-kilometer stretch going north in sixteen seconds.”

  “We hit it, you punch it, sister.”

  “Roger that.”

  Krinkle picked up the two steaming cups, offered one to Harper. Harper didn’t take it; he nodded toward Karoliina.

  “How could she dream something our kind didn’t know about? And dream it before it happened?”

  “You mean how can she see the future?”

  “If that’s what you call it.”

  Krinkle shrugged. “It’s what she does, along with being a very good guitar tech. All her dreams have been reported to HQ since she was six years old. Girl’s a dream catcher, first one in four hundred years. You’ve been turning up a lot in her dreams, then you show up on the front page of every newspaper in the world.”