The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  But Demons paid handsomely and since they were often employed as minions by Fallen, they maintained a better relationship with their own servants. If the job was done well, they paid and got on about their business. Regardless, Demons were dangerous. They were a put upon species, and quick to see an insult whether intended or not.

  Regarding Heaven, Hell and the Pit, Felon had never received a satisfactory answer. They existed, that was obvious. But such intricacies were lost to the assassin. He didn’t care if they came from Ohio or Denmark or Limbo, as long as they paid. Felon hated them all. They were a powerful and anarchic waste of power. He claimed no allegiance with any one. Playing the center served him best.

  But Felon hated Angels most of all. He had worked for them only once before switching to more lucrative business partnerships. The Celestial Choir had wealth to share, but they were not generous with it. Their holier than thou attitude made it very easy for them to cheat at business, apparently adding an unwritten clause into every contract: “No payment necessary if said services can be considered to contain educational or redemptive value.”

  Felon had experienced only one such arrangement. It had happened only months after his epiphany of pain, when an Angel approached him to whack an abusive father. The assassin’s new knowledge allowed him to believe the creature’s claim without proof. He could smell the Angel—cinnamon, sickly. The target was terrorizing his wife and child with sexual abuse and violence. Nathaniel was a Guardian Angel who appeared to Felon as a kindly old grandfather with twinkling eyes and round red nose. He was four feet tall dressed in wool sweater and slacks. A steady warm glow emanated from his halo. He wanted Felon to intervene on his behalf.

  Much later, Felon learned that Angels came in all shapes and sizes. There were guardians, protectors, and messengers—though at the end of the Millennium most were regarded by humanity as little more than good luck charms. Guardians were given clients to look after without directly intervening. Intervention was the purview of God and no one else.

  But Angels could bend the rules a little. They could insinuate, make helpful suggestions and minor protections. The Divine Compact kept them from doing anything else. It declared that Angels could not make themselves known to human eyes without the permission of God.

  In this case, Nathaniel was at the end of his rope. The father of his client failed to learn from his mistakes, or see the light of truth through introspection. Nathaniel’s charge was a girl, 11 pre-Change years of age. She was taking the brunt of the abuse.

  Nathaniel offered Felon a lost Reuben’s painting captured from a Japanese collector whose mansion had been located on the seashore near Hiroshima. The Angel picked it up moments before the atomic bomb dropped. Apparently in the seconds before a cataclysm of human wrought or natural origin the Cosmic rules were relaxed. Devils, Demons and Angels were drawn to such places by the impending doom and the screams of souls foretasting death. Angels and their fallen brethren arrived for the recovery of the works of man. Demons attended for Chaos and Hellfire.

  Nathaniel offered Felon the Reuben’s work, worth a respectable fortune on the black market, since it was considered lost. He was suspicious about the transaction from the start since it was a lot of money for capping a nobody. Felon accepted and signed the contract. He shot the abusive father through the eyes two days later, removed his head and burned it.

  When it came time to collect, Nathaniel balked. “Think you, that you had a hand on the pulse of God’s great plan—surely the wealth of that experience is found in your acceleration of the powers of good. Look inside, Felon,” the Angel had said in his grandfather’s voice, “and see there a light far brighter than the illusion of gold.” Felon remembered looking inside, and finding only a blaze of anger.

  He had acted impetuously then. Gun flicking out, he shot the Angel four times in the face. The old man persona had melted away as the body evaporated, the flesh dissolved quickly to expose the alien skeleton beneath. Felon had only a moment to view the smoking bones, thinner and longer than human, with wings rapidly burning up in death. In a little under ten minutes an oily mark was all that remained. Felon had taken a huge chance, and he scolded himself for it later—the open face of hatred was too much like faith—too certain and self-assured. He had acted on an impulse that could have killed him.

  His had been a life of simmering hatred where he was content to nurse ancient grudges—boil them like molten metal to form weapons. Only a controlled repugnance of all things gave him superiority. Such unfocused anger left him blind to the world. And he had not known at the time that Angels could be killed. Much later, he learned that Angels and Demons in physical form were vulnerable to all the ills, calamities and mortal injuries that humans were. Human beings didn’t know this, because few would offer them injury. They also had a degree of omniscience that made them impossible to surprise.

  This first Angel kill made Felon aware of his gift. He was immune to their Divine perceptions. They couldn’t read his mind, so he could surprise them. He later learned he could surprise Fallen and Demons, which secured and endangered his relationships with those beings. He came to depend upon this ability. It was his livelihood and chief defense.

  He drifted back from his reverie to finish oiling and assembling the .44 magnum. He liked its weight. The assassin contemplated nothing. It was still early. A note at the front desk the night before told him he had an appointment with a Demon and former employer. They were to meet at noon. Killing the Cherubs had left the assassin restless. He needed sleep but had been too keen with adrenaline to get much the night before. He wouldn’t nap; instead Felon let his mind go numb until nothing flickered there. He was too old to drift through his memories. There was too much in his head for that.

  11 – Spy in the Ointment

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Jay was standing in front of a tall wrought iron fence that completely enclosed the grounds of the St. Albert Hotel. The fence’s uprights were set in a concrete curb about three feet high. Dawn and Mr. Jay had incorporated the construction into their act with the forever child climbing to the highest rung before swan diving into her partner’s arms. At the moment, Mr. Jay clasped the fence lightly with one hand and braced himself against the concrete curb with a foot while the other dangled. Dawn climbed to a safe height, and clung there.

  A crowd of fifteen people, men and women had gathered, most wearing the drab and formless business suits that were the fashion of the day. They looked just like the heavy stone and steel of the Level that pressed down on the building tops above. She thought that without faces, they’d look like lumps of the same material. Water spattered the pavement, dripping from a million leaks in the levels above.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Jay shouted over the echoing storm of traffic on the Skyway. He snatched off his top hat and swung it upside down at the crowd, gesturing to the collection basket at the curb. “I would like to ask if there is one among you who would be kind enough to assist me in this next feat of mystical prestidigitation.” He swept his hat back onto his head and then leapt lightly to the sidewalk. “You there, sir!”

  Mr. Jay pointed to a man of middle pre-Change years who was leaning against one of the posts that held up the hotel’s dirty yellow awning. Startled at the suggestion, the stranger almost swallowed his cigarette. He coughed on a mouthful of smoke shaking his head. He stooped to pick up a heavy briefcase but Mr. Jay was already upon him.

  “Don’t leave us just yet, Mr. Legate.” The magician held out his hand and grasped the stranger’s whose eyes had gone wide with surprise. “That is your name isn’t it? Or can I call you, Oscar?” He turned the fellow around to face the gathering.

  “Oscar…” The man wore a flummoxed smile. “Oscar Legate.”

  Mr. Jay smiled as a weak pattering of applause traveled through the audience. “Oscar I assure you that your hesitation while justifiable remains patently unnecessary. Your participation in today’s experiment is as safe as walking across the street. In fact�
��” The magician looked up at Dawn and gestured toward her. She dropped to the sidewalk, skipped forward and bowed. “I performed the same trick just the other day with the help of my good friend Mojo.” Mr. Jay smoothed the material over Oscar’s shoulders. “Of course, Mojo was a little taller than you at the start of it…”

  Oscar’s eyes went wide with astonishment, and the gathered throng laughed.

  Mr. Jay mimicked the man’s expression before continuing, “No, Oscar, I’m just pulling your legs of course. What I would like is to have your participation in a magical conjuration that comes down to us through the ages. A trick so profound that it is rarely taught outside of Egypt, a trick so spellbinding that the old gypsy woman who taught it to me did so only after extricating a promise that I never perform it while she lived.” He scowled then smiled. “So I killed her!”

  The audience laughed as they closed the performers in a half-circle. The movement frightened Dawn a little. She skipped back to the iron bars and climbed until she was well above the group.

  “Hold now. Come no closer!” Mr. Jay held a hand up. “We will need plenty of room for the magic to work.” The people moved to obey. “But not too far. You must watch closely. Behold…”

  Mr. Jay left Oscar and walked over beneath Dawn’s perch where he had set his backpack. From it he slowly slid his walking stick. He whipped around too quickly for Dawn to register any of her concern with him. She didn’t like this trick and her nerves were already frayed by the presence of so any strangers.

  The magician walked over to Oscar, twirling the cane as he did so. “Now Oscar!” He flashed the walking stick before him, and then gently held it out for his new assistant to inspect. “Please inform the audience of what your close inspection reveals about my walking stick.” He gestured with the cane. “Go on. Take it.”

  Oscar took the walking stick, twisted its black enameled length in his hands, sighted along it like it a gun barrel, and pulled on its silver ends.

  “And what have you found, Oscar?” Mr. Jay bowed.

  “It’s steel with black paint on it. And the ends are tin.” Oscar smiled.

  Mr. Jay’s head whipped up and he frowned. “Tin!” He snatched the walking stick away from him. “Silver—genuine silver! The very same taken from the Aztec ruins by the conquistadors.” Mr. Jay frowned at the man in mock seriousness. “Thank you, Oscar, that will be all.” The gathering laughed but quickly fell silent as Mr. Jay held the walking stick by one end. He flipped its dark length toward the sky, and held it out, his arm parallel to the ground.

  “Since ancient times…” he began. Dawn inched herself a little higher. “Men of little faith have needed proof to convince their eyes of what their hearts could not see, but suspected.” Mr. Jay stepped forward. Slowly he walked around the short half-circle in front of the audience. “And so the priests of old were given the task of discovering methods for convincing doubters.” He laughed, and rolled his eyes—shooting mysterious glances at individuals in the group. “And so, I tell you now that by the same arcane magic do I come to you today to mystify…” He started to take slow circling steps. The upper tip of the walking stick began to follow his gyrating movements. “I come to amaze…” Mr. Jay stepped closer to the wrought iron fence. “And I come to terrify!”

  With that he dashed the walking stick on the ground and a cobra ten feet in length appeared. It reared and hissed, at the crowd. They cried out as it took two slow lunges at them. The people retreated further. Dawn could see the black scales speckling the creature’s back; she could hear its belly rasp the wet concrete as it slithered.

  Mr. Jay bellowed. “Behold!” He raised an arm, and the cobra turned toward him. The audience held its ground. “True. I come to mystify.” The snake inched forward. “To amaze and terrify…” The snake’s hood spread wide and black, its body coiled to spring. “But I come here to entertain!” On the last word, the cobra struck at Mr. Jay’s open hand. And it was gone!

  The magician twirled his walking stick with his fingers. The crowd exploded with applause and cheers.

  Dawn’s heart was thumping in her chest. It always looked so real! But her inner voice wouldn’t allow her the time to worry. Now! Hide in the applause. GO TO WORK! She leapt down from her perch and landed beside Mr. Jay. She clapped her little hands as hard as she could, and barked out “Bravo!” in Mojo’s gravelly voice. She skipped over and picked up the collection basket, and moved quickly from person to person. Caught up in the excitement, hands threw approving coins and bills.

  “Thank you!” Mr. Jay bellowed over the noise. “Thank you good people of the City of Light!” Dawn was just starting back toward him when his eyes went wide. He rapidly scanned the faces of the gathering. Dawn danced over to him. A worried look crossed his face as he whispered, “Fifteen, now fourteen. A face is missing. Time to go.”

  She thought the trick might have scared someone away, but Mr. Jay’s grim glance silenced her. He raised his hands again, smiling. “Thank you. Thank you! But we must leave now. Look for us though. Look for us…” A worried expression clenched his features when his eyes focused on something.

  At just over three feet tall, Dawn could not see what Mr. Jay was looking at. He hurried to his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Dawn was at his side in a flash.

  “What is it, Mr. Jay?” In her agitated state, she forgot to use Mojo’s voice.

  “The man who left is bringing friends,” he said, shouldering his pack and turning to the gathering. They were just starting to break up, some making hand gestures like striking snakes. Then Dawn saw through their legs that three people in dark overcoats were crossing the street toward them.

  Mr. Jay’s lips were at her ear. “Run with me, Dawn!” He pushed her ahead and she sprinted as fast as she could. The magician loped easily at her side. Behind them, a man shouted.

  The St. Albert’s Hotel stood on a corner where Oceanside Boulevard met Landsrun Street—many blocks onward, she could see where the road swept up to fuse with the Third Skyway. Mr. Jay pelted headlong up the sidewalk. Dawn was keeping up to Mr. Jay on the short sprint. Ahead she could only see one long city block. The street was crowded with cars, and the sidewalk with pedestrians going to lunch. They struggled ahead. Luckily their pursuers met the same resistance.

  Run! Said the grownup voice inside her head. Run girl run! Her hat and little boots jingled ridiculously.

  “Stop!” a man shouted.

  “There!” Mr. Jay motioned to her. On the left was a ramp that led down into a large dark underground parking garage. Dawn did not hesitate. The air was cold and wet on the ramp and her feet slipped on the damp asphalt, but she was nimble and took extra care. They scrambled through the darkness with fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Behind them echoed the sounds of pursuit.

  Mr. Jay pointed to a red door. Dawn followed him to it, and ran through as he shoved it aside. They scrambled up some stairs turning round and round. The door opened below them, heavy footfalls pounded. The entertainers ran.

  Dawn didn’t think. Her mind just chanted, “Run, run, run!” Heart laboring she sprinted. As the stairs switched back on themselves, there were doors. Finally, Mr. Jay flung one wide and she followed. They were in a hallway. Thick carpet covered the floor.

  “Hotel!” Mr. Jay had slowed to a jog. “Give me those.” He snatched off Dawn’s hat, and stuffed it in his pack, then motioned for her shoes. “Quickly.” He shoved the jingling shoes away. “That will help.” He looked up the hall. A smile burst across his face. “Perfect!”

  Dawn followed him to a pair of steel doors. An elevator? Behind them the door to the stairs swung open with a bang. Mr. Jay swung his walking stick and stabbed the buttons on a steel panel between the doors. The bottom button lit up.

  “Come on, now! Don’t make me a liar,” he said to the doors, biting his lip and flashing his eyes back the way they had come. “I just said you were perfect.”

  Dawn panted, her legs were trembling, but adrenaline surged through her w
hen she heard a voice call down the hall. “This way…”

  “Don’t worry about them, Dawn.” Mr. Jay had noticed her eyes growing moist as she looked back the way they had come. “We simply need the elevator. Whatever our pursuers will do, they’ll do, if the elevator does not get to us in time. However, that is only a possible future. Be optimistic.” He smiled weakly.

  Dawn could not pry her mind from the sound of heavy footfalls approaching. Then a quiet chime rang and the doors started sliding apart. Mr. Jay shoved her through and squeezed in before they finished opening. He pushed a button set in a steel panel. It had the number one on it. Then he started jabbing another button that said, “Close Door.”

  Their pursuers sprinted along the hall toward them. She could feel the vibrations of their approach through her bare feet.

  Then the doors ground shut. She heard another voice. “Stop!” There was a hard thud as something hit the closing door. Dawn grabbed Mr. Jay’s hand when she sensed elevator dropping.

  A huge grin spread across her friend’s cheeks and his eyebrows arched.

  Dawn squeaked when the elevator shuddered to a stop. Mr. Jay grabbed her hand. “Don’t worry so much.” He straightened his top hat. “We will leave in grand style.”

  The doors opened. With half-closed eyes, Dawn saw an old couple standing there hand in hand. The man wore a pair of thick glasses, and the woman had a giant hat. Startled, they stepped back to let the strange pair out of the elevator.

  Dawn held tight to her friend’s hand as they crossed a red-carpeted lobby. There was a desk clerk and a couple of old men reading newspapers by a fireplace. Mr. Jay led her down three short steps to the sidewalk. He took her to a taxi that waited at the curb.