Falling (Girl With Broken Wings Book 1)

by J Bennett

  “It’s not your choice anymore Gabe. I want to fight.”

  The cloak of night is all around us — the animal melodies, the hunger drawing my eyes to Gabe’s energy. I am aware of every little flick of movement, the red blush of his pain growing brighter within the flowing blues.

  “Please Maya,” Gabe whispers, “sit this first one out. Make sure it’s what you really want.”

  “I know what—”

  “Just this one time, for me. I know I don’t have any right to ask, but…” he trails off and finally his eyes come up to meet mine. Dark wells of pain. It’s crazy how much I care about Gabe after only two weeks, how deep that soft little tremble in his voice cuts.

  “Alright, just this time,” I say, “but I won’t change my mind.”

  The smile is slow to come to his face, but when it lands, it stretches wide.

  Chapter 27

  Gabe and Tarren hole up in what Gabe refers to as “The Fox Cave” and what I refer to as the weird-smelling room in the basement where an old projector and a big map of the country sit on two rickety card tables pushed together.

  I am not invited to this conference, so, with dignity, I lay flat against the sticky linoleum in the kitchen and listen through the floor as Gabe presents the evidence, and the brothers develop a plan to track and kill the angel.

  This part takes fifteen minutes. The next half hour is spent arguing about me.

  “We have to watch her at all times,” Tarren insists.

  “Why are we going over this again? I get it,” Gabe retorts.

  “Gabe, she could lose control at any moment. You have to realize that. Anything could set her off. We need to take her to Lo.”

  Gabe’s voice jumps an octave. “She’s not a lab animal; she’s our sister. Plus, I hate that little fucker.”

  “We need to know the extent of the change, what exactly we’re dealing with.”

  Their words echo in my mind, growing loud and mean: lab animal, dealing with, anything, anything, anything could set her off.

  “…develop a cure,” Tarren is saying. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

  “Tarren,” Gabe says, and in the silence that follows, I can only imagine that the brothers are exchanging one of those powerful looks that they keep in reserve for taut moments like this. When Gabe speaks again, his voice is so low I almost miss his words.

  “She’s trying real hard,” he says.

  “I know,” Tarren replies. He pauses. “But that doesn’t change the risk she presents.”

  I roll over on my back and stare at the cracks racing across the ceiling. There is a wild banshee scream building inside me, fueled by Tarren and so many other things, but mostly Tarren. I wrestle it down, try to let the wretched notes seep out of my body. The basement stairs groan as the brothers climb up.

  * * *

  Our first mission. I’m not sure what to expect. Dramatic theme music? An extensive scene where the boys change into high-tech fighting costumes? Tarren narrowing his eyes and growling “let’s go” and stomping the gas so hard that the tires squeal?

  Instead, Tarren backs us out of the driveway with his usual restraint, stops at each stop sign and turns on his blinker even when no one is around. Gabe munches on a PowerBar, reclines his seat back and puts his feet up on the dashboard.

  “Off,” Tarren says.

  “What?” Gabe whines but his feet slide off.

  A little while later, he looks out the window. “Farewell to Farewell,” he calls as we turn onto the highway and the little town recedes quickly behind us.

  “Money,” I say before any silence can get a foothold.

  “You need some?” Gabe asks.

  “How do you make money?”

  “That’s all me.” Gabe looks at his brother, grins. Tarren remains silent, but his energy ticks with hints of orange.

  “I’m assuming some sort of fraud here,” I say.

  “What?” Gabe turns in his seat to look at me with feigned offense. “I am an upstanding, law-abiding citizen as far as anyone knows.”

  “Except when you’re killing people.”

  “Only the ones who deserve it,” he laughs easy and loose, and I don’t know how he can do it. “If you must know, I perform the very honorable and noble service of facilitating romantic relationships online.”

  Another flick in Tarren’s energy field, but his face doesn’t betray any emotions. He keeps his eyes on the road.

  “You’re an e-pimp?”

  “Dating websites. Niche. I’ve got SeniorsSecondChance.com, LittlePeopleLotsOfLove.com, HippyBliss.com, and I just got HatersHatingTogether.com, you know for those people who hate everything. They can, I don’t know, go to the movies and complain about it to each other the whole way through.”

  “Oh come on. You make money from that?”

  Gabe nods proudly. “Google Ads baby. People visit the site, click on the ads, and Google thanks me with a little tip to my PayPal account. PayPal sends me a cashier’s check. Farewell’s got this delightful little check cashing place that gives me a 10% haircut with no questions asked, and the cash goes on prepaid credit cards. Wha-la!”

  I study those elf eyes. “Oh God, midgets? Really?”

  “Actually, they prefer to be called ‘Little People’,” Gabe corrects, “and little people have big hearts. They deserve to find love just like everyone else. Even those people who hate everything.” Gabe tips his head ever-so-slightly in Tarren’s direction.

  Tarren notices. “I don’t hate everything.”

  “Guns aren’t people,” Gabe says. When I laugh, Gabe turns to me. “Neither are books.”

  He’s right; books are so much better than people.

  “Anyway,” Gabe continues, “the sites don’t bring in a lot, but it’s enough. Keeps gas in the cars” — he pats the glove compartment — “beer in the fridge and bullets in the guns.”

  “Bravo!” I clap, and Gabe gives me a little bow.

  I press on with my questions, but teasing answers from the brothers is about as easy as moving a pile of sand using chopsticks. Tarren is obstinate, answering in a clipped monotone when he acknowledges a question at all. Gabe is a freestyle art form all by himself, skimming across wide-ranging topics, taking random detours, diverting away from direct answers and launching into wild, epic adventures starring himself whenever I ask something too personal.

  I learn that there are areas, lots of them, that the brothers have somehow agreed are off limits. I’ll see it first in Tarren’s energy field — yellow hues pulsing at the edges — and then Gabe will inevitably shift the conversation with only the slightest hesitation as he recalibrates. I don’t understand what this means, what secrets they hold back from me, why Gabe is so much more careful in Tarren’s presence.

  Despite a valiant effort from myself and Gabe and no assistance whatsoever from Tarren who is a big, mean, angry-eyed lug, our conversation dwindles and dies. In its place, silence takes seed and grows into a solid wall of thorny vines, sequestering each of us off into our own little worlds. I hate this. My world is an apocalyptic landscape filled with burned out buildings and ghostly memories drifting through the charred husks.

  We drive straight to Arizona, stopping only for gas, restrooms and a pet shop where Gabe buys me three terrified little mice. I ice two of them before we set off again and save the last for later. The snack dampens my hunger for a while, but, inevitably, night falls and the song takes up its willowy call.

  Its tantalizing notes grow louder and louder, tingling down each nerve and building up heat in my hands. I sit on my hands, try to gaze out the window at the bright, cutting headlights from the other cars and the many different faces coming into relief as we pass each other. But my head is always turning back, eyes landing again and again on Gabe’s sapphire aura.

  I’m getting that overwhelmed feeling again, so I lay down across the back seat and take off the stupid floppy hat that Tarren instructed me to wear at all times.

  “Maya, put the ha
t back on,” Tarren says immediately. He seems to notice everything.

  “It’s hideous.”

  “It’s for your…” Gabe takes a deep breath, trying to contain his laughter, “…your own good. Think of it as being undercover.” He smirks.

  “If anyone recognizes you…” Tarren begins.

  “I’m wearing these huge, stupid sunglasses.”

  “That’s not enough…”

  “At night, which is only what assholes do. And my hair is completely different.”

  “I had to dress up as a clown once,” Gabe says.

  Tarren and I stop our bickering and look at him.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Tarren muses. “Put the hat on Maya.”

  “We had to get into this guy’s home,” Gabe continues. “An angel. It was his kid’s birthday. Fancy gated subdivision. We were hanging around the front trying to think of a way in, and this clown comes driving by. Remember?” Gabe glances at his brother but gives him no time to respond. “We jumped him, and he was all crying, saying he didn’t have any money and his cat had leukemia or something. Tied him up, took his costume, threw him in the trunk. That was one unhappy clown.”

  “Hat,” Tarren says.

  I shove the hat on my head. “Did you kill the angel?”

  “Yeah,” Gabe replies then adds, “but, not like in front of the kids or anything, and I used a silencer.”

  “But you killed the kid’s dad on his birthday, and you traumatized an innocent clown.”

  “Well, life can be a suckfest sometimes,” Gabe shrugs and twists in his seat to look at me. “That guy iced a lot of people before we found him. Oh, you look…” elf eyes filled with mirth, “…oh god, you look ridiculous.”

  “The hell with you both!” I cry, and slump down into my seat.

  When the sun finally peeks up over the horizon, I wonder why it seems so weary, so slow to extend its light to us. We reach Arizona and Tarren nudges Gabe awake.

  “Can you get police dispatches out here?”

  “I can get ‘em everywhere. Don’t doubt my mad skills.” Gabe sits up, stretches, and I watch the colors shimmer through his aura. Tarren catches me, and I turn and gaze out at the desert around us.

  “Sedona,” Gabe calls out a few minutes later. He eyes the screen of his laptop. “Body just got called in. Right off the 40. Fits the pattern. Wings is going East.”

  “Damn,” Tarren mutters. “If he fed, then he won’t turn up for another day.”

  “Hmmm,” Gabe’s fingers skate lightly across the keyboard. “The pattern of victims, they aren’t as far away from each other as you’d think.” Gabe looks up at Tarren. “Suppose he doesn’t drive the whole day. Maybe he rests after he ices his victim, hangs around. We’ve seen it before.”

  “Not likely,” Tarren replies.

  “Doesn’t hurt to check. Let’s stop by the crime scene, see if the cops got any leads.”

  Tarren looks at his brother. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Come on,” Gabe’s eyes are bright, and he’s got that teasing smile on his face. “I bought us a perfectly good pair of Border Patrol badges that we’ve never gotten to use.”

  “Sedona isn’t near the border, and we don’t have uniforms.”

  “Border Patrol owns Arizona. They can go wherever they want. Plus we’re plainclothes Border Patrol agents on a secret, undercover mission. No uniforms.”

  “Border Patrol goes plainclothes?”

  “Yeah, why the hell not?” Gabe shrugs. He looks back at me, winks. “Gotta have fun with your job.”

  “You have too much fun with your job,” Tarren mutters.

  Gabe laughs. “Doing okay with all of this?” he asks me.

  “Peachy,” I manage, though I am, in fact, nowhere near peachy. I’m suddenly all twitchy and out of breath, and my mind is starting to spray paint bright, graffiti words across my brain. Words like murder, danger, blood, bullets, bat shit insane.

  As if he can read my mind, Gabe’s face turns serious. So does his energy. All the playful greens fade away.

  “I know how it sounds,” he says, “but this is it; this is the life.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t say anything at all.

  Chapter 28

  Gabe seems to have a particular talent for picking out the cheapest, filthiest motels on the planet.

  I get dumped in a place that charges by the hour. On our way to the room, we actually pass a Hispanic guy with an eye patch. An honest-to-god eye patch. Even without stellar hearing, the groans of male and female pleasure and the sharp cracks of spankings emanate clearly from the other rooms as we walk by.

  Gabe smirks. Tarren pretends like he doesn’t notice.

  We stop in front of a door. The knob is rusted and, after some struggle with the key, Gabe heaves it open.

  “There we go,” he says.

  I give Gabe a beseeching look. The smile wavers from his face, and those gold-flecked eyes turn serious.

  “Trust me, you’re getting the better deal,” he says.

  We all just kind of stand there, peering into the room. I’ve never been to a place like this, never smelled a room so overwhelmingly stale or seen so many moths clinging to the walls. Mold seeps through a yellowed stain on the ceiling and rat droppings gleam on the carpet.

  Gabe glances in the room and wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, this one is pretty bad. We’ll probably only be gone an hour or so. As soon as we’re done, we’ll leave.”

  “Stay inside the room,” Tarren instructs. “Don’t make any calls, don’t let anyone in unless it’s one of us.”

  He stares are me, waiting for an affirmation. Sometimes Tarren’s eyes turn almost colorless, like frost. I can almost hear the churn of his thoughts as he weighs the risk I represent, the need for delicacy in dealing with me. His words echo again through my mind. Anything could set her off.

  I know I have to be good about this — me wallowing here, them going off to kill someone. I swallow, nod, ignore the tugs of energy all around us from the other motel patrons.

  “I understand. I’ll be okay here. Good luck.”

  “Here,” Gabe offers his PSP. “I’ve got Zombie Hordes in there right now. Just make sure you don’t save over my game.”

  I take the video game player, careful not to brush his skin.

  “Just this one time,” I say. “Next time I go with you.”

  “I know,” Gabe says.

  They leave, but not before Gabe offers me a few unsolicited Zombie Horde hints and Tarren gives me an especially stark glower to tide me over during his absence. I shift the curtains aside and watch the Murano pull out of the parking lot. Off they go to do whatever it is that angel hunters do in order to find their prey.

  I feel like I should shiver noticeably, or drop the curtain and turn broodingly into the shadows. Instead, I just stand there like a dolt, feeling adrift.

  * * *

  The hours lapse upon each other like large, slow waves. I take off the hat, the sunglasses. I don’t want to go anywhere near the bed, so I sit Indian style on the cleanest part of the rug. For a while I stare at the door and think about how small a thing it is to turn a knob, to pull open a door, to step into the sunlight. My old life is still out there. Karen. Henry. School. Shakespeare II.

  I try to play Zombie Hordes. I write apology letters to Ryan’s family, and this causes sweet torrents of pain to course through me. I beg forgiveness from his skinny, sallow-skinned father. I tell his plump, nervous mother that I would have gladly given my life for his. Then there’s his sister, Amy, who has Down Syndrome and who hugged with such abandon when we met for the first time. What can I say to Amy so that she will understand? What is there to understand about this at all? There are no lessons learned. No spirits strengthened through suffering. There is no comfort in the memories of beautiful moments and whispered endearments. Memories only bring pain and the aching helplessness of knowing that something has been irretrievably lost.

  The third mouse g
oes after this, and when I’m done I hide the little frozen body under the bed, because I don’t know what else to do with it.

  After three hours in the room, I break Tarren’s rule and climb onto the roof from the back window. I sprawl on the dirty concrete and let the sun filter directly onto my skin. Arizona has lots of sun to give me, and my body greedily soaks in the energy it provides.

  I wait. The boys don’t come back. I try not to worry or incessantly imagine multitudinous scenarios where one or both of them end up dead, torn to pieces by the bloody talons of an angel. Angels don’t have talons, I know, but this doesn’t stop my mind from engineering them along with leathery bat wings ripping from the angel’s shoulder blades as he sinks his fangs into Gabe’s neck.

  After another hour, I slip back into the room and vow to start searching for Gabe and Tarren if I don’t hear from them by nightfall. I know this is an empty threat, and so I vow all the more passionately. The truth is I am half convinced that Tarren finally persuaded Gabe of my true danger, and the boys abandoned me here in this hellhole. My consolation to this thought is that Tarren would never just abandon me. No, he would finish what he started — a bullet through my brain. One less angel to worry about.

  * * *

  It must have been the whetting sunrays on the roof, because without meaning to, I let my book fall out of my grip, lay my head down in my arms and drift off to sleep on the floor of the motel room.

  My dreams are blurry and meaningless. A voice whispering daughter, daughter. Ryan swooping down from the sky and snatching me up in his arms. We kiss as his brown, leathery bat wings beat against the air and lift us up to the stars. Gabe is standing below us screaming, “Shit!”

  Our lips part. I look at Ryan’s face. “Baby, you’re dead,” I tell him.

  Then — suddenly — I am fully awake, crouching low, muscles tensing without knowing why or where I am. The room is dark around me. A noise. The door handle turning. Squeaking hinges. I feel a flow of energy come into the room.

  Tarren. His face gives nothing away, but his body does. A spray of blood arcs across his long-sleeve shirt all the way up to his neck and jaw.