by Brian Fuller
His apartment was just as he left it, and he wasted no time in starting his own graduation party, complete with root-beer floats and a three-sausage pizza that would have taken a year off a mortal’s life. Delicious. He broke out the one-thousand piece puzzle of a helicopter with so much blue sky it would take forever to put it together. Before long, he was lost in a world of greasy meat, liquid sugar, and hunting down edge pieces.
Terissa.
He hadn’t thought about Terissa for days. He sat back and stared at the piles of pieces. Puzzles had saved him from his darker thoughts in his mortal life. Now they served the opposite purpose. He considered dumping the mass of pieces back into the box, but a fit of stubbornness swelled within him. He was Helo, and he would not let the broken pieces of the past keep him from putting them together now. He would face Terissa’s betrayal. He would overcome it. He dove in and had the upper corner of blue sky finished when the knock he had expected all morning came. He opened it.
Not Mindy and Scarlett. Cassandra with her supermodel looks. Red leather pants, black heels, and a diaphanous black shirt. Without being asked, she walked to the table, regarding it with an amused smile as she pulled off her sunglasses.
“So you graduate and this is what you do? Pizza and a puzzle? Wow. So . . . Helo. That’s the name, huh?” She sat and sifted through the mound of edge pieces.
“Yeah. Can I make you a root-beer float or get you a slice of pizza? I’ve got a truckload of chili in here, too.”
“No, thanks. So, why Helo?”
Trace joined her at the table. “A helo is what brings you to the fight and what takes you out. I don’t know . . . it kind of expresses that an Ash Angel, you know . . .”
“You thought it sounded cool.”
“Pretty much. How did the talk with Goldbow go?”
She shook her head. “I suck at the whole relationship-talk thing. I don’t know if I made things better or worse. I don’t think he understands what it means to feel betrayed like you and I do, Trace. I mean, if you had to explain to Terissa how you felt, what would you say? Do you think she would understand what she did to you?”
Wow. That was more personal information than Cassandra had ever shared. He leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “I don’t think she would. I was pretty confused and angry at the time, but I think she saw what she had done as a speed bump, and I saw it as Mount Everest. I guess the hard thing is the nagging feeling that it was my fault and that I deserved it. I’ve really been trying to put it behind me. It has no place in this new life.”
Cassandra nodded and leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Do you think you could forgive her if you saw her again?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
She looked at him long and hard, eyes searching.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This is hard, Helo. You might have to do it. Face her, I mean.”
His heart already didn’t beat, but it seemed to go even more still. “What?”
“Listen carefully. I’ve been chewing on this all day, and I can hardly believe it myself. Those guns and the SUV you took from the Dreads have been pored over and analyzed. Making weapons and outfitting cars takes money. Anything that takes money can be traced. The weapons had no serials or clues to help us. The cars were pretty blank too—no VINs or other identifying marks that might tell us where they were bought. But the Scholus researchers got lucky on some of the parts.
“In my law-enforcement days, I didn’t spend a lot of time with accounting crimes, but clever people can hide purchases away and make one thing look like another. It took the computers and accounting experts at Deep 7 a couple days to tease it out, but the vehicles—and we suspect the parts for the weapons—were all bought through a bunch of dummy corporations. All those corporations are the clients of one prominent law firm: Goutre and Hudgins.”
Trace tensed, face pinching. He kept waiting for Cassandra to say the whole thing was a joke. How could this be? He stood and went to the sink to get some water that his body didn’t need but his mind did. His eyes wandered everywhere but saw nothing.
“I know,” Cassandra sympathized. “Now I’m a ‘coincidence’ rather than a ‘fate’ kind of girl, but something about this whole thing smacks of divine providence or the devil’s due. There are about forty Gabriel teams out there who could field this job. Archus Magdelene and I have been over it and over it all morning. This crazy coincidence or heavenly accident or whatever either means we’re the ones who are supposed to take this job or we’re the ones who should absolutely avoid it.”
“What’s the job?” Trace asked, returning to his seat. “Can’t they just hack in or something?”
“That’s the thing, Trace. They can’t. Apparently the IT department at Goutre and Hudgins is smart enough not to have their sensitive records accessible to the internet. That means getting someone on site and inside. We need to know if Goutre and Hudgins is the head of the snake or if they are just working for whoever is. Do you remember seeing the man from the cemetery and the bar and grill at any of those company parties you went to?”
“No. But we don’t need to involve Terissa in this.”
“She still works there. Yes, we checked. Simon is still there too.”
Trace’s heart plummeted. “Are they . . . ?”
“We don’t know much more than what I just told you,” Cassandra said. “On the one hand, your knowledge of the company and the people in it makes you an asset. On the other hand, your relationship with Terissa and Simon makes you a liability. Maggie and I couldn’t decide what to do. I’m here to dump it in your lap. Take twenty-four hours to mull it over, and call me.” She stood to go. “I’d stay and help with this puzzle, but Goldbow begged me to let him take me to some stupid dinner so we can talk about our stupid relationship and see if we can make some stupid progress. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s just so—”
“Stupid.”
“Exactly. Work on your morphing, Jar . . . Helo. I’ll try to get your name right, Jarhead, I swear.”
Goutre and Hudgins. Terissa. Simon. He couldn’t run away after all, no matter what his name was. Thoughts jumbled, he had barely closed the door behind Cassandra and sat down when another knock brought him back to the door. Hardly in the mood to entertain two college girls, he opened the door to find them pouting at him.
“There you are, Jason!” Mindy said, a hint of flirtatious accusation in her voice. “Where have you been?”
He opened his mouth, and his words died. A red aura popped into the corner of his eye, stopping at the foot of the stairs to the second level. His heart leapt into his throat. Dahlia. He needed the girls gone. Now.
“Um, just another business trip. Hey, I’d love to catch up, but another client is coming to see me.”
Mindy and Scarlett turned to take in the approaching woman, their eyes narrowing. “Do you only have gorgeous clients, Jason?”
He laughed nervously. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Well, come see us when you’re done. Apartment 1C, remember?”
“Got it.”
Dahlia, dressed in her waitress outfit from the Hammer Bar and Grill, waited until the two women moved off before standing in front of him. A soft breeze teased her long hair while her stoic face regarded him, eyes unblinking. Trace looked over his shoulder. His katana was under the couch. She wasn’t armed, but if she could torch him . . .
“We know where you live, Jason. It’s about ten minutes until sundown. Get out.”
“Why are you helping me?”
She looked away for a moment. “Why does he want you so badly?”
“Who?”
“The man who tried to drown you at the Hammer,” she replied, words rushed. “I . . . I can’t tell you his name. He’s had nothing on his mind since that night except gutting you. Look, I can’t be here. Get out.”
She jogged down the stairs to a still-running Honda Civic, laying on the accelerator as she arced out of the parkin
g lot. Helo donned his leather jacket and pulled his keys from the pocket. He couldn’t endanger everyone in the complex by trying to make a stand. If the Dreads were coming to hit him, they would have to find him again. He grabbed his sheathed katana and a duffel bag in the hall closet where he kept his BBG and some stingers.
Swiping his phone off the kitchen counter, he dialed Cassandra.
“Miss me, jar . . . lo?” she answered.
“I just had a nice little visit. You’ll never guess from who.”
“Okay, well, don’t keep me waiting here.”
He went to the window and scanned the parking lot. “Dahlia.”
“Really? Did she repent of letting you go and come to bash your head in?”
“No. She warned me that the Dreads were going to hit me near sundown and then left.”
A cable van drove into the parking lot, the black-and-red aura of a Dread Thrall emanating from the driver’s-side window. Trace froze.
Cassandra piped in. “Leave before they get there. Go now—”
“It’s too late. They’ve sent a Thrall.”
Her car brakes squealed in his ear.
“Turn on every light in the place and hide as long as you can. I’m coming!”
She hung up, and Trace darted around the apartment, flicking up switches. He spun in a slow circle. The dinky two-bedroom apartment provided no good place to hide. The door and the front window were the only exits. Both led straight to the Thrall. Tactics. If he could deliver a crippling blow inside the apartment, the light would prevent the creature from healing.
Twisting the blinds closed, he unsheathed his katana, concealing himself behind a wall near the entryway. Booted footsteps clanged up the grated metal stairs. The malevolent presence of the Thrall, a presence inherited from its Sheid master, washed over him like a filthy sludge. Trace almost laughed when the Thrall knocked politely. The apartment lights shimmered along the polished blade. He gripped it in two hands, knees bent. Two more knocks and then silence.
Wood squealed. The Thrall leaned into the door, its strength buckling the wood around the handle, the locks popping under the pressure. Splintered chunks of the door and metal hardware shot out from the entryway and slid into the kitchen.
It was in.
“Cable guy,” the Thrall said with a sardonic sneer. Hilarious.
It kicked the door shut, wood fragments grinding underneath it. Trace stood stock-still. One footstep, then another, and it cleared the edge the wall. The swirling red-and-black aura befouled its white jumper. It even had a hat. Boosting his Strength, Trace took one step forward and swung. His blade whistled cleanly through the Thrall’s midsection, top half clunking to the floor with a thud that would wake the downstairs neighbors.
The disembodied legs stayed upright.
Trace stepped back but too slowly. A torso-less leg kicked his thigh with mule force and sent him sprawling backward onto the coffee table, shattering the cheap faux-wood furniture. His sword bounced away. Trace scooted backward as the Thrall’s upper body powered toward him, arm over arm, fingers gripping the carpet. The stubbled head grinned at him with wicked pleasure. Flailing backward, nerves electric, Trace rammed into the couch. He had run out of living room.
The Thrall’s orphaned legs strode up calmly behind as the torso’s beefy hands grasped for his ankle. Trace kicked out, deflecting one reaching hand. The other surged forward, catching his lower leg and squeezing it with a powerful grip. Twisting, Trace tried to anchor himself to the couch arm to yank himself free. But the Thrall was too strong, dragging the couch and Trace backward. Inch by inch the torso pulled him back to where the legs waited to crush his ribs and smash his skull.
Dusk saved him.
From the table, his phone chimed to mark the setting of the sun. The Dread Thrall healed in an instant, the grasping torso disappearing and reappearing on top of the legs. Its momentary disorientation allowed Trace time to roll away and stand. They now stood face-to-face across the room. The katana lay on the floor to his right. The window waited on the left. If he could dive out, get to the motorcycle, and get it started, he could easily outrun the van on the street.
The Thrall’s aura flared. No! Not a torch. Not now. Trace flung himself at the window, but the torching blast overtook him, and his purpose faded with his external vision, Terissa’s office at Goutre and Hudgins replacing apartment 3B and the Thrall at his heels.
Terissa sat behind her dark-mahogany desk, humming happily like she always did. Eyes lost in a daydream, she ran her fingers through her lustrous hair, other hand pressed to her heart. A wall of framed pictures sat clumped around her monitor, their backs to Trace from his vantage point in the doorway. Little rectangles hiding from him. Little windows inspiring Terissa’s pleasure.
Fear coursed through him, numbing his soul. He knew what was on those pictures. Who was on them. Drawn like an addict to his heroin, he longed to satisfy some craving to be worthless so he could wallow inert in his own surrender. She moved her hand to touch her face. A wedding ring twice as big as the one he had slid on her finger over three years ago caught the sun. The pictures beckoned. Something pulled his vision down. Another picture, facedown in the garbage, begged for his attention. He could turn it over. A desire for agony drove his hand forward.
He willed it back and raised his head.
Terissa’s eyes shone, her full lips pulled up in a contented smile. She was happy. He was happy for her. He couldn’t explain how, but he was. The picture facedown in the garbage was of a man dead and gone. Trace might resent her joy, but Helo, the Ash Angel, could forgive. Helo could say goodbye. Helo could be free.
Helo found himself awkwardly sprawled on the couch, arms trapped beneath him, neck bent against the back cushion. The Thrall had his ankle. With a hard yank, he freed it, anchoring his arms against the couch. He called on his Strength and horse-kicked the Thrall across the room and into the next, wallboard and two-by-fours snapping under the Thrall’s inertia, a shudder rattling the room. It landed on its back on the bedroom floor.
Trace snapped up the fallen katana as the Thrall rose and bull-rushed him.
Thought disappeared. With fluid movements, Trace spun away, bringing the blade down on the exposed backs of its legs, severing them. Limp, the Thrall dropped. Without the pelvis, the legs twitched uselessly on the ground. Again the creature used its arms to crawl at its prey. Trace jumped and crashed down on its back, sword point severing the vertebrae in its neck. He didn’t hesitate. He hacked at the snarling Thrall, chopping at it until only the fingers wiggled along the floor. With some well-placed stomping, it was over. Barring a power outage to bring healing darkness, the Thrall was finished.
The neighbors banged on the ceiling below him.
Helo sheathed his sword, grabbed his bag and phone, and bolted. On his way out, he wedged the door shut with a wood fragment and called the Ash Angel help number. They needed a cleanup team before the apartment manager got a nasty surprise.
His next-door neighbor leaned out the window. “What the hell is going on in there?”
He was a young man with barely two brain cells to rub together according to Mindy and Scarlet.
“Just trying to unclog some plumbing,” Helo improvised. “Had to get into the walls. I’m done.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Hard to argue with a man carrying a sword.
Helo scanned the parking lot and checked the cable van. The Thrall had left the driver in a broken heap in the back. Cassandra’s hurtling car screamed into the parking lot. Trace jogged over as her window dropped.
“The Thrall is down. I’ve called in the burn team. They should be here in ten.”
She relaxed and sat back. “I was afraid it would torch you and you’d be ash in a drain by now.”
“It did. I got through it. I’ll get set up in a hotel tonight. Get with operations and tell them we’re going to Goutre and Hudgins. It’s time to figure this out and put the burn on the Dreads.”
“Look at you
,” Cassandra said, doing just that. “Swords and motorcycles and a little attitude. Not bad, Helo. Not bad at all.”
Chapter 27
Goutre and Hudgins
Helo pulled his sunglasses off as he sat down in the conference room in the basement of a Rafael’s Goodwill Barn in Kansas City, one of the original fronts for hiding Ash Angel command and control activities. On the top floor, secondhand clothing and merchandise went to the needy at steeply discounted prices. Underneath? A high-tech operations center.
To keep the Dreads off the scent, only a handful of the 204 operational stores housed an Ash Angel facility. Normal humans administered the rest.
Corinth had arrived earlier, and Helo fist-bumped him as he settled in. Goldbow and Cassandra walked in together a few minutes later. They looked at ease with each other. Maybe the relationship talk had worked. Corinth eyed them, boyish face turned town in a frown.
“Hey, Cassie,” Corinth said, his brightness sounding forced.
“Chumpkins,” she returned.
“Corinth!”
“So, how was the drive, Helo?” Cassandra asked, taking a seat at the head of the table.
Helo leaned over and shook Goldbow’s hand. “There was a storm in the Midwest. I had to leave the motorcycle and take a bus.”
“That sucks. I see you kept the leather jacket.”
Helo shrugged. “I like it.”
“Nice work on the Thrall,” Goldbow said, sitting down next to Cassandra.
Corinth folded his arms in a way that pushed his biceps out. “That Dahlia thing, though. Totally messed up.”
“The Thrall is what got messed up,” Goldbow said. “I know a guy on the burn team. He said most of the Thrall pieces could fit on a hoagie bun. I might have to get some pointers on the sword thing. Sounds like fun.”
Cassandra tapped her phone. “You boys can talk shop later. Let’s see what Maggie’s got for us.”