by Ash Krafton
Urgency was a flavor on the tongue as Simon pulled in the first lungful of tight, charged air. The atmosphere had become a buzz of voices and motion. Watchers, dozens of them with their stunted ghostly wings, gathered around the base of the Ladder, calling with hands cupped around their mouths, shouting and greeting the travelers.
The travelers didn't gracefully float up and down the ethereal ladder—they shot like they were rocket-launched, speed making them a golden blur. When they got to the bottom, they hovered over the ground to communicate with the Watchers, never touching the wretched earth, held aloft by the spread of their wings—
Oh, their wings. Simon rubbed his mouth, trying to hide his expression from Chiara. It was impossible to not be affected by a sight like that. The sight of an angel's wings made mortality seem like a petty, crude thing. All a man's concerns and triumphs and tragedies crumbled to mere nothings when faced with that breathtaking sight.
It stole a piece of a man's soul, seeing those angels. Definitive proof that God exists. It destroyed the very essence of faith. No longer can a man believe there is a God; no longer can he choose to do the right thing, the good thing, in the hopes that he will secure a place in Heaven. No longer does the concept of free will even exist.
Seeing angels, seeing the proof—it dropped like stones in a garden path, no twists, no turns, no forks in the road. Just a predetermined measure of steps that go from where a man currently stood to the feet of an unavoidable judgment.
Knowledge and belief were two totally different things. The main difference was the absence of the most vital nutrient a soul received: hope.
Simon and Chiara spent many long moments watching the angels. Eventually, the clouds shifted and the light shrank upwards, the Ladder dissipating. The Watchers each zapped out of sight, winking out, leaving no sign that they'd even been there.
Sound returned, too, normal waves of breeze and birdsong and traffic from the highway farther off.
"Well, that's it for tonight's episode, folks." Simon pushed to his feet, brushing the grass from his pants. "Thanks for your patronage and we look forward to you joining us again next week when we present another episode of The Celestial Prophesy show."
A crunch on gravel behind them made them both spin. Mack stood serenely behind them, hands folded in front of his waist.
"Jesus, Mack. I hate when you do that."
The angel clucked his tongue at the blasphemy. "I have a message."
"I figured as much. Well. Go on with it."
Mack remained silent, shifted his gaze toward Chiara.
"Oh, what? Her?" Simon scoffed. "Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of her."
"That's not how this works."
Simon heaved an exasperated sigh. "Sorry, kid. Mack here is shy in front of girls. They make him nervous, if you know what I mean."
"And that isn't what he means," Mack intoned.
Chiara raised her hands. "Hey. No worries. I'll just be over there, admiring the view of—actually, I'm not sure what that is."
"A gopher hole, from the looks of it. Enjoy." Simon watched her walk out of earshot before swinging a pissy look at Mack. "Satisfied?"
"Not my rules."
"Yeah, yeah." He took a tissue out of his pocket, ripped it in half, and wadded it, stuffing it into his ears. "Try to leave me in one piece this time, 'kay?"
Mack closed his eyes a moment.
When he opened them again, the pupils were gone, lost in a uniform metallic sheen. They glowed a magnificent brightness, like gold in the sun, just this side of painfully bright.
That was a beautiful thing. Always was. There was never a time that Simon took a message that he wasn't left feeling scoured and scrubbed by a gentle holy hand. It was like the sun shone only upon him, that he alone was worthy of the warmth. He'd never actually admit it, but it was a brief return to complete innocence, of being utterly worthy of the Creator's attention.
But, as with everything, there was a downside. The racket.
Mack's mouth opened impossibly wide, a veritable megaphone, the herald of God. The brightness streamed forth from his lips, that same golden glow. A cacophony of trumpets sounded in a blast that was not exactly meant for mortal eardrums.
The voice that thundered from Mack's unmoving lips was not his voice.
"Light's scion, tarnished…Love's betrayer…A crushing blow will deliver to the lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls."
The light and the voice faded and Mack closed his mouth and eyes, falling in on himself a little before regaining his posture. It was the only time Simon ever saw a weakness in him. When he opened his eyes again, he was himself.
Simon squinted, pulling the tissue out wiggling his pinkie finger into his ear to soothe it. "Really, Mack? Another riddle?"
"Don't shoot the messenger, Simon. Metatron follows time-honored traditions."
"He also thinks I'm hard-of-hearing." He rolled the tissues between his palms and stuffed the wad into his pocket. "And a poet, too, apparently. Does he think I can interpret sonnets? Or that I even want to?"
Mack grabbed Simon's shoulder as he tried to turn away. "Don't be foolish. This message came high priority for your ears only. You were meant to know this. You are expected to stop this."
"It can mean anything, anyone. You know what I think it means? The Metatron gets a real charge out of delivering vagueness."
"I watched your face as you took the message." Mack took a step toward him, his face alight with eager empathy. "I saw your expression. What does your gut say?"
"You think it's me." He took a step back and rubbed his mouth. "Nah. Too poetic to be me. The lone-heart? Savior of souls?"
"You're a terrible liar. You resonated with the message. It's all in your eyes."
"Which reminds me," Simon said. "I need a new pair of shades. I'm still seeing Metatron retina burn."
"Do the right thing, Simon. Please. And…be careful."
"When aren't I?"
"I have to answer that?"
"Yeah, yeah. Off with you."
Mack turned as if he might walk away. The ghost of his wings thickened around him in a velveteen fog and he vanished with it.
Simon wished he could do the same. Just poof, vanish, bye-bye, leave a problem behind. Not that he could ever believe that prophesy was about Chiara…but nothing Mack had relayed in the past wasn't personal. Every pronouncement had somehow involved him.
Light's scion, tarnished…Love's betrayer…A crushing blow will deliver to the lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls…
Shaking his head, he turned back to look for Chiara. He'd figure this without dragging her into it.
This time, the Light was mistaken.
Had to be.
She'd watched from a discreet distance while Mack relayed his message, the angel's back toward her. She'd seen the light that bathed Simon's upturned face, his wondrous expression.
Kind of sweet, actually. It made her grin. Simon thought he was a true tough guy, the renegade magician who could pound his chest and make the demons run.
Standing vulnerable in front of an angel, receiving a divine message, his swagger was gone, his entire demeanor child-like in its innocence. Very unlike him, and yes. Very sweet.
When the glow faded, he once more donned the usual mantle of his pushed down eyebrows, the skeptical frown he wore most of the time. When he wasn't being a smart mouth.
She waited until the angel took his leave, disappearing behind the fog of his wings, before she made her way back over to Simon. He lit a cigarette while she scanned the field in the direction she'd seen Mack leave, making sure he truly was gone. "Did he have news?"
"He always does. Trick is figuring out which piece of news is actually news worthy." He swept a hand toward the trees, leaving a thin wavering ribbon of smoke to hang in the air. Together, they retraced their steps back through the woods, albeit at a less-breakneck speed.
She ducked under a branch he'd lifted for her. "Aren't you afraid you're be
ing manipulated?"
"By that angel? Pshaw. You have to be kidding. That was the voice of the Metatron. The message is sort of a celestial recording. It's virtually tamperproof. You've never seen an angel play messenger?"
She resisted making a disapproving noise and turned her head, not wanting him to see her expression. "God and I aren't on speaking terms."
"Well, actually nobody is on speaking terms with Him, for that matter. But, seriously. When Mack says he has a message to deliver, I never doubt it's the real deal." The trees thinned and they emerged from the woods onto an empty road. His van was nowhere to be seen. He scratched his head and looked both ways before striking off to the right. "Might be a load of cryptic archaic horseshit sometimes, but it's not his horseshit. It's straight from the mouthpiece of the Almighty."
A car approached from the other direction. As nonchalant as he tried to be, he followed it with his hawk-sharp eyes. Once it had passed out of sight, he raised a hand. She stepped away, not wanting to get caught up in the edges of his magic.
He muttered a Latin phrase, breaking the ward and revealing the vehicle, still parked where they'd left it. He hadn't even bothered locking the doors.
She glared at him over the hood. "And it doesn't bother you that what he does is an act of war?"
He stared at her wordlessly before pulling open his door and climbing into the seat. When she slammed her door shut, it felt like a vacuum inside.
"War." He'd lost his saucy banter. "That's a heavy word."
"It's the only word." She fastened her seatbelt. "The Light versus the Dark, with only the razor edge of mortality between them. Those people—those lovely, ignorant people—they are all that keeps the war from spilling over and becoming a cataclysm. They are what keeps everything from being destroyed."
"Come on, you make it sound like Mack is trying to start the apocalypse."
She crossed her arms. She knew he had a close relationship with the angel, no matter how much he'd put Mack down. Simon talked a rebel's game but his loyalty to one side was unsettling. It was bias, not balance. "It's not the place of the divinities to interfere on Earth. Earth was created for mortals—and mortals alone."
"I don't get you. You correct demonic possessions. I'd say that's pretty much as anti-dark as a girl can get."
"Doesn't mean I approve of angels on Earth."
"But the Watchers—"
"Are divinities. You can't say they're only a step up from—" She faltered, searching for something that sounded Simon-esque. "Nosy gossipmongers."
He raised a finger and half-smiled, seeming to acknowledge the accuracy of her description. "He doesn't do anything—I dunno, angelic. I've never seen him sway a mortal or try to exert influence in any way."
Then he'd be the first, she thought. She'd had encounters with the angelic host before. Exerting influence seemed to be their stock in trade. "He doesn't influence you?"
"Not at all. He rats out demons, sure, and give me a nudge in the right direction, but it's up to me to do something about it. And in the end, we do the same thing, you and I. So, chill."
She grumbled. Not because she was angry but, rather, because deep down she wanted to believe him. "It's a principle."
"That's why I maintain relatively few principles to get hung up on." He started the van, turning the key twice until the engine caught.
No doubt of that. She chewed the corner of her lip. "Does he manifest to other mortals?"
"As far as I know, I'm the sole object of his charms."
That was more difficult to believe. "If I ever catch him trying to ride skin—"
He laughed. "That sounds ridiculously lewd coming from you."
She smirked and reached across to him, grabbing his collar. Effortlessly, she pulled him toward her until they were nose to nose, so close she could taste his breath. "I will exorcise him, and in case he doesn't know it, I will enjoy firstly explaining how very painful a process it is. And I will enjoy living up to my word."
He licked his lips and ducked his head. "Hope you don't have your heart set on it. I don't think that's something we'll have to worry about."
She released his jacket with a sullen tug. "Don't get me wrong—I don't hold anything against angels. I just don't like interference. The mortal world must be protected from outside influence. That's the privilege of being born mortal—to live securely in their own world. They deserve the ignorant bliss of never realizing there is a war that is scorching through the other planes."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged his jacket into place and shifted the van into gear. "I deserve that ignorant bliss, too. Guess it's just not my lot."
"Simon, I didn't mean—"
"I get it, okay? I get your point. But you know what?" His knuckles paled under the force with which he gripped the steering wheel. "Life isn't fair, kid. And this is a tough game. I need every advantage I can get. You call it bias. I call it fighting to win. Maybe you want balance but I've seen the Dark and I will not let it win. I won't stop until it's gone."
She rolled her lips between her teeth. He was wrong in too many ways to count but this wasn't a good time to educate him to that particular end. Right now, his brows were bunched so low they almost touched. He was upset.
His position on the topic was merely a matter of vantage point. Better to wait until the conversation could be less emotional.
They drove back to Baltimore in pensive silence, the miles and the thoughts seeming to stretch on endlessly. She'd never given his "lot" much thought, beyond the obvious. His exterior, his actions and words, spoke clearly enough.
Or did they? Was it all a veneer? Was there something behind the swagger, the flash and the magic? Something she hadn't noticed?
Or had cared enough to seek?
One thing she knew—he wasn't in the mood for more discussion. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, his posture weary against the back of the seat. Talking now wouldn't bring them closer. It would only drive him deeper into himself.
Back in town, he pulled up to the curb in front of her building but left the van running.
"You're not going in?" She couldn't keep dismay from tinting her voice. "Where will you go?"
"Eh," he said. "I've got to find some place to park this bus. Preferably some where they don't do street cleaning. I can't ward against getting smashed by a truck."
"You could try paid parking, you know."
"That's an idea." He grinned, as if already deciding upon a devilish alternative. "I'll see you later."
Maybe sooner, rather than later, she thought, watching as he drove away.
He slipped into traffic and headed back uptown. He was thinking…Fell's Point. More bars per square mile than anywhere else in the US, if he recalled correctly. It had become more or less tradition to head there following a Ladder, when he needed a little bit of sense-dulling after an encounter with the Metatron.
He pinioned the steering wheel with his knees and tugged a piece of chicory out of his cigarette pack, looking for an empty space at the curb. Pausing over, he burned the stick and cast the charm, waiting for a break in the traffic before pulling out again and heading to the marina. The parking lot by the waterfront was clearly marked with a big sign that read Monthly Parking By Permit Only.
Tonight, he gave himself permission to park there. He gently eased the now-invisible van past the attendant's booth, waving to the kid who perched on his seat inside, intent on his phone. Kid never even looked up, despite the loose fan belt that squealed a bit. The van was invisible, but not silent.
He took a spot at the furthest end. "Paid parking," he said, partly to himself. "Good idea, kid."
A few things first…
A rub of intention oil between thumb and finger made drawing the window curtains a snap—literally. The center console contained a deck of worn playing cards, which he flipped through, one by one, until he found the one he wanted: a card that, amazingly, looked exactly like the parking placards this lot used. With a chortle, he hung it from the rear
view before getting out.
He made sure every door was locked, and added a GO AWAY ward before cancelling the invisibility spell. The last thing he needed was someone thinking the spot was empty and trying to park on top of him.
Taking a deep breath of wind-swept air, admiring the play of lights upon the early twilight-sheened harbor, he nodded to himself as he pocketed his keys and set off in search of dinner. Wouldn't be hard. This was one of his favorite neighborhoods. Plenty of places to take a load off.
And plenty of ghosts, too, he remembered a short time later, as he waited for the waitress to come back with a lager and a menu. He noticed the girl sitting in the booth across, the table covered with bins of silverware and stacks of napkins. Apparently the waitresses used this as a prep station.
So it was a little odd for a pretty honey-blonde, mid-twenties, maybe, to be sitting there.
Then he noticed she was a bit transparent. Not so odd, then. Hauntings were as commonplace as cobblestone around here.
She seemed to watch the comings and goings but never got up, never spoke, never interacted. He watched her with intense curiosity. Every ghost was like a movie: a visual with a story. Sometimes the stories were dull. Sometimes, not so dull. It was the reason he'd sewn a braid of sweet grass into the lining of his jacket.
Never easy to tell right off if a ghost was a residual or an intelligent haunting. Over the years, he'd learned that the best implement for investigation was a simple, inexpensive one: good manners.
He lifted his glass to the girl and smiled. "Cheers."
"You can see me?" Her voice was drafty and hollow with a little bit of a pre-echo to each word.
Yep, definitely a ghost. And no, not residual. "Sure, I can. Everything okay, miss?"
She shook her head. "I…I'm not sure. I've been sitting here forever and no one has even asked if I wanted to order."
"They seem super busy tonight. I'm sure someone will be along for you."
"I was on a blind date," she said. "He seemed okay but something…came over him. He…"