by Tiana Laveen
“Yes, though I believe they are all flawed, their basic premise is love.”
“You believe humankind makes choices in our lives. We choose to do the right thing, and sometimes we choose to do the wrong thing. We don’t know what those rights and wrongs are until they are presented to us. The influence is real and we struggle with it. No one is exempt.”
Saint scratched his elbow, took a few moments to collect himself.
“I need to know what I’m up against. This isn’t good enough. I need hard-hitting, full, complete answers! I’ll fight in the dark if I have to, but more lives could be lost due to my blindness.”
“Hopefully Krishna will be calling back soon, and we can get some resolutions and form a solid plan,” Jagger offered.
“One thing I know for certain is that so many fucking people call my city a hellhole. They call the people rude, heartless…” Raphael, his best friend, was glaring at him, taking his words in. “I wonder what they’d think of this place, if these mothafuckas, and their parents, and their parents before them, weren’t in these fucking streets making sure it didn’t get worse than it already is, huh?! People sit around complaining about shit, and don’t even realize how mothafuckin’ good they’ve got it!”
Saint balled up his fist, marched to the black wall and punched a hole straight through the bricks, causing them to fall and crumble as if they were made of stacked potato chips. A hazy, billowy cloud of smolder rose, the scent reminiscent of hot gun smoke. He faced the crowd, his eyes burning with rage and his tongue heavy and salivating, thirsting for a hearty swallow of demonic punch. He was in need to feast on revenge; the savages had gone too far! Things would get violent. Things would get out of control, things would taste bloody and make the calmest mothafucka lose his cool, go straight into the damn nuthouse. When I call a demon by name, they have to answer me!” Saint roared. His voice echoed and bounced off the walls.
“What…is…his…name?!”
Armondo looked up, crimson tears running down the man’s cheeks.
“His name is… Koki.”
Saint could sense that Armondo, who didn’t appear afraid of much in this life, seemed resistant to even utter the bastard’s appellation.
“Can he hear you, Armondo?” Saint’s brow rose.
The big man sighed and nodded. “Yes, he more than likely can.”
Saint smirked and walked closer to the crowd, still bowing in his direction.
“I’m not afraid, I’m angry!” Armondo looked up at him. Heated tears continued to pour from his blood red eyes. “Don’t get it fucked up! Can’t you see?!” he screamed out, his fist in the air, big chest heaving from beneath the folds of his jacket. “You run New York, mothafucka! You run this shit!”
“Then all of you get off your damned knees! Now! That’s an order!”
Everyone stood, dusting themselves off, not daring to blink a glowing eye as they all focused on him.
“If you trust me, and you believe I can fix this mess, then promise me you will do what I say, when I say it. Promise me I can depend on you!”
“Yes! Always!” someone screamed out.
“Good. Armondo, I understand you are Gatekeeper, so to speak.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“How many generations does your family go back, of Angel Children?”
“Shit, man.” He ran a hand over his forehead, drifting off as if doing a tedious math equation off the top of his head. “Since my great, great, great grandfather got off the damn boat from Belize, before him actually.”
“Have your family always been Gatekeepers?” Saint tossed his cigar on the ground and smashed it with his shoe, extinguishing it along with his worked up nerves. He fell into an even rhythm of calmness, placid, like a damn lake filled with floating flowers and jumping gold fish trying to touch the goddamn sun.
“No, it just kind of fell into place. The people ’round here like me. I help protect ’nd serve.”
Saint nodded, his lips twisted in a frown though it wasn’t intentional. He kept staring at the nub of a cigar smashed on the ground, fixating on it, using it as a focal point to sort out his thoughts.
“How many Angel Children would you say live in New York, Armondo?”
“Not as many as you’d think. Approximately 1,453,541 and two more will be born this month. We ain’t all family, though… We have beefs like everybody else. Like ya boy said, we are broken up into groups, we’re gangs for all intents and purposes. Some call us sects, religions and sets.”
Saint laughed lightly, causing the man to nod and smile.
“Yeah, hmmm, interesting. Makes sense, I’d imagine so. One of the pitfalls of being human I suppose.” He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “You’re good…real good, man. Is that your thing? Tallies?”
“I can feel it when an Angel Child is born or dies. So yeah, you could say I’m a gatekeeping head counter.” The man showcased a crooked grin.
“That’s nice, I like that. Now, how many Demon Children are in the state of New York, Armondo?”
The man took a deep breath and clasped his heavy hands together. “2,782,666.”
“Are the last three digits intentional?” He smirked.
“I doubt it. They don’t give a fuck about that shit. Some unlucky broad is going to end up with another one of those mothafuckas tonight. She in the hospital right now, fighting for her damn life to give birth to that fucker… I can only hope he comes up stillborn, for his sake and hers.”
“Yeah, well, our will is rarely imposed. The most important issue here is that we’re outnumbered. That explains the balance problem.”
“Not to sound cliché or shit like that, Saint, but many people here aren’t afraid to die. We knew, once we realized what we were, what the deal is. We die young and if we live to see old age, we still have to look over our shoulders. It’s one thing to try and right a wrong like we do, you know, even those scales a little bit at a time. It’s another thing to come face to face with one of Koki’s people, though.”
“What’s so scary about Koki’s people, as you call them, Armondo?”
“They don’t play fair, man. I wouldn’t give him any type of props, but that mothafucka is deadly. He can fight, he is sly, he’s smart, and you’ll find out…” He pointed at Saint with glimmering eyes. After a while, they returned to their natural dark brown state. “He says shit that will make you want to not take another damn breath.”
“I think that’s been one of the biggest problems with our kind.” Saint smirked as he crossed his arms and took a deep breath. “We think we have to be these proverbial good guys.” He put his fingers in quotation marks. “When someone does you dirty, you get dirtier. You have to speak to people on their level, Armondo. You have to hit them where it hurts and you need to make sure that mothafucka is looking you in the eye when you fucking strike. None of that cowardly stabbing people in the back shit. I don’t particularly enjoy taking mothafuckas out, but if I must, I am going to do it right and relish that shit down to the last damn second.”
The room lit up with discussions. Mouths were moving and looks of deep concern, understanding and respect appeared on the people’s faces.
“Okay.” Saint grinned and waved his hand in the air as if he were stroking some invisible cat. “It’s okay, people, really, it’s fine.” Everyone quieted down.
“Before we get into anything else, let me introduce you to my…” He paused, catching Jagger’s grin. “My clique, and tell you a bit about me that you may not know.” He pointed at the men directly behind him. “These are my friends, more accurately, my brothas. This man right here is Raphael. Like most of you standing here, he was born and bred right in this city. We were birthed out of South Bronx’s burning ass, and were later raised by her twisted, beautiful stepsister, Brooklyn.”
“South Bronx and Brooklyn represent!” someone shouted, causing others to fist pump and woof. Saint and Raphael burst out laughing.
“That’s right.” Saint rubbe
d his brow with a forearm. “Raphael is the man who forced me to accept who and what I was. He is what we all call a commoner, you know, our friends we grew up with, sometimes a family member without the gift, even some of our significant others but he has more heart than most.” Raphael gave a slight smile, then crossed his arms over his chest.
“This big, mean lookin’ joker to the right of me is Jagger.” He winked at the man, causing his friend to smirk and roll his eyes. “He is out of Colorado and a multi-tiered Angel Child, half Italian stallion, half Navajo Indian. He is powerful down to his core, as I am certain many of you have already picked up on. He is the wrong mothafucka to cross, and I trust this bastard with my life. It is a blessing he is on our team.”
Jagger nodded at the crowd; they nodded in return.
“Salute and respect, man!” someone screamed, causing the others to gesture in agreement.
“Thank you,” Jagger acknowledged.
“Over here is another multi-tiered Angel Child. Lawrence also hails from Colorado and I affectionately nicknamed him ‘Quiet Storm.’ He is the levelheaded one of our crew, full of wisdom, wit and common sense. This man is brilliant.” Saint threw Lawrence a serious, sincere look, wanting the man to understand that everything he said he meant from the bottom of his heart. “He is the first Angel Child I ever knowingly met, and were it not for his teachings, I would be lost and wandering about aimlessly. He too, however, can kick some serious ass, so don’t let his gentle demeanor fool you.”
Lawrence raised his arm in acknowledgement, then took a few steps back.
“Welcome, man!” someone called out.
“Thanks.” Lawrence nodded.
“Now, from what I’ve picked up, just by picking your brains a bit as I stood here,”—he paused and sucked his bottom lip—“You know my name is Saint. You know I am a multi-tiered Angel Child. You know also I have a higher calling. I am in the public eye, not for all the reasons that I’d like…” He shrugged. “But it is what it is. There are others like me, but for some damn reason, I’ve been given this assignment. I had to have been, or I wouldn’t even be here.”
“There are now currently eight other Angel Children in the world with your same level of power, Saint,” Lawrence interjected. “And they have nothing to do with this. They cannot be summoned, questioned or interviewed for this matter. Only healers can be asked for advice, and even they must not assist in any physical or psychic altercations with Demon Children unless it is their assignment. It’s not. It’s yours. You all are unique. There are over eighty-three supernatural powers that we know of, including their derivatives that Angel Children can possess. Some you have now, a few you had even as a child though they weren’t fully developed, but most you will continue to receive as time passes.”
Yeah, I need to ask him about Hassani later, too… Why are my son’s eyes changing so soon?
“Currently Saint, my rough guesstimate is that you have approximately fifty-two, most of which you are unaware of or do not utilize to full capacity. Most multi-tiered Angel children have between five and twenty-three. It is against the laws for Angel Children with your level of power to partner with others of the same level and skill for a project. It is forbidden due to you being seen, for the sake of analogy, like a monopoly that ensures an unfair shift in power and balance. The Angels prohibit this, and I’ve never known of an exception. All of you were intended for different purposes, and you must adhere to those.”
Saint nodded in understanding.
“So, as you all have heard, we need to work together. Armondo, I need your expertise and knowledge. How many gatekeepers are in New York and do you know them? Come on, what can give you me?”
“There’s about forty-six of us, man. We watch over the different neighborhoods and boroughs. We look out for one another. If we hear of some shit going down we don’t interrupt, but we keep watch and only get involved if we have to. We don’t catch everything, but we do a lot.”
“The human guardian angels…forever on alert.” Saint grinned and clasped his hands, his feet set far apart.
“Exactly.”
“Back in the day, things were easy breezy. We ain’t want no trouble and Koki ain’t want no trouble, either, nor did his predecessors. He knew whatever steps he took, we’d have to take those steps too, but then, after that shit in Egypt, the tide changed. He got desperate I suppose. He knew you were coming and all this shit; the ponderosa, so to speak, was in jeopardy.”
“Why?” Saint had his suspicions, but he needed to be sure.
“Because man, if a mothafucka like you has to come here and bail people out, then that shit is serious. He couldn’t reverse it, like say, ‘Okay, all those mothafuckas we encouraged to rape, kill for no just cause, shoot-up, rob and all that other shit, we take it back.’ It was too late! The shit was a done deal! His guys went too fucking far. Instead of backing off, trying to show an act of faith, some of his crew got even greedier and started pigging out on people’s frailties. It became a free for all. Just turn on the news, man. New York had a big drop in crime, especially compared to other cities, and then in the last two years, it started spiking upward again. That’s because of them, man.”
Another man stepped forward, his face almost completely covered with a dark gray hoodie. Saint could only make out his paper white skin, tall thin frame and lips that looked as if they’d been dyed with berries. The motherfucker looked dead, though when he opened his mouth, he made Saint’s soul vibrate off its heavenly axis. It was deep, the intonation hard, hitting each syllable like a drum. He had a heavy New York dialect, but he spoke clear as a bell.
“Whenever a Saint, Krishna, and whomever else has to show up and show out, that’s major,” the man said. “A serious fight is on everyone’s hands and when the smoke clears, a lot of us will be dead. Plain and simple.”
“Mmmm hmmmm.” Saint sucked his bottom lip and slowly closed his eyes. “I understand sacrifice, and so do all of you. In my dream world, I’d be living my life, void of the extracurricular bullshit. Taking claim to my piece of real estate here in New York, raising my children, taking care of my family, tending to my business. In my ideal world, none of this shit would be happening.” He slowly opened his eyes and glared at the man who remained shrouded by a cloak of thick cotton.
“Your name is Cruz.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Cruz, I like you.” Saint crossed his arms and stepped a bit closer. “Remove your hood,” he ordered.
The man hesitated, then did as told. He revealed a head full of slightly wavy, strawberry blonde hair and vibrant green eyes. He had a sort of shadiness about him, but the kind that Saint found intriguing, almost downright alluring.
“Something is up with you, man… You smell funny, too.” Saint brushed through the crowd, aggressively cornering the man as people whispered amongst themselves and got the hell out of his way. Cruz refused to make eye contact; he simply kept his head bowed, a stiff upper lip and a cool and calm demeanor.
This mothafucka is so…damn…chill…
“Holy fucking shit,” Saint grinned as wide as his face could muster. “I don’t believe this! Did I pick that up right? Are you part Demon Child?!”
“Yes. My mother was an Angel Child, my father a renowned Demon Child. I chose a different path, that of Angel Children. My mother was murdered in front of me when I was eight years old.” The man spoke as if he were reading a news report. He sounded fascinating and unnerving all at once. “It is believed that it was in retaliation for a crime she’d witnessed. My father was a powerful man, but he was also killed fairly recently for reasons unknown. His head was placed in his front yard with a pentagram carved into his forehead. His body has never been found.”
“I’m sorry about the death of your mother, and the traumatic experiences you endured.”
“Likewise…”
Saint paused at the man’s all knowing response, deliberating on such a thing. He cracked a grin and shoved away any emotions that swayed hi
m off course.
“You know what I find so amazing about you, Cruz?”
“What?” the man asked blandly, his tone practically void of inclinations.
“Your father really tried to love your mother…as fucking strange as that is. I can smell it on you. Love has a scent… You’re a damn love child, created from two opposing forces who happened to really dig one another. How odd yet strangely beautiful.” Saint crossed his arms and circled the man, completely astonished and fascinated by the human creature that stood before him. “Your father ran a satanic church, correct?” Cruz opened up to him like a book, allowing Saint to quickly read page per sordid page.
“Yes. He was at the Church of Satan in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan. He was a High Priest.”
This shit is now all making sense…
On one hand, New York gave birth to freshly baked hope, delicately detailed dreams and a new life of promises fulfilled. On the other, a tar-covered beating heart with spinning serpent heads spit out sacrificed blood while simultaneously trying to suck the longevity out of all that was pure and good. Somehow, Cruz’s turncoat ways and affiliations, both past and present, held the golden key to unlock so much more. The man was true blue, cunning, slick like ice and stunningly peculiar. In other words, he was right up Saint’s alley. He wasn’t certain how just yet, but he recognized the man as an unearthed goldmine of information in their midst. Notwithstanding, he was a testament that demon or angel love could be obtained in human form if one sacrificed their evil for their inner good. This was a secret that the malevolent powers within would never want the world to know. A walking, breathing testament that even the Devil himself could be seduced by the allure and proclivity of holy greatness, even if only for one night…
“Kiko wants you to come back into the fold, be like your father, doesn’t he?” Saint questioned as he rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms.
“Yes.” Cruz continued to look straight ahead, as if reading from a teleprompter. “He knows what I am and believes that, due to my dual background, I can lend insight to the Angel Child thought processes.” He laughed, but kept his gaze averted. “My father studied under Anton LaVey. His true relationship with my mother was hidden. They’d met in college and he’d grown rather fond of her. So fond, they secretly lived together after graduation and married in a civil ceremony unbeknown to others. Due to their vastly opposing affiliations and birth rites, they agreed to have no children. Nevertheless, things happen…”