by Nic Widhalm
“No more excuses, Father. I’m leaving tonight.”
It hardly needed to be said, since tonight was the “meeting” Hunter had been dreading and anticipating for the past three days. But a part of him worried Valdis would never let him go. Angel or not.
But Valdis didn’t mind Hunter going to the meeting, as the old man told him at length. That wasn’t a problem. What was a problem was Valdis’ bull-headed insistence on accompanying him. Never-mind the risks—like Bath killing the old man without a second glance, and probably Hunter for bringing him along—the mere idea of being around the priest for another hour brought Hunter close to screaming.
Instead he destroyed the room.
Now, with only a few minutes between him and sweet, winter air, all Hunter could think about was finally getting some answers.
“Answers aren’t going to help you unless you figure out the question,” Valdis had warned after Hunter’s first night in the stone room. He had awakened after only a few hours, screaming, his head full of red-tinged nightmares, his nostrils wincing from the stench of blood. After awakening like that, the last thing Hunter wanted to hear was more psycho-babble from Valdis.
Now, as Hunter packed the last of the manuscripts and notes Valdis had left him into a dirty old pack he’d found in the church’s catacombs, he thought back to that conversation with an odd pang of guilt. The priest had only been trying to help, and God knew Hunter was in scarce supply of friends. But the thought fled as he remembered Bath’s black stare, and the sensuous pull of Karen’s thighs. In only a few minutes he would meet both of them again, and, despite Valdis’ claim, Hunter would get his answers. Whether he liked them or not.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind,” Valdis asked as he escorted Hunter though the labyrinthine turns of the church’s underground catacombs.
“I’m sure.”
“Then take some advice at least,” the priest led Hunter to the steep stairs they had descended three days earlier. “Don’t trust them, don’t believe anything they say and come back as soon as possible.”
“Because I can trust you?” Hunter said with a disdain he immediately regretted. Friends, he reminded himself. “I mean…I’m sorry, I do trust you. What I meant…”
“What you meant is that you’re wary. And you should be. Just make sure your distrust extends beyond myself.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Hunter said, following the priest up the stairs and into library’s bright light. He threw a hand across his face, tears streaming unhindered down his cheeks as his weakened eyes adjusted.
Valdis closed the trapdoor and covered it with the rug. “It’s been my pleasure, you know. To help one of the Apkallu, to see the living embodiment of my work,” The old priest smiled gently and placed a hand on Hunter’s arm, lowering it so he could meet the tall man’s eyes. “Remember what I said about the war. Don’t forget to ask questions.”
“I won’t. I mean…I will. Ask questions.”
Valdis nodded. “I know you will. You know the way out, so I’ll leave you here. Good luck, and, well…you know the rest.”
Hunter smiled, trying to mask his anticipation at leaving, then turned and exited the library. Another minute and he was out of the cathedral and into the cold, winter air. To the west he saw the sun just touching the tips of the Rocky Mountains. In another hour it would be night.
Valdis was worried. Hunter had gathered that much from the priest’s riddles and half-answers. The literature he left with Hunter centered around the nature of the afterlife, and the role of the celestial beings called angels. It had been a slow, agonizing couple of days, but Hunter had managed to glean two things: there wasn’t supposed to be a war; and, if there was, it was supposed to be between angels and demons. There had been no mention of the concepts Bath and Valdis had shared with Hunter—the idea of two separate factions of angels having a continuous war, with no connection to the devil or mankind.
Hunter had never been a religious man. He had almost no spiritual upbringing from his parents. But he had gleaned enough from movies and pop culture to deduce Valdis’ fear—if there was a war in heaven, what happened to the humans who died?
As he neared the bar where Karen had told him to wait, Hunter tried to clear his mind and prepare himself for whatever was to come. There would be a time and a place to think on the questions Valdis had raised.
The bar came into view, the same faded sign displaying its hours (an ambiguous and unhelpful “6am-close”), the title, “The Drunken Midget” painted in broad-strokes across the top of the building, and the windows clogged with smoke and bits of trapped snow. Hunter grinned as he anticipated his reunion with Karen, her of the piercing, emerald eyes, and reached for the door. But just as his hand gripped the metal handle someone on the other side pushed the door forcibly open. Grunting an apology as he moved aside, Hunter didn’t notice that the exiting patron hadn’t moved from the doorway.
“It’s you!” A voice cried, and Hunter looked up to meet the eyes of a woman. There was nothing remarkable about her; brunette, average height, good shape, jeans and a brown leather jacket just like hundreds of women Hunter had seen any day of the week. The only thing that made her stand out was she was currently staring at Hunter with large, open eyes.
“Um…sorry?” Hunter looked around awkwardly, wondering if she might be talking to someone else. That’s when her hand darted inside her jacket, and Hunter saw the outline of a revolver hanging from her shoulder. Before he could think, Hunter pushed the lady hard enough to slam against the building, yelled, “Sorry,” and ran.
Pelting down the sidewalk, Hunter looked desperately for a place to hide, running into the first alley he found. It ended after only a few feet. Panicking, Hunter entertained hiding in the garbage before a hand suddenly grasped his arm, and he turned to see Karen’s deep, black eyes.
“Wha…” Before he could finish his sentence the alley disintegrated around him in a flood of tiny, grain-sized images. Cold, sharper than a thousand knives, stabbed at Hunter. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, the world was void. And then color rushed back and he was in another alley, longer and with slightly different brick. He collapsed to the ground, stomach seizing, and emptied his lunch on the stained concrete. Continuing to heave, he watched from a removed part of his brain while his body vomited repeatedly. Panting, he stared at the ground, his mind struggling to catch up.
Karen. Bar. Black eyes. Vomit. Once the world swan back into focus, Hunter raised his head and saw the silhouette of Karen standing at the mouth of the alley, bathed in sickly yellow streetlight. He struggled to his feet, his legs feeling distant and wobbly, and leaned against the dirty brick wall.
“How…what…?” Hunter shook his head feebly, his mind unable to process what his body already knew.
“Time for that later. I was only able to move us a few blocks, which doesn’t give us much room to maneuver. So, if you’re done acting like a little girl maybe we can get the hell out of here?” Karen stepped fully into the alley, her eyes flashing, a determined set to her shoulders. Hunter nodded weakly, and followed as Karen led the way out of the alley. Looking quickly in both directions, she walked confidently onto the sidewalk and made her way up the street. Following doggedly, Hunter tried to mirror Karen’s confidence and detachment, but found it impossible as his body shook and convulsed in the freezing night air.
Finally, a block from their sudden appearance, Karen turned into a darkened entrance and rapped on a stout metal door. A quiet moment passed where Hunter heard nothing more than the soft murmur of cars in the distance, then the door opened.
“Yes?” A man in stylish black glasses asked.
Karen swept back her thick hair, revealing the twisty arches of the glyph nestled under her left ear. The man’s eyes widened and he stepped back, ushering Karen and Hunter through the door. Passing through the entry, the man led them up a long flight of stairs, past two closed doors, and finally to a third at the end of the hall
. Pulling a key from his pocket he unlatched the knob and said, “Take as much time as you need. I’ll call a car so…thirty minutes, maybe? Let me know if you need anything.” Karen nodded, and the man smiled with adoration. Backing down the small hallway, the man disappeared down the stairs, his eyes never leaving Karen. Hunter looked at Karen quizzically and followed her through the opened door and into a small, lavish room. It was compact, but opulent, complete with two love seats, an impressively slim TV, and a petite refrigerator nestled in the corner.
Karen sighed. “Looks like we have some time to kill.” Taking a seat, she opened the fridge and drew out a club soda and an energy drink. She tossed the club soda to Hunter and took a long swig from her drink. “So,” she said. “Tell me something interesting.”
“Uh….” Hunter lowered himself slowly into the love seat across from Karen. He wondered if he would ever get used to the nonchalance these people showed the supernatural. “Well…that was my first teleportation.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. That stuff has a way of sticking with you.”
Karen laughed. “You don’t say. My first time was right in the middle of a make-out session with Tommy Summersberg. One second I’m locking braces, the next—pow! Middle of a hayfield a mile from home.
Hunter blinked. “Jesus. How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“How did Tommy take it?”
“Not bad, all things considered,” Karen laid her head back, a small smile on her lips. “He told his parents I wasn’t Jewish, and he was never allowed to see me again. Pretty clever for a kid that age, don’t you think?”
Hunter agreed, taking a sip from his club soda. His fingers spasmed as he lowered the drink, and he had to catch the can with both hands to keep from dropping it on the floor. “So, is that how it works, then?” He asked. “You just…wish for it?”
“Something like that.”
“Pretty handy. I could think of a few uses.”
Karen gave him a slow, seductive wink, then said brightly, “Like running from the cops?”
Hunter blushed. “Yeah. I guess. Thanks for that, by the way…the running part I mean.”
“Comes with the job.” Karen took another swallow from her energy drink. “Won’t work like that for you, though. The running. Powers have different gifts.”
“You mean strangling hospital attendants?” Hunter stared at his club soda, willing his hands to stop shaking.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Not funny.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Hunter sighed, then changed the subject: “So, that guy who let us in…” He left the question unspoken, hoping Karen would take the hint. But she merely took another drink and continued to watch Hunter with those distracting eyes. Finally, she said, “So, fair’s fair. What about your first time?”
“Uh…?” Hunter frowned. “You mean with my—”
“Yeah.”
Hunter paused. In the silence memories came bubbling to the surface, and, for the first time in his life, Hunter found himself wanting to share them. He had never been able to talk with Adrianna about his childhood, and he hadn’t had any friends growing up to share secrets with. So now, confronted with the question he had been waiting over a decade for someone to ask him—which was something of a shock since Hunter hadn’t been aware that he was waiting for the question—he didn’t know where to start.
“Start at the beginning,” Karen said.
The beginning, he thought. Can I even remember that far?
Much of his childhood was obscured by the fog of time that affected everyone. But for Hunter it was considerably worse. The truth was, he didn’t remember the beginning at all. Not a bit. Everything before the age of seven was a complete blank in Hunter’s mind. He had never given it much thought; up until now he had just chalked it up to the idiosyncrasies of childhood.
The beginning.
What he did remember was the family dog—Cabbage-breath. Many of Hunter’s memories revolved around that dog—who his father referred to as “one step away from the sausage factory,” though he used to sneak the dog treat’s when he thought Hunter wasn’t looking—and the adventures they had shared. Memories that were surely idealized by time. As a grown man he couldn’t give much credence to recollections of Cabbage pulling a small child out of a well, or fighting off a bear so Hunter could steal its honey.
But he did remember how she died, and that seemed as good a place to start as any.
He had been eight—or maybe nine, or ten?—on the morning of Cabbage’s death. They had been playing in the front yard, Hunter’s attention divided between the pleasure of throwing Cabbage’s ball, and looking anxiously down the road for the tell-tale signs of his dad’s blue Chevy. The moment he saw that plume of dust, Hunter would have to scramble back inside to avoid getting his tail tanned for being so close to the road. It was probably due to his inattention that Hunter threw the ball so far, and Cabbage flew across the yard and into the street to retrieve it.
“That’s where it started, I think,” Hunter said, reliving the tale for Karen. “I remember her running across the road and I’m screaming my little lungs out, just scared out of my mind, and then—I don’t know. I black out.”
“Just…black out?”
“Yeah,” Hunter said distractedly, knowing even as he said it that there was more to the story. Something he refused to see as a child, and was only now coming to terms with. A change in the sky, a strange noise in the distance—a clash of steel.
Deep in his gut, Hunter felt the sickening truth boiling up through years of repression. He saw with agonizing clarity his arm pulled back, the ball about to fly through his hands, and the sudden cacophony of alien sounds and screams springing out of nowhere. He let the ball fly, blinded by the noise, the stink of something charred reaching his nostrils, and then his vision cleared just in time to see Cabbage collide with the van racing down the road. His newly-awakened memory exploded with color, as Hunter witnessed his younger self scream an agonizing cry—did it echo the alien keens?—and fall to his knees against a red-tinged sky.
Hunter, eyes wide, shook his head. “That was it. I didn’t remember any of it.”
Karen, silent through his recollection, scooted across the couch and placed her hand on his. “It’s normal.”
“What’s happening to me?” Hunter asked, his voice small and hurt. The echo of a boy.
“You’re rising.”
Hunter looked at Karen, who was smiling in an easy, consoling manner. Something beneath her gaze, though, squirmed darkly. A tinge of black in the sea of green. “What happened next?” She asked.
“I…uh…” Hunter searched his memory, probing it carefully like a new tooth. “I guess when my dad came home I told him what happened. He tanned my ass and that was the end of it.”
Karen leaned close, her eyes boring into Hunter. “But the strength—your rage. You don’t remember feeling your gifts for the first time?”
Hunter shook his head, his eyes turned inward. “No,” he said distantly. “No, he just spanked me and said he’d be damned if he shelled out for another dog. He…I think he cried a little. But there were no gifts, just the weird sky and all that noise.”
Karen leaned back, her eye’s drawn. Hunter cleared his throat. “So, now what?”
Karen stood, straightening her skirt. “Our car’s here. Shall we?”
“What? Already?” Hunter tried to look at his watch, forgetting he didn’t have one. “That was quick.”
“Quicker than you think. It arrived five minutes after we got here.”
“But…”
Karen grinned, and for a moment Hunter saw that same darkness slip under her eyes. Then she blinked and there was nothing but the familiar, slightly condescending smile. “I know, I know, our host said a half-hour. I’ll admit, I wanted a little extra time to get to know you.” She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. “Is that so bad?”
/> “Guess not.”
“Good. Now, should we get this formality done, or do you plan to talk all night?”
“Lead the way,” Hunter said, following Karen out the door and down the steps, wondering who he was talking with—the seductive woman he had met in the bar, or the angel with darkness in her eyes?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sky had darkened to a deep, midnight blue by the time the car stopped. Hunter kept his eyes on the driver, trying to appear cool and collected as they finally reached their destination. They had driven for close to an hour, the hills lowering as they left the city until there was nothing but cold prairie land on every side. In the light of the winter moon the brittle fields were bathed an icy blue.
Their destination was anti-climactic after three days of anticipation—a field, much the same as the ones they had passed exiting Denver, empty but for a few scattered bushes. It hardly seemed a place for revelations.
“We’re here,” Karen said needlessly as the car ground to a halt.
Hunter was about to ask about the rest of the party, when his vision blurred and the field took on a hazy luster. He blinked, and four cars abruptly appeared, parked alongside the road. The beginnings of frost were icing their windows.
“I didn’t imagine that, did I?” Hunter asked.
Karen, silent, opened the door and stepped outside. Hunter stayed put, blinking his eyes over and over until Karen pulled open the door and grabbed his forearm. “Now.”
Grimacing, attempting to steady his racing nerves, Hunter complied. At once the cold hit him like a punch in the gut, the wind tearing at his hair, his breath turning to fog. “Should have brought a coat,” he muttered.
Karen rolled her eyes and headed for the field.
“Should I even ask where we’re going?” He asked, following closely.
“Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”
They entered the field silently, the car and road fading in the distance until they vanished from Hunter’s eyes. They were alone now, accompanied only by the sharp, biting cold.