Visitants-Stories of Fallen Angels and Heavenly Hosts
Page 43
“Not innocent.” Fork-Foot growled like machine screws in a blender. “Stupid.”
The alley was narrow, three stories of age-blackened brick on each side lined with greasy dumpsters. Portland had been a nice town, back before the Rapture. Now they were lucky just to keep the murder rate down.
It was no comfort that a good number of the victims got up off their tables at the morgue and walked out. Or sometimes clawed their way from the earth, much later.
“She came down here,” Sesalem said. He framed his thoughts into a narrative as he always did when working a case. “For ... something. To find help, to offer help. Not to score, I don’t think. Though someone scored off of her.”
The victim was perhaps sixteen, African-American with short wiry hair. She’d been carrying a canvas bag from the Albina Church of God in Christ All-Saved and wearing a white sundress. At least, they assumed it had been a sundress. Covering her head, the bag had been tugged off by a forensics tech who now waited for the detective to finish his meditative contemplation.
Sesalem couldn’t imagine any local nut-cutter carrying that bag. It had to belong to her. Logo aside, it was too clean for downtown.
“Stupid,” rumbled Fork-Foot. “I tell you, you listen. People never listen.” His voice faded to a ritualistic grumble.
“Was the perp one of yours?” If so, case closed, and move on. Make a call to her parents, if she had any they could find.
“No. Aura’s no good.”
Demons killed for sport, about like people ate and slept—automatic as breathing, hard to get through the day without. Most victims were in free-kill zones, where there was no call for investigation. Even when not, the crime was usually so obvious as to merit only the most cursory review.
People killed for sport, too, some of them far too emboldened by the demon-haunted world of the Rapture. That was still illegal. In theory.
“What about one of the Damned?”
“No.” Fork-Foot offered no further explanation, but his word was literally law.
Sesalem sighed. “One of ours, then.” He nodded at the forensics tech. “Okay, Jackie. Do your stuff, tag and bag her then ship her to county. Somebody text me if we get a positive ID from this mess. And ... be kind.” Sometimes it took a soul a while to realize it was finished with life.
He walked back to his parked car, ignoring the stabbing pain in his kidneys. Those who hadn’t rammed broken-necked through the roofs of their houses and cars to go to Jesus during the Rapture were mostly Afflicted since. Kidney stones sucked, but it beat having snake hair or tear ducts that dripped shit.
Fork-Foot leaned on the fender of Sesalem’s car, a short wheelbase Toyota Land Cruiser painted to resemble a zebra—if zebras had balloon tires and bull bars. The metal groaned, eliciting a sympathetic wince from Sesalem.
“Not one of yours, either.” Fork-Foot’s tongue shot out of his muzzle to lick one eyeball.
“Not one of ours?” Sesalem asked. “That doesn’t leave a lot of options.”
“Them.” Fork-Foot pointed at the sky. He locked his thumbs to make butterfly wings. “Bird brains.”
Not butterfly wings, Sesalem realized. Angel wings. “I don’t believe it.”
Fork-Foot shrugged, then jumped straight up to the top of the building they had been standing in front of. Sesalem watched the demon leap across the stunted skyline of the Pearl District. It was headed downtown, presumably for the local demon’s nest in Pioneer Courthouse.
“Angels.” Sesalem shook his head. “No way.”
The instant message came through on his cell phone’s tiny screen about two hours later. Sesalem was eating a pork burrito in front of a little trailer on Southwest Fifth.
Alley vict Sheshondra Rouse 17 yrs Albina resident cause of death heart failure. Mutilation post-mort.
Post-mortem mutilation? Not demon work, then. Pre-mortem was their style. They definitely preferred to prolong the suffering.
The pay phone a few yards to his left began ringing. Sesalem glanced at it, then at the vieja running the trailer. She shrugged. Cell phones had continued to work pretty well since the arrival of the Legions of Hell, but the landlines had really suffered. They mostly worked by Demonic—or sometimes Divine—intervention.
Rational people didn’t answer ringing phones.
Rational people didn’t work Homicide in a demon-haunted world, either. Sesalem walked over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” he said cautiously.
“Detective Sesalem.” It was a distant, tinny voice, the line crackling with static and cross-talk in some guttural tongue. “This is Control.”
Control. What the few agents of the Divine still on Earth called their semi-mythical upstream management. Parallel to the demons’ New Jersey headquarters, in a sense. Either this was some joker with brass balls the size of coconuts or Heaven was calling.
Under the circumstances, Sesalem went along with it. “Sure. Go ahead, Control.”
“Back off the Rouse case. Let it go, and return to doing good works.”
“Good works my ass,” Sesalem snapped, his own self-discipline slipping. “Too damned late for that.” He slammed the handset down onto the hook. He truly hated being told what to do.
Then he sat down to finish his burrito and think about why a birdbrain would commit murder. The pay phone rang again, but he ignored the noise.
It had to be murder. Otherwise Control wouldn’t have bothered to call him. And it wasn’t a demon. Notoriously dishonest as they were, he couldn’t figure why Fork-Foot would bother to lie.
But Fork-Foot had hinted at something.
Sesalem needed the demon again, needed to know what Fork-Foot knew. He walked far enough away from the still-ringing pay phone to dial Fork-Foot’s pager from his cell phone.
Fork-Foot dropped to the bricks of Southwest Fifth like a runaway freight elevator. Sesalem flinched from the cloud of chips and dust accompanied by a stench like an electrical short. Brimstone would have been an improvement.
“Nothing to liaise here,” said Fork-Foot in his metal-shredding voice as he looked around. “You got something personal to discuss?”
Cut to the chase, thought Sesalem. Don’t extemporize, don’t apologize. Just look him in the eye pits and talk. The detective took a deep breath. “Why would an angel have murdered Sheshondra Rouse?”
Fork-Foot shrugged. It was like watching an earthquake ripple through a wall. “Why not?”
“They’re forces of good.”
Fork-Foot laughed. At least Sesalem thought it might be a laugh. “Read the Bible, little man. Angels are no different from demons. Just prettier wardrobe, better public relations.”
“This isn’t Gomorrah. It’s Portland. She was a good kid from the Albina neighborhood. There’s no reason.”
“Even angels got to play.”
“Sport? That’s all you think it was? A sport killing, like one of your hunts through Old Town?”
“You better off believing that.”
What the hell did that mean? “Better off than what? Some dead black kid?”
“Better off than some dead black detective,” said Fork-Foot.
“Tell me,” hissed Sesalem, his voice dropping like it did when he was sweating a perp.
“Already did,” said Fork-Foot. “Don’t need to page me no more.”
Then the demon was gone in a swirl of brick dust. All around Sesalem, phones were ringing, from office windows, from passing cars, his own cell.
Back at the crime scene, Sesalem left his cruiser blocking the mouth of the alley. There was nothing left but draggled police tape and some empty film canisters. Forensics still hadn’t gone all digital.
He stood where Sheshondra Rouse had screamed her last. Black paint had been hastily slopped over whatever stains had resisted the quicklime and hot water the clean-up crew normally employed. It was still sticky, already crisscrossed with boot prints, clawed demon feet and a motorcycle.
“Why’d you die here, baby?” he asked the
brick walls. Somehow this didn’t seem like angel play.
“Angels are no different from demons,” Fork-Foot had said.
Did they ever change sides?
As if summoned by the thought, a rush of warm, moist air blew in, Leviathan itself breathing upon the alley, followed by a flutter of wings. The angel landed next to Sesalem in a straight drop eerily reminiscent of Fork-Foot’s most recent appearance.
It was almost seven feet tall, cadaverously thin, with junkie arms—all slack, stringy muscles and blue tendons. It wore leather pants with buckled motorcycle boots. The angel’s bare chest was covered with an ornate tattoo of Michelangelo’s La Pieta. Great grey wings swept behind the angel, matching greasy grey dreadlocks and sea-grey eyes. The angel had silver rings on each finger and he smelled like an overheated motorcycle.
“Just because we’re good,” the angel said, as if picking up a prior conversation, “doesn’t mean we’re nice.”
“The good don’t kill the innocent.” Sesalem palmed his thirty-eight. Even loaded with silver bullets dipped in holy water and myrrh, the gun wouldn’t do much for him now. It still made him feel better.
“The good do what they can in these late days.” The angel glanced at the sticky paint on the pavement. “She would have met someone. He would have been the wrong person, led her places she shouldn’t go. She had power in her, detective. Power that could have blossomed into something terrible.”
“People get crucified on traffic lights in this town,” said Sesalem. “I got a new definition of ‘terrible.’ So why not just turn her around and point her home? Or better yet, kill that wrong person. He might have deserved it.”
The angel shook its head. “There were no good exits from this alley for Sheshondra Rouse.”
“You needed him,” breathed Sesalem in a burst of insight, “him but not her. He’s a source or a contact or something. She was someone who had some spiritual power, loose in the world. Disposable.”
“My war never ends, Detective. Does yours?”
Was it a man Rouse had come to see? An angel? Or a demon?
There didn’t seem to be a difference.
“One of your people went bad,” Sesalem said. “She died for it.”
“Almost correct,” said the angel. “One of theirs went good. But he needed a soul to carry him upward.”
Then the angel vanished, leaving a swirling grey feather perhaps a yard long. Sesalem holstered the gun, snatched the feather from the air, and trudged back toward his Land Cruiser.
All four tires were flat, slashed by needled claws. Sesalem looked back down the alley in time to catch a beam of light, a young black girl standing in it, talking to a tall, bejeweled demon—Fork-Foot?
Then they were gone.
It was a long walk home. He threw his cell phone in the river to stop it ringing, following it with his badge, but kept the feather. “How good is good?” he asked it.
There was no answer.
ABOUT THE EDITOR
STEPHEN JONES lives in London, England. He is the winner of three World Fantasy Awards, four Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards and three International Horror Guild Awards, as well as being a twenty-one-times recipient of the British Fantasy Award and a Hugo Award nominee. A former television producer/director and genre movie publicist and consultant (the first three Hellraiser movies,Night Life, Nightbreed, Split Second, Mind Ripper, Last Gasp, etc.), he is the co-editor of Horror: 100 Best Books, Horror: Another 100 Best Books, The Best Horror from Fantasy Tales, Gaslight & Ghosts, Now We Are Sick, H.P. Lovecraft’s Book of Horror, The Anthology of Fantasy & the Supernatural, Secret City: Strange Tales of London, Great Ghost Stories, Tales to Freeze the Blood: More Great Ghost Stories and the Dark Terrors, Dark Voices and Fantasy Tales series. He has written Coraline: A Visual Companion, Stardust: The Visual Companion, Creepshows: The Illustrated Stephen King Movie Guide, The Essential Monster Movie Guide, The Illustrated Vampire Movie Guide, The Illustrated Dinosaur Movie Guide, The Illustrated Frankenstein Movie Guide and The Illustrated Werewolf Movie Guide, and compiled The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror series, The Mammoth Book of Terror, The Mammoth Book of Vampires, The Mammoth Book of Zombies, The Mammoth Book of Werewolves, The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein, The Mammoth Book of Dracula, The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women, The Mammoth Book of New Terror, The Mammoth Book of Monsters, Shadows over Innsmouth, Weird Shadows over Innsmouth, Dark Detectives, Dancing with the Dark, Dark of the Night, White of the Moon, Keep Out the Night, By Moonlight Only, Don’t Turn Out the Light, H.P. Lovecraft’s Book of the Supernatural, Travellers in Darkness, Summer Chills, Brighton Shock!, Exorcisms and Ecstasies by Karl Edward Wagner, The Vampire Stories of R. Chetwynd-Hayes, Phantoms and Fiends and Frights and Fancies by R. Chetwynd-Hayes, James Herbert: By Horror Haunted, Basil Copper: A Life in Books, Necronomicon: The Best Weird Tales of H.P. Lovecraft, The Complete Chronicles of Conan and Conan’s Brethren by Robert E. Howard, The Emperor of Dreams: The Lost Worlds of Clark Ashton Smith, Sea-Kings of Mars and Otherworldly Stories by Leigh Brackett, The Mark of the Beast and Other Fantastical Tales by Rudyard Kipling, Darkness Mist & Shadow: The Collected Macabre Tales of Basil Copper, Pelican Cay & Other Disquieting Tales by David Case, Clive Barker’s A-Z of Horror, Clive Barker’s Shadows in Eden, Clive Barker’s The Nightbreed Chronicles, The Hellraiser Chronicles and volumes of poetry by H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith. A Guest of Honor at the 2002 World Fantasy Convention in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and the 2004 World Horror Convention in Phoenix, Arizona, he has been a guest lecturer at UCLA in California and London’s Kingston University and St. Mary’s University College. You can visit his website at www.stephenjoneseditor.com.
For full copyright information see pages vii-viii.
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eISBN : 978-1-569-75891-5
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Introduction
MURDER MYSTERIES
THE HOUSES OF THE FAVORED
AN INFESTATION OF ANGELS
SECOND JOURNEY OF THE MAGUS
THE BOWMEN
OKAY, MARY
PLAGUE ANGEL
SCENT OF THE GREEN CATHEDRAL
SNOW ANGELS
NEPHILIM
THY SPINNING WHEEL COMPLEAT
OLD MR. BOUDREAUX
A FEAST OF ANGELS
TRANSFIGURATION
EVIDENCE OF ANGELS
FEATHERWEIGHT
MOLLY AND THE ANGEL
S.D. WATKINS, PAINTER OF PORTRAITS
BEING RIGHT
NOVUS ORDO ANGELORUM
SARIELA; OR, SPIRITUAL DYSFUNCTION & COUNTERANGELIC LONGINGS: A CASE STUDY IN ...
WITH THE ANGELS
THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW MY FATHER KNEW
THE FOLD
BASILEUS
BEAUTIFUL MEN
GOING BAD
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page