“I did not flee the daemons out of fear or self-preservation. As an elohim, that concept was alien to me. As you yourself know, little brother, there is only one thought that occupies the mind of the elohim: how may I tend the Clockwork? And I knew that I could not serve the Clockwork if I spent eternity being torn apart by daemons.
“Unfortunately, my pursuers proved as single-minded as I was. An imp armed with red-hot pincers managed to overtake me. I wrestled with him in mid-air, doing all I could to dislodge him from my back.
“Suddenly, I found myself being spun violently around and around, as if I was being sucked into a vortex. I had stumbled into one of the gyres that pop up, time and again, in the disputed territory between the Clockwork and the Machine. The deathling scientists call them “black holes.” Those that fall into them, Celestial or Infernal, are sucked from the Protoverse and spat into Creation, to land on any of a million, billion worlds.
“When the imp realized what had happened, it abandoned its torment of me and attempted to flap its way back to its fellows, but it was too late. The gyre snatched the daemon and hurled it into some far-off galaxy. Which one, I’ll never know. As for myself, I was spat out on this world, just as you were. But, unlike you, I did not come to this world empty-handed.
“In my haste to flee Beelzebub’s daemons, I accidentally broke off a piece of the Machine. Not a big piece, mind you. Barely anything, really. I was still clutching it in my hand when I crash-landed in the courtyard in Constantinople.
“ The deathling who found me—an artist by the name Miletus--thought the fragment was a relic of heavenly origin, so he placed it inside a reliquary designed for such things as the teeth of martyrs and splinters of the One True Cross. When I later explained its actual origin, he was appalled, and urged me to destroy it. But I never could bring myself to dispose of it. I have kept it with me to this day. Who is to say when a little piece of Hell might come in handy?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Why can’t you stay?”
Lucy cringed at the sound of her voice as she stood in the bathroom doorway, watching Nevin put the finishing touches on his freshly washed hair. She was coming across whiny again. She hated that—especially in herself.
“Sorry, baby—I wish I could,” Nevin said as he smiled at her in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. “But I’ve got to finish dropping off these invitations to the rest of the collective.” He kicked the knapsack at his foot for emphasis. “All I have time for until the show’s over are quickies. You know how it is. Gwenda says the Times is sending a reviewer to the opening, and Page Uxbridge of the Matador Gallery is going to be there as well. It’s too sweet a deal to screw up.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “It’s just that I thought, you know, we’d have a little more time together...”
“Later, baby. After the show. Then we’ll have all the time in the world.”
Lucy followed as he headed down the hall to the front door, walking a few steps behind him, her head down. “When will I see you again?” she asked. Although she was trying her best to sound forceful, it was hard to feel in control of the situation while dressed in just a bra and panties.
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m not sure. Maybe not for a couple of days,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh—by the way—what happened to that weird friend of yours?”
“Who?”
“The one from Arkansas?”
“You mean Joth? I got a friend of mine to take him in for awhile.”
“Good!” Nevin smiled. “That guy gave me the creeps. See you later, baby.” He then kissed her on the cheek and was out the door.
Lucy leaned on the jamb for a long moment before throwing the deadbolt, and then returned to her bedroom, where she put back on the clothes Nevin had removed less than twenty minutes before. This was his second afternoon stop-over in as many days. The first was to drop off the artwork he’d promised to return. In both cases he’d shown up with only a few minutes’ notice, calling from a block or two away, made some small talk about the upcoming show, and then got her into bed. Then, after popping his rocks, he was showered, dressed and back out the door in record time, leaving her alone once more.
Lucy wandered into the living room and stared at her recovered pictures. She had them propped on end, side by side, one after another, along the length of the sofa. Of the ten pictures Nevin had made off with, he’d returned five. Tellingly, he’d kept the nude studies of himself they had “collaborated” on, leaving her with what she’d come to think of as The Seven Devils Suite. She had taken the pictures during what she assumed would be her final visit to her home town. It had taken her nearly three years to find the inner strength to finally develop them—and she was glad she had done so.
The first in the series was Downtown, which depicted the tumble of charred bricks, burned timbers and scorched theater seats that was all that was left of the old Ben Franklin, the drugstore, and the Bijoux of her youth. The fire had raged through downtown Seven Devils two years prior to the photo, but the town was so poor it couldn’t afford to hire anyone to clean up the rubble and haul the bricks away.
The second picture was titled The Patriarchs, and depicted a Greek chorus of aging good ole boys gathered in front of the old Gulf station. House Dog was a close-up of the antique cast-iron bulldog-shaped bottle-opener fixed to the kitchen door jamb in what was now her Cousin Beth’s house. Pappy’s Clock managed to capture the timepiece’s occupant in mid-cuckoo. The fifth in the series, Mam-Maw’s Ride, was a shot of the old glider on what was once her grandparents’ porch, empty and motionless, its rusty chains silent. Once she got Mama and Irises, the print Joth had accidentally broken, back from the frame shop, she would be ready to package the series in bubble-wrap in preparation of transporting them to the gallery.
She sighed and walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There wasn’t much in there besides a few canisters of 35mm film, an open can of ginger ale and a Two Boots Pizza delivery box containing a congealed slice of eggplant and pepperoni. She grunted in disgust and closed the refrigerator. The events of the last few days hadn’t exactly permitted her the time or resources to score groceries. With Joth gone and Nevin popping by only when it suited him, the apartment seemed really— empty. At first the silence had been welcome, but now it was starting to get to her. Pretty soon she’d be playing the TV set all day long, just to have the illusion of other people in her life.
She’d replaced her demolished phone with another piece of cheap-ass shit. Maybe she could reach out and touch someone—but who? All Nevin had was a beeper, so it was impossible to call him up and simply chat. As it was, over the last several months, her involvement with the art collective had pushed most of her casual associates out of the picture. And even if she did call up one of her old friends out of the blue—what did she have to talk about? All her friends who had been less than thrilled with Nevin, and whom she’d snubbed on account of their refusal to accept him, would call her an idiot for taking him back after he’d treated her like a pair of dirty Pampers. The only other “big news” in her life was Joth. And she knew exactly what would happen if she started going on about that; she’d be in Bellevue before she could hang up the receiver. She could call up old friends simply to invite them to the opening, but, ironically, now that she was back in the collective, she had virtually no one to invite to the opening who wasn’t involved in the show itself.
As she returned to the living room, something in the corner of the room caught her eye. As she stooped to pick it up, she saw it was one of Joth’s feathers. She held it up to the light, marveling at how the sunlight refracted off its surface. As she turned the feather, its colors shifted and melded like that of a kaleidoscope. Without meaning to, she smiled.
When Nevin had stopped by earlier to drop off her stack of invitations, he’d made a point of mentioning how, thanks to a little string-pulling, Gwenda had managed to talk a trendy Soho gallery into sponsoring the group show. Nevin had suggest
ed, just before he took off her blouse, that she ought to invite anyone she knew who might be well-connected in the art world. He hadn’t really meant it, though. After all, Nevin assumed he knew everyone she knew...
Two minutes later, she was seated cross-legged on her bed, the phone balanced on the rumpled bedclothes. The receiver picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hi, Ez—”
“Lucy!” Ezrael sounded genuinely pleased. “How wonderful to hear from you—to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Are you interested in attending a gallery opening?”
“Is this the one you mentioned before?”
“Um, yes, it is. It’s a group show, actually. I’m one of several people in this art collective that will have work on display. Its a couple days from now...at the Ars Novina Gallery. Are you familiar with it?”
“I know all the art galleries in this city,” Ezrael replied with a chuckle.
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I guess you would, wouldn’t you? Anyway, I was just calling to see if you would, you know, turn out to support the arts.”
“Of course I will! Should I bring Joth along, too?”
Lucy tried to keep her sigh from sounding too much like one of relief. “Joth’s still there? I mean, he’s still, you know, Joth?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
Ezrael took a deep breath before replying. “Nature is taking its course.”
Lucy tightened her grip on the phone. “Ez—give me a straight answer here. Has he gotten worse?”
“I can’t really describe it over the phone. You’d have to see it for yourself. It’s not just the wings, now, Lucy—it’s in the eyes.”
“What’s in his eyes?”
“The Devil.”
The last time words had hit her this hard was when she received the news of her mother’s suicide. It felt as if she were falling inside herself, plummeting end-over-end through empty space, unable even to scream for help.
“Lucy? You still there?”
“Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m still on the line.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Jesus, Ez. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes, there is, as a matter of fact,” he said. “You can take Joth back.”
“Wait a minute, Ez! You know I can’t do that!”
“I ‘know’ no such thing!” the Muse replied tersely. “Lucy—Joth needs your help. You are its touchstone. But your rejection of Joth may have accelerated the transmutation...”
Lucy’s shoulders stiffened defensively even as her cheeks turned red. “Hey! Don’t try laying any guilt-trips on me, okay? I can’t have Joth hanging around my house, screwing up my life! I promised Nevin I’d get rid of him, and I did.”
“Lucy—I don’t know if you believe in destiny or not; but of all the people in New York City—an angel landed at your feet. In the old days, people used to call that an omen. I’d think about it, if I were you.”
“Well, you’re not me!” she retorted. “And I don’t need you playing head-games with me! It’s not my fault any of this is happening!”
She slammed the receiver back into its cradle so hard she was afraid she’d broken yet another phone. She stomped out of the bedroom to the kitchen, still fuming over how anyone could have the audacity to suggest that she was somehow responsible for anything bad that might happen anywhere.
The intercom buzzer startled her. She hurried over and hit the speaker button next to the front door. “Yes?” she shouted, punching the “Listen” button at the same time.
A masculine voice that sounded like it was talking through a kazoo responded: “E-Z Framing! Gotta delivery for—Fender?”
“That’s Bender!” she replied. “I’ll buzz you in!”
Three minutes later Lucy handed the heavily tattooed and pierced delivery boy a five-dollar tip in exchange for a package wrapped in brown paper and bubble-pack. She eagerly stripped the paper away and placed the newly repaired Irises alongside the other pictures in the series. Paying the extra fifty bucks for a rush job had been worth it.
Now that she had the final piece in the Seven Devils Suite in her possession, she found her anger dissipating. She felt bad about blowing up at Ezrael— but he’d pushed a few buttons. She didn’t react well to guilt-tripping. Her mother had relied on it quite a bit, when she was a kid. It was one of the few things guaranteed to set her off. As it was, she didn’t need anyone to make her feel guilty—she did it well enough on her own, thank you.
The idea of Joth turning into something like Meresin was something she had tried hard not to think about over the last couple of days, but her mind kept wandering back to the subject whenever she wasn’t preoccupied with Nevin or the opening. She wished Joth no ill will. While the angel was utterly tactless, clueless, and denser than mercury, it was also without guile, cruelty, spite, or ulterior motives. Still, she had to wonder how much of what she felt towards Joth was genuine. According to Ezrael, it was impossible for any normal human being—provided they weren’t under direct control of the Machine—to hate an angel. Part of their “protective coloration” was the ability to inspire trust and affection in all who met them—she’d seen that with the taxi driver. Was it possible her concern for Joth’s well-being was no more voluntary than swallowing or blinking? It might be a sad commentary on how she saw the world, but she’d had her chain jerked enough recently that she was now leery of her own emotions. Besides, as much as she might feel sorry for Joth, she had no more responsibility to help him than anyone else. After all, it wasn’t as if the angel were family—
As Lucy entered the living room, she glanced in the direction of the artwork lined up along the sofa—and gasped as if she’d been struck in the pit of her stomach.
Iris Bender stood in the middle of the room, dressed in the clothes her daughter had picked out for her funeral—a periwinkle blue frock with a single-strand pearl necklace. In her arms she held the bouquet of irises Lucy had placed on her casket. Mrs. Bender’s ghost did not say anything to her daughter, nor move to embrace or threaten her. She just stood there and looked at Lucy with a sad expression in her eyes. It was the only time—besides when she had lain in her open coffin—that Lucy could remember her looking both sane and sober.
“Mama?” she whispered.
Mrs. Bender turned her face away from her daughter—and disappeared.
Lucy reeled into the kitchen and yanked open the freezer and dragged out the bottle of Jagermeister she kept hidden behind the frost-encrusted bag of Tater Tots. She was shivering so hard her teeth were rattling. After three hits her knees finally stopped knocking against one another. Still, she could not make the look of sadness on her mother’s face disappear from her mind. Her mother had appeared to her for a reason, of that much she was certain. But why?
She glanced back down at the feather lying on the kitchen counter. No. No more denial. No more pretending. She had turned her back on someone who needed her help once before, and she had to live with that until the day she died. She couldn’t do it again.
Lucy picked up the receiver and hit re-dial. A second later, Ezrael’s gruff voice was on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Ez—It’s me, again—Look, I’m sorry about what I said, okay? I’ve been thinking it over and I decided that Joth can come back—that is if he wants to. He’s not mad at me, is he?”
“Mad? At you7” Ezrael chuckled. “Even if Joth knew what mad was, you’d be the last person on earth it would be angry with!”
Lucy blushed and smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, Ez—so when do you think you can bring him over?”
“Look out your window.”
She frowned, wondering exactly what the old wizard meant, and glanced up—at Joth, crouched on the fire escape outside her bedroom window.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy hurried over to the window and unlatched the burglar bars and raised the window, motioning frantically for t
he angel to come inside. “Quick! Get in before someone sees you! The last thing I need is someone calling the cops about a nude man on the fire escape!”
Joth folded its wings and bowed its head and began to climb through the window into Lucy’s bedroom, then pulled back and looked over its shoulder. Lucy frowned and leaned forward, craning her head to see whatever it was that the angel might be looking at. Without any warning, Joth grabbed Lucy under the armpits and pulled her through the window and onto the fire escape.
“Joth! Put me down!” she shrieked. “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?!?” She attempted to push herself away from the angel, but there was little room to maneuver without toppling over the railing. As she struggled to extricate herself, she caught sight of the angel’s wings—and what she saw was enough to make her freeze.
At least half of Joth’s underpinning was gone. Lucy brushed the exposed area with her finger tip. It felt soft and supple, like quality unborn-calf’s leather. She didn’t need Ezrael to explain to her that Joth’s wings were turning from that of a bird into those of a bat. She wondered how long before it started sprouting a tail, cloven hooves and horns to go along with them. She lifted her eyes to the angel’s face and bit her lower lip at the sight of the dark blobs floating in what had previously been crystal-clear eyes.
She took a deep breath and steadied herself, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “Joth—why don’t we go back inside now?”
“I want to show you something,” Joth said.
“What?”
By way of reply, the angel scooped her up in its arms. She was so astonished by its strength and speed, she couldn’t find the breath to protest. Despite how little the angel actually weighed—after all, she had carried it, single-handed, from the roof— it held her as if she weighed no more than a puppy.
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