The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  He did not know who he was, or what his life had been before he’d met Madison, but he was sure of one thing: Darkness had come to Prominence and its citizens were in danger.

  And it had something to do with the ancient church at the center of town.

  The Decay of a Salesman

  Friday morning was slow at Cafe Spastica, and this gave barista Stardene Cassel plenty of time in the pages with her hero, Elektra. She owned an impressive collection of the comics and had read them many times, but there was still one she’d been unable to get her hands on. And this annoyed her to no end.

  On eBay, she’d even found - and missed out on - a much-coveted copy of the No. 3 “Nude” edition in which Elektra appeared without any clothes. Stardene wasn’t given to fantasies about naked women - she was a collector and there was nothing sexual about it. It was a simple matter of wanting - no needing - to own everything Elektra had ever appeared in. But this particular edition eluded her time and again, which was a shame because, though it had been recalled by Marvel, it was neither particularly rare nor expensive - not for a collector’s item, anyway. The whole thing was infuriating.

  She sighed and pulled a stool up and sat behind the counter, holding the ragged comic book under the bar on the off chance the owner, Malcolm Wagborne, walked in. It wouldn’t do for her to be caught reading comics when she could have been sweeping, doing inventory, or cleaning the windows.

  Stardene settled into her seat and felt the familiar buzz of excitement as she opened the pages where Elektra was moments away from a long-awaited kiss with Daredevil, her enemy and former lover. When the bells chimed to announce a patron’s entrance, Stardene nearly fell off her stool. She slipped the comic under the counter.

  It was not Malcolm Wagborne. This was a total stranger. He looked like a taller, broader - and hotter - version of Gene Kelly, complete with a double-breasted pinstriped black suit, top hat, and walking stick. He carried a black briefcase, its glossy shine outdone only by the gleam of his shoes.

  “Good morning, young woman.” His voice reminded her, somehow, of charcoal. He removed his hat and held it to his chest.

  Stardene blinked at him. His hair - also glossy and black - was pulled back into a tight short ponytail.

  “I trust business is good this fine morning.” He glanced at the red Elektra pin she wore beneath her nameplate - she had one for every day of the week, each showcasing Elektra in a different action pose.

  Stardene blinked.

  The man set his briefcase on the counter. The motion brought an aromatic wave of something smoky and sooty. It was pleasant, despite its strength and oddness. “I fear I’ve interrupted your reading, young woman.”

  How the hell did he see me reading? Stardene’s cheeks warmed.

  The man held up a hand. “Fear not! I encourage reading. My only curiosity, of course, is which superhero you favor.”

  Stardene found her voice. “Elektra.”

  “Ah, yes!” The man thrust his walking stick downward and its tip clacked on the hard floor. “Elektra Natchios! The scarlet assassin!”

  Stardene perked up. Not many readers knew Elektra’s last name. She nodded. “Yes, she’s my hero!”

  He leaned in close. “You know what has always struck me as extraordinary about Ms. Natchios?” His eyes were amber and intense - and oddly blank.

  Stardene found herself stupefied, spellbound by his refined good looks. She shook her head.

  “No? Well, I shall tell you then.” He flashed a smile. “Unlike her contemporaries, Elektra wears virtually no protective armor, yet she manages to vanquish her enemies all the same.” His gaze slid over her; she felt its heat as it traveled to her breasts, then back to her face. “And that tells me something about you, young woman. Something about your nature. Something … inherent.”

  Stardene’s mouth was as dry as stale bread. “What do you mean?”

  His smile never faltered. “That you so admire a woman who would dare to confront her enemies without the need of armor tells me that what you wish for, above all else, is inner strength. Self-confidence.”

  Stardene realized she hadn’t been breathing. “Yes. It’s true.” Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t; she hadn’t enough time to consider the analysis, but there was something about this guy that compelled her to agree.

  “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit today.” He tapped his briefcase.

  Stardene blinked.

  “Oh! Where are my manners?” He held out his hand. “My name is Gremory Jones.”

  Stardene took it. His touch gave her the tingly buzzy zing! of an exposed wire. “Stardene. Stardene Cassel.”

  “I think I have something you’ll be very interested in, Stardene.”

  She eyed the briefcase. “You’re a salesman?”

  “Of sorts.”

  She knew the drill: No sales allowed on the premises. It said right on the door NO Soliciting … but she said nothing as he placed his top hat on the counter and flipped the latches of his case.

  He placed a hand over it, keeping it closed. “Unless, of course, solicitations aren’t allowed.”

  Stardene shook her head. “What are you selling?”

  He smiled. “Something you want very, very much.”

  “What is it?” Just open the damn briefcase, mister!

  But his hand didn’t move. “Anything you want.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Anything?” Is he loony?

  He nodded. “Yes. Any … thing.” There was something peculiar about the way he said it. “In your case,” he continued, “I’m thinking something you’ve wanted for a very long time.” He paused, seeming to listen to some distant whisper. “The word nude comes to mind.”

  The Elektra No. 3 “Nude” edition variant? “You mean you have the-”

  “I do.” He smiled. “And all you have to do make is a simple exchange.”

  “Exchange? You mean, like, money?” Her mouth watered.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what do you mean?” She was growing impatient.

  “What do you want more than anything, Stardene? What’s your dream?”

  She stared at him. “What does that have to do with-”

  “Just think a moment. Close your eyes and envision the thing you’ve always wanted. The thing you dreamed about when you were a child. The thing that keeps you up at night, wishing, hoping. Your heart’s deepest desire.”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t see-”

  The handsome salesman tapped the lid of the briefcase.

  She sighed. “Fine.” She closed her eyes and sorted through all the things she wanted. It didn’t take long for her thoughts to light on the secret she’d harbored since her earliest days: More than anything, Stardene Cassel wanted to be a world-famous martial artist. Just like Elektra. Maybe the man’s analysis had been correct after all …

  She dreamed of using her body as a weapon - of the self-confidence that would come with it. Specifically, she dreamed of knowing she could take hits when some man - like her father - came along and thought he could knock her around. She dreamed of fame, of being cast in great movie roles - maybe even as Elektra herself. I certainly would have done a better job than Jennifer Garner!

  But she’d never done any of it. It was expensive, time-consuming, and as her father pointed out to her many years ago, she wasn’t built for it. She was too awkward, too clumsy, too … plump.

  No man wants a woman who tries to dominate him.

  So, she’d filed away the dream and settled into her job at the coffee shop. Her greatest hopes these days were that she’d meet a nice guy, have a kid, and maybe, just maybe, go to college for something that was better suited to her talents - whatever those might be.

  But yes. If there had ever been a dream, that was it. I want to be a warrior. It was what she’d always felt she’d been born to do. She felt her heart swell at the thought.

  “That’s the one.” The salesman’s voice broke her trance. “Now,” he said, hold
ing his top hat out. “Just whisper it into this.”

  “Um … excuse me?” He really is loony.

  He smiled. “Go ahead - quietly, and then you may have what’s inside the briefcase.”

  “That’s the exchange?”

  “Yes. This,” he tapped the case, “for your dream. A dream we both know you’ll never pursue.”

  The man wasn’t sane. “So, you’re telling me that by whispering into your … into your hat, I’m giving up my dream to you in exchange for … whatever’s in your briefcase?”

  “Precisely!” He beamed, his amber eyes glittering. “It’s a more than fair trade, I believe. In fact, wouldn’t it be a mercy to be free of the fantasy? A fantasy that is just that: pure fantasy.”

  He seemed to believe what he said, crazy as it was.

  He urged the hat toward her.

  She took a self-conscious look around, hoping no one would come in and see, then leaned over it. What can it hurt?

  She whispered her dream into the hat.

  “Very well,” said the man. “And now …” He opened the briefcase.

  Stardene gaped. There she was. Elektra. The No. 3 “Nude” edition - in pristine condition, complete with shiny plastic wrap. “Oh, my God.” She took it out and ran her finger down the glossy front. “This is amazing.”

  “And it’s all yours.”

  Stardene looked up at the man. He looked different somehow. “And, because you’ve been such a pleasure,” he said in a voice that now sounded cracked and dry with age, “I’ll gift you with a glimpse into things as they really are.”

  She watched in horror as his broad shoulders shrank and narrowed. The bones of his face began to protrude, the skin going thin and turning gray until it looked like a mask stretched over sharp bones. His lips peeled back in a skeletal grin, his nose became thin, blade-sharp. The skin of his throat went rotten and receded to expose dried meat, tough tendon, and old bones.

  The sour reek of spoiled fruit pervaded the cafe.

  The salesman bowed and Stardene bit back a scream when she saw yellowed skull through sparse wisps of silver-white hair. “It was a pleasure doing business.” His breath was deep and wheezing, and reeked of dead things. He replaced his top hat, gathered his walking stick, and strolled away on limbs that were too long, his head bobbling disjointedly as if his neck were barely holding it up. He now wore a long trench coat and his black shoes had turned emerald-green and pointed, with bells that tinkled as he walked.

  At the door, he turned and gave her a smile and a wave - a flutter of fleshless fingers and a rictus sneer. His trench coat was open, revealing exposed rib bones. Then he tipped his hat and giggled, high and haunting.

  Stardene Cassel screamed.

  Uncertain Skeptics

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Dette’s eyes, underscored by dark shadows, implored Madison.

  “You know I don’t.” Skepticism was part of Madison’s nature, and she wasn’t willing to give it up; it kept her grounded. “Why do you ask?”

  Dette, sitting next to her at the sales counter, smiled at a customer, then turned to her. “I don’t know. Just curious, I guess.”

  Madison turned off her Dremel and blew dust from a piece of obsidian. “You asked for a reason.”

  She was holding back - and she looked exhausted.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Not too well.” Her eyes went dark. “Something creepy happened last night.”

  “Creepy how?”

  Two men entered the shop: Bobby Beckstead and Shawn Barzetti of the Prominence Power and Light Company. Each wore long sleeved flannel shirts, jeans two sizes too small, and clunky work boots. They feigned interest in the display cases, as if a lunch hour spent at O’Riley’s was normal for them. Rubberneckers. Madison was glad Alejandro had taken interest in her father’s books. It kept him in back, out of sight.

  Dette cleared her throat. “I thought I saw something.”

  “What?”

  “A shadow.” She paused. “And I had really bad dreams, too.” She nodded at a man who was leaving. “Thanks for visiting us. Come back soon.”

  “You’re getting good at that,” said Madison.

  “Good at what?”

  “Your customer service. It’s improved a lot.”

  “Thanks. I’m trying.”

  “So tell me about your dreams.”

  But Dette was silent. “Maybe later. I’m just glad I’m not staying home tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dette sighed. “You’ve forgotten already? Opening night. St. Agatha’s. The new club.”

  “Aww, shit!”

  One prim-looking woman turned and Madison gave her an apologetic smile. Near the bookshelves, Bobby Beckstead and Shawn Barzetti elbowed each other and snickered.

  Madison glared and they returned to their performances as real customers. “I forgot all about it,” Madison said, keeping her voice low. “And I wasn’t really planning on going.”

  “But you said-”

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “So? We don’t even know what kind of club it is. All you have to do is show up. And be the designated driver, of course.” She grinned.

  Madison was always the designated driver, and Dette always drank too much and spent the night. “I really don’t want to go, Dette.”

  “You never go anywhere anymore. You need to get out.”

  “I’m fine with the way things are.”

  “Working six days a week and taking care of an amnesiac in your free time? You’re young. You need to live a little. Besides, you promised. You said-”

  “And what am I going to do with … him.” Madison nodded toward the back office. “I can’t just drag him out in public. People will be all over him, you know that.”

  Dette shrugged. “Leave him home. Give him more books. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Madison considered. Maybe a break from Alejandro would be nice. An evening of not worrying about who he was, where he belonged, who was missing him … or why he was naked on the roof again. An evening of not cleaning up sticky fingerprints left by honey. It had some appeal. “Okay. But only a couple of hours. Tops.” I’ll tell him to stay inside and not to answer the door. Or the phone.

  Dette beamed. “Whatever you say.”

  “I mean it. A couple of hours.”

  Dette never left a bar, club, or party early. But she would tonight, or she’d be taking a taxi home.

  Madison smiled at a couple of tourists who seemed genuinely interested in the brontosaurus femur display.

  “Oh! And speaking of books,” said Dette. “I finished Dark Nightshade. You have the next one, right?”

  “Yes. I have all three.” She loved Kathryn McLeod’s Night Blossom series and had read them many times over, though she didn’t do much reading these days - because of work, just like Dette had said.

  “Good,” said Dette. “Remind me to get it from you tonight.”

  “Okay. But be sure to return the first one.”

  Dette rolled her eyes. “It’s in the car.”

  Near the books, Bobby and Shawn were whispering, chuckling. Bobby elbowed Shawn hard enough to elicit a little yelp and more quiet laughs. They were like a couple of frat boys, always making rude noises, pawing at each other, laughing at secret jokes, and generally horsing around. They were damned good electricians, but beyond that, Madison saw no evidence of intelligence. This observation was confirmed when Bobby cocked a leg and squeezed out a fart that, surprise, surprise, wasn’t silent. His buddy slapped him on the back and they fell into each other’s arms, laughing like ten-year-olds.

  Bobby shoved his friend toward the counter.

  “Okay, okay,” whispered Shawn, and then he approached Dette, red in the face. “So, uh …” Shawn Barzetti’s lifeless baritone began. “Are you two, uh, going to opening night at the new club? You know, at the old church?”

  Madison glanced at Dette, who fluttered her lashes and said, “Isn
’t everyone?”

  “Probably.” He snort-laughed. “They definitely put up enough signs.” He paused. “So … wanna meet us there?”

  Before Madison could say no, Dette said yes.

  Great. Now we have to contend with these two idiots. She flipped her Dremel on and continued polishing.

  * * *

  Thanks to Rosemary Hess and her legion of followers, it was a full house at Vang’s Bangs Beauty Salon, and - for what must have been the hundredth time - Rebecca McNair wished that Ms. Vang would spring for a third stylist. Rosemary Hess and her acolytes spent a ridiculous amount of time at the salon as it was and with all the recent excitement, Rebecca supposed they’d be scheduling even more willy-nilly appointments than usual. It annoyed Rebecca but, as Ms. Vang said, it kept them in business and paid the bills.

  Rosemary Hess, Lena Harding, and Diana Stout - none of whom needed a damned thing done to their hair - sat in the waiting area drinking coffee, gossiping, and awaiting their turns. Cloris Riddley was in Evelyn Vang’s chair getting an unnecessary trim, and regurgitating the same news her hearing aid had failed to relay to her during her last visit.

  Lynita Fontoya, a retired veterinarian, was the only break in scenery today, and perhaps the only client who preferred Rebecca to Ms. Vang. For now, she was blessedly silent, watching in the long mirror as Rebecca gave her a trim. After the cut, she’d begin the outlandish dye-job Ms. Fontoya had sported since Rebecca had known her.

  “Is this the length you wanted?” asked Rebecca.

  Ms. Fontoya nodded. “It’s lovely, darling. Thank you. I think I’m ready for the color now. The same as usual, please,” she added, as if there were any question. “It’s Bill’s favorite color, you know.”

  Anyone not formally introduced to Ms. Fontoya would have assumed that Bill was her husband. It had taken Rebecca months to realize that Bill - whose hobbies included digging up houseplants and hiding from the vacuum cleaner - was in fact, a cat. Thankfully, Rebecca hadn’t had the same trouble discerning the species of Mr. Whiskers, Lynita’s other cat.

  Rebecca headed in back where the cocktail of dyes awaited. No simple golden browns or ash blonds for Ms. Fontoya; no, she preferred an eye-popping shade of purple. Not a pale mauve or even a hazy shade of amethyst, but an unrepentant Katy-Perry purple that she swept into a swirling dervish atop her head, making her look an awful lot like a frosted cupcake.