A flake, perhaps, but a damned good-looking one.
“What’s this about?” She pushed her wet hair away from her face. It was red - the kind of auburn you couldn’t get out of a box.
Leaning forward - as much as the hungry armchair would allow - he clasped his hands. “It’s about the young man who brought Abigail Strane to your home a few days back. I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything about him.”
Her eyes - the shade of Connemara marble - were exquisite. “I don’t know that I can help you. I really don’t know anything about him. He just showed up that day with Abby, then left.”
“How did he strike you?”
She paused. “About the head and shoulders.” A smile tugged at her lips.
Confused, Nick tipped his head.
“It was a joke, Chief Grayson. I don’t understand your question.”
“Sorry. I’m not being clear. Was there anything out of the ordinary about him?”
Her brows furrowed. “He was in his underwear. That wasn’t very ordinary.”
“And did he say anything, Ms. Simon?”
“Please, call me Beverly.”
Beverly. It somehow reminded him of rolling hills. He repeated the question.
She looked a little ill at ease. “He didn’t say much.”
Nick waited for more, shifting his ass forward some to keep from being sucked into the chair’s crevices. “What did he say, exactly?”
She chewed her lip, studying him. “Well … he said that …”
“Yes?”
“It just sounds so silly.” She tightened her robe.
Nick stole a quick glance - the rest of her was just as easy on the eyes.
“He said that her head was broken. Abby’s head, I mean.”
“Broken?” Nick leaned forward, he and the chair in a battle of wills. “I understood that Mrs. Strane sustained no injuries.”
“I think he was referring to her mind. Abby has memory problems … or had them, anyway.”
“Pardon me? Please explain.”
“It was very strange.” She toyed with the silky belt of her robe, her eyes shifting. “He said he would fix her head. Then he touched it and something happened. Something I can’t explain.”
“Please try.”
“Well … when he touched her … a light appeared, like an aura. Around her head.”
An aura? Are you kidding me? He leaned back, giving the chair what it wanted.
“Like I said, it sounds crazy. But … well, it did happen. I saw it.”
“Don’t most psychics regularly see auras?”
She studied him a moment. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Could it have been your eyes playing tricks on you?”
“I don’t think so.” She held his gaze.
He hoped he wasn’t offending her. But “auras?” Really?
“The thing is,” she added, her voice firm, “after he left, Abby was fine. She remembered who she was - she remembered everything. It was as if the Alzheimer’s just went away.”
“From what I understand, it can happen that way. There are moments of clarity.”
“Yes, but this was different. Very different. She stayed with me for several days before her sister picked her up. And she never relapsed. The Alzheimer’s was just … gone. I’ve talked to Abby on the phone since. She’s as clear-headed as I am.”
As clear-headed as someone who sees auras? That’s a comfort. “Do you know where the young man went after he left your house?”
“No, but I think he’s staying with Madison O’Riley.”
He nodded.
For long seconds, neither spoke. Nick cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank you for your time.” He began extricating himself from the chair. It did its best not to let him go, but he managed to get to his feet. Fuck you, chair. I win.
Beverly led him to the door.
He gave her his card, told her to call if she remembered anything else, and when he offered his hand, she took it. Her touch was warm, soft but firm. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” She paused, looking nervous, her grip tightening. “Chief Grayson?”
“What is it?”
“Someone’s trying to contact you. It’s not a spirit, exactly, but something like it. In your house.”
He stared at her, speechless.
Her cheeks flamed red; she was visibly embarrassed. “Since you’ve moved in, you’ve seen things you can’t explain. Something or someone is asking for help. Does any of this mean anything to you?”
It took a moment to find his voice. “No. No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pulled his hand away. “Thank you for your help.”
As he walked away, he wondered how she knew what was happening in his house. Psychics weren’t real.
A chill tiptoed down his spine.
* * *
Clint Horace’s eyes smoldered. His hands were white fists at his sides. His Adam’s apple quivered. Even his zits looked pissed.
But Madison would show no fear. “Go home, Clint.” She stood firm, arms crossed, but inside, a thousand earthquakes shivered, threatening to turn her self-control to dust.
Clint stepped close and loomed over her - an intimidation tactic they’d no doubt taught him in the police academy. “It’s that guy, isn’t it? That … freaktard that’s been staying with you. He turned you against me, didn’t he?”
“No one turned me against you, Clint. You did that by yourself.”
“Bullshit!” He stepped closer and Madison pressed herself against the red Mustang. “That’s bullshit and you know it!” Spittle flew. “We had a good time!”
“No, you had a good time. Or you almost did, anyway.”
His mouth became a hard line. “Are you saying you didn’t want it?”
Madison turned from his fetid breath. “You know I didn’t.”
He leaned in, caging her against the car. “Liar.”
Madison glanced into the Mustang. Within, Dette was slumped, drunk and unconscious in the passenger seat.
“You don’t think she’s going to save you, do you? That dumb slut drank herself half-dead. And where does that leave you? No Bernadette, no freaktard, no one around but you and me.” A slimy crooked grin settled on his mouth. “Did you have anything to drink tonight? Maybe I should make you suck on my Breathalyzer.”
“I haven’t had a drop.”
He shrugged. “I can still make sure you lose your license.”
“Please, just stop.”
“Then act like a grown woman and finish what you started.” He rubbed himself against her.
“I didn’t start anything, Clint, and if you don’t lay off I’ll-”
“Call the police? I am the police, you fucking cocktease.”
“Clint. I-”
Another laugh, riding the stale waves of garlic and beer. “Is that why you wore that slinky little skirt and that tit-popping pink blouse on our first date?”
The slinky skirt he spoke of had been an ankle-length peasant skirt. As for the “tit-popping” blouse - Madison didn’t even know what that meant. She’d been mindful of how she’d dressed for their one - and only - evening together. And it hadn’t been a date. They’d gone bowling for Christ’s sake … and only after months of Clint’s endless hounding. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea, Clint. It wasn’t like that, not for me.”
His lips pursed into an angry little knot. “Bullshit! You wanted it then and you want it now.”
“No, Clint. I didn’t, and I don’t.” She tried to make her voice strong. Just get away from me! Leave me alone!
His eyes did a crazy dance over her face. “What makes you think you’re better than me, Mads?”
“I don’t think that.”
“Yes, you do. And it’s ridiculous, because who do you think is going to make all those old parking tickets go away?”
Not this again. “They’re not mine. They’re my mother’s.”
He shrugged. “
Makes no difference. I can make sure you’re responsible for them. But I like you, Madison. I can make them go away just as easy. It’s up to you.” He leaned in close and ran a knuckle down her breast.
Fear suddenly turned to fury. “Fuck you.” She spat.
Clint jerked back, a wad of saliva running down his cheek, his mouth a maw of disbelief. “You cunt!” He slapped her. Hard.
Her head rocked, and pain exploded up the side of her face.
Clint dragged her to front of the Mustang, spun her around, and shoved her into a bent-over position, slamming her face onto the hood.
She kicked, flailed, and writhed, but he was strong. She screamed for help, but at the far end of the parking lot and over the music from the club, it was useless. And Dette was out cold.
He wedged his knee between her legs, prying them apart as he tore at her leggings.
“Get off me!”
Clint took a fistful of her hair. “Shut! Up!” He punctuated each word with a head-slam onto the hood.
Stars exploded. Bone-crunching, teeth-clacking pain rang out. She bit her tongue and tasted blood. Her body went slack. Blackness tiptoed at the edges of her vision. Wavering between awareness and unconsciousness, she heard the clinks as Clint unbuckled his belt, the zip as his fly came down, the sound of his jeans hitting the asphalt. Head spinning, face bleeding, helpless, she thought, This is it. This is how it ends …
Then she saw the streak of light. It blazed across the sky as if a blade were slicing through the fabric of the night. It was just like what she’d seen when she’d fallen from the roof.
“What the fuck?” Clint released his painful grip.
Madison managed to right herself.
She gasped.
Alejandro, as if from nowhere, landed in a crouch on the asphalt, his hand a fist on the ground, his body tense, absorbing the shock. Aside from his boxers, he was nude, his muscles bunching and bulging with power. He looked up and his eyes were impossibly silver … and fixed on Clint with lethal intent.
“Oh, my God.” Madison made a move toward him but froze as great black wings shot out, spreading open behind him, their tips lit with curling flames.
Thick plumes of frost exploded from Alejandro’s nostrils - he looked like a bull about to charge.
Clint stumbled back.
The wings retracted, disappeared, and in a single fluid move, Alejandro was on his feet, advancing on Clint with impossible speed. With one arm, he struck hard. The sound was bone-on-bone.
Clint flew, hit the asphalt, skidding on his back, pants around his ankles. Before he found his feet, Alejandro had him by the scruff, lifted him easily off the ground before slamming him down again.
“Stop!” Madison screamed. “You’ll kill him!”
Alejandro tossed Clint around rag-doll-style - it looked like something from a video game.
“Stop!”
But Alejandro did not stop. He shoved the cop onto his stomach, drove a knee into his back, and held his head against the ground, cheek-to-tarmac. Clint’s eyes were wild as Alejandro pressed his weight onto him. Clint’s bare ass was a scraped, bloody mess that reminded Madison of ground beef, and she cringed at the probability that his front side was suffering the same fate.
“You will leave now.” Alejandro’s voice reminded Madison of a fire-hot blade - a sound that could both lacerate and incinerate. It terrified her. “You will leave now. You will go home, and you will never speak to Madison - or even look at her - again.” He pressed Clint’s face hard against the ground. “Do you understand me?”
Clint tried to nod.
Alejandro palmed Clint’s head, lifted it, then smacked it down on the blacktop.
Clint screamed as his cheekbone surely shattered into a thousand pieces.
Dishonorable Seductions
Stardene Cassel opened her eyes and, out of habit, swung her legs over the bed, prepared to head to Cafe Spastica and open up, just like every other Sunday. Wait. I don’t work today, she thought, squinting at the light that broke through her blinds. Or any day. That jackass Malcolm Wagborne had fired her.
On one hand, she was pissed. She’d been saving her money to go to Comic Con and though it was months away, she needed every dime to get there. On the other hand, she didn’t blame her boss for letting her go. She’d been late several times and he’d cut her some slack for that. But when a patron had filmed her on his iPhone spitting into an iced mocha, Wagborne had said enough. The video hadn’t gone viral in the national sense, but here in Prominence, it was a hot topic.
Why did I do that? She didn’t know. The customer had given her no grief - unloading a dollop of saliva into his order had just seemed like a good idea at the time. She’d just been so bored - she had been for days.
It wasn’t typical boredom. It was a soul-sucking monotony that no hobby could cure - unless that hobby was going out of your way to be rude and disgusting. Otherwise, the bone-deep weariness ate at her soul like a cancer. Each day was a little worse than the last, and today, she didn’t have the energy to think about it. I just don’t care anymore. About anything.
Not even that. She glanced at her new comic, the Elektra nude edition which, just days ago, was the most important thing in the world. Now it sat on a teetering stack of other comics, barely touched. She thought of the man who’d sold it to her. Mr. Jones. At first, she’d been frightened by what she’d seen. He turned into a rotting corpse! I watched it happen! But as the days passed, even that bored her. She hadn’t told anyone about it, not that anyone would believe her. She wasn’t sure she believed it herself. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
She lay back down and closed her eyes. Though bored out of her skull, she wasn’t sleepy. Probably because I slept for - she glanced at the clock - sixteen hours. She’d planned on going to the new club last night, but by seven p.m., she’d lost interest.
She knew this wasn’t normal - I have to do something - and for a moment, she felt a flicker of panic. Her roommates would kick her out if she couldn’t pay her rent. But even that little flame quickly died. She sighed. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
When she closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Jones, his skin and hair receding, his body metamorphosing into a giggling cadaver. The memory was clear, but it didn’t frighten her anymore - being frightened took energy she didn’t have. She recalled whispering into his hat. That was when things began to change.
He did this to me. I need to talk to him. She sighed. I’ll do it later.
Stardene Cassel, exhausted to the bone, went back to sleep.
* * *
Olivia LeBlatte, always a fighter, continued to find ways of combatting the same brain-deadening doldrums that, unbeknownst to her, Stardene Cassel also suffered. Olivia’s tryst with Jeffrey Gimple was only one drop in the bucket of nasty things she’d been doing to feel alive - but the high of that particular misdeed had lasted longer than most.
But even the Jeffrey Gimple buzz had begun wearing off, and before it could fade entirely, she’d called her sister, Lisa, in Santo Verde - at about three in the morning. She’d felt a compelling need to remind Lisa that her husband, who’d left her six months ago for his boss - his very male boss - was a cheating bastard that had probably been banging his boss’s backdoor for months, maybe even years, before Lisa found out.
Lisa had cried as Olivia giggled under her breath.
Olivia had even asked her sister if she’d been tested for STDs. She had. That was no fun, so she asked if she’d ever smelled - or tasted - anything nasty on her husband’s junk. “I’m only trying to look out for you, Lisa,” she’d claimed, but by then, her sister was furious and had hung up, vowing never to speak to her again.
But Olivia had slept like a baby with a NyQuil bottle.
Then morning came and she woke in a frantic sweat - a junkie with a dead buzz in need of the next fix. First things first, she’d showered, scrubbing herself down and mining her brain for new ideas. She thought of what Anthony Robbins always said - that cr
eativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes, or some such bullshit - and wondered what the hell that even meant. Why have I been listening to that nutless windbag for so long? Fuck that - and fuck Anthony Robbins, too! Creativity was a matter of exploring new possibilities.
And here in Prominence, the possibilities were endless. She thought she’d start by seducing another fatty, Bart Aberdeen, owner of Bart’s Ark. He was hideous but everyone figured he was gay, and Olivia liked a challenge. Toweling her hair - which was now shot with a startling amount of gray - she lit a cigarette, and spritzed herself in a double coat of Opium. A double coat to mask the slightly rotten smell that had been seeping from her pores lately.
She didn’t know if his shop was open on Sundays, but the man practically lived there. One way or another, she’d find him. Oh, yes, she would find him. And then, once and for all, she would discover just how gay the man really was - and the town of Prominence could finally have an answer to that decades-old question: Is he, or isn’t he? Only your Realtor knows for sure.
She had a plan and no longer felt tired, bored, or weary.
She felt alive.
Alive!
And that’s all that mattered to her anymore.
* * *
Dette sat at Madison’s dining table, a full set of luggage under her eyes, both hands wrapped around a cooling mug of coffee as if it were the helm of a ship, which meant the room, for her, was probably rocking like a storm-tossed sea. Fine lines were etched around her eyes and mouth, adding a decade to her appearance.
It was unsettling.
“What the hell happened last night?” Dette rubbed her temples.
Madison didn’t have an answer. Which part? The tricks performed by the LolliCops and Hell’s Belles? Her near-rape in the parking lot? Or Alejandro sprouting flaming wings - that part was undoubtedly the result of Clint slamming her head against the car.
Or had that even happened?
She woke this morning with no bruises, no pain. Yet she’d barely been able to drive last night and had nearly collapsed the moment they’d gotten home.
The Angel Alejandro Page 27