Her finger wandered the velvety warm ridges of chest and she felt the beat of his heart. She hesitated there, listening, wanting to hear it throb as it pumped blood through his body.
Carefully, she lay her head on his chest.
He didn’t stir.
Closing her eyes, she listened as his heart beat strong, like the wings of a great bird. It was so beautiful - he was so beautiful - that a tear slipped from her eye.
She watched it run down his abdomen, pool in one of the junctions of muscle. “You should be mine.”
Alejandro moaned quietly, and turned his head.
She held still until his breathing steadied.
Her hands continued wandering, lower, lower, until she found the edge of the blanket. She slipped her fingertips beneath it and stroked a soft sprinkling of hair around his navel, following it down to the waistband of his boxers.
Her pulse thudded hard; she heard the thrum of her own hungry blood.
She slipped her hand beneath the elastic and found him - hard, hot, and engorged with power. Her breath caught and held as she curled her fingers around him, tracing the pad of her thumb over the satiny texture of his highest, sharpest point, then smoothing down his shaft, delighting in the bulge of veins, like tines of lightning, charged with voltage and ready to strike. Slowly, she stroked him and it was glorious. This was what she wanted. It was what she needed. And he was so much more than Madison realized - would ever realize. He was magnificent … majestic …
“What are you doing?”
The whisper cracked her reverie like a rock through a wall of glass.
Alejandro stared at her, his eyes unreadable.
She smiled at him and withdrew her hand. Unfastening her bra, she could feel the lust seeping from his pores, feel his eyes traveling her body.
“Stop it,” he said, but his voice didn’t match his words. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“Don’t listen,” said the voice in her ear. “He wants you.”
She knew it was true, and took his hands, so big, so warm, and placed them over her breasts. It was a perfect fit.
He swallowed audibly and his fingers, tense at first, relaxed.
Dette exhaled a soul-deep breath and raised her head, relishing his touch.
He was breathing harder and his body gave off even more strange heat - the scent of lotus blossoms grew strong.
“Yes …” she whispered.
He tried to pull his hands away but she held firm. The silver moon pendant brushed against his finger and a spark lit up the darkness.
“No!” He yanked his hands away. “Go away from me. Now.”
The emptiness in her, the void she’d almost filled, came raging back, blooming like a poisonous black flower. Her lust turned to fury and she wanted to slap him, spit at him, pummel him. But more than that, she wanted to lunge, lock her legs around him, pin him down, and impale herself on his body. She might have done it but the voice stopped her.
“He has to want it. He has to choose it.”
“Please,” she whispered.
“Go away.” She could feel the intensity of his stare. “Leave.”
“You want me, Alejandro. I know you do.”
“I do not want you.”
She looked down where the bulge of his arousal still strained. “I think your body is a lot smarter than your brain.”
“I. Do. Not. Want. You.” He spoke low through clenched teeth.
She sighed and stood. “You will.” Walking away, she could feel his loathing. But she could also feel his need - a need that, in time, would overpower him.
Part Three
The Last Days
“No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness is always there first.”
-Terry Pratchett
“Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?”
-Stevie Nicks
Street Walkers and Dirty Talkers
In the days that followed, business at Mephistopheles boomed, and the infection spread at a rate that impressed even Gremory Jones. The realtor, Olivia LeBlatte, was an outgoing woman, an ambitious one who knew how to get what she wanted. It had been a wise choice indeed to make her subject zero. She’d gone from one man to the next, and within days, a few carriers turned to a dozen, and a dozen became a hundred, and so on.
Now, it was impossible to say how many were infected, but evidence of the sickness was beginning to tattoo itself on the community’s skin: A few storefront windows had been covered in lewd graffiti, garbage cans had been tipped, their contents scattered and ignored on sidewalks, and there was a distinct hum of hostility in the air.
As for the silver pendants … it had irked Gremory that they hadn’t been able to gift one to Madison O’Riley. She, being closest to their target, was the obvious best choice. But the girl was rather willful and did not like being told what to do - just as Gremory had expected. It was her friend, Bernadette Watkiss, who should have been their easiest way in, but she’d failed, and continued to fail. As for the other two recipients of moon pendants, they’re advances on the angel would hopefully prove more fruitful.
Meanwhile, Gremory himself had made several more business transactions. Very much pleased with the dreams he’d acquired, he smiled as he made his way down Main Street, briefcase swinging jauntily at his side. According to the many banners and posters, it was a matter of days until the Founder’s Day Festival, which would include a carnival and a parade. He looked up at a banner that spanned the street, noting with joy that the town mascot, a one-eyed hedgehog, now sported an ejaculating spray-paint phallus and an alarmingly large set of hair-covered testicles. Gremory smiled.
Tires screeched and a horn blared.
He watched as a woman in a gray sedan, her face a mask of madness and murder, raised both middle fingers and began shrieking obscenities. The target of her fury was an elderly man, making his slow, arthritic way to the other side of the street. He appeared to neither see nor hear her, which only infuriated her more - now she slammed her fists on the steering wheel, spittle shooting from her mouth as she vociferated the many injuries and indignities she’d administer upon him should he fail to pick up his pace.
Pride swelled in Gremory’s chest as he paused in front of Querida’s Bakery. Querida herself had nothing to offer Gremory. She’d followed her aspirations all the way through bankruptcy and the loss of moral support from those around her - wincing at times, but never crying uncle - until the bake shop stood firmly on its own two feet. It had even expanded and now there were several locations throughout California.
In short, Querida had fulfilled her dreams, which meant there was nothing there for Gremory to harvest. But her employees were another story. Several of them sat upon old dust-covered fantasies - dreams that practically begged to be sold.
He stepped inside, breathing in the delectable scents of fresh apple fritters, cinnamon rolls, and buttery croissants. And beneath the sweet desserts was his favorite smell of all - the decay of dying dreams. He flashed the woman at the counter a winning smile. She smiled back.
* * *
Nick Grayson dropped the phone in its cradle and rubbed his temples. “Jesus Christ Almighty.”
“Let me guess Domestic disturbance?” Marty Pullman had just returned from breaking up a bar brawl.
Nick nodded. “What the hell is happening around here?”
“Founder’s Day is coming up. People always get a little rowdy.” He paused, his grin turning into a thoughtful line. “Though I have to admit I’ve never seen it this bad before. Not by a long shot. Must be the moon. Or maybe Mercury is in Uranus.”
Nick looked up at him. “Huh?”
“Just a joke. What’s the address, Chief?”
Nick gave it to him. “Another drunk husband. This one’s gone after the kids, too. I can come as extra backup if you need me.”
“I’ve got Bannon. Plus, who’ll answer the calls?”
Nick sighed. “A man can dream.” He was covering for desk serg
eant, Clint Horace, due to the fact that the numb-nuts had gotten his face broken in a fight and wasn’t able to speak well enough to take calls. Nick couldn’t have cared less about Horace’s face, but he wasn’t comfortable with the guy being on the streets, as he was now. He couldn’t be trusted out in public. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And the times were nothing if not desperate.
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Marty Pullman turned to leave and paused. “Oh, and by the way, when Horace gets back, be a sport and let him sweat it out a while.”
“What? Sweat what out?”
Pullman grinned. “You’ll see.” He was out the door, a spring in his step that made it clear he was happiest when he had plenty to do. And there was plenty to do.
The past few days had been one emergency after another: fights, vandalism, and robbery were higher than he’d ever seen, even in Crimson Cove on the Fourth of July. And there was still no sign of would-be rapist Festus Crawley.
But he had gotten hold of Madison O’Riley and she’d invited him over for dinner - tonight, in fact - to check out her father’s collection of stones and fossils. And to talk to her friend, Alejandro, as long as he promised not to frighten the guy. Alejandro, he thought. Of course, that wasn’t his name. The guy was an amnesiac. He wondered how - and why - he’d chosen the name.
But Nick had to put these questions aside and return to the task he’d been trying to get to since Monday: assigning officers to the needed areas during the Founder’s Day festivities. It was Wednesday now, and in only three days, Prominence would be flooded with tourists. He looked at last year’s Founder’s Day deployment sheet, noting the trouble areas. Downtown seemed to need the most attention. And the bars, of course. According to his calculations, he’d have just enough men to manage. But where to put Horace? There was no suitable answer and as soon as all the hubbub was over, Nick decided he’d be handing the desk sergeant his walking papers.
He went back to work, willing the phone to stay silent, and looked up when he heard someone come in.
Clint Horace, with two black eyes, gauze over his nose and a large bandage covering the side of his face, slammed something down on the desk. “Rrhis ish burrshit!” With the new arrangement of his face, he sounded like Scooby-Doo.
“Compwete Burrshit!” He stabbed a finger down at a sheet of paper.
VIOLATION, it read, and below that, a monster-sized black X marked the HANDICAPPED PARKING ZONE checkbox.
“I wersshn’t even in the hadicap shone more than fife minutesh! There wush nowhere elshe to park!” His eyes blazed black. “We don’t e’en haff any hadicapped shitishens here!”
On the line marked ISSUED BY at the bottom of the ticket was the proudly resplendent signature of one Lieutenant Martin S. Pullman.
Nick burst into laughter; he couldn’t help it.
“It’ssh not fernny!” cried Horace. “It’sh burrshit!” His face, already a patchwork of ugly bruises, was red, going on purple.
“I’m sure it was a joke,” said Nick. “But-”
“It ferkin’ dam-werr bettow be!”
“But you know better than to park in the handicapped zones.”
“There wushh no-”
“Whether or not there were any handicapped people around, you can’t park there. Especially now, when so many folks are coming to town. It doesn’t look good and it is illegal. I’ll make sure this ticket disappears, but I won’t do it again.” Nick could almost see the steam shooting from Horace’s ears. It took great will to tamp down his laughter. “Now, since you can’t answer phones for a while, I’d like you to finish filing the reports.”
Horace scowled and stalked to the door.
Nick turned his attention back to the deployment sheet. “And Clint?” he said. “Filing the reports doesn’t mean playing video games.”
The office door shut with a decidedly snippy click.
Nick wondered what had really happened to Horace’s face. When asked, all he’d said was, “A fight.” When joshed about the damage he’d sustained, Horace had said, “Ferck you guysh! You should shee the uffer guy!” But Nick doubted Horace had won the brawl. If he had, his mystery opponent would have been in critical condition. Or dead.
But damn, does that shit look painful!
Returning to the deployment plan, Nick assigned himself and Pullman to parade duty where the most unruly activity was likely to take place, and stationing the other officers at various hotspots. It should have been an easy task but between interruptions and a tension headache that was getting meaner by the minute, it was a hassle.
As he worked, his vision blurred and he felt ready to nod off, which wasn’t surprising considering how few hours of sleep he’d been getting. The “activity” in his home - that’s what he thought of it as, “activity” - had been on overdrive the past nights, keeping him up with the sounds of renegade footsteps, distant voices, and the occasional rattle of silverware drawers. He’d allowed the padre to give the place a blessing. A nice gesture, but it hadn’t seemed to do anything. He thought of Beverly Simon. Maybe she’d be willing to help. He smiled. In exchange for dinner. Not a good idea - Nick knew himself too well. No more women. Not now, not for a long time.
He was exhausted. He missed drinking - there was no denying it.
The phone jangled. He picked up and listened as the blessedly calm woman on the other end told him they had an intruder at the old rectory at St. Agatha’s.
After ending the call, he went to tell Horace to go check it out.
* * *
Madison sat behind the counter at the rock shop adding sales receipts and comparing numbers. They were still off. Every day more money went missing, a few dollars here, a lot of dollars there. It was maddening. Worst of all, Dette was the most logical suspect, but Madison couldn’t bear to think about that.
Today, Dette had been late for work again, and when she finally showed up, Madison wasn’t thrilled to see that her recent wardrobe choices hadn’t improved. Yesterday, when she’d worn a tank top and short cut-off denim jeans with an American-flag pattern on her left ass pocket, Madison had let it slide. Today’s selection was a different matter.
Dette’s “shirt” was a strapless purple bustier that laced up the front and pushed her breasts up and out as far as Mother Nature would allow. Her leopard-print miniskirt was as tight as a coat of paint and her knee-high leather boots screamed streetwalker! Her hair, which had recently faded to a dull mousy shade under fresh streaks of pink dye, had been teased to near-death in a Susanna Hoffs circa-1986 rat’s nest. She’d never had good taste, but this was off the chain.
“Sorry I’m late.” She whipped off a pair of owlish sunglasses revealing the finishing touches of her working girl ensemble: eyes so heavily outlined in kohl that Cleopatra might have been jealous. The only part of her wardrobe that was acceptable was the crescent moon pendant. She paused in front of Madison. “What?”
“You can’t wear that, Dette.”
Dette looked down at herself. “Wear what?”
“Um, all of it.” Does she really need to be told? “It isn’t ... appropriate. You know that.”
Dette stared. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
Madison cringed at the f-bomb, but didn’t say anything since the shop was empty.
“I spent almost two hours getting ready!”
“For what?” asked Madison. “This isn’t Club Mephistopheles, Dette! Grab one of the sweaters from the rack and wear it for today.”
“And what about my pants? We don’t sell anything but sweats?”
“I’d rather see you in sweats than that -” she didn’t even know what to call it - “lampshade.”
“And I suppose you think sweatpants will go well with my boots?”
Madison looked down at the sales receipts she’d been adding. “You’ll just have to pull the pant legs over them. Or stay behind the counter.”
Dette scowled, her lips, which were the shade of a freshly painted fire hydrant, puckered. “
I don’t know when you became such a prude, Maddy.”
Madison was shocked to see the deepening lines around Dette’s mouth. “I’m not a prude, I’m a business owner. And don’t call me Maddy.”
“Whatever.” Dette stalked to a clothes rack, yanked a sweater and sweatpants off their hangers, then disappeared into the back.
Only when the office door snicked shut did Madison allow herself a stifled laugh. What on earth is she thinking? If it hadn’t been so funny, it would have been worrisome, and in truth, Madison was a little worried. It was as if Dette were having a premature midlife crisis. Madison felt like she didn’t even know her friend anymore.
Dette emerged from the office looking unhappy. Despite the frumpy clothes, the sweats were an improvement and, barring the fact that her face still looked like it had been raped by a crayon, it would do.
“No Alejandro again?” Dette plunked herself on the stool next to Madison behind the counter.
Maybe that’s what this is all about. Perhaps Dette was trying to impress Alejandro. “No, he decided to stay home again.” In truth, he’d refused to come, and after promising not to open the door for anyone, Madison had seen no reason to fight him on it. Public interest in him had waned enough she’d be surprised if even Eric Cooterman bothered at this point.
“I think he’s avoiding me.” Dette seemed to be speaking to herself more than Madison.
“Of course he isn’t.” But Madison shared the suspicion. She’d even asked Alejandro about it. He’d said nothing except that there was something wrong with Dette. He wouldn’t - or couldn’t - explain. “Why would he avoid you?”
Dette shrugged. “I don’t know.”
But she did know, Madison could see it. She’d known Dette since first grade and knew when she was handing her a lie.
* * *
At Vang’s Bangs, Rebecca McNair fingered her crescent moon pendant.
She was not herself. She hadn’t been for several days, and as far as she was concerned, it was an improvement. She couldn’t have said exactly what had changed - it was a series of things, little things, as if she’d spent her life as a non-finito portrait and her painter had finally gotten around to adding the finishing touches.
The Angel Alejandro Page 32