On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

“What do you mean?”

  “Azrael was there the other night, and two guys Poe called ‘Carrions.’ I’m not the most religious guy in the world--”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “--but I know the angel of death--the real angel, not the Nazi guy--is sent to comfort the dying, help them to Heaven.”

  Gabe laughed and the woman at the table beside us glared at her. “You humans are so dramatic. Things aren’t so black and white, not even in Heaven.”

  I felt my forehead furrow and wanted to ask “what the hell are you talking about”? but didn’t. She could read my thoughts, after all.

  “You might say Azrael and his employer didn’t see eye-to-eye on a couple of matters, so he took a job elsewhere.”

  The furrow deepened. “So you’re saying he works for the devil?”

  “If that’s what you’d like to call it.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Umm.” She looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “More than three decades ago, but less than four.”

  “Why?”

  “You humans need a reason for everything, don’t you?”

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No. It doesn’t change anything if you know.”

  I hesitated before speaking again. “Mikey says he’s responsible for my death.”

  “I’m not surprised Michael thinks that.” She took the next book off the pile, one about summoning the ascended masters, whatever that meant.

  “What do you mean? That maybe he didn’t?”

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug and she put the book down. “I guess only Azrael knows for sure. Maybe you should ask him.”

  I settled back in the blue plastic chair, sighed through my nose. “Is he dangerous?”

  She nodded.

  “And the Carrions?”

  “You know the answer.”

  I pictured an exploding brick wall, a car flipping, and shuddered.

  “How am I supposed to defend myself?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “C’mon, Gabe. Give me some help here.” I leaned forward, hands extended in a pleading gesture. I felt like a kid sinking in the deep end of the pool, tossed in to learn how to swim as my parent watched, dry and safe.

  “You’re resourceful, Icarus. You’ll be fine.”

  “Ric,” I mumbled as she stood, pulled a scroll out of her back pocket and tossed it on the table. It clattered and rolled toward me drawing another look from the lady at the other table. I grabbed it and gave her an apologetic smile.

  “Your next assignment. Good luck,” she said in a theatrical tone like the recording set to self-destruct in a scene from Mission: Impossible. She went to leave and my eyes fell on her tattoo.

  “Wait.”

  She looked at me, gingerbread eyes twinkling. I gestured toward the chair and she humored me by sitting again. The smile on her lips spread to her eyes, revealing nothing.

  “Did you guys have anything to do with Sondra’s death?”

  “We have something to do with everyone’s death.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” I framed my words before asking the question again. “Did you stage her death to convince me to keep this job?”

  “Michael showed you what happens to a soul left to its own devices,” she said and touched my hand. A charge more substantial than when Poe contacted me surged through my flesh, straight to my groin. “I didn’t imagine you’d need any more convincing.”

  I couldn’t argue her logic. Mind you, with her hand touching mine, my brain struggled to remember my name. I hoped she wasn’t reading my thoughts right then.

  “How many, Gabe?”

  She fixed me with an inquisitive look. “How many what?”

  “Souls,” I said, lowering my voice. “How many souls before I can have my life back?”

  “As many as it takes.”

  The temptation to curse out of frustration struggled to get through my lips, but I held it at bay. I didn’t feel like playing angel games.

  “Hey, Gabe, want to grab some lunch?”

  “I don’t eat, Icarus. I’m an angel.”

  “But Poe does.”

  “Poe likes to pretend. I’ll see you soon.”

  Gabe stood and walked away, waggling her fingers good-bye and disappearing behind the shelves. I stared after her, hoping she’d come back. Was it wrong to gaze upon an angel and feel lustful, or the unavoidable outcome of a rapturous experience? I didn’t know anyone else who’d met one, so had no one with whom to compare.

  I opened another book about demons, browsed it unenthusiastically. Images of Hell and fire, torture and blood abounded in its pages, doing nothing to alleviate my trepidation. I slammed the book closed, ignoring the dirty look my friend at the other table cast my way, and pondered the scroll Gabe left behind instead. The paper wrapped around the doweling felt rough, more likely onion skin or papyrus than modern paper. How quaint. I considered unrolling it but decided the public library wasn’t the place to reveal a document bestowed by an angel.

  The weight of the scroll in my hand made my stomach queasy with excitement. So far, two souls had gained their salvation because of me--this was number three.

  Or do I get a minus one for the one I slept through?

  I didn’t know how many needed to be saved until I got my life back--until I could have my son again--but every one got me closer.

  My chair squeaked on the floor as I pushed away from the table and gathered the scroll and books. I couldn’t check them out--dead guys don’t get library cards any easier than driver’s licenses--so I photocopied a few pages relevant to my unique situation then headed out, determined to find a way to defend myself.

  ***

  I don’t know why I bothered buying the shotgun; I guess it gave me some measure of security, even if it turned out to be useless.

  Which it probably would.

  I found a guy who knew a guy. It cost me a lot more than it would if I could have walked into the Walmart and picked one up, but that’s the price you pay for being a dead guy with no ID and no time to wait, I guess. It turned out to be easier than I expected. No wonder the country is circling the drain.

  The guy told me it was a Weatherby; I went with the black finish. It almost fit under my coat as I did my best to smuggle it out of the car along with the hacksaw purchased at a nearby hardware store and the vodka from under the passenger seat. Once in the room, I tossed the bottle on the bed, put the shotgun on the desk and then took the hacksaw to its barrel--all the baddest dudes in the movies do it.

  Sawing through the steel took more time and effort than expected; my eye strayed more than once to the bottle lying enticingly on the bed but I managed to resist--the clear liquid would be my reward for completion. By the time I finished, sweat dampened my face, my mouth was a desert, and I’d developed a blister on my hand. My sleeve served to dry my forehead and cheeks, the bottle to wet my lips and dull the pain. I’d never fired a shotgun before, didn’t really have any intention of using the thing. I lopped off both ends to make it smaller, inconspicuous, without knowing how doing so would change its effectiveness. It might not do much damage, but maybe it would scare off a Carrion, or slow them, at least.

  Doubt it.

  I spent some time aiming the unloaded gun at myself in the mirror, practicing my best threatening look.

  Are you talkin’ to me?

  I laughed. No DeNiro, me.

  Bored, I tossed the gun on the bed and retrieved the scroll Gabe gave me. I regarded it for a minute without opening it, my hand stayed by a strange feeling. This page held someone’s death sentence with no appeals to overturn the decision, no last minute governor’s call to stop the proceedings. The enormity of the thought made my head pound.

  I held someone’s fate in my hands. Literally.

  A pull from the bottle relieved some of the pain in my head. I unrolled the scroll. The same majestic lines looped across the page as the last one, the
kind of letters you might expect drawn by the hand of an angel--beautiful, but practically illegible to an unpracticed eye like mine. I went over it four times to make sure I’d read it right, then finished the rest of the bottle in one long chug.

  Father Dominic.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ivy crawled up the side of the rectory, clinging to the rough gray stone as it twisted and wound upon itself. I stared at the building, feeling like I could stare through those walls and back in time at the five-year-old me standing in the pose of the cross.

  My arms quivered but I fought back the urge to cry. Crying wouldn’t make it any easier.

  But what did I do?

  Had the Father seen me touch my thing again? Did I forget to put a toy away? He didn’t tell me, only dragged me out of my room and brought me here, made me stand like this with no explanation.

  “Hold your arms steady,” he said, the sound of his voice startling me. “If you love God, you won’t let them shake.”

  I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating on my arms to show God my love through not moving. They stopped quaking for a second, but then the devil returned to my limbs.

  “Steady, I said,” he snapped and my resolve sagged; my arms did the same. Breath whooshed out of my lungs in a sob.

  “Please, Father.” My voice quivered the way my arms had as I tried to lift them again. They wouldn’t go. “Please.”

  I heard him shift on the bed. Without thinking, I peeked over my shoulder and saw him pull his hand out from beneath his robe. His face went red and angry when he caught me looking. I snapped my eyes back to the front and lifted my arms. They flapped like the wings of a lame duck and fell back to my side.

  “You little...”

  I felt his presence close behind me and my whole body tensed as I awaited the bite of his switch on my bum.

  Please don’t hurt me.

  I wanted to say the words but I’d tried that before.

  “God sees all you do,” he hissed into my ear. His breath spilled across my face--it smelled stale, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth today. “He disapproves.”

  “But what--?”

  “Did I tell you to speak?”

  He didn’t raise his voice, but threat dripped from his words. I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that part of him pressed against my back. Something hard.

  “God sends an angel to talk to me, you know. Sometimes we talk about you.”

  A chill ran up my spine. God thinks about me?

  “He says you are unworthy of his love. You can’t even hold your arms up to show him you love him.”

  “I can!”

  I raised my arms but Father Dominic pushed them down, pinned them to my sides. I struggled against the pressure of his hands on my forearms, desperate to show God I was worthy, but the priest wouldn’t let go. A tear slipped free against my will.

  “It’s too late. He’s already seen your failure. Do you know what happens to failures?”

  A lump rose in my throat, choking me so I couldn’t answer. I swallowed to clear it but it wouldn’t go.

  “Do you?”

  I shook my head and more tears leaked from my eyes.

  Father Dominic leaned in close so his lips brushed my ear when he spoke.

  “They go in the closet.”

  My eyes darted to the plain wood door in front of me with its brass knob and ancient keyhole. A sob tore from my throat.

  “No,” I cried, my feet scuffling against the floor in an attempt to push away. The priest’s grip held me. My shoulders burned.

  “Yes.”

  “What did I do?” I screeched. “What did I do?”

  “Be quiet.”

  He pushed me forward, my socked feet skidding on the hardwood floor. A noise grew in my throat, a tension like a spring drawn back and waiting to release--I felt it in my chest, my belly. His fingers dug deep into my arm, threatening what would happen if I let it out. The scream died in my throat.

  We reached the closet door and he circled my chest with one arm, pressing me against his body to hold me while he yanked the door open with the other hand. I stared into the gaping doorway, terror freezing me.

  A few sweaters dangled from hangers and a battered suitcase sat off to one side, but there was nothing else in the closet. At least, nothing you could see in the light.

  “Get in.”

  “No.”

  My paralysis let go. I twisted in his grip, nearly won my freedom. If my feet hadn’t slipped on the floor, I might have gotten away. Instead, Father Dominic shifted, caught me by my aching shoulders, and pushed me into the closet. I opened my mouth to beg, to protest, to scream.

  “It’s the voice of little boys that wakes the demons,” he said.

  My mouth snapped shut and Father Dominic closed the door. For a few seconds, a tiny shaft of light shone through the keyhole, a symbol of hope, then he put the key in and locked the door, shutting me in and the light out.

  I stumbled back against the interior wall and slid down to the floor, eyes darting but seeing nothing in the darkness. I knew in my head the closet was small, that it contained only the sweaters and suitcase, but in the dark it could have stretched on all the way to Hell.

  I drew a shuddering breath, smelled moth balls and must.

  What does a demon’s breath smell like?

  My breath came out a sob. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Would that be enough to draw there attention? I sat with my knees pulled hard against my chest, breath held, and waited for a clawed hand to grab my ankle, for the heat of fire-and-brimstone breath against my throat. When I could hold my breath no longer, a ragged sob escaped my lungs, the sound startling me. Another followed it.

  I rolled onto my side, knees still hugged against my chest, and the tears came in earnest. With each sob, each tear rolling down my cheek, each squeak at the back of my throat, I expected death to come out of the darkness and take me. After an eternity, I began to wish it would.

  I awoke in darkness, but not in the closet. The wool of a blanket pulled tight by my face irritated my chin; a sliver of moonlight shone through a gap in the curtains. I shifted to look around but saw only shapes and shadows outlined in the dark. Any one of them could have been the demon who dragged me back here to my room. I pulled the blanket over my head, smelled the pee soaking my pants I’d been unable to hold while in the closet, and whispered to God that I was sorry for whatever I’d done.

  “Fuck that,” I murmured.

  I gritted my teeth, touched the hardness of the shotgun in the deep pocket of the trench coat I’d rescued from the ground outside my motel room. The gun would likely be useless, but the feel of it calmed the emotions swirling through my chest, tingling my limbs. I felt the decades-old fear of the priest and something else I’d never felt in his presence: excitement.

  I would witness Father Dominic’s death.

  I strode to the cobblestone walk meandering to the rectory door and looked at my watch. Father Dominic’s assigned time of death: 2:12 a.m. Six minutes. I wondered why they chose to send me for the priest’s soul. Didn’t they have anyone else to do the job?

  I tried the door--locked.

  Damn it.

  I twisted it again and this time the door swung open before me. I stared down at my hand, flexed my fingers.

  Nice.

  No time to waste.

  “Icarus?”

  I jumped at the sound of Poe’s whisper and spun to face her, ready to...what? Defend myself? In my instant of surprise, I forgot the shotgun in my deep pocket. Nice job. I shushed her with a finger to my lips and gestured for her to follow. She’d said Mikey wanted her to chaperone, but when I made it this far without seeing her, I thought she’d gotten stuck on a yacht somewhere and left me to my own devices. It was good to have her there.

  I stole through the dark entry hall like a light wind; Poe was quieter. While the stairs creaked under my feet, they m
ade no noise at her steps. With each sound, I paused, waiting to be discovered, but silence reigned in the old building. At the top of the stairs, we headed down the hall to Father Dominic’s room at the far end.

  An electricity tingled my flesh, stood the hair on my arms on end, as I paused before opening the door. A closet-full of demons lurked behind this door, and a switch once used to sting my flesh. I didn’t want to enter the room and revisit the past. I didn’t want to save the priest’s soul.

  I filled my lungs to capacity, let out a slow breath, and sensed Poe behind me, silently urging me on.

  I wish you’d stayed on the yacht.

  The door swung open on creaky hinges; I cringed at the noise. Ushering Poe in, I scanned the room to be sure no one sat with the priest in his sickness--my own story of concern at the ready just in case--then shut the door behind us. The room looked just as sparse and cold as it had when I was a child. My gaze lingered a second on the closed closet door before settling on the old man snoring softly beneath a thick duvet.

  I crept to the bed and looked down at his face.

  Disease and the passage of time left him ravaged. Drooping jowls replaced the square jaw I remembered; the severe widow’s peak receded to reveal a scalp spotted with age. Since our last encounter, his face had degenerated into one of those old-person faces so wrinkled as to be impossible to tell what he looked like in his youth. He couldn’t have been any older than his mid-seventies but looked ancient--a modern-day Methuselah. In his fitful sleep, with his breathing ragged, he no longer looked like the monster who lived in my memory but like any feeble old man clinging to the last thread of life.

  The hardness in my heart softened a little. He’d been tough, cruel, but he raised me. Running away, drugs and booze, they were choices I’d made, not things he’d forced on me. The urge to pull him out of his death bed and force him to stand, arms extended, until he couldn’t hold them up, disappeared. Here lay nothing more than a man at the end of his life.

  A sharp snore startled him, his breath catching in his throat, and his eye lids fluttered. Broken capillaries etched tiny red lines across his yellowed eyes. He glanced around, unfocused, until his gaze fell on me.

  “Icarus Fell.” No more than a rasp in his throat, my name sent a tremor through the waddle his neck had become.