Angel Eyes

by Al K. Line

  Bones fired over and over with ruined hands, the muzzle flash highlighting his face. He was sweating badly, his left eye seemed to have developed a tic as he kept scanning the room looking for the assailant.

  And he still held the damn box. Although, I think maybe that was because one hand was fused to it.

  "Let's go," I whispered to Ivan.

  When he didn't answer, I turned, only to find I had been talking to empty space. "You bastard," I said, just very quietly.

  Bones' last remaining goon was shouting and screaming in a panic of confusion, and then the angel descended on him, his body disappearing behind a cloud of night that held impossible terrors. All I knew was it was big, and scary, and capable of doing bad things, so I took the opportunity to lunge from my hiding place. So much for it being unable to physically hurt you; it seemed to have overcome that obstacle and then some. Was it because of the magic from Faery? Or was something else at play here? The intent of Bones and his crew allowing it to hurt them? Better to ponder that later.

  As the goon went down, Bones fired at the black shape, but it did nothing, as I knew it would. Distracted, I snatched the box from him, along with some of his skin, grabbed the book from the floor, put it in the box, and was out the door faster than Vicky getting a call from the headmaster that her kids had been in trouble at school.

  The gantry was a sea of dead men, so I grabbed the railings either side, swung over the bodies, then ran until I slammed open the door to outside. Frigid air hit, cooling the sweat on my face, and I launched over the railing and landed in a crouch on the cracked concrete, cursing the angel, cursing Ivan, even cursing myself for bothering to return the book.

  What now? Where the hell was Ivan? Where were his men?

  As if in answer, Ivan came striding forward with a veritable army behind him, all the men that were tasked with protecting the area. There were a lot of vampires here now, their shift must have started, plus several grizzled, military looking, battle familiar heavy-set guys. All had serious weaponry.

  "Yours, I believe," I said, holding out the box to Ivan.

  He reached out a hand, not even having the grace to look sheepish for leaving me in there, but before he could take it the door blew out. The solid steel flew through the air, landed with a thud on the concrete, and Ivan was grabbed by his guys and huddled into the center of a tight ring of protection.

  I was left standing there, alone, as the men spread out to cover the door while the others frog-marched Ivan toward a black sedan with the engine running. Charming.

  "You should have left it," shouted Ivan. "I figured you'd be right beside me as I escaped."

  "And I assumed you'd want it, and I'd have to go get it back if I left it behind."

  "You know me too well, Arthur. Look after it for me. I'll be in touch." And with that he stepped inside, the door was slammed shut, and the car sped off, kicking up stones and dust as it went.

  I decided there and then that my business with Ivan was well and truly done. No more jobs, no more friendship, we were over. These boss types are all the same. They see themselves as more important than the rest of us. Just because they have responsibilities, they think they are more valuable, that they can leave us grunts to do the dirty work while they get taken somewhere nice and secure and put their feet up. Yeah, maybe that's what I got paid to do, but seeing it like this, in action, brought home the fact I was in the wrong damn job.

  Not wanting to be burdened with unnecessary items, I threw the case away and pocketed the book. Then the sky darkened, the floodlights began to go out one by one as they were smashed by a ragged shadow of death that flew above our heads in a frenzy of silent activity. The goons let rip with everything they had.

  It wouldn't make any difference. This was a goddamn angel, and you can't just shoot them, so, while everyone else played their games, I did the sensible thing and ran for my car.

  It started right up, so I drove off and didn't even put my seatbelt on, just because that's the kind of wildcat wizard I was in those days.

  Safety first, kids, safety first. Do what I say, not what I do.

  Emergency

  My phone rang and I panicked, fishing it right out. Was something wrong with George? Surely Sasha would be keeping her safe and well away from this? I trusted Sasha, kind of, and yet my instinct was to grab my phone and begin stressing even before looking to see who was calling or if it was a good idea to take a call when I was trying to get away from a pissed off angel that wanted what I had.

  "What? Are you okay? Is Sasha looking after you?"

  There was silence on the other end and I swerved to avoid a cat, nearly crashing. As tires squealed and I gained control before the rear kicked out, a high-pitched voice answered. "What? Arthur, it's me. Vicky. Come quick, it's the girls. The girls!" she screeched.

  There was the sound of crashing and then the line went dead.

  Shit, shit, shit. What was happening? Vicky's kids? This was bad timing in the extreme, but this was my life, how things went, so I put my foot down, dropped into third, and drove as fast as the crappy car would go.

  She wasn't answering her phone, and that was bad, and as I sped through the streets of the city I imagined all kinds of terrible things. Not supernatural things, just the cruel, vicious things that humans do to each other on a daily basis that make anything that happens in my own world pale into insignificance. People did inhuman things to children. They stole them, they interfered with them.

  Junkies off their heads on volatile chemical compounds acted with sickening brutality without even knowing it, and the straight ones, the run-of-the-mill criminals, they were even worse. Some people simply did not care about citizens, but I did, at least about a few.

  I kept glancing in the rearview but there was no sign of the angel, so either he'd lost me, or had been dragged back to where he came from. How long could it stay down here? I had no idea. I had no idea about much to do with angels, but maybe the quick wards I'd thrown up around the book were enough to give me time, keep me hidden at least for a while.

  My heart was in my chest as I screeched to a halt outside Vicky's ten minutes later. I launched out of the car, ran across the street to her immaculate suburban nightmare, and stopped dead in my tracks at the chaos that confronted me. It didn't compute straight away. The driveway and perfect lawn were always a scene of domestic bliss, everything ordered and as boring as Vicky regaling me with tales of her children's day at school, but it wasn't like that now. Madness had come to the burbs in the shape of a fat man and a mini-mom.

  Vicky was outside, screeching at the Slug, the doors to his boring car that he drove to his boring job were open and one of the girls was climbing out, tears streaking her face, calling for her mummy, even as the Slug, Harry, was manhandling the other sweet, innocent child toward the car. He was holding her arm tight, too tight, and she was reaching out to Vicky, saying she didn't want to go. The poor thing was crying loudly, saying he was hurting her.

  "He's trying to take the girls away, Arthur. My girls." Vicky was a mess. Mascara had run down her cheeks, her slender, red dress was ripped—she'd obviously dressed up for their evening meal, trying to make amends for being absent lately—her hair was wild, and her entire body was shaking with a deep-seated fear I'd never witnessed before.

  Harry was worse. His tie was over his shoulder, his thinning mousy hair was all over the place, and worst of all, the buttons on his white office shirt had pinged off under mighty pressure. His massive, pale, wobbly belly lumpy with cellulite jiggled disgustingly as he dragged the child toward the car.

  He was harming her, there were marks all up her arms, and she was now limp with exhaustion and terror.

  "Get back in," he screeched at a flinching child as she clambered out, unsure what to do, where to go, who to obey.

  "Come here, honey," said Vicky, trying to soothe her child but her voice breaking with stress.

  "Get back in, now!" Harry dragged the screaming, shaking girl toward her siste
r. It was clear the kids were terrified and Harry had completely lost the plot.

  So I stormed over, raging, and smacked him as hard as I could right in the temple. So hard, a knuckle cracked, but I readied to do it again, my anger rising.

  Harry's grip loosened and one child ran to Vicky, quickly followed by her sister. I punched Harry again once the girls were a safe distance away, amazed he hadn't gone down, giving it my all. His eyes rolled back in his head, he teetered, then he toppled sideways, smacked his head on the corner of the open rear car door, and crashed to the freshly tarmaced drive, whacking his head again. He was out, and would be for a while, if I ever let him wake up.

  So help me God, I almost crushed his head with a stomp from my size nines. I was so close to doing it, to cracking his skull and letting his brains ooze out and stain his perfect bloody drive, but the kids were watching and they were freaked out enough.

  Instead, I breathed deep, ignored Harry, walked over to them all, crouched down, and said, "How about we go inside? I think your dad has had a funny turn, you know, like when people eat too much sugar. Yeah, that's what it was," I said, warming to the idea. "Daddy ate too many donuts, and he can't handle his booze very well, so he's had a seizure, gone funny in the head. So never drink alcohol, let this be a warning. Or eat too many donuts." I twirled my finger at my temple, nodded to Vicky as the girls looked from me to her to their father on the drive, then stood and ushered them inside.

  Vicky took the girls into the immaculate, generic living room and quietened them while I watched from the doorway. They seemed to accept whatever she told them and within minutes they were watching some show on a subscription channel apparently most people had nowadays.

  "I'm just going to talk to Uncle Arthur for a minute and help him with Daddy, then I'll be back," said Vicky.

  "Will Daddy be okay?" asked Tweedledum.

  The innocent, trusting nature of children never ceases to amaze me, and it broke my heart to witness such concern for a man that deserved no love from such beautiful children.

  "Daddy's just going to go calm down somewhere," said Vicky through gritted teeth.

  "Okay, Mummy," the girls chorused, taking it all in their stride now the moment had passed.

  Vicky shoved me ahead of her down the hall to the front door. She glanced outside at the body of her husband and whispered, "I want that man dead for what he just did." She meant it, and I didn't blame her.

  "What the hell happened? That's not like him, is it?" I was sure he'd never laid a hand on her or the kids before, because if he had, and I knew about it, then he would have already been a dead man.

  "He lost the plot, he went crazy. I got all dressed up, made a nice dinner, but he was stressed from work, more stressed than usual, and when I gave him his dinner, just us, I'd already fed the girls, he starting shouting that I thought he was fat."

  "Huh?"

  "Because I made him chicken and broccoli and rice. He said I was trying to run his life, make him eat rabbit food, and then he threw the salad at the wall and then... then he said I was a bad mother. Because I was late for the girls, for school. Once, Arthur, I've been properly late once for my girls in their entire lives. The few other times were just a couple of minutes. He's never here, he's always late, and I said so, and he lost it, said he was taking the girls away. He threw the bottle of wine at me, stormed into the living room, and starting dragging them outside to the car. It was red wine. It's everywhere," Vicky added, shock starting to set in.

  "This is nuts, it doesn't make any sense. He's never acted like this before has he?" Vicky was silent as she stared at Harry out on the drive, and then back at me. My stomach flipped and my anger rose, but I kept myself in check, didn't let myself go wild. Not now, not with the kids there.

  I put one hand on Vicky's shoulder, then the other, and I turned her so we were looking each other straight in the eye. "Vicky, I want you to tell me the truth. Has he ever hurt you or the girls? Has he ever acted violently toward you before?"

  "He's... he's got a temper sometimes. He gets tired from work, he eats badly, he's very conscious of his weight, and sometimes he gets cross." Vicky rubbed at a spot just beneath the neckline of her dress and I gently moved her hand away and lowered the delicate material.

  A bruise, and I'd seen enough to know how it was made. By a fist.

  "Nobody ever sees," she said, and silent tears of shame fell. Hers and mine.

  My heart broke for her, for all of them. You never know what goes on behind closed doors, and I knew how the world worked. How people made excuses for their loved ones, how they fought and shouted but it was all part of forging a life together. But you did not, ever, hit women, or scare your children like this. How had Vicky let this happen? How had she never told me? Because she knew I'd rip him to shreds, that was why. And, for all her toughness, Vicky loved the idea of family, loved her girls, wanted to be the perfect wife and mother, and trouble at home didn't fit with that image.

  Sure, they fought and she moaned and griped about him, threatened to leave him on many occasions, but it was all just noise, or so I'd assumed. Was this why she never went through with it? Because she was scared?

  "I'm sorry," I said, trying to hold back the tears, the shame, the guilt.

  "Arthur, it's not your fault. It's mine."

  I grabbed Vicky protectively, her body so frail and small, and I said, "No, it's not your fault. Don't ever say that. It's his and his alone. This is on him. Only him. Go pack, you're coming home with me. All of you. The girls can have a few days off school until we figure this out. Okay?"

  Vicky bowed her head. I hated seeing her like that. Beaten. "Okay."

  Vicky went to tell the girls, and I stood there, on the threshold to suburbia, and I cried for my friend and for the fact she'd ever thought, even for a moment, that this was her fault or something she deserved.

  Fucking men.

  A Holiday

  "Why is Daddy still lying on the ground?" asked Tweedledee as we walked past him to my car. The girls had a small bag each, with bright characters smiling as if everything was perfect with the world, and I had a large suitcase, not the first one either.

  Vicky was holding on to both girls' hands like she never wanted to let them go again.

  "Because Uncle Arthur hit him because he was scaring you. It's okay, he'll be fine. He's just sleeping now, right, Arthur?" Vicky turned to me with hope as I dumped the suitcase in the car.

  I turned and stared at Vicky, then the girls. "Right. He had a funny turn like I told you, and so I put him to sleep for a while with a special Uncle Arthur punch. He's fine, just resting. So, that means you get to have a holiday while Daddy recovers and thinks about what he did. You're coming to stay with me and George, how cool is that?"

  The girls jumped up and down, screeching, "Yippee," even though we'd already been through all this and Vicky had repeatedly told them. Kids!

  "Can we feed the chickens?"

  "Sure."

  "And we really don't have to go to school tomorrow?"

  "Nope."

  "And we can eat ice-cream all day and watch TV?"

  "You cheeky sod. No, you cannot do that," I said with a smile, panicking as I wondered how I could keep them from trashing my kitchen within the first few minutes of us arriving home. We laughed as I ushered the girls into the car and got them to buckle up. I turned to check on Vicky and watched as she crossed back to the house.

  She bent over Harry, then crouched down, squatting as if to contemplate her life and how it had somehow all gone wrong. I can't say I saw it coming, but something told me that things were about to get terribly out of control. I just couldn't figure out how that could be. He was out cold, the girls were safe, and Vicky was distraught but keeping it together for the sake of the kids.

  I watched as she pulled something from her jacket. My guts tightened but still I couldn't quite connect what I was seeing with what I dreaded would happen. Vicky glanced around, checking on neighbors I guess, but this w
as suburbia and nobody had even come out. I envied them like I never had before.

  Vicky adjusted her body, then her arm moved forward. I couldn't see what she did, but when Harry's body shuddered once then was still I knew exactly what she'd done. I'd seen enough death tremors in my time to be in no doubt that Vicky had just murdered her husband in cold blood in their driveway.

  I turned away.

  "All buckled up?" I asked the girls, checking their seat belts.

  "All done."

  "Roger that."

  "Great, I'll be back in a minute."

  Seriously?

  "What are you doing? Have you gone utterly insane?" I hissed, crouching down beside Vicky. She hadn't moved, was just squatting there over her husband. Her dead, bleeding husband. His trousers were stained wet, and he stank. Death ain't pretty, even if you're pretty in life, and he wasn't.

  Vicky turned to me, but her eyes were dead, vacant like she was in deep shock now. She probably was.

  "Vicky?"

  "He hurt my children," was all she said, then she looked from me back to Harry, all emotion drained from her.

  "I know, honey, I know." I took the knife out of her hands; she didn't resist. I pocketed it as I stared at the spreading red stain on Harry's creased shirt. The cotton was stuck to his huge belly and chest like a sheet over a crumpled, dirty bed.

  I felt for a pulse and then patted down his pockets, removed his car keys and found a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. Damn, I didn't know he smoked. This was a mess, a clusterfuck if ever there was one. We were in the toxic center of suburbia. My paranoia kicked in. Suddenly I felt there was no way in hell that this had gone unnoticed. People would be watching; who knew what they'd seen? Maybe they hadn't seen me smack him down, maybe they had, but I was pretty sure nobody had seen Vicky actually kill him. But they could have, and I didn't know. I hated not knowing, especially when it could mean getting locked up for life. If the police arrived, I'd have to say I did it. And that would seriously suck, especially for me.