Conspiracy of Angels

by Michelle Belanger

  After three attempts I got the right size, or at least close enough. I laced up the boots, grabbed the box and the remaining socks, and carried them over toward the single open register. No one looked twice, not even the gaunt-faced fellow wearing deer-hunter orange who was walking in circles near the housewares, muttering to himself about elephant guns.

  I so didn’t want to know.

  At the counter, the bleary-eyed girl with a torn-out eyebrow piercing held up the empty shoebox and shook it at me.

  “I gotta scan the boots for you to buy them.” She almost touched my hand and I jerked back. She gaped at me like a carp.

  “That’s too bad,” I said impatiently. “I’m wearing them. That’s why I brought the box.”

  “But the box is empty,” she argued.

  “That’s because I’m wearing them!” I said again. We went round and round like this for a couple of minutes, and it felt like being caught in the loop of some old comedy, only it didn’t feel at all funny. I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to reach over the counter and shake her.

  Elephant-gun man began wandering toward the register, and he looked way too interested in our conversation.

  “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice down, “I wrecked my boots out in the mud. I got socks here and I got boots. The boots came in that box, which has a bar code. All you have to do is scan the fucking bar code. I just want to pay and get out of here.”

  Frowning, she set the empty box down and picked up the three-pack of athletic socks. She poked at the ragged edges where I’d torn open the packaging. “This is already open. You wanna go back and get a new one?”

  I felt my eye twitch.

  “It’s fine,” I managed. “Just scan it, and scan that box. I’m buying the box, too.”

  Looking at me like I was the one with the mental deficiency, she took her little gun and ran the laser scanner over the bar codes. I shoved money at her before she finished ringing up the total, which made her pause again and almost lose track of what she was doing. With agonizing care she slipped both the empty shoebox and the opened package of socks into a thin plastic bag. Only then did she take my money and cash me out.

  I fought the urge to grab the package and bolt from the store, instead forcing myself to walk slowly back to the entrance. I thought a series of very unkind things about her parents as I pulled the socks from the bag on my way out of the store. I tossed the bag into a nearby trash bin, stuffing the two extra pairs of socks into an inner pocket of my jacket.

  The Harley still rested next to the bedraggled mums, its engine humming softly.

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” I muttered, then swung back onto the motorcycle and resumed my trip toward Cleveland, now about 35 miles away. Then all I had to do was find a club I didn’t remember in a city whose streets were forgotten to me, as well.

  7

  Once I got onto I-90, it took me straight into the city. As I drove through the eastern suburbs, the highway split off into a bewildering number of alternate freeways. I followed my instincts, surrendering to the feel of what seemed right, and by eleven-thirty I was within sight of the Cleveland skyline.

  The skyscrapers were lit from below with candy-colored floods of red, blue, and gold. Gleaming lights illuminated the downtown bridges as well, making the art deco giants flanking their arches come ominously to life.

  A wealth of apparently random facts spun through my brain—the foibles of the Van Sweringen brothers, pride in native son Bob Hope, and rueful memories of J.D. Rockefeller’s cutthroat tactics. I found myself wondering about my curiously selective amnesia. Everything was poignantly familiar. I knew the shape of the Terminal Tower, the tales of the Detroit Avenue Bridge, the fervor sports-minded locals held for the stadium that was home of the Cleveland Tribe.

  As long I didn’t think too hard about it, I knew where every street led. I took the exit that funneled me down a winding path from the overpass to the Flats. I found myself on River Road, got routed around a drawbridge that was undergoing repairs, passed the Nautica stage, then drew up short at a sleek black sign with familiar silver letters.

  HEAVEN

  Parking was ten dollars in the attached lot. All too conscious of my dwindling funds, I decided to take my chances and leave the Harley on the street. That proved to be an adventure. Although no special event seemed to be going on at the Nautica or anywhere else in the Flats, cars crowded nose-to-bumper, tires half up on the worn and shallow curbs. Listing pylons twined with thick, weathered chains blocked access to one side street after another, till I found myself again at the bank of the river.

  A great, rusting monolith rose to one side, its purpose lost to the city’s industrial past. The broad, oily expanse of the Cuyahoga drank the light from the crumbling bridges arching above it, their reflections dragged mercilessly into its muddy depths.

  There was a parking space right near the river’s edge, but I wanted no part of those still, brooding waters. Choking on shapeless memories I could neither ignore nor divine, I guided the old Harley deeper into the tangle of one-way streets and back alleys, dodging potholes big enough to swallow the front tire. I finally found a space a good several blocks from Heaven. The lone streetlight at the corner had been shot out. At that point, I didn’t care.

  Setting the kickstand I reluctantly cut the engine. If I was lucky, Club Heaven would give up the answers that I needed, and I’d be able to make a discreet call pointing the authorities to Biker Santa’s cherished ride.

  I oriented myself in the direction of the club and started walking. A gusting wind carried the stench of the river, thick and ripe and fishy. The scent dredged half-formed images from my hindbrain—none of them clear enough to hold onto, but they spiked my anxious pulse nevertheless.

  It didn’t help that this corner of the Flats was questionable at best. I passed a pair of seedy-looking characters slouching along in baggy pants and oversized hoodies. They stared too long at me as I strode past, and the feel of their eyes made my skin crawl in a way I couldn’t really justify. I kept my head down and tried to ignore them.

  A shrill, chittering cry rang piercingly through the street and I froze, overcome with the irrational fear that some terrible creature had followed me all the way from Ashtabula. Once I convinced my legs to move again, I quickened my pace, faltering when I heard the scrape of a shoe against the cracked and uneven sidewalk behind me.

  The ruffians staggered along in shuffling pursuit, glassy eyes fixed on everything and nothing at once. Shadows swirled thickly around them, clinging to their backs like living things. The minute I turned and spotted them, they charged forward, mouths agape.

  One of them pulled a gun.

  That cry came again, and I could have sworn it issued from his throat. I knew it wasn’t possible—nothing human could make that sound—but I didn’t care. I vaulted over the hood of a car parked beside me, sprinting across a dark and narrow side street. The neon sign of a bar burned on the corner, less than a block away. I headed toward the light.

  From the frenzied slap of feet against pavement, they were right on my heels. At least they weren’t shooting—yet. As I pelted around the corner toward the bar, I ran right in the path of oncoming headlights. The vehicle was already slowing to a stop at the intersection, but I still hip-checked its grill, rolling onto the hood and nearly kissing the windshield.

  It was a cop car. I got an up close and personal look at the startled faces of the driver and his partner. The older guy behind the wheel just gaped at me. The younger woman in the passenger seat yelled something, her dark features shifting swiftly from shock to fury. I slid off the hood and was already charging down the sidewalk before the cruiser came to a complete halt. Visions of the news bulletin flashed through my head and I sped away, certain the cops would come at me shooting.

  By then the thugs had run headlong into the side of the vehicle like they didn’t know they could go around it. They jostled alongside it, thumping their palms against the hood.
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br />   I didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t any time. I had no interest in being caught by either the hoodie gang or the police, so I just thanked whatever power was responsible for finally throwing me a break. I tore off down an alley, leaving the cops to contend with the two delinquents.

  After I’d gone a couple of blocks, a shot rang out, and then another. I ducked reflexively beside a dumpster. Shrill cries echoed through the night—they hardly sounded human. Suddenly my lucky break didn’t seem very lucky—at least not for the cops. I hesitated in my hiding spot, and almost turned back, but what was I going to do? Charge in unarmed?

  I’d get shot or arrested.

  Probably both.

  Shouts again. It made more sense to run, but I couldn’t let it go. Cautiously, I doubled back toward the bar, hugging the shadows and moving as stealthily as my gangly six-foot-something frame would allow. My hands tingled like they were wrapped around live wires. Restlessly, I shook the sensation from my fingers, but it clung like ants swarming the wrong side of my skin.

  The officers were standing over two lifeless bodies.

  “What the hell were they thinking?” the lady cop said. “They saw our guns. Why didn’t they stop?” She still held her service piece trained on the dead men, her African complexion gray with shock. One of the corpses twitched, and she nearly squeezed off another round.

  “Drugged up, from the look of it,” her partner grumbled. “Sometimes it’s shoot or get shot, Maggie.” He toed one of the fallen forms, kicking a gun out of its now limp hand. He looked up and scanned the alley. “What happened with that other one—the guy we hit?”

  I pressed myself deep inside a doorway, ducking my head low. It was time to go. The minute he turned back toward the cruiser, I fled, tracing my way between windowless warehouses till I came once more to Club Heaven.

  No matter how I tried, I couldn’t quite shake the expression on the lady cop’s face. It looked like she hadn’t had to kill anyone before. Maybe there had been a way to avoid it. Maybe if I’d stayed and faced the thugs myself, things would have played out differently.

  But that was stupid, and I was wanted. Pleading amnesia wouldn’t make that go away.

  As I approached the massive brick warehouse that was home to Club Heaven, I smoothed back my wind-torn hair and tried to shake some of the tension out of my shoulders. No sense going in looking like I was spoiling for a fight.

  It was close to midnight, and Heaven was in full swing. Big double doors were propped open beneath an awning of blood-red vinyl. Pulsing electronica spilled into the night. A bull-necked doorman stood nearby, his thick arms not so much folded as resting on his broad chest. Despite the hour he wore sunglasses, and his meaty jaw was given definition by a dark and meticulously trimmed goatee. His head appeared to be shaved down to the scalp underneath a black leather top hat that had a pair of steampunk goggles perched atop its brim.

  He shifted his weight almost imperceptibly as I approached. I dug out my wallet and retrieved my ID, holding it at the ready. I knew the drill.

  “How much?” I asked, hoping the few crumpled bills I had left would cover entry.

  The doorman barely spared my license a passing glance.

  “Fifteen,” he said automatically. I searched his face for any hint of recognition, but he had the bouncer glare down, regarding me stonily from behind the shades.

  “All right.” I handed him a ten and a five, noting glumly that this just left me with a couple of singles. “Hey, dumb question, but…” For a moment I faltered—but what did I have to lose? “Do I come here often?”

  The guy gave me a curious look, dark brows furrowing over the sunglasses. Then he shrugged.

  “I’m new, man.” He waved the cash away, gesturing further into the club. “Pay the girl when you see her.”

  “Um, right,” I said. “I still need the ID?” He shook his head, so I put it back in my wallet, which I wedged into the back left pocket of my jeans. Then I dove into the riot of sound and shadow that was the interior of the club.

  Dim red bulbs cast a sepulchral gloom over the entryway, and a kind of privacy wall made it necessary to step left or right. The ceiling of the club yawned cavernously above it, black except for intermittent strobes of light. Another thick-necked bouncer-type leaned against the left-hand side of the wall, his hand resting idly on a velvet rope strung across that entrance. I took the other path toward a short counter with a cash register. A curtained archway rose beyond. The heavy red velvet drapes vibrated in the stultifying thunder of the bass.

  A girl sat behind the counter, the Asian lift to her eyes highlighted by heavy black eyeliner and shimmering smears of red and gold. Her face was powdered bone-white and the natural shape of her lips was obscured by a small, stylized black heart painted over them. The heart made her look as if she was constantly puckered up for a kiss.

  Her black and gold-streaked hair was swept up in a severe knot, with an asymmetrical fan of it sticking out to one side, the ends coated so heavily in styling gel that they might as well have been spikes of black glass. A red lacquered chopstick topped with a tiny skull-shaped bead angled through her hair. A matching skull dangled from the lobe of the opposing ear.

  “Fifteen dollars, please,” she said with an air of crushing boredom. I recognized her voice immediately and gawked for a moment, struggling for something to say. She fixed her gaze on me, blinking once. As I continued to hesitate, a little crease of irritation formed between her penciled brows.

  “Um, I’m Zachary Westland?” I offered.

  The flat ophidian cast to those eyes never faltered, but her brows went up just a touch.

  “Oh,” she said. Her gaze slid from me to the curtain, and for a moment she seemed to be peering through it. “He’s expecting you,” she said. “Up in the Sanctuary.” She didn’t bother to explain who, or what that was—just gestured vaguely toward the curtained door.

  “Uh, thanks,” I managed. I held the ten and five out to her, but she shook her head.

  “Family’s always free,” she said.

  Family?

  Chewing on that interesting morsel, I ducked through the curtain.

  My eyes had no time to adjust—lasers burst forth in a brilliant cascade, dazzling as they reflected off a massive disco ball suspended over the dance floor. Black walls, black floor, and black-clad people blended into a mass of writhing shadows punctuated by stuttering strobes. Before the lasers exploded in another scintillating display, a stampede of unexpected sensations ran roughshod through my mind—faces, visions, colors, and a host of conflicting emotions enervating beyond tolerance.

  I hit the floor without any conscious awareness of it, dragging the velvet curtain down on top of me. In my fading vision, times and styles blurred together in a jumble. Goths and flappers and sleek-suited toughs all danced cheek to cheek with the same frenetic air of desperate indulgence.

  I had no idea if any of it was real.

  My last scrap of awareness flashed with galvanizing imagery—so vivid, it felt as if I’d been thrust into a movie. A place like this, rife with hunger, decadence, and sex. Not a club. More like a temple—halls of carved stone, impossibly old. Tall, gaunt men with grim expressions stormed the place, tearing down tapestries and toppling columns. Clad in rough-spun tunics, they held near-identical expressions and carried strangely curved bronze blades.

  Driving half-naked revelers before them, they spared none who resisted. All were tainted, all were judged—but the real goal was the abomination perched at the heart of the nest.

  He sat amidst the trappings of some sort of shrine, poison-green eyes glinting from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. He looked human, but his mouth was fanged. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, he hissed and spat curses as they dragged him from his throne. A thin bone stylus carved the sentence across his forehead in curving letters of gleaming blood. They held him, wrist and ankle, wiry limbs splayed and straining.

  There was no room for mercy.

  At a sign from the
leader, bronze blades flashed through pale flesh. The creature’s throat fountained crimson. The final dagger punched under his ribs, curving upward to seek his heart. His oath resounded on a gurgling breath.

  “I’ll repay you for this, brother. You and all your tribe.”

  I stared down at the crumpled form.

  It was my hand wrapped around the killing blade.

  8

  “Zaquiel!”

  The name dredged me from a sea of uneasy visions. Nothing but scraps accompanied me to the surface, mostly vague intimations of bloodshed and struggle. I still felt the shape and heft of the curved bronze dagger, my fingers curling as if I could carry it with me to the waking world. I clenched my fist until the feeling went away. I wasn’t sure what to make of that dream… memory… whatever it was, but the vivid way it clung to my thoughts unsettled me.

  I’ll repay you for this, brother.

  I blinked up at a spacious room, fighting to focus on the here-and-now. Everything within the scope of my vision was black—black leather couches, black painted walls, black tiles on the floor. That alone suggested that I was still inside the club. Even the doors and ceiling had been given a coat of matte black paint. Spatters of silver randomly speckled the ceiling and walls, as if some budding Jackson Pollack had been called in to decorate. The brief dots and arcs of shine were the only things to break up the unremitting monochrome of the décor.

  The music of the club still throbbed, albeit distantly. Wherever we were, however, the soundproofing was impressive.

  There was someone standing over me¸ and when I got a good look at him I thought I might still be dreaming. He was decked out in a dark red suit and matching red tie worn over a sleek black dress shirt that could only have been silk. The suit made him look like an escapee from a Tim Burton remake of The Untouchables. All he needed was a fedora over his flowing, ebon mane.