Angel Eyes

by Shannon Dittemore

  Dimples stomps up from behind Ponytail and pats down each of them, pulling a few guns from the lot before retreating into the office. By far, the lone wolf is the most reluctant to hand over his handgun, but the voluptuous woman is none too pleased herself.

  “What is this, Juan? Where’s Horacio?” she demands, one hand on her hip.

  Juan steps up to the trio, taking the woman’s hand and kissing it. “Cleo! You look ravishing.”

  She bats her lashes and drops her cigarette to the dirt, where she grinds it out under the heel of her ridiculously inappropriate stiletto. He turns his eyes on the younger girl at her side.

  “Horacio didn’t tell me Michelle would be accompanying you!” His gaze makes the girl blush. He pulls her to his chest and kisses her cheek. He is suave, but even I can see he’s insincere. “It’s been a long time, Michelle.” He slaps her on the behind and briskly moves away, offering his arm to Cleo.

  “Really, Juan,” she complains. “You’ve kept us waiting, you strip us of our weapons, and still, where is Horacio? He assured me he would be here.”

  “I cannot tell you, my lady, where Mr. Santilla is. All I know is he’s asked me to stand in for him. Tell me, Cleo, wouldn’t you rather look at me?” He winks at her and leads her toward the man in black, smirking at the others.

  “Jules,” Juan says, extending his hand. “We haven’t met, but Horacio speaks highly of you.”

  “Well,” the man says with a sneer, “Santilla’s always been a fool.”

  Juan chuckles and continues past him to the old man and his escort.

  “Henry,” Juan says, bowing elegantly. “Nice to see you again. I’ve pulled a few of the girls I thought may fit each of your needs, but of course you’re welcome to take your pick of the lot.” He gestures grandly to the rows of children now doing their best to disappear behind their binds. “Eddie!”

  Dimples pushes and prods the four older girls into the room, Kaylee bringing up the rear. With the exception of Kaylee, the girls stand dripping with hose water—their clothes pasted to their wet bodies. Kaylee’s face is uncovered now. Her hands and mouth remain taped.

  All business now, Cleo struts toward the girls, her two comrades joining her. Seeing they’re in the market for a similar purchase, Jules moves quickly as well.

  Henry stays put. “Did Horacio tell you—I requested a blonde. Several, actually.”

  Juan answers him, but his voice is drowned by the heated discussion Cleo and Jules are having. They’re arguing over a redhead—fifteen, sixteen years old, maybe. She stands drenched so heavily in fear I can no longer make out her facial expression. Her thin frame rattles side to side, and she cries out as they each yank on one of her arms in a sadistic game of tug-of-war.

  “I do not think so, madam.” Jules’s voice rises to a feverish pitch. “You seemed perfectly content with the brunette until I showed interest in this one.”

  “I was here first, you crazy little man, and that means I get first pick!” Cleo screams back.

  “First pick, my—”

  A shot rings out into the night air and everyone freezes, their eyes trained on Juan’s .45.

  “What happened to your no-gun policy?” Jules says. Both Cleo and Henry also look put out.

  “No guns for the customers, Jules,” Juan says with a smirk. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “No, I don’t understand,” Jules hisses back. “You are just as likely to turn on us. How do I know you even work for Horacio?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” Juan answers. “Or not. It makes no difference to me.”

  Jules crosses his arms defiantly but is silent.

  “This room is full of suitable merchandise, and you two are fighting over one worthless girl.”

  “Worthless to you, but this girl could make me a decent stack of cash,” Cleo argues, tugging on the girl’s arm again.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Jules counters. “I’ll drop her off on your street corner when I’m done with her.”

  “My street corner!” Cleo is furious. “My girls do not stand on street corners!”

  Again Juan fires his gun into the air, silencing both Jules and Cleo. The children duck and cover their ears. Their cries pierce the air, and the older children try to quiet the younger ones. Henry clucks at the chaos.

  Dimples steps up.

  “Here,” he says, grabbing Kaylee.

  I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the cry building up inside.

  “She’s fresh, pretty. You’ll have to keep her muzzled—got quite a mouth on her—but I’m sure she’ll bring either of you exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Kaylee releases a string of unintelligible angry words and swings her long arms toward Dimples. Her elbow connects with his temple, and he drops. He tries to stand, but before he gets a chance she kicks out with those sequined cowboy boots. His head snaps sideways, and he flops back, unconscious.

  “Wow,” Jake breathes.

  Cleo shakes her head. “I have enough attitude as it is.”

  Jules, though, is obviously intrigued. “There is something very spirited about her, isn’t there?” He blocks Kaylee’s arms with a single hand and takes her chin in the other. “What do you think, darling? Would you like to be a movie star?”

  “Nooooooooo!!!!!!”

  From behind a stack of empty pallets, Marco dives at Juan and knocks the gun away. It skids across the concrete and disappears into the mass of children. With a resounding clatter and several moments of echoing clamor, the pallets, unsettled by Marco’s movement, totter and fall—one after the other—to the ground.

  Jules takes advantage of the distraction and heaves Kaylee over his shoulder. She swings and kicks, but Jules continues on, making for the door.

  Surprise had been on Marco’s side, and now he sits straddling Juan’s chest. He throws punch after punch at him, but Juan’s much larger and his forearms seem to be taking the brunt of it. I fear Marco isn’t doing much damage.

  “We have to help him!”

  “No, we don’t,” Jake says. “We have to help her.”

  I follow his gaze to the door. Kaylee has grasped the steel door frame with her bound hands, but she’s hopeless against Jules. He throws his shoulder into her stomach, forcing her hands free, and she screams.

  Jake releases my hand and sprints from behind the garbage heap.

  “Jake!”

  But he doesn’t respond. He’s too far away already, running fast toward the door. Through the wall I watch as Jules turns right, toward the gravel lot. Kaylee swings her bound arms and kicks her legs, fighting hard against her captor. Jake’s close, but Jules reaches his vehicle, a dark SUV. He opens the front passenger door and shoves Kaylee inside.

  A wounded yelp draws my attention, and with my lack of focus the wall rematerializes, blinding me to the action in the parking lot. I look around for the source of the distraction.

  It seems the tables have turned for Marco, and now Juan sits astride his torso, bringing practiced elbow after practiced elbow down on Marco’s face. Flames of violence erupt around the two men, keeping time with their accelerating heart rates.

  My eyes move desperately around the warehouse, but there’s nothing there to inspire faith. No savior come to rescue us. What I do see causes chilling beads of sweat to race down my warm spine.

  Cleo, following Jules’s lead, is dragging the screaming redhead toward the door by her long, wet hair. Michelle and the man in the purple suit scurry behind.

  They pass the old man, Henry. His gnarled hands grip his cane, and he guffaws at the spectacle before him, his demon-friend gone.

  An unnatural movement draws my attention, and I turn my face toward the aluminum ceiling.

  There he is.

  The demon hovers above us, invisible to everyone but me. I know it’s him, and yet his appearance is so frightfully different than it had been. The scorched skin, skeletal masses protruding here and there—it’s all exaggerated now, almost unbeliev
ably so.

  Black talons, dangerous talons, grow out of his chalky gray hands.

  I crouch behind the garbage heap, too scared to move. Despite the halo’s warmth, my hands are shaking, flinging black tar into the air. My feet are gummed to the cement floor with the stuff, and I realize, painfully, that I’m paralyzed. My lips barely move as I utter the first words that come to mind.

  “Please, God. Help.”

  And then he’s gone.

  The demon shoots through the roof and into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke behind. The gut-wrenching realization that only I can see him—that there are forces here the others are unaware of—reminds me that something, somewhere is hunting Jake. Damien, the author of this nightmare, could arrive at any time.

  I scan the room again. Violent flames blackened by fear and sadness stain the creamy orange expanse of the Celestial. We have to get these children out of here, and we have to do it now.

  I wrench my eyes toward Marco and cringe as he narrowly avoids an overhand arching punch thrown by Juan. He’s doing everything he can. Outside, Jake is doing the same.

  Now it’s my turn. I can’t just stand here and shake.

  Swallowing the fear I have for Jake and Marco, and without a plan of any sort, I duck out from my hiding place and run pell-mell for the door, arriving just as Cleo and gang exit the warehouse. At top speed I follow them outside, catching my hip on the chain that’s kept so many children locked inside this netherworld. I ignore the welt I know is forming and force myself forward. I’m quite possibly the redhead’s only hope.

  Michelle is at the back of the cluster, her high-heeled boots slowing her down. I grab a yank of her hair and pull. Together we tumble to the ground, and she screams out. Cleo stops at the noise and turns back, pulling the redhead with her.

  “If you want this girl back, you’ll have to trade me!” I shout over Michelle’s screams. I have her pinned to the ground, my knees pressing into her lower back, my long arms jamming hers to her sides.

  “Get the car, Sam,” Cleo says irritably. The purple-suited man scampers off, his expression dim. “Who are you, princess?” Cleo asks, her painted eyes narrowed.

  “Just give me the girl and you can have this one back.”

  Beneath me, Michelle whimpers. “I don’t want to go back,” she sobs.

  My head drops. I’ve just lost my bargaining chip. I could never force this girl to return to such a life. For all I know, her story is no different than that of the dozens of children tied up inside.

  Cleo laughs. “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?”

  I sit up and lean back, releasing Michelle’s arms. My hand lands on cold, hard steel.

  “I guess it does,” I answer. Cleo turns to go, and with a swift prayer that my aim has improved since a misguided attempt at archery years ago, I swing the heavy chain over my head. It narrowly misses the redhead as it connects with Cleo’s neck. Her head snaps forward with a crack, and she drops heavily to the ground and does not move. The two girls look at me, and my chest heaves as I consider the possibility that I’ve killed her.

  Tires squeal, kicking up rocks and gravel. We dive out of the way as the driver pulls up inches from Cleo in a midnight-blue Monte Carlo. He sticks a ferrety face out the window and covers his mouth at the sight of the still form on the ground. With a quick glance at Michelle, he drives away, nearly colliding with the Dumpster that Jake and I skirted earlier tonight.

  Michelle walks over to Cleo’s body, turning her over with the toe of her boot.

  “Did I . . . is she . . .”

  There are no red flames. No marks of violence, but I can’t even formulate the question.

  “No,” Michelle says, the sludge of fear evaporating from her legs. “She’s not dead.”

  “Too bad.” It’s the redhead.

  Michelle turns, and a quirky smile replaces the fear.

  “You guys have to get out of here,” I say, dropping the chain and pushing to my feet.

  “What about you?” Michelle asks, stripping off her jacket and passing it to the dripping redhead.

  “I’ve got work to do. Go and don’t come back.”

  “We’ll send help,” the redhead promises.

  “Help is already on its way,” I say. It’s a statement. It’s a prayer. “Just get as far away from here as you can.”

  They stare at me, and I know—without knowing them at all—that these two girls are braver than I’ve ever had cause to be.

  “Just go,” I say. “Please.”

  “Come on,” Michelle says, grabbing the other girl’s hand and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  “Thank you,” the redhead tells me, her face now entirely clear of the blackness. She and Michelle take off, running fast down the broken road.

  Thunder rolls across the sky, followed by a flash of lightning. Heavy raindrops fall from the black clouds above. The storm has arrived.

  I turn and run toward the parking lot, where I last saw Jules struggling with Kaylee. The rain pours down, soaking my face, my clothes. My eyes rake the lot, but there’s no sign of Jake, and the SUV is gone.

  If I hadn’t hesitated, if I’d moved faster . . . maybe . . .

  Again a squeal of tires causes me to jerk, and I turn to see Jules’s SUV coming down the road toward me. I stand in the direct beam of his headlights, which look strange and milky in the light of the Celestial—but I’m frozen. Like a deer.

  For the first time I understand the expression.

  29

  Damien

  Damien!”

  His name rings silently across the night sky, perceptible to him and four others.

  He knows he’s late. But is he too late?

  The demon stops abruptly. With his outer wings humming against the night, he stretches his inner wings wide, unfurling them against the blushing sky.

  He must appear powerful. In control.

  He opens his eyes as wide as possible, but they dry out and glaze over. He fights the discomfort and stares jealously at his fallen brothers as they advance from a distance.

  They’re still several hundred yards off, but their fitness is apparent. They approach with more daring than he’s had in nearly a century. There’s no doubt in Damien’s mind they’ve either been shielded from the light for some time or been given ample opportunity to heal. They fly with abandon, their eyes barely registering the radiance that is his nemesis.

  A hundred yards in front of the others, flying straight at Damien, is Maka. He is by far Damien’s biggest risk. Rarely assigned to earth, he’s spent most of his days in the direct company of the Prince. He’s strong, influential among their kind, and has the ear of Lucifer himself. Exactly what Damien needs. Although if this goes wrong, Maka’s involvement ensures that Damien’s failures will be paraded before the very being he desires to impress. It’s a gamble, but he’s desperate, and opportunities like this do not come along often.

  Flanking him are the Twins: Larat and Latham. At one time these two were comrades of Damien’s. But, characteristic of their kind, the alliance lasted only as long as it was mutually beneficial. A breed entrenched in deception can hardly be expected to work well together for extended periods. And yet Larat and Latham have maintained a peace for centuries. The Prince himself dubbed them “the Twins” long ago. Very similar in build and appearance, the two have had consistent success that has continued to secure them common assignments.

  This allows them to swap realms more often, to alternate between the scorching light of the Celestial and the comfortable but restricting realm of the Terrestrial. And, like Maka, they are favorites of those higher up the food chain than Damien—frequently recalled from the front lines.

  Another twenty yards or so, beyond the Twins, gyrating in midair, is Javan. Over and over he flips, falling nearly to the earth before pumping his wings and launching himself into the sky again. Javan’s been on assignment in the Terrestrial for many years and is the brother Damien runs into with the most frequency
. For the past fifty years or so he’s been attached to the same charge: Henry Madison. The nature of his job with Henry keeps him almost entirely in the Terrestrial.

  Based on the amount of freedom Javan appears to be reveling in, Damien can tell it’s been some time since that brother has been able to escape into the Celestial. Javan has complained about this aspect of his job, but even Damien understands the benefits. Javan’s eyes are not nearly as damaged.

  For a long moment Damien rests his eyes, closing them firmly against the light, hoping to show as little weakness as possible when he and his brothers are finally face-to-face. It’s a few seconds only before he feels Maka’s breath upon his brow, and he opens them, dull and tainted.

  “You orchestrated this?” Maka draws his scimitar and points it at Damien’s throat.

  Dozens of times Damien has considered the best way to play this—the best approach. They’re all masters of deception, distrusting one another and the world around them. It doesn’t matter what he says, what he does, Damien’s brothers will assume the worst of his motives, and lying to them will not get him any closer to the Prince.

  “Yes, I orchestrated this,” Damien answers. “I need your eyes.”

  “Take care of your own, and you will not need to borrow mine!” Maka is angry, but not nearly as angry as Damien feared. His lips twist, betraying his curiosity, and it becomes apparent he’ll hear his brother out.

  Damien will wait for the others, though. He won’t repeat himself. Not tonight.

  Moments later Larat and Latham arrive, grinning maliciously as Maka’s blade brushes against Damien’s neck.

  Larat shakes his head in disapproval, and his mind joins the conversation. “Surely you know better, Damien. What could be worth deceiving four superior beings?”

  “Three superior beings, I think,” Latham corrects, shoving the just-arrived Javan with a muscled arm.

  Javan, for his part, continues to bounce on the Celestial currents, his tongue hanging beneath jagged teeth like an eager dog, breathless and beaming.

  “Still,” Larat continues, “this doesn’t sit well.” He, too, brandishes his scimitar. “There are reasons we don’t gather often.”