“I really am so sorry, sir,” Jackson said with quivering lips. It hurt him more than most who worked here to deny someone who truly needed it, and he had always fought to not let that side of him show. It was just a job, he would tell himself, and nothing more.
“Ya gotta do somethin’, ya got to…”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson said as he stood up and grabbed his blazer off of the back of his seat. “There is nothing more we can do.”
“You’ve killed me, Jackie,” the man followed with angrily, with clenched teeth and hot eyes. “You fuckin’ done me in, you did…”
Jackson left with Jennie as behind him the man followed them out of the office and shouted. There was sniffling, tears, and banshee wailing. Jackson did not look back, and he stored that pain deep down within himself.
Suddenly, the dream moved faster, and Jackson was sitting under a tree. It was autumn, and the air smelled of falling leaves and fresh rain. Not quite cold enough to abandon the outdoors, but cool enough for a warm jacket and a nice day appreciating the breeze. Around him were the flat fields of the park with the near-silence of rustling branches overhead. Before him sat a pond that rippled with the wind and leaves that gently lay at its surface and moved slowly like old, lost ships.
Jackson smiled as he waited peacefully on top of his rolled-out blanket beside his large, wicker basket. He sat against the tree and it scratched against his back with the roughness of cold bark. In this moment, things were peaceful and tranquil and perfect.
“Oh babe, it’s so cold!” exclaimed Jennie as she walked up from just behind the tree and sat on the blanket.
He removed his jacket, a sturdy, brown leather with a soft and fluffy interior and draped it over her shoulders like a cape, making her smile at the newly received warmth. Jackson laid a kiss on her forehead and stroked her hair with his fingers, tucking it behind her ear.
“I love this spot,” she said quietly, “it is always so nice this time of the year.”
“I know,” he replied with a smile. “This is where we had our first date, remember?”
She laughed, and rolled her eyes, “Oh, the date that I basically had to beg for?”
They sat cuddled up, holding one another for a while before Jackson began to unload the contents of the basket. Small, flume glasses followed by a bottle of champagne that sparkled in a rich gold, just translucent enough to see the pond behind it. Right after the cups, and the drink, followed two small circular plates and a tiny cake in a little plastic container wrapped in a ribbon. Jennie’s eyes lit up, her cheeks raised in the happiness of the romantic gesture.
“Wow,” she said quietly. “A little... romantic for a picnic, don’t you think?”
“Well, this isn’t just any picnic,” Jackson replied and held one of her hands.
He moved it for her, over the leather jacket, down the soft interior plush to a pocket on the inside. She looked at him, their eyes set in the moment and lost in one another as he let her hand go. She fumbled around the small pocket, and finally pushed her hand inside to retrieve the contents.
She pulled out a small, velvet box. As it sat in her hand a single tear that rolled from her cheek fell and smacked right into its surface with a splash.
Now it was much further in, and much more recent in Jackson’s memory. It was the evening and they had just become more comfortable on their couch awaiting their takeout order. They cuddled one another and on the television was an old slasher film. They laughed together as the masked assailant chased the foolish teenagers around the woods, past a lake, and through some old rotted cabins. The music was dated, the picture was blurry, but it was nostalgic in all the ways they enjoyed.
Her head rested on his chest, and Jackson was worried that his heartbeat would be too loud against her ear; it wasn’t. His hand stroked the smoothness of her arm, over her elbow and redrew up her back. His chin rested on her head and he could feel her hair rub against his stubble.
“We need to plan the wedding soon,” she said. “I want it to be perfect.”
“As do I, Mrs. Crowe,” Jackson replied with a smirk. “It’ll be perfect no matter what, because it’ll be us.”
Jennie nuzzled in closer, “You know I’m not taking your last name, Jackie. No matter how cool it sounds.”
“I don’t care if you take it, part of it, none of it, some of it. Makes no difference to me. All I care about is the ring, the cake, and the party.” He ran his fingers through her hair, “And you, of course.”
A knock sounded at the door, a few light pounds equally spaced and robotic. They jumped, mostly due to the movie, although neither would admit it, and then Jennie got up. She walked across the apartment, and he watched as she made her way to the door: the sway of her hips, the way her legs seemed to prance along the floor instead of walking, how her hair bounced when she moved. Jennie turned the knob and greeted the man at the door.
“I forgot the money on the table inside, I apologize. Please come in.”
A man rolled in behind her, cheap tan suit, greasy hair, bloodshot eyes. He glanced at Jackson under his bushy eyebrows and had a huge, devilish smile. He was reaching for something inside of the brown bag he held in his hand when Jackson noticed the way his eyes were so brutally fixated on him. He watched slowly as the man pulled his hand out of his jacket and placed the gun at the back of her head.
It was loud, like fireworks.
12
Vultures
Jackson was awakened by a sharp pain and a throbbing head.
“Jennie…” Jackson groaned from his couch, still mostly asleep and groggy.
“Well, Order, that is quite an odd pronunciation of my name, but we are just glad you are among us again,” said a voice beside him.
Jackson opened his eyes to a bright, blurry room. His surroundings were familiar, he had seen this ceiling and these walls many times. As he laid on his back, trying to wrap his head around what had happened and break free from his dreams, he could feel the pain in his leg. His hands glossed over the wound on his thigh which was tightly bandaged; the skin felt hot underneath and it stung as if it were covered in lemon juice. Jackson struggled to pull himself up to a seated position, grabbing the couch cushion to hoist himself up while his other hand pushed up from the side. It was very difficult for him to move, but Coldin reached towards him to assist. Now he sat breathing heavily, rubbing his eyes to take in his surroundings.
“Brought you back here, slung over my shoulder,” Coldin said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d make it all the way back. Then you’ve been out for almost three days.”
“And to think, some part of me was looking forward to meeting the next unlucky fellow who would take up your title,” Aldrich said with a sarcastic grin and raised brows before he flipped a page of his book and sipped on the straw of his juice box.
“Ayres?” Jackson muttered.
His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt thick. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his lips were cracked with an irritating sharp pain that would spur whenever he moved them. Jackson turned his head toward the front door where his coat and hat were hung, and the tail of his jacket was still stained in her blood. Beneath them were his crusted over boots, and he knew the truth instantly without it being said. Still, some part of him needed to believe that she was not gone, that he did not fail that badly, and that he had not lost someone else. He turned towards the window that was bursting with sunlight; no one was standing there.
“Gone…” Coldin said. “Tried everything... She was gone before you even fainted.”
“The body?”
“Gone too,” Coldin replied. “That was... Well… something else.”
Jackson was on his back, on the stage, soaked in the blood of another and the blood from himself. The pair rushed to aid him, finding the deep wound that continued to bleed. Aldrich tore of his small jacket and wrapped it over the cut, tying it then binding it as tightly as he could. His small hands struggled pulling the knot tighter
, his scrawny arms lacked the strength to properly stop the wound. Luckily, Coldin more than made up for those areas and pulled until the bleeding slowed, then stopped completely. He dragged Jackson from the pool of blood and off the stage while around them chaos ensued.
Each of the formerly possessed people were coming to consciousness in screams and shouts of confusion. Most had missed the carnage of the humans who perished and had woken to the smell of blood and gunfire, and the sight of a pile of fresh bodies pressed on a scratch-marked door. They ran outside in flurries of panic, and beside them ran the kidnapped individuals who were now free. Amongst the fleeing, Coldin had shouted to Aldrich about gathering Ayres body that lay lifeless on stage.
“My new friend, I am not nearly as large as yourself,” Aldrich called from beside the fallen angel. “I could barely lift her in the nude, I am sure, let alone shrouded in armor.”
“I don’t think Jackson would want us to up and leave her like this,” Coldin snapped back. “You either.”
“Well, perhaps we should awaken our sleeping friend, and he can carry the corpse!”
Coldin left Jackson on the ground by the stage and ran up to where her body had laid. Beside her was the large blade carried by her kind, and Aldrich snatched it up. It was heavy in his hands and felt as if it were disproportioned with a heavy blade and too small of a handle. Coldin had attempted to pick her up, and realized Aldrich was right; the armor was much too heavy. If Coldin would carry both bodies out of here himself, they would need to be lighter.
A crackle of lighting, a burst and rupture of light, exploded from the ground beside them in a beam of brightness.
The force of it blew back like a hurricane. Coldin braced himself and was able to withstand the force thanks to his stature, but Aldrich was not as lucky and tumbled backwards off the stage, landing beside Jackson. From the light, a figure slowly emerged in absolute brilliance. Her eyes were like a dream, and the cloth draped around her moved like a whisper to show the absolute radiance of her armor. Usra scanned the scene around them, the carnage and the blood. Beneath her lay Ayres, who was so cold and growing even colder. She knelt down, dipping her pale and bare knee into the blood below, her cloth following and falling in. Usra ran her soft hands with a gentle motion over Ayres lifeless face, down her cheek and onto her neck. She pressed another hand onto her wound and closed her eyes. An expression came over Usra’s face that would have followed with tears, yet tears did not come.
“Oh, Ayres... a fate one so caring… so strong… did not deserve,” she said and shook her head. “How far Cassiel has fallen. How much further she will fall.”
Aldrich watched from the ground and slid the blade inside of Jackson's coat to keep it hidden. He could see that the Creator was in pain, but he knew that their kind would never shed a tear. Her hand went under Ayres neck, and held her shoulder. Another hand under her thighs beneath her knees. As Usra stood the blood did not follow her, nor did it stick to her skin or her cloth.
“How is… the Order?” she asked while staring down at his still body.
“Weak, I am afraid,” replied Aldrich who rested his hand on Jackson. A caring gesture to the others, but he was really just protecting the stolen blade.
“Both of you… keep him safe… give him rest… be sure that he stays with the living... He will,” she paused for a moment as the beam reopened behind her and the wind blew past them once again. “He will… be important.”
Then she was gone, taking Ayres body along with her.
“Usra…” Jackson said quietly, waiting for the same entrance that came when Azazel’s name was spoken.
Nothing happened.
“Usra!” He shouted louder, much to his own pain.
Still nothing happened.
“She may hear you, Order,” said Aldrich, “but she does not come. In fact, she has never come to the call of one’s such as ourselves. Many have tried, but she is most preoccupied by the North-Lane. It was much to my surprise when she had come for our dear Ayres.”
“So,” Jackson started as he rose to his feet. His leg was not healed, but he could stand on it if he ignored the pain. “She comes for the death of an angel.” He groaned, limping his way towards the kitchen. “Guess I’ll have to give her that reason then...”
Jackson grabbed a glass from the cabinet, then slammed it shut with a thunderous bang that startled Coldin. He ran the sink, the cold tap water came rushing out instantly, splashing against his hands. Jackson filled his glass, chugging it then refilling it over and over. He cupped his hands and splashed a pool of cool water his dry face. It dripped from his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, and clung to the scraggly hair on his face.
“Yea? Where are you even gonna find her? Or any other angel?” Coldin got up and approached Jackson who had just stepped out from the kitchen. “You can barely walk, man. Now isn’t the time for angel hunting. You need to chill–”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Jackson muttered back as he walked past Coldin.
“You just want to go and get fucked up again?” Coldin said, a little harsher this time. “’Cuz you won’t win.”
Jackson ignored him, and grabbed his shoes, wrapped himself in his stained, blood encrusted coat, and placed his hat on his head. On the stand, beside the recliner, were both of his guns. His silver handgun barrel rested on top of the purple one. He read the words he had inscribed on both, and he could see the blood splatter across the gray of the 9mm. Those words meant little to him right now. He had a name, and he had a motive. It was time for Jackson to get revenge for Jennie, and for the life he lost. Then for Ayres. He grabbed the handgun, put it on his hip, but left the Arm on the table.
“What about that one?” Coldin asked, pointing down towards the beautiful weapon with For Demons etched across its surface.
“Arm of the Savior...” Jackson said back. “I know the truth. I understand this life, this role. That gun is no savior, just a tool.”
Jackson turned the doorknob slowly, but was interrupted again before he could step out.
“Jackson,” Aldrich called as he leapt off of the couch. “Wait a moment, Order.”
Jackson turned around and watched the young man move around the room, pulling something from under the couch just out of his line of sight.
“Aldrich, I need–”
“Here,” Aldrich interrupted as he rounded the couch corner and walked towards Jackson. In his arms he held a large blade, the cleaver like weapon that both angels had held. The blade was wide and shined in the light like sterling silver. Its gold handled was wrapped in a leather grip. “This was Ayres’s, and you will need this.”
The three stood quietly after Jackson received the blade. He looked over it, examining it inch by inch. An inscription was etched just over the base in a language he did not recognize. Jackson grabbed its handle and hung it by the leather grip straps from his side. He looked at both of them, one at a time, giving each a nod. Coldin’s face was still angered, and he shook his head as if to ask Jackson not to go. Aldrich gave him a nod, and a smile that was not Un-Ascended, but… human. Jackson turned and began to walk out of the door. He held the knob and as he began to shut the door, he heard Aldrich one last time.
“Jackson,” Aldrich called out. “Their kind can only be wounded by that blade. Azazel used to call it a Wing-Clipper.”
He shut the door behind him.
Jackson stood and took a brief moment to dwell on his thoughts. I feel free, and I feel ready.
13
Quantum Flux
“What the FUCK do you mean gone?” Azazel shouted standing before the pair who sat on the couch.
Aldrich smiled like a fiend while Azazel paced back and forth in anger. By the big window where Ayres would stand, a different figure stood: Usra. She was much calmer; her expression blank as she hovered with her feet just tickling against the carpet below. Beside Aldrich sat Coldin, who was much more nervous and kept a stern face as if it was carved into a large stone. Between the pair
on the couch and the angry devil sat the almost empty coffee table, with the Arm of the Savior laying on top. The light that pierced the window and slid past Usra, shined on it. The gold trim shone brilliantly, the purple glowed with the light.
“He didn’t even take the fuckin’ gun!” Azazel continued shouting.
“Calm yourself... He will be found...” Usra reassured.
Azazel turned around and stared toward her in anger, his fire-filled eyes met her ice ones. “We cannot run around this entire damn planet to find ONE asshole!” Azazel continued to walk back and forth while thrashing his hands out with every word. “We’ve had Orders die, but escape? This is new ground.”
“Azazel,” Usra said softly. “You must... be calm... It has not even been a full week in human time... And he is injured...” Her voice was so elegant, as if it were being whispered by a ghost, and it relaxed Coldin as much as Azazel’s frightened him.
“Usra, he KILLS my scouts. I have sent three after him, all of them got ’em and all three are DEAD! Bullet right through the brain. He didn’t take the Arm, he is offing my people with nothing but a handgun and a damn sword, your people’s sword.”
Aldrich laughed much to the anger of his guest. “I apologize for my rudeness; I did not mean to laugh.” He composed himself and sipped his tea. “I simply could not understand why Jackson would leave that weapon. His line about saving people did not make any sense. But my word, that man has learned a great deal since his… promotion.” He laughed again, placing a hand over his mouth.
“Listen, Aldrich,” Azazel said as he barreled towards him and stood over him in anger. “I will send you back to Paragon, you will wake up at the end of this planet's life in a legless body and watch this fuckin’ world explode, you hear me? So explain what is so damn funny.”
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