by Angela Henry
“Agent Kale, I was just coming to see you to get your thoughts on our . . .”
“Don’t bother,” she said, cutting Desi off. “It’s just like those dope boys we found ripped to bits in the lower ninth last month.” She poured herself a mug of coffee from the pot Desi had just made, took a sip, grimaced, and made a show of pouring it down the sink.
Desi knew she was just being her usual bitchy self. The woman had an espresso machine in her office but never missed an opportunity to put Desi down. Morel caught her eye behind Kale’s back and made a face with two Chiclets lodged under his upper lip—mimicking Kale’s slight overbite—that almost made her burst into uncontrollable laughter. Damn him.
“Same perps?” she managed to ask with great restraint.
“Same type.”
“You still on that zombie kick?” asked Desi.
“It’s not a kick. It’s a viable working theory.”
“Well, what about a werewolf? They’re certainly capable of the kind of carnage left behind in that alley.”
There were very few werewolves actually living in New Orleans. Most lived out in the rural areas, where they could roam and hunt wildlife freely. And many of the older ones could transform at will without benefit of a full moon. There could be a rogue werewolf in town. Possibly the mystery man Desi had found at the scene, Xavier Knight. There was certainly something weird about him. Since Katrina had driven out numerous humans, the nonhuman population had exploded, being attracted to death and disaster as some of them were inclined to be. All nonhumans were supposed to register with the EA upon arrival simply as a courtesy. But many of them simply were not courteous.
“There was no animal hair on any of the victims’ things. So I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you unless you have something of value to add. My report is on your desk. See that you follow up on all of my findings.” They both watched her go, and Desi saw Morel shudder.
“That woman needs to get laid and pronto.”
“Are you offering, Morel?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t let my snake out anywhere near that woman’s swamp.”
Desi lost it.
****
An hour later, Desi’d finished reading Kale’s report on the impressions she’d lifted from their victim Anton DePreist’s clothes. But Kale’s impressions mostly consisted of the victim’s emotions: urgency because he’d been on his way to meet someone, which quickly turned into shock, fear, pain, and disbelief as he was attacked. There had also been blinding hunger, which Kale had deduced had been transferred to the victim by his attacker. Just how Desi was supposed to follow up on that was anyone’s guess. Next, she read Morel’s report on the finger found at the scene. According to Morel, the finger was at least a year dead. She didn’t want to admit it, but Kale was probably right. Zombies were loose in New Orleans. And words could not express how much Desi hated zombies. It wasn’t like they weren’t easy to kill. A shot to the head or setting them on fire, rendering them to ashes, never failed to do the trick. But the problem with zombies is that that they can’t act on their own. They can’t raise themselves from the dead, which meant a necromancer was the root of all zombie outbreaks. And they can be notoriously hard to track down. The EA’s mage unit can track down a necromancer, but it takes time as they usually give the agents random information they have to decipher, which leaves the zombies free to wreak all kinds of havoc on the populace.
One bite from a zombie creates another zombie, and before you know it, they’d have a full-scale infestation on their hands creating all kinds of headaches for the EA. It’s one thing to convince someone that the dragon they saw soaring through the night sky was an air force jet. But how the hell do you explain when someone’s long-dead granny shows up at their house and tries to take a bite out of them or eats the family dog’s brains? The EA wasn’t above wiping the memories of humans who’d witnessed things they were never meant to see. But it was risky. They didn’t like doing it and tried to avoid it all costs by convincing hapless witnesses that they couldn’t have possibly seen what they thought they had, for instance, that big hairy creature they saw on the road wasn’t a Sasquatch but merely a trained bear that had gotten loose from a traveling circus. The bogus explanation would be followed up with a suggestion for the witness to make an appointment with their eye doctor or psychiatrist.
The general public didn’t know that the things that go bump in the night populated the world they lived in. It was hardly something Desi could explain to those who didn’t know any better. And best they didn’t know. She wished she didn’t know that the monsters that her mother told her didn’t exist when she was growing up were not only real but living and socializing with humans on a day-to-day basis. The EA’s function wasn’t to eradicate the humanity-challenged. They existed solely to maintain the balance between light and darkness. aka the human and nonhuman worlds. If the vampire next door decided to stop taking delivery of his meals from the local blood bank and went to get fresh food, they were on it. If the ditzy werewolf working at the twenty-four-hour photo mart miscalculated her monthly full moon cycle and started transforming in front of the customers, they were on it. But zombies were a whole other kettle of dead fish.
Desi headed to the locker room to shower and change; Vic Buchard stopped her.
“Here’s the info you wanted on Xavier Knight, ma’am.” Vic let go of the folder, and it floated in the air ten inches to Desi’s outstretched hand. It would have been quicker to just hand it to her, but she knew he loved trying to impress her.
An apprentice in the mage unit, Vic joined the EA only last year. Becoming a mage, a fancy word for someone who practiced magic, was a long and involved process. Vic, who was only twenty-one, would most likely be in his midthirties before he’d be fully licensed. In the meantime, he worked as a clerk.
“Thanks, Vic, and stop calling me ma’am.” At twenty-nine Desi felt she had a good twenty years or more before she’d feel like a ma’am.
“Sorry, Agent West,” he said, blushing. “As you’ll see, I wasn’t able to find much information on Mr. Knight.”
“Really?” Desi flipped through the folder, surprised to see so little information on the mysterious Mr. Knight. In fact, he didn’t seem to have existed as of a year ago.
“What’s that?” Desi pointed to the brown paper bag in the young man’s hand.
“Mr. Knight’s shoes.”
“Great.” She took the bag before he could float it to her and looked at the address from his driver’s license registration. “Looks like I’ll need to return them to him.”
“I hope you’re not allergic,” Vic replied as he headed down the hall.
“What do you mean?”
“Those shoes reek of cat piss.”
Desi told herself that she was returning Knight’s shoes because she wanted to grill him about what he was really doing in the alley the night before. She didn’t buy for a minute his story of just passing by and hearing strange noises. For one thing, Anton DePreist had been incapable of making any noises, and even if it had been his attacker Knight had heard, there was only one way in and out of that alley. He would have surely seen them and been the next victim had he happened upon a zombie at a buffet. Then there was the matter of DePreist’s cell phone. There were several calls from the same number in his call log last night. Desi had a feeling the number was Knight’s. But even though she knew his story smelled as bad as his shoes, Desi could feel something tugging at her. There was something about him that she found oddly familiar, not that she’d ever admit it, even to herself. When she pulled up in front of the address that had been on Knight’s driver’s license, she couldn’t help but laugh and realize what a fool she’d been. The address was for a cemetery.
“Don’t think I won’t find you, Xavier Knight,” she mumbled under her breath as she drove away.
SIX
The address Madame LuLu gave me turned out to be for a house in Fontainebleau, a mostly residential neighborhood where the
Catholic Church owned quite a bit of land. As I drove past the homes, which ran the gamut of modest one-story homes with siding all the way to large French country mansions, I noticed the abundance of trees and grass so conspicuously missing from the Quarter. The only way I knew I was still in New Orleans was by the tile street names imbedded in the sidewalk corners. I also noticed many of the houses looked like they were in the process of being repaired, indicating they’d sustained a lot of flooding from Katrina.
The address I was looking for was on Vincennes Place. When I found it, I parked the Range Rover in front of a modest, sand-colored split level and got out. It was early afternoon but still sweltering, and the humidity made me feel like a slug. No one with any sense would be out and about. Yet here I was on some wild-goose chase courtesy of a nosy storefront psychic. Who could possibly live in this nice sedate house that could help me with anything?
I headed up the path and could hear classical music coming from inside. It sounded like Vivaldi’s Winter, first movement. I only knew this because I used to have a klutzy classical violinist as a charge. One night I prevented a horrible freak accident with a can opener from slicing off a couple of his fingers and ending his career forever. He lost a toe, instead, but I considered it a small price to pay. Even afterward I’d sit in on his concerts when I was between jobs. You haven’t heard classical music until you’ve heard it while sitting in the rafters of a concert hall. By the time the sound of the music had risen that far, it was truly a joyful noise.
I had my fist all poised to knock when the music suddenly stopped and the door flew open so fast I jumped back. I found myself looking down at a very pretty old lady with snow-white hair that fell in waves around her shoulders and the most startling vivid green eyes I’d ever seen. She couldn’t have been much taller than four feet eleven inches and stood staring up at me for so long that at first I thought she might be blind. I finally waved my hand in front of her face and cleared my throat.
“Excuse me, ma’am . . .”
“You must be Xavier. I’m Leticia Moody.” She shook my hand vigorously. “Do come in.” She stepped aside so that I could get past. “Earlene has told me all about you.”
“Earlene?”
“Why, Madame LuLu, of course,” she said in a voice that made me feel like a naughty schoolboy. “Come now. I’ve got everything set up out on the veranda.”
I followed her down a hallway off the foyer, glimpsing into various rooms along the way, and saw that my host had pretty eclectic tastes when it came to interior design. The living room was French provincial and very formal; the dining room, Asian-inspired, with a low lacquered dining room table surrounded by large cushions and silkscreen panels of cherry blossoms on the walls. The warm, deep golden walls of the kitchen and colorful terra-cotta tiles inlaid in the floor screamed Tuscany. But the veranda was pure southern, with a big, covered, screened-in back porch that ran the length of the house. Three large ceiling fans shaped like palm leaves twirled lazily, making the most exquisite breeze. An ice-cold pitcher of lemonade, a platter of sandwiches, and what looked like Key Lime pie sat on the glass patio table. My stomach growled.
“Please, have a seat.”
“After you, Ms. Moody.” I held out a chair for her, and she giggled like a little girl.
“Please call me Letty.”
After we’d eaten and I made as much small talk as I was capable of, I could take it no more.
“Ms. Moody, I’ve been here almost an hour, and I still don’t know why Madame LuLu sent me here to talk to you.”
“Oh,” she said, looking startled. “Of course, you wouldn’t have any idea, would you? It’s just that I’ve been so excited to meet you that I clean forgot that you had no idea who I am.”
She started unbuttoning the tiny pearl buttons of her flowered blouse, and I could feel my face burn with embarrassment. Was this sweet old lady trying to seduce me? I covered my eyes with my hand just as the blouse fell to her waist.
“You can look now, dear. It’s okay.”
I peeked from between my splayed fingers and could see that she’d turned away from me, giving me a view of her pale, bony back and the two jagged scars that ran parallel down the middle where a pair of wings used to be.
“My God,” I whispered.
“That’s right,” she said quickly, buttoning her blouse back up and sitting down. “I’m a fallen one, just like you.”
“How long ago?” I asked, incredulous. I never thought I’d ever meet another fallen one.
“It’ll be fifty-five years ago this coming August. And I’ve never looked back, or maybe I should say up.”
“You willingly gave up your wings? Why?”
“Why do you think, young man?” Her green eyes were filled with amusement.
“Love?” I ventured. She nodded.
“Tyler was one of my charges. I saved him from drowning when he got swept away during hurricane Janet in 1955. He was actually clinically dead for about a minute, which as you know, enabled him to see me. It was love at first sight. And I knew I could never be happy again if I couldn’t be with him. It was an agonizing decision but one I’ve never regretted.”
When I was a guardian, there were stories of angels who’d freely given up their wings to live a mortal life, and as far as many of my guardian brethren were concerned, any angels who would do that had to be crazy because who in their right mind would want to live a life full of human pain and suffering?
“What happened to Tyler?”
“I married him, of course,” she said like it should have been obvious. “He made me a widow ten years ago. But we had a good life.” She beamed at me, and I tried to return her smile but couldn’t. She’d been able to have a life with the person she loved, while my love for a mortal woman had caused nothing but pain.
“Oh, I’m being so rude,” she said, grabbing my hand from across the table. “I’m going on and on, and I haven’t even asked you about how you came to be here.”
“You mean Madame LuLu didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
I began my story, and when I got up to the part about being arrested, she frowned slightly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I thought you were like me.”
“Like you?
“You know, I thought you’d willingly given up your wings. I’ve never heard of being clipped for such a reason, but then again, I’ve been gone for so long that I’m sure things have changed,” she mused and gestured for me to continue. But when I got to the part about Ava Duval being Desiree West, her expression grew confused, and she looked alarmed.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“Are you sure she didn’t have a twin?” she asked.
“Positive,” I said. “She was an only child. Besides, she had the exact same birthmark on her neck. She’s the same woman.”
“It just makes no sense.”
“Makes perfect sense to me. I let a charge of mine die while I made love to a mortal woman . . .”
“No! That’s not what I mean.” She stood up abruptly, almost knocking over her glass of lemonade. “Don’t you see? Your lover being a different person means that something was changed that shouldn’t have been changed, and as a result she no longer exists as the person you knew.”
“What are you saying?”
“The young woman you saved was supposed to die, and since she didn’t, fate demanded another life in her place, and that’s why the other young woman died. I would bet you anything they had the exact same birthday.”
“But Ava Duval’s name was in my Book of Fates as someone I was supposed to save. I was only doing my job.”
“Someone must have switched the names of the two women. It can be done if they had the same date and time of birth. By saving the wrong woman, the other was doomed to die in her place, and there would have been nothing you could have done about it.”
“Then that means . . .”
“It wasn’t your fault the other woman died. It
means you were framed.”
That knocked me for a loop. I’d been carrying around the guilt of Mona Dial’s death like a load of bricks, and the discovery of Ava Duval no longer existing only added to that burden. Now I was being told it wasn’t my fault, and I didn’t want to believe it because I’d gotten so used to carrying that weight around.
“You’ll need to look in the Book of Order to find out for sure.”
The Book of Order was the master from which all guardians’ assignments originated. Assignments were written in the Book Of Order and automatically appeared in a guardian’s Book of Fates. If my book had been altered, it would have had to be after I’d already gotten my assignment from the Book of Order. It was impossible to alter the Book of Order since it stayed with its keeper, St. Peter, the one in charge of all guardians.
“And just how do you suggest I do that? I’m mortal now. I’d never be able to read it even if I was able to get into heaven.”
“Then look into the life of the woman who died. Someone must have wanted her dead for a reason.”
“Assuming I care. I’m no longer a guardian and what’s done is done. How is knowing why going to change anything? Mona Dial is still going to be dead, and Ava Duval will still be Desiree West, a stranger.”
“You care, Xavier.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for your hospitality. But you don’t know me.”
She grabbed my hand as I walked past her. “Knowing what happened won’t change what’s already happened, but it can prevent more senseless deaths. Don’t pretend you don’t care.”
“What do you expect me to do? Even if you’re right and someone altered my book, that means another guardian framed me. I’m earthbound, with no way back into heaven except in spirit, provided I’m even headed back in that direction when I die.”