All That Falls

by Kimberly Frost

  She stifled a laugh. The irony of a crazy gangboy like Suhail working in the county morgue didn’t escape her. Half the corpses she examined were gang-related deaths. Still, you had to keep your sense of humor, and at least Suhail didn’t spout religious platitudes while he was raising hell. “Sorry, tell me again why you’re studying to be a doctor?”

  He grinned. “Gotta contribute to society while I’m tearing it down.”

  “Well, you’d better hurry, or these damn nutters on TV will get in ahead of you. What are they trying to do, scare people?” Frustration crept into her voice. She’d volunteered for duty down at the temporary morgue. Of course she had. But her boss held a lottery, and she’d lost out. Someone still had to deal with the boring old gunshot homicides, gang assassinations, honor killings, and victims of impressionist serial killers. Babylon’s moniker as ‘crime capital of the country’ was well earned, and the happy-sick funmongers didn’t all take a vacation just because a nightmare plague had broken out.

  Suhail fiddled with his twin-pinned steel earrings. “Hell, I believe in God. Maybe it’s the end of the world, just like that preacher guy’s saying. God’s plan, and all that?”

  She smiled. “I don’t think so. The world’s tougher than we think. We were all going to die of arctic flu, too, remember? Global warming? We’re still here.”

  “I thought you believed in science, Dr. M.” Suhail winked slyly.

  “I do, smart-ass.” Morgan tossed a rolled-up ball of paper at him, and he caught it, grinning. “What I don’t believe in is scaremongering, and conjecture masquerading as data. I want proof before I’ll batten down the hatches. How about 2012? That turned out to be bullshit.”

  “My grandma said she prayed all night that night. Just in case.”

  “Well, good for her,” said Morgan shortly. The very idea that one person’s blind wishes could alter events offended her. Even the White House chief of staff, who warned nightly on the news in her severe blue Air Force uniform that the Manhattan virus might be a biological attack by terrorists—or the paranoid conspiracy theorists on the Internet who insisted that The Government Did It—made more sense than that.

  And that made it all the more important to Morgan that a cure for Manhattan was found. If it could be cured, it was no miracle.

  “Yeah,” agreed Suhail cheerfully, wheeling his cart toward the fridge. “She said I’ll burn in hell, too. Not sure if that was for being nice to all those lousy unbelievers or for taking it up the ass, but still.” He shrugged, tolerant. “Pity the mean old tart isn’t still alive. She could try her praying mojo out on this one. Can’t hurt, right?”

  “Guess not,” Morgan lied, smiling weakly for politeness’ sake. Yes, it could hurt. It could hurt very deeply. “I gotta go. See ya.”

  “Have a good one, Dr. M,” he called, already loading her samples onto the stainless steel shelves.

  Morgan grabbed her flash memory voice recorder and hurried out, through the office doors and down a long vinyl corridor. More fluorescents gleamed, the lemony scent of anti-viral spray hanging. At this hour, no one was about—oh, hell.

  The CME poked his dark head from his office door, tie loose around his unbuttoned collar. “Morgan? You still here?”

  “Sure am, Dr. Torres. Just finishing up tomorrow’s prep.” She kept walking, like she had something better to do and the work was keeping her.

  Juan Carlos Torres was a fine doctor and a good boss. But lately, he kinda gave her the creeps. She should’ve known dating him would be a mistake. Sure, he was a little older than she—midforties to her thirty-something—but he was good-looking and clever, and she’d thought they might have something in common. Something they could talk about.

  Turned out they did. All he wanted to talk about was work. He hadn’t asked her a single question about herself. They’d discussed cases and autopsy techniques all evening, and the worst part was, she’d had a good time.

  A good time. Christ. Emotional avoidance much? He hadn’t even tried to kiss her. If that was her idea of a hot date, she really needed to get out more.

  Dr. Torres smiled absently, already heading back to his desk. “Don’t stay too late. All work and no play.”

  “Sure thing.” She snorted under her breath. Physician, heal thyself. Like he didn’t sleep here half the time. Although, given the influx of work lately, a bed in the office wouldn’t be a bad idea…

  Ouch. That settled it. When she was done here, she was going out for a drink. A nice modern bar had opened on Third Avenue, just around the corner from her building, where no one did drugs or started gang-related fights, at least not yet. Maybe she’d even talk to a man. One who wasn’t wearing a white coat or pushing a sample trolley.

  Or lying on a cold metal slab. Dead guys were low-maintenance, but their conversation sucked.

  She grinned, and walked down the steps to the mortuary.

  Thick plastic sheets sealed in the air-conditioned atmosphere, keeping the pressure constant, and she keyed in her passcode and entered the cool sanctum. Pale vinyl floor punctured with drains, rows of steel autopsy benches, and sinks under bright lights. A digital thermostat on the wall kept the temperature even, and the ventilation system hummed. Steel trolleys carried rows of stainless instruments on white paper lining.

  She strode past the benches to the refrigeration area, where one wall was filled entirely with square steel doors, their handles shining. Bodies could be stored here for months awaiting court rulings, though more commonly, autopsies were completed and the bodies released to the families within a few days. Mostly, samples sufficed for long-term storage, though lately a backlog had built up.

  She checked the plastic clipboard hanging on the wall. Two new arrivals, signed in with Suhail’s scrawled initials. Fridges 21 and 22. Initial autopsy prep involved checking the body for obvious trauma, making sure it correlated with the police’s suspected cause of death, reading through the police notes for any factors that might mean the autopsy needed to be done urgently, and noting any irregularities that might call for the CME’s personal attendance to be scheduled. It was paperwork, diarizing, prioritizing. Mortuary triage. Menial work, but it required a qualified ME.

  Yes. Just what any self-respecting single girl should be doing at 9 p.m. Hanging out with dead guys. At least there was no chance of date rape.

  Morgan shrugged into another white coat, snapped on plastic gloves, and opened fridge 21.

  The trolley slid out easily on greased wheels, loaded with its black rubber body bag. She slid the handwritten notes from the pocket on the front, flipping past case ID codes and serial numbers.

  Caucasian male, twenty-eight to thirty-five, DOA, single stab wound to the chest plus multiple lacerations. Dumped in Battery Park, no witnesses (yeah, right, probably a dozen people standing right there and no one saw a thing), and no weapons found on the scene. Big guy, too, if the bag’s shape was any guide. She set her recorder on the trolley and pulled the zipper down.

  It jammed. She gripped the plastic edges and pulled harder. The bag popped open, and something white and fluffy puffed into her face.

  She jumped back, waving her hands to clear the air. Shit. If that was white powder, she was going to march down to 1st Precinct homicide and shoot whoever wrote those notes. Once she finished dying of anthrax.

  But as the fluff settled, she realized it wasn’t powder.

  Feathers.

  The body bag was stuffed with soft white feathers. Downy little ones that drifted and curled on the air, as well as long sleek ones with thick pale cores. They smelled of sugar, or candy. Some were smeared with blood.

  Morgan sneezed, and waved her hands again. Nice prank. Any evidence on the body would be contaminated. She yanked the zipper fully open, and scraped the feathered heap, revealing pale flesh, strong limbs, a heavily muscled torso.

  Single stab wound to the chest, all right. This guy had been run through. Gingerly, she touched the puncture wound, between two ribs just to the left of his sternum
. Something had pierced clean through the intercostal muscles and into his heart. Bone fragments were shoved in deep, the flesh torn, like the weapon had been twisted to make the kill. A sharp piece of metal or alloy, broader than a knife. A sword, or maybe a spear. Babylon gangs had all kinds of weapons these days.

  She brushed feathers from his face, and pursed her lips. Well, hello, gorgeous. Even in death, this dude was hot. Long golden hair, stained with blood. Beautiful lips, fair lashes on ice-carved cheekbones purpled with bruises. Worked out, too, his chest and abs defined like an athlete’s.

  She tore her gaze away, flushing. Perving on a dead guy. Wow, Morgan. That’s totally normal. Set the ‘mortuary attendants aren’t all necrophiliacs’ campaign back fifty years, why don’t you?

  More feathers wrapped under the body—if smart-ass Suhail did this, she’d stick something up his jihad, that’s for sure—and she tugged them free.

  They wouldn’t come. She tugged harder, and the body’s shoulder twisted, revealing…

  She stumbled backward, hands flying to her mouth.

  Holy shit on toast. The guy had wings.

  Honest-to-god, feathered wings. Jointed to his shoulders like an…well, like a guy with wings.

  It can’t be.

  She edged closer, holding her breath, poking at his shoulder to lift it. Pale dead skin, curving over his scapula. Tiny feathers thickening over a large spheroid joint, and…a wingbone, long and thick like a second humerus, lined with muscle and tendon. Damn. If this was body-modification surgery, it was the best she’d seen. No scar tissue at all, and the feathers…well, they’d been growing. She could see new ones pushing through underneath. She poked harder, and the joint twisted easily, ligaments flexing beneath the skin. Just like the real thing.

  It had to be the real thing.

  Excitement tingled in her bones. Amazing. She’d never seen anything like it. Hell, no one had seen anything like it, apparently including the idiot CSI who’d stuffed this into a body bag without noticing a thing. Caucasian male, my ass. It’s the fricking bird man!

  Her mind raced. Calm down. It could be a hoax. Do some tests. Get proof.

  She should call Dr. Torres, get some corroboration…No, don’t call Torres yet. If it was a body-mod, it was expensive and purpose-built. It could be military. She should get pictures first, email them to herself in case someone tried to cover up her discovery before she could find corroborating evidence.

  Paranoia? Maybe. But this was the age of spin and secrecy, and both City Hall and the Feds were ruthless, even if she didn’t believe they’d planted the Manhattan virus. Seekers for truth—scientists, journalists, hackers, whistle-blowers—had a habit of disappearing.

  She sprinted back into the cutting room for the tiny digital camera. Battery full. Excellent. She skidded back, fearful, but the bird man was still there. Unbelievable.

  She folded the body bag back neatly, and started snapping shots from every angle. The flash fired, lighting the room in glare. Sweet. She should roll the body over, get some close-ups. Just one more shot…

  White light erupted, brighter than any flashbulb.

  She gasped, dazzled. Breeze ruffled her hair. Her elbow hit the trolley, and the camera jolted from her fingers.

  A hand gripped her arm, steadying her. A man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar. “Sorry, lady. Are you—oh, shit.”

  Her vision cleared, and she scrabbled on the floor for her camera. “Jesus, you scared the hell outa…oh!” She looked up, and fell right back onto her ass, her nerves in disarray.

  Whoa. Not just tall, or big. More, in every way compared to…well, compared to a normal man.

  This guy wasn’t normal.

  Black hair, blacker than soot and wilder than music. Blue eyes, hotter and deeper than summer sky, luminous pale skin, long dark lashes any woman would kill for. Arms thicker than her thighs in a dark shirt with no sleeves, strong wrists that made her weak, hands that could crush rocks. And his thighs in those jeans…long, powerful, rippling as he moved.

  His face was familiar, she realized. Those carven cheekbones and, umm, luscious lips. The bird man. Only Birdy was blond, and this guy was dark and…tasty.

  His gaze lasered onto hers, relentless, and she shivered. He looked dangerous. Driven. Not a patient man.

  Morgan scrambled up, struggling to keep her mind on the issues. This was Babylon, the psycho-killer capital. Well-adjusted guys didn’t break into morgues after-hours. But how Mr. Huge-dark-and-oh-by-the-way-totally-hot had gotten in here was beside the point. So was how easy it’d be for a guy his size to tear her limb from limb, or worse.

  He’d seen Birdy’s body. She couldn’t call security. Not yet. Not before she’d preserved the evidence.

  She licked her lips. “Um. Hi. I was just…”

  He strode up to the trolley, and his fingers clenched the edge, hard enough to dent the steel. On drugs. That explained the crazy swirl in his eyes. “You found my brother,” he said stiffly. “I guess asking how he died is redundant.”

  “Umm…he’s…well…” Morgan stuttered, unable to keep it in any longer. “He’s a frickin’ bird man! Who the hell are you?”

  He turned, and to her surprise, he laughed.

  Her guts melted, like warm honey, and she shivered again. So beautiful. So smooth and melodic. She wanted to press her thighs together, feel his tingling warmth…

  Or not. Her indignation sparked. He hadn’t answered her question. Who the hell was he?

  The guy with the Rohypnol laugh shook his head. “Bird man. Christ. You people. Never believe what’s right in front of you.”

  “Sorry, but I’m a scientist. I believe what I can see.” Morgan folded her arms, defiant, and edged closer to the wall where the alarm button was. Screw collecting more evidence. This guy was seriously creeping her out, and it wasn’t just because he had her thinking about sex instead of squirting him with capsicum spray.

  “You do, do you?” His gaze flicked to the alarm button, and back to her, and swift as the flashbulb he dived forward and grabbed her arm. “Then believe this.”

  Light shimmered again, dazzling. And glossy black wings burst from his shoulders in a rain of golden glitter.

  Morgan’s heart catapulted, and she gulped for breath. The golden light glimmered, and dissolved.

  But his lush midnight feathers didn’t. And he held her, his body close in the heady scent of altar smoke. His whisper rumbled through her chest. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you call your security. My name is Luniel. That’s Ithiel, my twin. He’s an angel. And so am I.”

  Morgan struggled, her mind blanking. It couldn’t be true. Not possible. She must be dreaming. Yet…

  She wriggled, beating at his massive forearm. “Let me go!”

  He let go.

  She stumbled away, rounding on him. More fool him. Whatever this guy was, he wasn’t to be trusted. “Sorry. Not possible. I don’t believe in angels.”

  “Not my problem.” The man—Luniel—shrugged, feathers ruffling. His accent was elusive, a mixture of exotic and familiar, like he came from no place in particular.

  “It’ll be your problem when I call the cops, you freak.” The dude still wore a shirt with no sleeves, and the wings—his wings—fit easily into the cutaway space. Blacker than black, like soot, broader than his massive shoulders, and long, the tips of the feathers reaching to midcalf. It looked so real.

  Morgan’s mind stuttered. She must be dreaming. But if this was a dream, surely he’d be wearing white robes and a halo? Instead of all dark and smoldering and…and sinful, like some insane Mardi Gras biker?

  She sidled backward, toward her desk in the cutting room. A girl didn’t grow up in Babylon without learning some self-defense. Her pistol was in the drawer. Maybe she could get away, lock him in, call security. Nine-one-one was a waste of time, despite her threat. Resources were stretched, and police response to anything short of a terrorist plot in progress just didn’t happen.

  Luniel stalked her, midnight wi
ngs flaring. “Freak? Wow. I’m so pleased to meet you…I’m sorry, what didn’t you say your name was?”

  “I’m Dr. Morgan Sterling. This is my mortuary. You’re trespassing.” Behind an autopsy bench, a few steps closer to the desk.

  He circled, leaning over the bench on two hands, muscles flexing. “As they say these days, Dr. Sterling: whatever. Tell me where they found my brother.”

  She fumbled against the desk, feeling behind her. “Screw you.”

  “Is that an offer? I’m touched.” His hot blue gaze drilled her, magnetic. “But not distracted. Come on, doctor, it’s important.”

  She ripped the drawer open and grabbed the pistol, leveling it at him two-handed and thumbing the safety off. “So’s this. Back off.”

  “No.” He vaulted the bench with ease, landing silently before her on wafting wings. Careless of her pistol. Unruffled, like a panther facing a hissing pussy cat, some small, insignificant creature who posed no threat.

  His delicious scent paralyzed her, a rich toffee sweetness. Her mouth dried. He was luminous, dazzling, too perfect to be real. Certainly too perfect to be telling the truth. “Get away.”

  “Wait, let’s see. Umm…no.” He cocked his head, and reached for her hair, stroking it with one finger. “You’re very pretty, Morgan Sterling. Pity if that got spoiled. Tell me about my brother.”

  Now her gun was trapped between them. Her hands quivered, her memory of defensive moves a blank. “Get away! I’ll shoot!”

  “No, you won’t.” He wrapped her hair around his fingers, and leaned closer, sniffing her. “You’re a doctor. You don’t hurt people.”

  “Don’t bet on it.” She inhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot thundered. Blood exploded on his chest, spattering her face. She let out a shuddering breath.

  But Luniel didn’t fall.

  He just cursed—most unangelic—and stunned her immobile with a burning blue glare. His palm flashed up, and impossible light welled from it, and her last thought before sinking into velvety black nothingness was that it was just typical that a lying bastard of an angel should be so infernally beautiful.