"Hello."
"Well, hello there, Mr. Kramer, or whatever your real name is," said Adam. "I had a feeling you'd be out tonight."
Gidyon raised his eyebrows and smiled, not quite knowing what to say, but thrilled at his good luck. "Yeah! That's me, Mr. Kramer, the actor! And you're the cameraman Adam."
Adam moved away from the car and approached him. Gidyon's invisible wings breathed freely, stretching from the back of his white T-shirt. He wished now that he had brought the flannel to cover them, but it was too late.
"I have a friend," Adam said, his eyes fixed on Gidyon's, "who would really like to hear about your career, since he wanted to be an actor, but now finds it hard 'cause he's got a disease. Hepatitis."
Gidyon's eyes widened. "Hepatitis?" Oh, no. "And who is this friend of yours?"
"Well, let's just say that you probably know who he is since you're stayin' with his father."
So it was Harry. Gidyon's heart danced.
"But listen," said Adam, "we can't have Max finding out about this. I promised Harry I wouldn't say anything to his dad. Believe me, I've wanted to. Harry doesn't even know that I'm here; I'd like this to be a surprise, you know, kind of a gift to him, since he used to be so into acting. You wouldn't mind givin' him a few pointers, would you? Actor to actor?"
"I wouldn't mind at all." The angel could feel the pain that Adam tried so hard to subside and empathetically experienced its familiar sting. "I'd love to help."
"And I don't know why I trust you with this, but I just—do. I don't feel like I need to threaten you to keep quiet. Do I?" Gidyon shook his head gently, concern crossing his face. Adam looked down, then met the angel's gaze again. "You see, my little sis called me today. Said she'd gone clean because some angel with long white hair healed her of her alcohol problem in the middle of the night." He sighed. "From her descriptions, you fit the bill. But that's crazy stuff, right?" He chuckled, the laugh sounding forced. "Come give Harry some acting pointers?"
Gidyon knew how hard it was for him to swallow his pride and doubt. He wanted to reveal his wings, to admit what he was, but instead he simply nodded and followed the young, trusting man.
***
Laphelle
Laphelle landed on a two-story building a few blocks outside the club district. He couldn't decide if he wanted to play the violin where people could hear, or go to an abandoned location so that he could have all the music to himself. With his wings still invisible, he jumped off the building and landed atop a parked Ford. His bare feet left a large dent in the roof, and he leapt to the ground, choosing to walk a few blocks before he made his decision.
On bare feet, he walked away from the clubs and westward near some hole-in-the-wall restaurants. An abandoned, four-story building with a broken-down Coca-Cola sign on its front caught his eye. Cars trickled down the road, all headed to where the food was, the drivers not noticing or caring about the walking musician. Just as he was about to jump to the roof of the old Coke-labeled edifice, a voice caused him to turn around.
"Hey, hey, hey, guys, look at that fruit," said a man across the street.
Laphelle stared at him and his group of six cronies. A gang. A filthy gang encircled in a cloud of their own smoke. If it had been any other world, if they had known who he was, there was a one-hundred-percent chance that they would have run away as fast as their legs could carry them. But since it was Earth, and they had no knowledge of Laphelle's merciless reputation, they laughed and slapped each other's backs, puffing on their cigarettes.
"Yeah, lemme tell you, man, this fag's lost it," said a second. "He's lost his mind. Look at 'im. He ain't got no shoes on!"
Laphelle turned around and placed the violin case at the brick base of the building. Then he faced the gang again, taking a step into the street.
"No clue," he calmly muttered, cracking the bones in his fingers with blinding speed. "No clue."
"Uh, oh!" said a third with a ratty voice. "Here he comes! Look out guys! Fag boy might try to kiss us!"
This brought fits of grotesque laughter and mocking lip smacks. The men puffed up, balling their hands into fists and raising their chins.
"Yeah," said the first. "Come 'ere ya little fruitcake! Ya like ass rammin'? I got somethin' for ya!" He brought his hand to his crotch and rubbed. Laphelle stopped in the middle of the road. "What? You don't like that? Hey, guys, the faggot's shy!"
"What're ya doin' in the road, ya dumbass!" said the second, as the others laughed and smoked. "Look out!"
A Buick suddenly shot down the road like a blue rocket, headed straight for Laphelle. The gang members all froze in dismay at his lack of movement.
"You're gonna get killed!" one laughed. "Move!"
The driver honked wildly, brakes squealing, though it was a little too late. But Laphelle grabbed the car by the hood with both hands, stopping it before it hit him. He let the vehicle push him backwards slightly and absorbed the majority of the impact, keeping the car intact.
"Whoa," the first gangster said, the smile wiped from his round face.
Laphelle could feel their disbelief, could almost smell it like a sharp spice, and knew with great satisfaction that the hair on the back of their necks must be standing on end. He walked over to the driver's side of the vehicle. Two frightened teenaged eyes looked up at him.
"Slow down," said Laphelle.
The boy nodded. "Sure, man. Sorry. I'm really—really sorry."
He pressed on the gas, slowly creeping away.
As a parting gift, Laphelle focused and sent a fierce surge of energy through the car, his black crystal glinting. The car engine revved, and the driver's eyes widened, panicked. His heart in a spasm, he muttered:
"What the—"
The car radio flipped from one station to the next, blasting static then music then static, the horn starting to chime in. Honk! Honk! Honk! Shaking, the boy flipped the radio switch, but nothing stopped. The engine revved again, and he jumped. His hands shook at the wheel and he hit the gas hard. The vehicle honked all the way down the street, the radio playing one station after the next. When he made a screeching turn, burning tire marks into the street, Laphelle turned to the gangsters.
"What was it that you were saying?" he asked them, the tips of his cloaked wings tapping against his legs.
"Nu—nuthin' man!" the first said, stepping back as Laphelle joined them on their side of the road.
"Oh?" The First Rank narrowed his eyes, and the ground began to rumble. "I thought you were insulting me."
Two of the men ran off immediately, stumbling from the quaking sidewalk. The other five stood firm, though apprehension glinted in their eyes.
"What the hell, man, an earthquake in New York?" said the first, forcing himself to regain his confidence. "Weird stuff goin' on, what with that guy's car freakin' out. You scared of the unknown, faggy boy?" He stepped up to Laphelle, getting in his face. "Cause I ain't."
Laphelle looked away from his grimy appearance and into the foolish physiognomies of the others. He gave a smug flash of teeth, and the lights of the tall street lamps around them flickered. Then the buzzing bulbs grew so hot they burst, sending a shower of glass crashing to the darkened street. The quakes fell to stillness. The men stood, staring at Laphelle. And the angel said darkly:
"I am the unknown."
He grabbed the ringleader by the throat and lifted him off the ground. The others stepped back. Letting out a perturbed sigh, Laphelle calmly squeezed the man's throat with one hand.
"I hate wasting my energy on people like you." He tossed him into three of his buddies. They all fell to the ground. "But I just can't pass up a chance to show you wingless idiots just how stupid you really are."
With fierce velocity he grabbed the only gang member left standing, clutching his arm and breaking it like a piece of hollow wood. The man let out a scream and the angel tossed him through a large glass window. As the massive pane shattered, the fallen men rose to their feet, one of them attempting to run away.
Laphelle flapped his invisible wings and soared in front of him. With a grin, he took the front of his new victim's shirt in his swift grip. The man shouted, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He was quieted abruptly when his jaw met Laphelle's foot, the bone cracking as he hit the ground. Laphelle casually kicked him again in the side, breaking his ribs.
"Get him!" the leader shouted, nursing his throat.
Three of them tried to pounce on the angel, but he was faster. Supernaturally so. He caught the commander by the arm and yanked him off the ground like a rag doll to slam him into the body of his crony. A huge crack sounded as their heads impacted. They fell to the ground unconscious, and the last one standing looked into Laphelle's face.
"Would you like me to let you go?" the blond rogue asked.
"Y—yeah, man," the frowning gangster replied. "We'll just call it a draw."
"Too bad," Laphelle said, grabbing the man's head with both hands. He flapped his invisible wings, the mysterious whoosh making his victim jump. "I play to win."
He brought the head down upon his knee. Teeth spilled out on the sidewalk. Then he gave the gangster a round of kicks that were far too fast for human eyes to see, finishing up the beating with one giant blow to his chest. The man flew backwards and landed unconscious beside his two lifeless friends. Laphelle brushed the street-filth grime off his hands.
"Idiots," he said and returned to his violin.
This time, he looked both ways before crossing the street.
It was empty. His feet crunched the sprinkles of glass that had littered the asphalt from the burst lamps. Once he was on the other side, he leaned down and took hold of the smooth violin case and spread his wings to fly to the top of the Coca-Cola building. There, on the roof, he opened the sacred treasure box, and once again a mysterious tingling coursed through his veins. He stood up straight, the wind blowing his clothes and his hair. He brought the violin to his chin. He did not shake this time. Raising the bow to the strings, he closed his eyes as a new sound emerged from the instrument.
It was sorrow. Deep, aching sorrow. His arm slowly moved the bow back and forth, creating a tragic lament. The somber, aching notes wrapped themselves around his heart, his heart that desired so deeply to find that peace he had lost so long ago. He did not understand the chilling melody. All he knew was that he had to play it. It was the voice of his unspoken feelings, the cry of his bitter and broken soul.
The notes flew higher, louder, more saddened and dramatic, and then slowed, forming a mixture of emotions within the player. He did not tremble, nor did he weep, though the temptation was there. With his face serious and searching, his fingers pressed the strings. Not only did he know the music—he was a master at it. His heart pounded, his lip beginning to quiver.
***
Malynko
Malynko stopped in his tracks.
Having moments ago walked Eva back to her shop, he and Kiazmo ambled down the quiet street in meditation of their previous meeting with the Wiccans. But now neither was able to lift his feet to move.
That music.
Malynko's heart fluttered, his bright green, almond-shaped eyes widening. The trickling notes caressed his spirit, and he hesitated to breathe, lest he somehow stop the magic. He looked up at the stars, wondering what human could possibly be playing such a beautiful melody. Then he lowered his gaze, settling it on Kiazmo.
Tears ran in floods down the little angel's cheeks.
***
Laphelle
Laphelle could hear the symphony in his head again, but this time it was on a much smaller scale: a few other violins, and a piano. He heard the keys, adding depth to his song as he played. It slowed, and so did his playing. He begged the notes to awaken the full memory and heard the ensemble refuse, fading its accompaniment until he stopped and lowered the instrument.
Still no memory. He wondered if it would have been better to know nothing. Never to have found this puzzle, ignorance numbing him forever. He closed his eyes. Unfortunately, it was too late to go back. With this song, the thick ice around his heart had finished its melting, and now he ached, feeling the deep angst of a creature of the night that had finally witnessed a few rays of light. It was too much. He began to weep again. He never knew such pain was possible.
Laphelle carefully placed the violin back in the spot where Jack kept it.
The man had not returned, even though the night was half over. Laphelle dragged his heavy feet through the little house, still enduring the aftershocks of his sobs within his chest. He turned one of the lamps in the living room back on, and the soft light created a towering shadow of his winged figure behind him. Then he went into the living room and stared at his sword. It was still in the same place he'd left it. Though his crying was now under control, the wrenching, aching emptiness in his chest would not subside. He simply could not bring himself to pick the weapon up. So he left it. The war and all its components were far from his mind. For he had finally realized his solitude. Had finally grasped how alone in the universe he really was. Calmly and quietly, he exited the house, his soul secretly begging for a friend.
***
Gidyon
"What is he doing?" Adam growled, pressing the button on his hand-held, garage-door opener. "It's after midnight! The neighbors'll call the cops!"
Gidyon crossed his arms and stretched his wings after getting out of Adam's car. His eyes followed the screeching, metal garage door as it opened to reveal Clark, who was wailing on his guitar. Clark saw Adam and smiled, then banged his head to his tunes and turned up the volume on his amp.
"Hey!" Adam ran over to turn it down. "You'll wake up everyone in the house!"
"Harry told me I could play, and the other guys are out partying," Clark said, tossing his messy hair out of his thin face. He gave a quick, upward jerk of his head to Gidyon. "Sup, man?"
"Hi," said Gidyon. He walked into the garage, and Adam hit the button again to close the door. "Nice guitar."
"Thanks, dude! It's a Gibson." He showed the angel the instrument, and Gidyon ran his hand along its sparkly, red surface. "I got it used, but it still cost a freakin' LOT of money."
"Yeah," Gidyon looked around the garage. "I bet!"
There was a drum set to Clark's right. A black motorcycle leaned on its stand out of the way of the instruments. Tools and spare parts lay at the bike's base. Faded oil spots stained the ground and a couple of swimsuit calendars decorated the walls. The area smelled of sweat and gasoline.
"Dude, how'd you get your hair to grow out that long?" Clark asked Gidyon. "It's awesome! I've been tryin' to grow mine."
"Clark, this is Mr. Kramer," said Adam. "He's that actor I was tellin' you about. I got lucky, and he agreed to come and talk to Harry."
"Cool, cool."
"I'll be right back, Kramer," Adam said, giving the angel a look that showed more nervousness than he probably wanted to let on.
He went into the house. Gidyon's gaze migrated back to the trap drum set. Clark turned up his amp, letting a loud chord ring through the area as his hand brushed the strings of his Gibson.
"Do ya wanna jam with me?" he asked. "They're Adam's—he won't mind."
"Well," the angel said, moving to the little, round seat behind the drums. "I'm a little rusty, but yeah. Let me see what I can do."
He reached to the floor and took hold of two smooth wooden drumsticks. Clark stood poised with his guitar like a warrior prepared for combat. A wild grin spread across his face. But his jaw dropped as soon as Gidyon started playing. Banging on the drums like a pure professional, the angel tapped on the bass pedal and hit the cymbals. He drummed on the snares like a call to arms and a rejoicing victory march all in one. The song gave life to the very air around them, and Clark set his guitar down to watch. As his arms and legs became one with the set of instruments, Gidyon bobbed his head to the beat, and soon Clark started tapping his green tennis shoes.
Over the noise, the young man shouted, "Awesome!"
Adam burst in
to the garage, his eyes the size of his Mustang's headlights. Gidyon gave two final waves of sound, the sticks soaring across the set like a wave of musical thunder. Then he stopped and smiled at Adam.
"Sorry," he said. "Couldn't resist."
"You didn't tell me you could play, Kramer!" said Adam. "You'll have to give me some lessons! Man, I thought I was good! You make me look like shit, man." He laughed.
"That was so, so, so awesome!" Clark said, picking up his guitar. "Do it again and I'll try to keep up with ya!"
"Sorry, but he's comin' with me. I just told Harry he was here."
"Aww, well, whatever you gotta do, dude. I'll be here all night."
Gidyon nodded. He set the drumsticks back on the cement floor. Clark continued his playing, but with the amp turned down. Following Adam into the house, Gidyon listened, his heart's nervous pace quickening with each step, as his guide explained the situation.
"I told him I interviewed you tonight and asked if you'd like to come and give him some acting pointers. He was kinda weird about it at first, but I convinced him that you go around and help people—with acting of course."
"Oh, yeah, yeah, definitely," Gidyon said, determined to do what he could to possibly cure Harry. He could see Max's desperate face in his mind. "Acting. I know a thing or two about acting."
"And I told him that I threatened to castrate you if you told Max."
Gidyon nodded. They reached Harry's door. It was closed. The angel took in a deep breath.
"Just go on in," said Adam. "He's been feeling really weak lately. I told him to stay in bed. He's kinda touchy about it, doesn't want people to think he's a baby, but don't let him get up even if he wants to."
"It's the smart thing to do."
"Yeah. Well, I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." He gave Gidyon a desperate look highlighted with a blush. "Thank you."
Gidyon nodded and Adam went into the kitchen. The angel stared at the door for a moment. Should he wrap his softened wings around his chest? No. He worked better with them free. Flapping them back to their invisible, hard shape, he sent a strong wind through the hall. Then he carefully grabbed hold of the cool doorknob and opened the door.
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 21