A Hideous Beauty

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “Azazel. Sounds like an angel name.”

  “It is. However, the world knew him as Jerry Thoms.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was the insurance commissioner for the state of California.”

  “Insurance commissioner? You’re kidding, right? An angel was the state’s insurance commissioner.”

  “Powerful position, low profile. Perfect for their purposes.”

  “OK. So how did he and my grandmother . . . you know, hook up?”

  Was I mistaken, or did Abdiel pause and take a deep breath? “During the rebellion, Azazel sided with Lucifer and was driven from his place in the heavenlies. On earth, he became a Watcher and, like many of them did, developed a lust for human women. His lust, dormant for centuries, was rekindled when Lucifer’s forces infiltrated California. Azazel rose to the position of insurance commissioner and, as such, mingled with California’s elite. At a Hollywood party he seduced a rising young starlet named Gigi Beaumont. When that seduction produced a male child, the news was kept secret from all but a select few. For decades, not even Lucifer knew.”

  “Lucifer’s minions keep secrets from him? I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “You have much to learn of the angelic order.”

  “I understand this much: You’re saying that my father was the love child of an insurance commissioner and a starlet?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did he know?”

  “Yes. Azazel revealed himself to your father.”

  “He didn’t take it well, did he?”

  “No. Your mother took the news even worse. She did not know she had married a Nephilim, nor did she know—”

  “Nephilim?”

  “The offspring of a son of God and a daughter of man.”

  “So I’m a Nephilim?”

  “You’re unique. The first of your kind. You are only one-quarter angel. There has never been a being like you.”

  My head was spinning. I wanted to walk out the door, take a flight to Washington, D.C., do a book signing, take Christina to dinner, and revel in my Pulitzer Prize achievement. I wanted a normal, everyday, boy-makes-good ending to the story of my life. All this was giving me a headache.

  “Your father didn’t tell your mother the truth until after you were born,” Abdiel said.

  “And then he killed himself. Seems to be the standard reaction to the news, doesn’t it?”

  “Are you going to kill yourself, Grant Austin?”

  “Would you miss me?”

  Abdiel didn’t answer.

  “No wonder my mother hated me,” I mused. “Explains why she acts like she does. And it certainly explains why my whole family is whacko.”

  “The circumstances behind your family’s life are only a partial explanation as to why your family is whacko,” Abdiel said.

  I grabbed my head to try to stop the spinning. “How do I know any of this is true?”

  “You know. You can feel it.”

  “You mean like back at the library when you threw a tantrum and disappeared. Neither the professor nor Sue Ling felt the force of your leaving. I did.”

  “And you felt it with Semyaza.”

  The sudden mention of that name stunned me for a moment. “You mean Myles Shepherd.”

  “His name is Semyaza.”

  For a moment I was there, back in Myles Shepherd’s office, reliving the experience. “But with you in the library, it was just a ripple. It wasn’t like . . .”

  Abdiel stood to imposing height. A ray of light erupted from the center of his chest.

  “Oh no,” I heard myself saying, “here we go again.”

  Abdiel’s clothing transformed to folds of pure color that curled, then swirled around him, until he became a dazzling white hurricane of radiance.

  I heard the sound of a thousand wind chimes, with harmony so clear it brought tears to my eyes. My entire body vibrated in harmony with the sound while ripples of pleasure swept through me repeatedly of such magnitude that I giggled and laughed like a fool. So overwhelmed was I by the sensation that I dropped to my knees.

  “No,” Abdiel said. “Do not bow.”

  That was the difference between them. Abdiel reflected the glory. Semyaza sparked it, only to feed off it.

  Abdiel returned to normal . . . or to human . . . or to . . . I don’t know. I was beginning to think I didn’t know anything anymore.

  “Do not bow,” Abdiel said.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but I wasn’t bowing. I thought I dropped a penny.”

  Abdiel laughed. I finally got a laugh out of him.

  It took me a few moments to catch my breath. Even then, when I opened my eyes a riot of color assaulted me. Whenever I inhaled, I inhaled an explosion of odors. The tips of my fingers tingled with everything I touched.

  “Question,” I said.

  Abdiel took his seat.

  “Do Semyaza and . . . well, the forces of Lucifer. Do they intend to kill the president?”

  “It appears so.”

  I nodded. “All right . . . now for the million-dollar question. Will I be the one to do it?”

  Abdiel studied me for a long moment. “Only you know the answer to that question, Grant Austin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are a creature of free will. You choose what you do.”

  “Part of my human side.”

  Abdiel started, surprised by the comment. He said, “Like humans, angels have been created by the Father with free will. How else would you explain the rebellion?”

  I was thinking out loud now. “So they can’t force me to kill the president.”

  “But they can persuade you, or trick you. Do not underestimate their powers of deception.”

  He spoke as someone who was speaking from experience.

  “Can I stop them?”

  “You can try. You will fail. In fact, I would estimate your chances of success as infinitesimal. After all, they have been doing this sort of thing—”

  “Yeah, I know. For millennia.”

  “That is correct.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You and your side. The good guys. You could stop them, couldn’t you?”

  “Why would we want to?”

  Today had been a day of being stunned, but this comment was the capper. “What do you mean, ‘Why would we want to?’ We’re talking about the president of the United States!”

  “A weak and feeble man who has given in to his lusts and sold his soul to Lucifer.”

  “What about the fate of America? We’re talking about changing history, altering the course of America!”

  Abdiel’s lack of concern was infuriating. He looked like he was about to yawn. I wanted to grab him and shake him until he came to his senses. “The events of the next few days will unfold as they are meant to unfold. They will not alter the outcome of the larger conflict. All is in the Father’s hands.”

  I was on my feet again. “Well, excuse me if I don’t share your optimism! This is my president and my nation and I don’t take kindly to the fact that a bunch of rogue angels are messing with it! I’m going to stop them!”

  “As you should. Each of us must fight our own battles.”

  Behind me, the door latch rattled. The door opened. The maid walked in, surprised again that we were still . . .

  That I was still here.

  Abdiel was gone.

  “I come back?” she asked.

  “No. We’re . . . I’m on my way out.”

  Her gaze fixed on the floor, she stepped back to allow me to exit.

  As I passed her, I said, “I hope Nuria’s fever breaks soon. The best medicine for a sick child is a mother who loves her.”

  “Señor?” the maid said, astonished.

  The maid’s arrival was a blessing. I needed to get out, to walk. With nowhere in particular to go, I stepped out the hotel’s front door onto Broadway. Horton Plaza, an
open-air shopping center with colorful and interesting multilevel passageways, lay directly across the street. Some people can get lost in a crowd. I prefer open space and plenty of it.

  That gave me an idea. I turned west. A few blocks later I walked into Emerald Plaza, a hotel and business center. At night its neon-green lights circling the tops of a series of towers of varying levels are a distinctive landmark in the San Diego skyline.

  I crossed the highly polished tile floors to the elevators in the tallest tower and pushed the highest button. Minutes later I stood at the top of one of the tallest buildings in San Diego overlooking the bay, and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean.

  The view was similar to the view from the airplane as we were coming in for a landing—the bridge, Coronado Island, the bay with sailboats.

  Wind whipped through my hair and brushed my cheeks. With my heightened senses it felt positively exhilarating, which gave me an idea. If I had any sense at all I’d find an upscale restaurant and order the biggest steak on the menu.

  Leaning against the guardrail, I breathed in the ocean air and tried to clear my mind. I closed my eyes.

  When I awoke this morning, my thoughts had focused on ways to tell the professor that I didn’t think much of his fantasy world of angels. Now I was one.

  I still wasn’t convinced. It was easy for Alice. Fall down a hole and you’re in Wonderland having tea with the Mad Hatter. I was still in the world . . .

  . . . that isn’t what you think it is.

  I looked over the edge of the building. Maybe this was Wonderland.

  Standing over Broadway Avenue from on high reminded me of another scene. This one from the Bible.

  The way I remembered it, the devil took Jesus to the highest point of the temple with the wind blowing through their hair like mine was now.

  The devil taunted Jesus. Prove yourself. Throw yourself down from here. If you are who you say you are, surely your angels will catch you so that you do not hurt yourself.

  I leaned over the edge and looked at the street below. Why had I remembered that story right now? Was someone trying to tell me something?

  I guess one way of proving I had angel blood in me would be to throw myself over the guardrail. Would one of my relatives swoop down to save me?

  Cars backed up at the lighted intersection. Pedestrians crossed the street in front of them.

  Who would most likely come to my rescue? Surly Uncle Abdiel? Or evil Uncle Semyaza?

  CHAPTER 21

  Instead of throwing myself off the Emerald Plaza tower, I took the elevator down. Returning to the U.S. Grant Hotel, I entered the lobby and headed for the elevators.

  The concierge hailed me.

  Then, looking past me, he hailed two security guards. In quick order they flanked me.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked them.

  Now the concierge made a phone call and within seconds two Secret Service agents appeared. It’s easy to spot Secret Service agents, they all look alike. It’s easier still to spot them when you’ve spent an afternoon with them in a tiny interrogation room. My hand moved involuntarily to my backside.

  “Agent Cunningham. Agent Phillips,” I said.

  Phillips, the one with the rogue curl that made him look like Superman, smoothed it back. It instantly fell to his forehead again.

  A bellboy appeared with my luggage. He was instructed to set the bags down in front of me.

  “Am I checking out?” I asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty finding alternative lodging, Mr. Austin,” Agent Cunningham said.

  There was a seating area off to my right. A television was tuned to a live news report from North Island Naval Air Station. The picture showed Air Force One landing.

  The president was in San Diego.

  Agent Phillips said, “The concierge has been kind enough to call a taxi, and these two fine gentlemen will escort you to it.”

  One security guard grabbed my bags. The other grabbed my arm.

  “Wait!” the helpful and efficient concierge called from behind the counter. He turned to some files behind him and retrieved an oversized white envelope. “This was delivered to Mr. Austin a short time ago.”

  He rounded the end of the counter and on long spindly legs danced his way toward us. He held out the envelope to me. Agent Cunningham intercepted it and opened it.

  “That’s my mail!” I cried. “That’s a federal offense!”

  “No stamp,” Agent Cunningham said.

  He pulled out a half-inch-thick stack of letter-sized pages. The pages flopped over and I could see that they were additional pages of the professor’s manuscript. A note was attached to the first page with a paper clip.

  Agent Cunningham read it aloud. “ ‘Honestly, Grant, I don’t know if this will hurt or help you right now. I just felt compelled to send it to you.’ ”

  Agent Cunningham looked up. “Who’s Professor Forsythe?” he asked.

  “A colleague.”

  “And this?” he asked, flipping through the pages, scanning the paragraphs.

  “My family genealogy,” I said.

  CHAPTER 22

  After relocating to the Red Lion in Mission Valley, I called Jana. Now more than ever I wanted to talk with the president. I’d spent over a year orbiting his world, conducting interviews that resulted in a portrayal of a life that now appeared to be all smoke and mirrors—and I was angry. My professional pride had been bruised and I felt like a patsy.

  The questions kept stacking up:

  Exactly who was behind the changes in my book and why?

  What was the president’s response to Doc’s version of events in Vietnam and the medications while in the White House?

  Why didn’t the president want me here in San Diego?

  “It’s because there’s going to be an assassination attempt, isn’t it?” I said, practicing my anticipated interview. “But you know that, don’t you? Why? Why would you, the president of the United States, consent to your own assassination?”

  Even before I asked, I could hear his reply: This world isn’t what you think it is, Grant.

  I was beginning to believe it.

  Before my bags hit the bed in my second hotel room, Jana’s phone was ringing and ringing and ringing. Just when I thought I was going to get an answering machine, Jana answered. “Grant?”

  Her voice was shaky. I knew why.

  “You talked to Sue Ling,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly.

  Was this how it was going to be for me from now on? Grant, the cosmic freak.

  “Jana, I’m not a monster,” I said. “I’m not going to reach through the phone and rip your face off.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “You bet I’m angry! I’m angry, confused, hurt . . . And right now I could use a sympathetic ear. I’d expect as much from someone who has known me as long as you have.”

  A stretch of silence was her reply.

  I switched topics. “The reason I called is that I need to get the information you have on the president’s itinerary. Would it be possible for us to—”

  “Grant . . . I can’t talk about this right now. I . . . I . . .”

  “Jana, I need that information. Could you at least send me a press packet or—”

  “Grant, I really have to go.”

  She hung up.

  Frustrated, I tossed my phone onto the bed. It landed next to the professor’s envelope, the one with the additional pages of manuscript.

  Setting the manuscript on the table, I stared vacantly out the hotel window. I couldn’t read right now.

  A trio of boys splashed and screamed in the hotel pool. On the golf course a foursome was teeing off at the tenth hole. A man with a large belly and plaid pants took a healthy swing, tracked his ball, leaning to his right, leaned farther, said something I couldn’t hear and probably didn’t want to hear, slammed his club into his bag, then took off in a golf cart in search of his ball.

  Not one of
these people was thinking about angels. A few days ago I was just like them. I missed those days.

  Pushing myself up out of the chair, I turned back into the room. My heart catapulted into my throat when I saw Myles Shepherd standing there.

  CHAPTER 23

  Myles Shepherd. Looking very much alive.

  It took several hard swallows for me to get my heart back where it belonged, and a couple more before I was able to form words. “Aren’t you dead?”

  “You’re not that lucky, Grant.”

  Two men appeared from nowhere behind him. Since they hadn’t entered through the door I felt it was a safe assumption that they were angels, too, and the fact that they weren’t attacking Myles meant they were probably on his side.

  All of these appearings and disappearings were starting to get on my nerves.

  “Reinforcements, Myles?” I said. “Are you afraid to face me alone?”

  “Semyaza,” he said, sneering. “My name is Semyaza. That should be clear even to you by now.”

  We faced off as we always had, whether it was across a tennis net or over a chessboard or sparring over Jana.

  “A lot has changed over the last few days, Grant,” Semyaza said. “This world isn’t what you thought it was, is it?”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

  “As a concerned friend, I thought I’d drop in and check up on you. See how you’re doing.”

  “Your concern is touching.” The fact he’d brought reinforcements troubled me. Unless they weren’t reinforcements. “Is one of them—”

  “Your grandfather?”

  Semyaza exchanged grins with his buddies.

  “No, Grant. I’m afraid Azazel couldn’t make our little meeting today. He’s rather busy at the moment, what with the assassination extravaganza. There are so many things to consider in a presidential assassination and Azazel wants to make sure that every detail is perfect. He likes to put on a good show.”

  “I can imagine,” I quipped. “Deciding on a design for the cocktail napkins must have kept him up nights.”

  Semyaza bristled. It annoyed him when I didn’t take him seriously. He’d always been that way and I always got a kick out of annoying him. And then he’d smash me at whatever it was we were competing over and he’d get the last laugh.