Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  Mike refused to show weakness by looking away. But his throat constricted.

  "You and I both know the romance thing wasn't working out. I've been trying and trying, but—" her voice quavered, "some things can't be saved no matter how hard you try. You're my friend—my best friend—but that's all." Tears sheened her eyes. "Please, be my friend, Michael."

  It was a very convincing act. She'd almost had him a couple of times, but this wasn't Angel. He knew it in his gut.

  "You've given yourself away at least five times since I entered the apartment," Mike said flatly. "Want to know how?"

  Fear flickered in her eyes.

  He went on relentlessly, "You cooked, that was a mistake. My apartment, my cooking."

  Black eyes flashed. "Jeez, try to do something nice for somebody, and they treat you like a mass murderer."

  "Number two," Mike continued, "you didn't defend Maryanne when I made that crack about her. Angel is very loyal to her friends." Even when, like him, they didn't deserve it.

  "I didn't want to talk about Maryanne because she's the one who introduced me to Brad," Black Eyes fired back.

  "Dyeing your hair was a nice touch. The change threw me off so that I didn't notice right away how much younger you are. What are you, fifteen? Sixteen?" Angel had been sixteen when they’d first met.

  She didn't answer, but she looked mad enough to spit.

  "Number four, you didn’t recognize our song.”

  “I was distracted—“

  “Who’s singing?” he fired back.

  Silence.

  "Number five—" You called me Michael. The only time Angel had called him Michael was when SilverDollar had erased her memory. He'd known she regained it when she started calling him Mike again. "Well, I think maybe I'll hold number five in reserve just in case you’re foolish enough to try this trick again." Mike smiled coldly. "Now then, why don't we try this again? Who the hell are you and where's Angel?"

  He prayed that Angel was still in the Historical Immersion on bodyguard duty. If Angel was—was— He couldn't even think the word. If Angel was—hurt—in any way, Black Eyes was going to find herself in a world of trouble.

  "Right now?" Black Eyes shrugged insouciantly. "Angel's in jail."

  “Jail?" Mike bit out. It took all his control not to squeeze her throat harder.

  Another shrug. “Evidence may have come to light implicating her in a kidnapping attempt. I don’t think Kenneth Jones will take that kind of betrayal from a trusted bodyguard lightly. Better hope she has a good lawyer.”

  Mike's first instinct was to rush to Angel’s rescue. He had to forcibly remind himself that Black Eyes could be lying her head off about Angel being arrested—about anything and everything.

  He needed to verify what she'd told him. Maryanne would know the truth, but he’d have to talk his way through layers of security just to speak to her. Who then? Wendy? Angel's parents?

  Hatcher. He didn't trust the guy as much as Angel did, but Hatcher had government connections. He was the obvious person for Angel to call if she was in trouble.

  "All right," he said to Black Eyes. "We’re going to take a few steps backward. I need to make a call." He wished he had some handcuffs to secure her somewhere off screen, but, too bad, Hatcher was just going to have to be shocked—

  Black Eyes slammed her skull back into his face, mashing his lip. His hold loosened a fraction, and she dropped to the ground, slipping out of his headlock. Her wrist turned in his grip, her arm straightening out.

  Mike tightened his hold and yanked her forward, his knee hammering toward her face—but her face was also Angel’s face, and at the last second he pulled the blow.

  She cried out in pain and slumped. His stomach hollowed, his instincts all confused. Don’t trust her. “You can cut the act,” he told her.

  Too late, he saw Black Eyes remove something from her pocket.

  Knockout medi-patches.

  Crap! Mike sprang back, just as she dove forward. He tripped over the coffee table. Slap. She caught his ankle. Pressed.

  He kicked her shoulder.

  The drug surged into his bloodstream, tracing a line of red fire up his leg towards his heart. He needed to knock her out, now, the old-fashioned way. Mike lunged for her throat, but she rolled out of reach.

  With a swimming head, he noticed the tears washing down her face. Had he hurt her, after all? "It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she said, swiping at her eyes. “You should’ve just come to the Harvest Fair with me.”

  Eight seconds until he passed out. "Who are you?" he gasped out.

  She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Apparently, I make a terrible Angel, so why don’t you just call me Devil instead?"

  He fell to his knees, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  At the last second he remembered the security system and gasped out the code word, “Paranoia four zero one.”

  Darkness enveloped him.

  Chapter Five

  ANGEL

  I spent the next eight hours in police custody, alternately being grilled by Lieutenant Killian or left to stew. She asked the same questions over and over as she tried to break my story. Eight grueling hours of insisting that Devon Seawest was my clone, not my illegal alias, and that I couldn’t have met with the kidnappers because I was already in the Historical Immersion by then.

  Things would’ve gone much faster if not for my refusal to give my statement under TrueFalse. They couldn’t administer it without a warrant, but my claim to be allergic made them very suspicious. I wasn’t about to tell them the truth—that TrueFalse didn’t work on the violet-eyed. Since Kenneth Jones knew about my ability to lie under TrueFalse using it as a shortcut to freedom would only bite me in the butt later.

  Maryanne had vouched for me before she left, but her word wasn’t good enough. Heck, the police didn’t give up their pet theory even after they had photographic evidence of me in the Immersion an hour shy of the kidnapper’s video in a different city.

  I dozed in my chair a little, but by morning I felt pretty punchy. It took serious effort to remain polite and answer the lieutenant’s same questions. My nerves felt stretched to the breaking point.

  I had a clone.

  Dr. Hatcher had sworn that until now he had heard only rumours of violet-eyed tissue samples sold on the black market by Dr. Frank. Hatcher had alerted the UN to this violation, and they would be investigating the New York's claim that Devon Seawest became a ward of the state after being found abandoned as a baby. Although New York was part of the North American Community, it had gained the status of a country during the turmoil of The Blight and had its own government.

  I had a clone. An identical twin sister three years younger than me. My mind kept bouncing back to that fact, like a racquetball smacking into a wall.

  When I was two years old, Dr. Frank had taken a scraping of my skin or a drop of my blood and sold it to the highest bidder.

  Were there more of me out there?

  A shudder rippled through me. If there were seven of me running around, I would feel diminished, as if something important had been taken away from me. My uniqueness, my worth, turned as common as a factory model.

  Nor had Dr. Hatcher been able to answer my other burning question: "Am I the original, or is there an older Angel?" An alpha version to my beta.

  I didn’t want to be the knock-off. Did Devon resent me because she was my clone? Is that why she’d framed me?

  Under UN law, clones were illegal, except in very special cases. I’d met two once, Dahlia and Zinnia Cartwright, clones of Iris Cartwright, the scientist who’d saved the world from The Blight. I’d found their constant jockeying for position tiresome. I’d always wanted a sibling. Devon Seawest could’ve been a younger sister to me, someone to take under my wing, but the way she’d chosen to enter my life showed that she viewed me as competition. She’d made me into an enemy, and just like the Cartwright clones, I felt a burning need to show my clone that I was smarter than her, that
she shouldn’t mess with me—

  Lieutenant Killian cleared her throat. The late night had put bags under her eyes, and her bun listed to one side. “Mr. Jones would like to speak with you. You’re not obligated. In fact,” she said grudgingly, “you’re free to go. We have three separate witnesses who’ve alibied you.”

  Finally. I stood up. Part of me wanted to tell Kenneth Jones and his billions to take a flying leap, but… I was trying to run a business. And Maryanne would be upset if I didn’t at least listen to what he had to say.

  Lieutenant Killian ushered me into an empty conference room with an oval table and fraying swivel chairs, then left. I sat, fatigue washing over me. What—?

  A hologram of Kenneth Jones winked on. Of course. He was much too important to meet with me in person.

  I straightened and met his gaze square on.

  “Ms. Eastland. I won’t apologize for thinking the worst,” he said abruptly. “The evidence was convincing at first glance, and I’ve been let down too many times to have any great faith in human nature. I will, of course, give your firm a glowing recommendation. As well, you’ll receive a bonus—“

  My temper ignited. “I don’t need a bonus for doing my job.”

  He raised one sandy eyebrow. “No? Maryanne seems to think you do. Something about dangling from the aircar by one hand? And then landing manually under trying circumstances? Maryanne insisted on your innocence from the first, by the way.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “She’s been moved to a safe location. She intends to hire your services in future,” he added quickly, “but until the NextStep launch she’ll be safer folded into my own security.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “So,” he tapped on his palmtop computer, “shall we say a bonus of 75K?”

  I struggled not to blink. The amount was triple my agreed-on salary for the entire six-week job. Mike would say, ‘Take it and run,’ but Kenneth Jones’ assumption that money could take the place of an apology made me simmer. “No. I’ll expect to be paid through to Nov. 23 as stated in our contract, but no bonus.”

  Kenneth Jones stared at me. Probably not many people said no to him. “100K.”

  “No.” I made my voice firm.

  He sighed and rubbed his chin. “Ms. Eastland, Maryanne is rather unhappy with me at the moment. Please help me get out of her bad books. If you won’t accept the bonus, how about this: I have some extra blank golden tickets. I’ll courier you one—no, two. Good for you and a friend.”

  I had the vague idea the golden tickets were a much-coveted part of the massive ad campaign aimed at promoting Kenneth Jones’s newest mega-enterprise. ‘The Next Step after Historical Immersions.’ Whatever that meant.

  I thanked him politely.

  He looked askance at me. “You have no intention of redeeming your ticket, do you?”

  “None,” I confirmed. I’d spent too much time in Immersions. I wanted to return to the real world. I wanted, desperately, to see Mike, to discuss everything with him.

  “Too bad.” Kenneth Jones quirked his lips. “I bet you’d do extremely well.”

  #

  Hoping for a message from Dr. Hatcher, I used my thumbprint to activate my palmtop computer.

  Thanks to Maryanne, not only had a prepaid airtaxi been waiting for me outside the police station, but all my belongings from both the Historical Immersion and the storage locker outside were already on board. An envelope containing two golden tickets made of Smartpaper with a wafer-thin chip lay on the backseat beside me.

  “Sort messages by date, most recent first,” I instructed the palmtop while the airtaxi settled into its approved flight path.

  Instead of a message from Dr. Hatcher, one from ‘Devil’ topped the list. The subject line made my blood run cold: “I’m in ur hows, messin wif ur boyfren.”

  Mike. My clone was with Mike. My stomach pitched. Oh, God. Up against any other adversary I’d bet on Mike. But I was probably the only person he trusted—and he would think she was me.

  He would be totally defenseless.

  Shaking and frantic, I opened the message, gritting my teeth when doing so triggered an automatic ping to Devon, alerting her that I’d received her message.

  A close-up pic of Mike’s face filled the small screen. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He appeared merely asleep, but a spike of rage went through me at the sight of his vulnerable face. Our days on the run had left Mike a very light sleeper. He wasn’t asleep, he was unconscious.

  Instinct warned me not to contact the police. Not only was the photo non-incriminating, if Devon was as smart as I was, she would have put precautions in place. I wouldn’t put Mike in danger. Plus, this war she’d instigated between us had just become personal. I was going to take her down myself, to prove that she couldn’t mess with me.

  Devon would regret touching Mike.

  I minimized the photo of Mike and then blinked. The second most recent message was an automated file drop from Mike’s home security program.

  I bared my teeth. Yes! Devon might have taken Mike prisoner, but she’d made a mistake somewhere along the way, allowing him to send me access to his security.

  Devon’s message had referred to my house, but the close-up showed a burgundy couch cushion like the ones in Mike’s apartment. Prior to starting my company, I’d taken some courses and installed security on both my apartment and Mike’s. The security on my place was blatant; the stuff Mike had asked me to install in his was spyware small, meant to be undetectable.

  I checked my security just to be certain. Nothing since I’d left for the Immersion, but Mike’s showed activity today, from 5:41 to 7:02 am, ending an hour ago.

  While I retrieved the data, I received another message from Devil, subject line, “Got bored waitin fer u.”

  The file consisted of three more pics of Mike, still arranged as if sleeping. In the first one, he lay in a litter of empty bottles as if passed out. In the second one, he wore an eye patch and a thin black mustache had been drawn on his upper lip. The third made my blood pressure rise: she’d removed his shirt, and there was a lipstick smear on his mouth.

  Cold fury blasted through me. But if Devon had intended to rile me up enough that I stopped thinking, she would be disappointed. I shaped my anger into a weapon and with controlled calmness returned to watching the security footage.

  I’d opted for no sound in return for greater memory on the spycam software, and I watched Mike’s landlord silently chat with my clone as he let her inside Mike’s apartment. As soon as he left, the smile dropped off her face.

  I froze the image, staring at my nemesis. Her dyed black hair was the same length and style as mine. Her matching black contacts made me sneer. Puh-lease. Did she think they made her bad? In her Cleopatra guise, her face and cheeks had been plump—an effect easily achieved by a nano-cream and made popular by a certain cherubic actress—but in the image my clone looked skinnier than me with less muscle tone.

  In a flat-out chase, I would run her into the ground. Good to know.

  I set the spycam vid to skip forward every five seconds and hit play. Devon put down the plastic bags she was carrying and searched Mike’s entryway and living room, but didn’t seem to find what she was looking for. Bizarrely, she returned to the kitchen, unloaded groceries from one bag, and started preparing breakfast. Omelets, from the look of it.

  I switched to 30-second intervals as she diced ham and whipped together eggs and milk, but left the cheese sitting by the grater, whole. They were her props.

  She started to pace and I skipped to two-minute intervals. More pacing, looking out the window, checking her watch and—I paused—why was she washing her face? I rewound and watched at normal speed as she sank down against the kitchen cabinets, shoulders huddled.

  She was crying.

  The sight unsettled me, but I used anger to shove down any sympathy I might have felt. I didn’t care how tough her life might be; it didn’t excuse what sh
e’d done to me or Mike.

  Soon after she washed her face, Mike arrived. I slowed down to normal speed again, trying to read lips—

  Ping. Another window popped up on my palmtop. “Request for private chat from Devil.”

  I skipped to the end of the recording and saw Devon load Mike’s unconscious body into a laundry cart. Once I’d confirmed they were no longer in his apartment, I bared my teeth and tapped Accept.

  A close-up of my clone’s face appeared. I had a weird sense of talking into a mirror. “What do you want?” I kept things simple. As long as she had Mike, I had to negotiate with her. Once I had Mike back, all bets were off.

  Her eyebrows rose; she’d dyed them black, too. “No threats or posturing? No swearing revenge?”

  “What. Do. You. Want?”

  For a blink she looked rattled, then her mouth turned sulky. “Fine, let’s get straight to the point. I have Mike. Give me your golden ticket, and you can have him back.”

  “It’s yours,” I said instantly. The ticket meant nothing to me. Though I found it very interesting that she knew I had one. Did she have a source in Kenneth Jones’s office, or did he hand them out like candy? Had the ticket been her aim all along? But in that case why not rescue Maryanne herself?

  Perhaps Devon had intended to, but I’d screwed up her plan. Oh, I hoped so.

  “Then you have it?” she asked eagerly.

  In answer, I dug a ticket out of the envelope and held it up, careful not to show the second ticket.

  Triumph lit her eyes. Stupid little clone. Even if the ticket had been made from solid gold it wouldn’t have been worth making an enemy of me.

  “Fly to the Harvest Fair Amusement Park in Witham.” She named the nearest big city to where Mike and I lived. “Ride the Reaper roller coaster a few times. I’ll find you—“

  I laughed, a harsh sound like a crow’s caw. “No. That’s not how the game is played. I’ve proved that I have what you want, the ticket, now you prove you have what I want.” Mike.

  She hesitated. A bad sign.