The cold of this October night
seeps through my jacket, finds my joints, and nestles inside. Aches settle into
the small of my back and in my elbows as I lean against the edge of the ice cream
shop’s roof. Day one of patrol in this small college town was fine. Day two got
annoying. Day three just sucks. I’m almost too bored to be nervous anymore.
A quarter mile down the street,
a bar announces final call, and our next great generation stumbles out of the
doors, laughing. Idiots. Their energy fields are fogged and giddy with alcohol.
Such strong, healthy energy. They practically beg to be snatched and drained.
My body shivers involuntarily,
and I remind myself that I already drained a perfectly good rat before we left
on the stakeout. A perfectly good, small, tiny handful of energy that did
little but whet my appetite.
A group of guys lingers outside
the bar. They laugh and swing sloppy fists at each other. Their overt good
spirits are offensive. I don’t know them, but I can tell that they are enjoying
every minute of their dimwit college experience: signing up for useless classes
like Latin or Shakespeare II, meeting study groups in the library, pondering
the cork boards in the dorms for some obtuse club to join, banging drunk
sorority girls at parties, being normal and human and whatever.
In the midst of the group, I
immediately recognize the vibrant blue aura of my brother, Gabe. Technically
half-brother, that is. At least we share my good half. He’s already managed to
befriend the entire group. He hoots with the rest of the guys and has somehow
obtained a university hoodie, which hangs on his thin frame. His energy is as
foggy and looping as his compatriots, and I wonder if he actually downed a
couple of drinks, or if he’s just that good at acting. I’m learning that Gabe
excels at this bait trick. He takes pride in putting on a good performance and
usually manages to enjoy himself in the process.
“See ya losers!” Gabe calls
fondly as he breaks away from the group. His voice carries down the empty
street.
“Friday man!” one of the guys
yells after him. “’s gonna be epic!”
“Maybe.” Gabe turns away and
continues with slow, plodding steps toward the industrial part of town. He
whistles a soft, off-key tune to himself. I watch the other boys stagger back
to campus. None of them peels away from the group. Good.
Our angel likes his victims
drunk and alone. In the middle of the week it’s slim pickings even in this
college town. We haven’t found a body in two days, which means it has to be
tonight. It has to be Gabe. My heart starts picking up its pace, and I tell it
to mind its own goddamn business.
But it is tonight. It is Gabe.
As he makes his way farther from the bar, the voices and giggles fade. This is
the kind of town that goes to bed at night, at least during the week. Cars roll
by in intervals, but there’s no one else left on the street except for Gabe and
a figure trailing behind him. The stranger must have seen his share of horror
flicks, because he lurks with some gusto, keeping to the shadows, hands plunged
deep into his coat pockets.
This is our angel. It’s easy
enough for me to tell. The space around his body is empty—bereft of the glowing
blues and greens and soft violets of a human aura. Angels don’t produce their
own energy; they drain it from humans. Gabe doesn’t know it, but he has just
about the most beautiful aura I’ve ever seen. Blue as blue, true as true. I’m
rambling like I always do when I get nervous.
“Confirm,” I whisper into my
Bluetooth earpiece. “Black coat. By the nail salon.” The angel continues to
lurk his heart out.
A pause. “I see him,” Tarren
whispers back. He’s on the roof of a scrapbooking store across the street,
dampening his energy to a soft glow that even a hungry angel wouldn’t notice
unless he knew where to look. Even though I know he does, I am tempted to
glance up, find Tarren, and make sure he’s got his Barrett 82A1 semi-automatic
rifle trained on the figure.
Instead, I dig the cell phone
out of my pocket. Stupid shaking hands. This isn’t the first time I’ve done
this, but I still hate it. Dangling something dear over the abyss.
I tap into my saved messages,
find the right one, and hit send. Down below, Gabe reaches into his
pocket, still taking slow, unsteady steps farther from the main drag. A glow of
light graces his sharp nose and chin as he wakes up his phone and checks the
message, Leprechauns are extinct , because leprechauns piss Chuck Norris
off.
“Awesome,” Gabe says. He picks
up his pace and whistles a little louder as he makes his way toward us.
I track the angel as he keeps
to the shadows—still lingering, watching, hungering. A car filled with music
blares its way down the street. Its headlights make a wide sweep as it turns
down the street Gabe has just crossed.
For a moment the angel is
blocked from view. When the headlights fade, I refocus on the scene below.
There’s Gabe still whistling. The angel is…gone.
Shit on a stick!
I scan the street. Nothing.
Back to Gabe who is a hundred feet away from us and readying himself for the
grand finale.
“Oh sweet tiny baby Jesus,” he
moans.
Wait, wait! I cry inside my mind. But he’s going for it,
staggering against the side of a building and pretending to dry heave. There
are no cars. No people. The trap is baited.
“Where?” Tarren hisses through
my earpiece. He’s lost the angel too. I hear my heart banging in my chest, and
I try desperately to calm it down. Angels are good at hearing heartbeats.
Gabe crumples to his knees, heaving, swearing colorfully,
praying to Keira Knightly for relief, pandering for the Oscar.
My eyes catch swift movement.
“Oh, oh, there,” I hiss to
Tarren. “I mean, below you. Right under you!”
Inexplicably, the angel must
have turned down the same street as the car, gone behind us, and doubled back
so that he is now walking swiftly toward Gabe. He is directly below the scrapbooking
store, hidden for a moment beneath its polka dot awning. I know immediately
that Tarren has lost his shot, even before he whispers, “I don’t have him”, his
voice all tight and boiling into my ear. The angel picks up his pace, moving so
fast it’s like he’s gliding on ice. I pull out my gun and press the extra lever
to remove the safety.
Gabe sees the guy. “Just ignore
me, I’m fine,” he slurs, slowly getting to his feet, waiting for us.
“Maya,” Tarren hisses. The
Glock 32C is big in my palm. I know how to hold it now. How to aim. I can
usually smoke a dozen empty beef ravioli cans without missing. But this isn’t
beef ravioli or Spaghettios or any other label that can be dispatched without a
hint of moral meltdown.
“Oh no,” I whisper, because I
can’t shoot. The angel is there, reaching out for Gabe. Time slows in order to
accommodate the lurching wave of fear that breaks over me. Panic drops black
snowflakes across my vision, because I know, just know, Gabe is going to die
for my cowardice.
“Oh fuck,” Gabe says as the angel descends upon him, hands
open and glowing.
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