All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (3 page)

With the gun held
in front of me like they do on all the cop shows, I peeked around
the corner, worried I’d thrown the cosmic plan out of whack
and an assailant would jump us at any moment. None did. We emerged
onto a side street empty of traffic and, glancing both directions,
hurriedly crossed to the shadows on the other side. We walked in
silence for a while, the dead policeman’s soul trailing a step
or two behind, following uncertainly. After a few blocks, enough
time and distance had passed that I figured we were safe, so I
lowered the gun and decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

“
Sorry
about what happened back there,” I said over my shoulder
hoping he’d take my attempt at conversation as an invitation
to walk with me. Having a dead guy walking at my heels made me a
little uncomfortable.

“
Everyone’s
time comes,” he answered nonchalantly, stepping up beside me.

“
Yeah,
but it doesn’t happen that way.”

“
Really?
How do you know?”

“
It’s
not what I do. I’m a harvester not a...Hell, I’m the guy
who collects the crops, not the one who chops them down.”

“
Maybe
this time was different.”

I stopped and he
strode a step farther before realizing and doing the same.

“
Look,
killing ain’t my business. They give me a scroll, I collect
the soul.” It sounded like I might have come up with a slogan,
though the one about the crops sounded more manly. This one rhymed,
though. “Simple.”

“
Twenty-five
years of police work taught me things are rarely simple.” He
scratched his stubbly chin, probably a left over habit since I
couldn’t imagine a spirit having an itch. “This scroll
tells you how the person will die? Who kills them?”

I gritted my teeth.
The answers coming to mind lacked a certain politeness, so I held
them at bay behind my lips. Sometimes I try new things.

“
Not
everything’s a crime to solve.”

Fucking
detectives,
I
wanted to add. Our conversation ended abruptly, leaving me feeling
lonely. After a month in solitary, it was good to hear a voice which
didn’t belong to me or a television character. Another part of
me rejoiced at the end of the discussion—he'd voiced some
things already on my mind, things I’d avoided asking. Things
like:

Where was the
guy who was supposed to kill Detective Shaun Williams?

There wasn’t
a soul—living or otherwise—within blocks when I ended
the man’s life on the fortuitously-placed sharp stone. That
small detail hadn’t escaped my notice amongst worry of
repercussions; I’d chosen to ignore it. Now he’d fucked
that up for me.

Gabe wouldn’t
have set me up, would she?

I considered it.
The archangel didn’t seem to have a nasty bone in her body,
assuming angels had bones. Between her love for time spent in human
form and the delicate swallows that followed her everywhere,
imagining her as anything but gentle and kind was difficult.

No, not Gabe.
Michael.

Anger stirred in me
and I realized it was the first time I’d thought of him like
that: Michael instead of Mike or Mikey. I’d transformed his
name back to fullness the way a parent uses their child’s
middle name when they’re angry. It never happened to me—no
parents, and no one bothered giving me a middle name to use so they
could illustrate their dissatisfaction. But the act of elongating
his moniker fit as I thought about what the head archangel may have
done, the way I might have been manipulated.

“
I’m
sorry I didn’t believe you.”

I only half-heard
the detective-soul’s words. When I looked at him, the muscles
in my jaw bunched as I strained to contain the anger bubbling into
my throat.

Not his fault.

“
What?”

“
When
you were in jail, I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry.”

“
Why
would you?” I shrugged, his words distracting me from the
conclusion to which I’d jumped. “How often do you meet
someone who’s been dead six months?”

He chuckled. “Not
very often.”

A couple of blocks
passed beneath our feet as I related my story, at least the
after-death part. No point telling him all the sordid details of my
life, he probably discovered them while working the case, anyway. My
story included his head connecting with the sharp rock but stopped
short of my suspicions about Mike. He listened, nodding
occasionally, until I finished, then we walked in silence for a
while.

“
Do
you take me right to the pearly gates?”

“
Don’t
know if there are any.” My turn to chuckle. It must have
seemed odd to him: an agent of Heaven who’s never been there.
“Judging by the address they gave me, it seems I’m
taking you to a warehouse.”

†‡†

I guessed right.
The address for the drop was a patio furniture storehouse. We
wandered past stacks of colored plastic chairs and folded umbrellas,
tables piled together like building blocks placed by the hands of a
giant child, and cases of cushions reaching almost to the ceiling.
The detective’s soul walked beside me wearing a look nearer to
the disappointment end of the scale than to wonder. Understandable,
but he should have seen the motel where I first met Mikey. At least
no one turned tricks in the warehouse.

It didn’t
take long to find the angel assigned to escort Detective Williams on
the rest of his journey. The corner of the huge room where the angel
sat on a green molded plastic chair was more brightly lit than the
rest of the storage area, whether because of the pristine white of
his Mr. Clean-style clothes and pale skin, or because celestial
beings actually glow, I couldn’t say. The angel stood as we
approached.

“
Welcome,
Shaun Williams,” the close-to-albino said in his sing-song
voice.

The escorts—they
probably had a more suitable label that made them sound less like
high-priced prostitutes, but I hadn’t bothered to learn it—all
looked identical: snow-white duds, snow-white hair, translucent
skin. They functioned only to take souls I delivered the rest of the
way to Heaven and, judging from the discussions I’d attempted
in the past, they were interested in little else.

Try again.

“
Tell
Mikey I want to see him.”

The angel gazed at
me, a question plain in his eyes. He didn’t move or speak.

“
Michael.
You know, the archangel? Second in charge? Tell him Icarus Fell
wants to see him.”

Detective Williams’
soul went to the angel’s side and turned to me.

“
Thank
you,” he said. I stared at him a second, confused, then the
anger and guilt roiling inside me spilled over like a pot of
potatoes left to boil with the lid on.

“
You’re
thanking me?” My throat clamped down on the words, compressing
them until they came out like short, squat men wielding hammers. “I
killed you, don’t you understand that? Someone—or
something—manipulated me like a goddamn puppet with their hand
up my ass and now you’re dead, Detective.”

The spirit shrugged
and smiled, increasing my ire. “I had nothing left but my
work; someone else will do it. They won’t miss me. Thank you.”

The angel took
Detective Shaun Williams’ soul by the arm like he intended to
lead him away, but they didn’t move. Instead, their forms
wavered like on a television with poor reception, then they started
to fade.

“
Tell
Michael I want to see him,” I yelled. In my final glimpse of
them before they disappeared, the angel raised his arm and pointed
over my shoulder.

“
Tell
him yourself.”

I didn’t turn
around immediately. The hair on my arms, on the back of my neck,
stood up; hyperactive butterflies fluttered madly in my gut,
crashing into the walls of my stomach. Did I really want to see
Mikey after all?

No point putting
it off.

I pivoted slowly,
drawing out the movement.

I’d have felt
his unmistakable presence if I didn’t give in to anger, but I
did, and the pressure pushing against me, the warmth bordering on
uncomfortable, went unnoticed until I looked upon him.

The archangel stood
ten feet away, thigh-sized arms crossed in front of his chest. The
buttons of his button-down collar were undone; the blond hair draped
across his shoulders glowed against the stop-sign red shirt. His
shirttail hung loose over black dress pants; black-and-red wing-tip
shoes completed his questionable fashion statement. All this
received only brief consideration because his expression captured my
attention.

The archangel
Michael—the biblical right hand of God—looked pissed.

Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

In the time since
I’d seen Mikey, I’d forgotten what an imposing figure he
was. Last I saw him, he was wielding a golden sword as big as me,
protecting me from the angel of death, something one would normally
not fail to recall. He didn’t look any worse for wear after
the epic battle with Azrael at the church: his blond locks flowed in
waves over his shoulders; his muscles strained against the silk of
his shirt as though Michelangelo had sculpted a tribute to David’s
bigger, body-building brother. His presence both scared the shit out
of me and thrilled me to my spine.

“
You
were looking for me.”

His voice came out
flat, something which took considerable effort for an angel. His
words sounded more statement than question.

“
Yes.”

He spread his arms
in a ‘here I am’ gesture. I parted my lips but my lungs
refused to aid my vocal chords in forming words. My mouth snapped
shut, teeth clicking, and I sniffed a deliberate breath through my
nostrils, forcing my lungs to do the work they’re employed to
do. The fresh pumpkin pie smell of the archangel tested my resolve,
but my vocal chords gave in to my wishes on the second attempt.

“
Did
you send me to kill Detective Williams?”

He regarded me with
flickering golden eyes. The pause wasn’t to give him time to
formulate the proper response—I didn’t believe for a
second Mikey or any other angel was ever at a loss for words—he
wanted a different effect. I shivered a little, giving it to him.