All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (59 page)

I stared at the
hole, wondered why I didn’t notice it was gone before this.

How did this
happen?

People had gathered
here seeking solace from the miraculous virgin, begging for money
and miracle cures, good fortune and guidance. How could they let it
break?

How will I get
back to Hell?

I resisted the
mental urge to blame some surly teen for throwing a rock through it
as a ‘fuck you’ to religion and society because I might
have done exactly that in my youth. Letting Azrael take Father
Dominic to Hell was just that kind of rebellion.

“
Damn
it.”

I had to try.

I backtracked to
the largest chunk of wall I thought movable and jammed my fingers
under its edge. The snow nipped at my cold fingertips. I clenched my
teeth and grunted aloud trying to budge the hunk of stone. It didn’t
move.

Lift with your
legs, not your back, dope.

I squatted, jammed
my hands further under and used my legs, not my back. This time, the
piece of wall moved. I struggled and grunted. It slipped back,
threatened to crush my near-frozen fingers, but I caught it and
propped it on its edge. I rested a minute with it leaned against my
leg and tucked my fingers into my arm pits to warm them. Too bad
being dead didn’t afford me protection from cold, pain or
discomfort. What’s the point of being dead if it feels exactly
like being alive? According to centuries of literature, zombies and
vampires didn’t have to deal with this.

When some sensation
returned to my fingertips, I went back to the task at hand. Luckily,
I’d chosen a vaguely round hunk of broken wall. On its edge, I
rolled it to the wall. It wobbled and threatened to fall over, but I
kept it upright until it leaned against the wall below the empty
window.

I rested against
it, catching my breath, snow caked to the stone’s edge like it
would become the base for a huge snowman. I hunched forward, elbows
propped on my knees—not the best breath-catching position,
really—and wondered if all this work would prove worthwhile.

You deserted
her. She saved you. You suck.

'
Nuff
said.

I knocked snow from
the top of the stone and climbed unsteadily onto it. On top, I could
stretch high enough my fingers extended beyond the edge of the
window ledge. I reached until my fingertips found the channel in
which the stained glass had been set. Not much to grip, but a grip
nonetheless.

With some effort, I
inserted my fingertips firmly, and somewhat painfully, into the
groove. I huffed a preparatory breath of mist and hoisted myself up,
feet scrabbling against the wall. It felt like the tips of my
fingers might come off, but I made it up. It wasn’t pretty,
but I made it.

I perched on the
edge, resting, legs dangling above the chunk of wall which aided my
climb. This was so much easier with pews to climb and Piper at my
side.

Piper.

She’d
used me, I saw that, but I missed her anyway. How often does a man
have a woman who looks like
that
act
like she’s interested? In my case, not very fucking often. Oh
well. I shrugged in tribute to her memory and stood.

I faced the spot
where the stained glass rendition of Mary had been and looked out
across the churchyard at the snow-swept street beyond. No traffic at
this time—somewhere south of three in the morning, I
figured—and no one on the sidewalk since the miraculous window
was gone. I closed my eyes and took a breath, held it a second,
released. My eyes fluttered open and I stepped across the groove
marking the spot where the window had been and hoped to Hell I’d
end up in Hell.

My foot slipped in
the snow. My foot went from under me and I landed on my ass,
grabbing the edge of the window frame to keep from going over
and—knowing my luck—breaking a leg or my back.

Nothing else
happened. The churchyard didn’t become some Hellish landscape;
no ferryman-beast took a bite out of me in exchange for passage; no
deposed archangel, demon or damned soul greeted me.

It didn’t
work.

I righted myself
and looked out over the churchyard, flakes collecting in my hair.
The snow gave the night a preternatural glow, a lightness not seen
at any other time. I raised my eyes toward the sky and the gray
clouds dumping their cargo on the quiet city.

“
I’m
sorry, Poe.”

The snow deadened
my words. I wiped melted flakes from my face and looked back at the
churchyard, the cemetery. The beauty of the wintery scene did
nothing to quell the tightness in my chest, the band squeezing my
heart.

“
I’m
so sorry.”

Bruce
Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

The bell over the
door of the Chinese laundry tinkled. Chang Wu stopped counting the
day’s receipts and looked up, ready to serve another customer
or, if need be, snatch the bat from under the counter if whoever
came through the door had other things in mind. In all the years
Chang Wu ran the laundry—more than anyone in the neighborhood
would have been able to recall—a dozen times someone had come
through the front door with theft on their minds. They never left
with the old man’s money, but usually got something very
different than what they expected.

The door closed and
the latch clicked. No one there. Chang Wu sighed, returned the
receipts to the till and leaned forward resting his elbows on the
counter, playing the part of a weary old man relieving his aching
back. His back didn’t ache.

“
What
are you doing here?”

No answer for a
moment but the old man didn’t doubt his ears. He waited
patiently until the boy stepped into view. There was nothing in the
shop for him to hide behind yet he appeared to have revealed himself
from behind cover. Chang Wu wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t
the first time the boy had come to his shop and it wouldn’t be
the last.

“
Still
playing the old man, are you?”

“
It
suits me, I think. Need I point out you are an immature little boy?”

“
Your
opinion,” the boy scoffed.

“
What
brings you by? Surely you do not need me to do your laundry.”

The boy looked down
at his t-shirt streaked with orangey-red dirt and jeans with holes
in the knees.

“
Nope.
Looking good.”

“
Then
why are you here? You only come when you have something about which
to gloat. That is obviously not the case this time.”

“
Isn’t
it?”

Chang Wu stood
straight and came out from behind the counter. His black tunic hung
to mid-thigh over black pants which stopped mid-calf above his
sandal-clad feet. He paused to straighten the suit jacket on the
mannequin in the window display before responding.

“
It
does not seem to me you ended up with what you wanted.”

“
Do
you know what I wanted?”

“
The
harvester, of course. But he is home safe. Depressed and confused,
but safe.”

“
Hmm.”

The boy looked at a
display of products: fabric glue for quick repairs, travel sewing
kits, plastic cases containing a variety of different colored
threads. He picked up one of the cases of thread, examined it
briefly, then put it back in the wrong spot.

“
If
you aimed to achieve depressed and confused, then I guess you won
this round. But I must tell you: we can get him through it.”

The boy set his
finger against the stack of travel kits and pushed it over. They
fanned out across the shelf. One hit the floor.

“
I
didn’t want the harvester.”

“
No?”

“
No.”

The boy smiled and
the old man felt a sinking in his chest. He knew the game would go
on forever between the two of them, and he knew one set back meant
little in the grand scheme. No matter—he didn’t like to
lose. He went back behind his counter and reopened the till, removed
the day’s receipts again feigning disinterest.

“
Well
it seems we have stalemated, then.”

“
Oh,
I don’t think so.”

“
But
you--”

“
The
guardian, old man. I took back my Carrion and you never saw it
coming because you were so concerned with your precious harvester.”

“
Ah
yes, the guardian. A shame.”

Chang Wu looked
down at the slip of paper between his fingers. He didn’t want
to give the boy the satisfaction.

“
That’s
it? That’s all you have to say about it?”

The receipt in his
hands was for dry cleaning a three piece suit, Harold Bittner the
name on it. Chang Wu knew Mr. Bittner would die of colon cancer in
under three years. His wife would survive ten years beyond his
death. He knew Mr. And Mrs. Bittner’s son would become a
surgeon like they dreamed he would, but his career would be cut
short by arthritis. He’d go into teaching and live into his
nineties. All this he knew, this and more, but he didn’t know
what it would mean that the boy had the Carrion back. He raised his
head and looked at the boy but said nothing.

“
Say
something.
”

The boy punctuated
his words by sweeping his arm across the shelf and knocking its
contents on the floor. The packages of fabric adhesive bounced
against one another; one of the plastic containers of thread broke
and sent spools rolling under the counter.

“
I
won this time. I won and you didn’t see it coming.”

The old man looked
across the counter at the boy and a smile crept across his face,
deepening the wrinkles in his cheeks.