Angels on Fire (17 page)

“Joth doesn’t have anywhere else to go right now, Nevin,” Lucy stage- whispered. “Don’t worry—he’s promised to stay out of our way. Come on— let’s go have dinner.” She took hold of his arm and steered him away from the living room and towards the bedroom. As she ushered Nevin into the hall, she paused to glance back at Joth, who was still standing at the window, framed by the glow from the setting sun, and for the briefest moment it looked as if the angel was sheathed in a nimbus of fire.

Nevin started awake. He’d dozed off after the sex—he hadn’t meant to, but the plum wine had gotten to him. Since the room was dark—the candles having burned out a while back—it took him a moment to orient himself and remember where he was. After all, it wouldn’t do to slip and blurt out the wrong name.

He glanced over at Lucy’s naked body curled beside him. She was still dozing, judging from her light snores. If he was careful, he could sneak out of bed and get dressed without waking her up. He glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed. According to the digital display it wasn’t quite eleven o’clock in the evening. Things were just starting to heat up in the city that didn’t sleep. He had places to go, people to see, connections to work. Gwenda would be expecting him at her place around midnight. They usually didn’t start nightclubbing until after one. Tonight there was that fetish fashion-show at the Milk Bar...

As he eased himself out from under the bedclothes, Lucy rolled over, muttering in her sleep. Nevin froze in his tracks and held his breath for a long moment before sliding out the rest of the way. The last thing he needed was another tearful freak-out scene. While she was currently a loose end, once he had things in the bag with Gwenda, he wouldn’t have any need for Lucy anymore. Although he had to admit she was far better in bed than Gwenda, who, for all her sado-erotic black-leather slut cutting-edge dominatrix posturing, was a cold fish in the sack. Still, frigid or not, she had bags of money. And if he had to choose between a woman who enjoyed sex and a woman with a platinum card— well, that was what getting it on the side was all about, wasn’t it?

After he wiggled back into his skin-tight black jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket, he eased out of the bedroom and headed down the hall. Although he reeked of sex, he didn’t dare risk a shower, for fear of alerting Lucy. He’d just swing by his loft for a quick hosing off before heading to Gwenda’s place. The rent on that hell-hole was worth it for nothing else if not making sure he had a place to wash off incriminating evidence.

Although bathing was something he was willing to postpone, thirst was another thing entirely. At least the kitchen was far enough away from the bedroom that he could risk grabbing a soda without worrying about waking up Lucy. He downed a can of ginger ale while standing in the cold light of the open refrigerator, then tossed it into the trash. As he turned to leave he collided with someone in the darkened kitchen. He was about to blurt out his pre-prepared explanation for why he was leaving unannounced when he realized the figure blocking his way was Joth.

“What the hell are
you
looking at?” he snarled.

Joth said nothing, but did not offer to move.

“I’m
talking
to you, asshole!” Nevin poked sharply at Joth’s chest with his index finger. “What’s your problem, headcase? You
deaf
as well as dumb?”

“Are you going to make Lucy cry again?”

Nevin blinked. Usually the weirdo sounded zoned out on Prozac, but there was an edge in Joth’s voice he had not heard before. “What did you just say?”

“Are you going to make Lucy cry again?”

“And what if I
do?”
Nevin sneered. “What are
you
going to do about it, ass-wipe?”

“Something I’ve never done before.” Joth took a step forward, forcing Nevin to take one backward.

Until that moment, Nevin had not realized just how
tall
the fucker was. He swore under his breath and hurriedly shouldered past Joth, who did not offer to stop him, and left the apartment. As he clattered down the stairs of the apartment building, Nevin made a mental note to make sure Lucy got rid of the weirdo for good. She was going to have to decide who was more important to her—him or some scramblehead from Bumfuck, Arkansas.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was
definitely
something about that mook he didn’t like. Not that the asshole scared him, or anything like that—but he could have sworn he saw something
glowing
in the back of Joth’s eyes.

Part 3

An Angel In The Sun

The angels were all singing out of tune.

And hoarse with having little else to do,

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two.

—Lord Byron,
The Vision of Judgment

Chapter Sixteen

The Ars Novina occupied the top floor of a converted SoHo warehouse and had bare wood floors, white-washed walls and track lighting identical to every other downtown art gallery since the beginning of time. However, what made it unique, as far as Lucy was concerned, was it was the first legitimate space she had ever been allowed to hang her art in. All of her previous shows had been in tiny Lower East Side hole-in-the-walls that could be described, at best, as “funky.”

For all its sterility and pretension, the Ars Novina was the type of place where collectors—the lifeblood of the arts community—could be found, so it was important that she be there before the doors were scheduled to open in order to make sure her photos were hung correctly and that the sales information had been typed up and posted beside the corresponding work. This meant she had to leave Joth with Ezrael for a few hours, but at least she didn’t have to worry about getting the time off from work. Of course, showing up early also gave her a chance to scope out the other entries in the show and see who would be giving her a run for her money.

The first thing she noticed was that her photographs were in the farthest corner of the gallery, while Gwenda’s canvasses were just inside the front door. She also found it telling that Nevin’s “entries”—which consisted of the nude studies of him she’d photographed—were mere feet from Gwenda’s installation. Lucy resented Gwenda hogging the best traffic area in the gallery, but there wasn’t much she could do about it except take some comfort in knowing how lame her rival’s art actually was.

Gwenda’s multi-media canvasses were a combination of “found image” collage and Warholesque lithography that aimed at profundity but settled for ponderous. One consisted of a couple of pages torn from a fetish porn mag, a print advertisement for adult diapers, and a black leather glove glued onto a canvas with a portrait of Marilyn Monroe silk-screened on top of it in black and blue ink. Another featured silk flowers glued into the mouth of an indifferently silk-screened image of Carmen Miranda, framed by headlines from the
Post
that read
Long Island Lolita
and
Cop Shoots Cop
.

Satisfied that everything was in order, Lucy left the gallery long enough to grab a falafel down the street so she would have something in her stomach. The last thing she needed was to get blotto on cheap wine. Collectors tended to steer clear of artists who ralphed on their shoes at openings.

The first thing she noticed when she returned was that Gwenda had finally arrived and was tricked out in a floor-length black leather evening gown and feather boa that made her look more like a drag queen than a diva. “Lucy! Where
have
you been?” she scolded.

Nevin appeared at Gwenda’s elbow, carrying a pair of clear plastic cups full of Chablis. His wide smile faltered at the sight of Lucy.”Hi, girls!” he said, struggling to hide his ill-ease. “I, uh, thought you two might like a drink—” He held the glasses out towards them, smiling uncomfortably.

“How
thoughtful
of you, Nevin,” Lucy said, taking the proffered drink. “Well, I better go man my post.”

“At least
you’re
close to the bathrooms,” Gwenda said with a faux smile.

“Yes. How
lucky
of me,” Lucy tossed over her shoulder.

It was going to be a long night. The opening was supposed to run from eight to eleven o’clock, which meant she had at least three solid hours of standing around in high heels on a hardwood floor, making small-talk with people she didn’t know. Her feet and calves were going to give her merry hell come tomorrow morning. But that was all part and parcel of the Art World, like it or not--which she would be okay with, if openings were actually attended by people genuinely interested in buying art. However, most of those now pouring into the gallery were social butterflies of a particularly shabby hue, concerned with
appearing
to be interested in the Arts while puffing up their egos at the expense of others. There were some unfamiliar faces, but most of those in the crowd were recognizable as inveterate opening-night parasites intent on nothing but guzzling free wine and scarffing down cheese cubes.

A half-hour into the opening, the gallery had become extremely crowded. Lucy was glad she’d decided not to wear her velvet dress, as the body heat of the attendees had raised the temperature in the room a good fifteen degrees. As she rocked back and forth on her feet, trying to alleviate the tension on her calves, she thought she heard someone call her name.

She frowned and looked around, then spotted Ezrael—Joth in tow—making his way towards her from across the crowded room. She smiled and waved, trying not to think about how happy seeing the two of them made her.

“There
you are!” Ezrael said, smiling broadly. “Sorry we’re late—there’s a huge line to get in!”

“Ez! I was afraid you weren’t going to make it!” She threw her arms around the aging Muse and kissed him on the cheek.

“Of
course
I’m here! I couldn’t very well miss the social event of the season, could I?” he chuckled. “Besides, Joth would not have
allowed
me to be so remiss! Every hour on the hour I was asked if it was time to leave yet!”

“So—who’s your friend?”

Lucy was startled to discover Nevin hovering on the periphery of their little group, glowering at Ezrael. “Oh. Hi. Uh, Ez, this is Nevin.”

“Hello,” Ezrael said, holding his hand out for the younger man to shake. “I’ve heard
quite
a bit about you, Nevin.”

“I wish I could say the same about you,” Nevin said, ignoring Ezrael’s proffered handshake. “So, how long have you known Lucy?”

Ezrael’s eyes narrowed, but his smile remained outwardly friendly. “Not long. We met on the subway.”

“Really? You an artist, Ez?”

“No. I guess you could call me a patron of the arts.”

Nevin raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Really? You collect?”

“I have a...small collection, yes.”

“Anyone I might have heard of?”

“I would hope so! But I am not here tonight as a collector—I am here as a friend of Lucy’s, to provide moral support, if you will.”

There was a sudden flurry of motion towards the front of the gallery that sent ripples throughout the room. People stopped in mid-conversation to turn and try to get a look.

“What’s going on?” asked Lucy, standing on tip-toe in order look over the sea of heads filling the gallery.

“It would appear a celebrity has entered the building,” Ezrael commented dryly.

“Oh? Who?”

“Terry Spanner,” Joth said, even though the angel had its back to the crowd.

“I thought you said it was a
celebrity
!” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Uh—I better get back to my station,” Nevin said suddenly and hurried back to the front of the gallery.

“Such
a forceful
young man,” Ezrael said carefully, his eyes on Lucy’s face as she watched Nevin leave. “Is he always so—proprietary?”

She blushed and shrugged. “You don’t understand—you’re not seeing him under the best of circumstances. He’s been under a lot of stress lately—”

“So I take it. Is he still seeing that woman?”

“Not
really.
He just hasn’t gotten around to breaking up with her yet, that’s all.”

“Oh. I see.” Ezrael took a deep breath and clapped his hands together, smiling as he rubbed them together. “How about I go get us something to drink? I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll leave Joth with you, if that’s all right?”

“No—I don’t mind. It’ll give me someone to talk to.”

Within seconds Lucy lost sight of the Muse amidst the crowd. There had to be at least two hundred people squeezed into the gallery, all standing around talking and laughing, cups of cheap Chablis clutched in their hands.

“Good evening, Ms. Bender—what a delightful surprise running into you and your ward here tonight!”

Lucy turned to find, to her horror, the daemon Meresin standing at her elbow, dressed in a meticulous black silk Nehru jacket, a glass of red wine held in one finely manicured hand.

Joth made a noise deep in its chest like a tuning fork struck against a piece of Waterford crystal. Lucy reached out and placed a comforting hand on the angel’s arm.

Meresin smiled and held up a hand. “Please, there is no need to be alarmed, on either your or the elohim’s part! I am not here to harm either of you! I’m merely here as a patron of the arts.” As if to illustrate, the daemon gestured to a sculpture that consisted of a fashion mannequin tightly wrapped in silver duct-tape so that it resembled a mummified street-walker. Lucy noticed the installation boasted a fluorescent orange “sold’ sticker.

“I find it pretty hard to believe that of
all
the art openings you could have attended in this city, you just happened to pick
this
one,” Lucy commented acidly.

Meresin shrugged. “Believe what you like, my dear. I’ve been on the Ars Novina’s invitation list for ages. In this case, the decision to attend tonight’s opening was that of my client’s.”

“Client—? You mean Spanner?”

Meresin nodded. “He is looking to redecorate his lobby. Something guaranteed to shock and titillate the yokels waiting for an audience with his august personage. He feels the current lobby is too—sedate.”

“What do
you
care about art?” Lucy snapped. “Ez told me what you are, what you do—! I thought creatures like you couldn’t stand to be around art and artists.”

Meresin’s smile was as sharp as a fox’s. “
Please
, Ms. Bender! You speak to one of the sephiroth—what your ancestors once called a Prince of Darkness—not a bum-scratching imp! Over the centuries I have seen more art than any living human could ever dream of! Granted, I was always trying to destroy it or demolish the creator, but that’s beside the point. Being exposed to the arts is like being exposed to radiation: in small doses, over a lengthy period of time, it can and does have its effect—even on daemons.”

Lucy frowned. “Are you telling me that you’re a lapsed devil?”

Meresin chuckled, although he was careful not to show any teeth. “Let us say I have a more
catholic
interpretation of how I might best serve the Machine than my fellows. Over the years I have striven to become more...
.sophisticated
in achieving my ends.

“My function is subtle yet vital. I do my best to ensure that the handiwork of the Blessed is kept from inspiring others. In some cases that means making sure that private collections are stolen or destroyed, in others it means dynamiting ancient burial vaults. But most often it means guaranteeing that an artist’s failings are encouraged at the expense of their gifts. Take my word, my dear: wretched excess, gambling and bad marriages have been the unmaking of many a masterpiece.

“I have spent centuries trying to keep artists unstable, poverty-stricken and obscure—and, believe me, it hasn’t been easy! When I think of the mistakes I made with the likes of Mozart, Van Gogh, and Dickinson! But for every
Starry Night, Magic Flute
and
Poems
that escape me, there are a hundred
Mona Lisas, La Traviatas
and
Pere Ubus
that do not.

“Permit me a moment’s vanity, if you will. Any gibbering imp can coerce a psychotic to take a hammer to the
Pietà.
It is no great feat for a wall-eyed oni to provoke a drunken painter into slashing his canvas in frustration. But it takes a
true
Infernal genius—a sephirah—to encourage an artist to pervert his gifts by wasting them on lesser pursuits. I’ve found advertising to be
most
useful in this manner. I also have found that promoting an artist whose gift is False and convincing others that it is True to do the most damage to the Clockwork.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy asked, eyeing the daemon suspiciously.

Meresin smiled and produced a black cigarette, already lit, out of thin air. “I sense a sea change in my nature. Perhaps, by being exposed to humanity and the arts for as long as I have, I have become adversely influenced. Contaminated, so to speak. We daemons are more like your kind than the angels are, in part because we share your failings, as well as your genitals. Do not underestimate the devil when it comes to temptation—which is to say, do not underestimate yourself.” A distant look passed across the daemon’s face, and for a brief moment Lucy glimpsed what she thought was longing in the sephirah’s dark eyes. He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. “Well—enough of that! I have a busy night ahead of me. Good evening, Ms. Bender.” He turned and fixed his jet-black eyes on Joth. “I envy you, elohim. Maybe, some day, I will be fortunate enough to meet a woman— or a man—who will break the chains that bind me to the Machine.”

Lucy watched Meresin shoulder his way through the press of bodies, not sure what to make of the daemon’s impromptu confession. She touched Joth’s arm. “Go find Ezrael.”

The angel nodded and began twining its way through the crowded room. Lucy tried to keep her eye on its golden head bobbing above most of those in the gallery, but her attention was diverted by a cough at her elbow.

“Excuse me—are you the artist?” asked a tall, thin man with a steeply receding hairline. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and a ponytail held in place by a black silk band, and was dressed all in black except for a bright red matador’s jacket. “My name is Page Uxbridge,” he said, smiling. “I own a gallery in Midtown—perhaps you’ve heard of it? The Matador?”

“Yes I have, as a matter of fact,” she said. She wasn’t lying to be polite, either. What she had heard was that the Matador liked to snap up artists and flog them for all they were worth for a season or two before dropping them. It was bullshit, but the kind of bullshit that made the Art World spin in Manhattan.

“I’m
very
interested in your vision—it’s retro, without being camp,” Uxbridge said, gesturing to
House Dog.
“Could you tell me a little more about the history behind these pictures—?”