Angels on Fire (5 page)

It was a long march down the hall to the lobby. Heads popped in and out of open doorways to give Lucy and Joth curious stares, and then rapidly retreated. No doubt this would make for a couple of jokes at the water-cooler, then be quickly forgotten. Just another crazy white-trash viewer vying for her fifteen minutes, nothing more. When they reached the lobby the security guard leaned between Joth and Lucy and pressed the call button for the elevator. Lucy could tell the guard was still watching Joth from the corner of his eye.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

The security guard started slightly. “Oh! No—it’s just that your friend reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Yeah. That happens a lot.”

The guard cut his eyes to where the receptionist was sitting. “Uh, look, ma’am—don’t worry about the cops, okay? Long as you and your friend leave the building everything’s cool—understand?”

Lucy smiled ruefully and nodded. “I understand. You’re just doing your job.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Lucy stepped in, Joth following on her heels. As the doors closed behind them she glimpsed the security guard still standing there, staring after Joth, rubbing the back of his neck. The look on his face was that of a man trying to talk himself out of thinking he’d just seen a ghost.

Lucy hadn’t really been expecting to have to get back home on her own. She’d imagined that once the TV people caught sight of Joth’s magnificent wings she would be squired back to her apartment in a limo. But that was clearly not going to be the case. While she still had the money she had planned to pay the cabbie for the drive uptown, something told her she better hang onto it if she expected to eat and buy toilet paper later that day. That meant taking the subway home. Luckily, she happened to have a couple of tokens on her. She paused outside the entrance of the Rockefeller Plaza subway station and turned to Joth.

“Look, we’re going to take the subway back home—”

“Subway? Is this like the cab?”

“Sort of. Except that there are a lot more people, you don’t talk to the driver, and it’s underground.”

“Underground?”

“Yeah. Beneath the surface of the earth. Below the street.”

Joth glanced down at the gray pavement, then back up at Lucy. “Below belongs to the Machine,” the angel announced, with the dire seriousness of a five-year-old convinced that there is a tiger living under the bed.

“Whatever,” she sighed, taking the angel’s hand in her own. “Just don’t let go of me while we’re down there, okay?”

With that, they descended into the maze of interconnecting tunnels beneath Rockefeller Center that led, eventually, to the F Train platform.

The production meeting was already under way when Talbot arrived with a bulging file-folder tucked under one arm. He smiled anxiously as he took a place at the end of the table, mopping his brow. “Sorry I’m late, everyone.” Although his excuse was supposedly to the entire group, his eyes were focused on the head of the table.

The Executive Producer glanced up at the interruption, fixing Talbot with a pair of eyes that were as dark and unreadable as those of a cobra. The eyes seemed even darker when taken in contrast to their owner’s hair, which was as red as freshly spilled blood.

Terry Spanner turned toward Talbot, flashing a smile that possessed more teeth than one would have thought possible to fit in a human mouth. “No problem, Carl. We really hadn’t started yet. What was the hold-up?”

“I had to give another crazy the bum’s rush.”

“I thought I heard yelling a little while ago. Anything interesting?”

“Not really. I thought I’d gotten better at spotting these types. Well, the man was dressed like a street person—but the woman looked okay enough. Turns out she was just another East Village burn-out trying to palm her performance-artist boyfriend off as the Eighth Wonder of the World. Granted, the guy had some nice tattoos—”

The Assistant Director looked up from her notes and frowned at Talbot. “Tattoos? Are you talking about that woman Jamal showed out?”

“Uh—yeah. Did you see them?”

“They walked right past me! And whatever that guy was, he sure wasn’t tattooed! I mean, it was kind of hard to get a good look, what with the dreadlocks and all, but those were ritual scars he had all over him—you know, like African shamans or Australian aborigines...”

“Dreadlocks—?” Talbot laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you were looking at, but the guy I’m talking about didn’t have any hair at all! He had this big yin-yang symbol tattooed on his skull...”

“I saw Jamal escorting two women out of the building earlier, but I didn’t see any guy at all—black, tattooed or otherwise. There was a woman dressed in black jeans and a motorcycle jacket, and then there was the Chinese woman in the black duster,” the Head Writer said as he picked at his cardboard container of fried rice.

“Chinese woman? Are you
sure
about that?”

“I think I’d recognize someone from my own ethnic group, don’t you? Surely you couldn’t have missed her, Carl! After all, she was topless under that coat!”

Spanner’s shit-eating grin had disappeared, replaced by a far less amiable scowl. “Wait a minute, Carl—how many nuts did you have escorted out of the building today?”

“Just those two, I swear, Terry! I have no idea what they’re talking about—!”

Although the Executive Producer had remained silent throughout the exchange, his gaze was now directly on Talbot, who felt his stomach tighten as a bead of sweat raced down his back and into the crack of his ass. He’d never felt very comfortable around the Executive Producer. There was something—strange—about the man. Not that he ever did or said anything untoward. But Talbot couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something very unpleasant going on behind those unnaturally dark, glittering eyes. When the Executive Producer finally spoke, Talbot flinched as if he’d been struck.

“Did you get the young lady’s name, Talbot?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Meresin! She filled out the standard forms! They should still be with the receptionist.”

“Good.
Very
good.”

Meresin smiled and Talbot quickly looked away, for fear of what he might see looking out from behind his boss’s eyes.

Luckily for Lucy and Joth it was still early in the day and the subway car was relatively uncrowded. Lucy sat on the hard plastic bench and stared forlornly at the bilingual placards advertising wart removal, warning about AIDS, and posing the eternal question:
Hammertoes?

All her fantasies of multimillion-dollar marketing deals, licensed T-shirts and being interviewed by Larry King had disappeared as quickly as they had arrived—but taking more than mere high expectations with them. What good was it to have an angel no one else could see for what it truly was? She might as well have stumbled across a singing and dancing bullfrog, for all the good it did her. She glanced over at Joth, who was openly staring at the faces of the other riders in the car as only small children and the utterly mad are wont to do. She quickly leaned over and nudged the angel in the ribs with her elbow.

“Stop that!” she stage-whispered.

“What?”

“Looking at people! It’s rude to stare like that!”

“Rude?”

“Rude is—well,
rude.
It makes people feel threatened, understand? Like when I told you to back away. You can look at people, but you can’t
stare
at them like that! See how I do it? You start off by looking at the floor, then you let your gaze drift up a little bit at a time—it doesn’t stay in one place too long. Just watch me, okay?”

By way of example, Lucy let her gaze drift across the length of the subway car, touching on, but never settling upon, an old woman with a string bag full of groceries; a teen-aged boy tricked out in baggy hip-hop clothes; an older African-American man dozing with a copy of the
Post
steepled across his lap; a pair of Orthodox rabbinical students bent over their prayer-books. Finally her gaze came to rest on a tall, lean man dressed in unbleached linen pants and leather sandals, with shoulder-length snow-white hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. What caught her attention was his shirt—an eye-hemorrhaging Hawaiian print depicting sunset on Oahu.

With a sudden start, Lucy noticed the man in the Hawaiian shirt was looking back at her. She blushed and quickly looked away. When she risked a quick glance back she realized the white-haired man in the Hawaiian shirt hadn’t been staring at
her, but at
Joth. Before she could figure out what that might mean, the conductor announced the Second Avenue stop.

Lucy got to her feet as the train slid to a halt, Joth’s hand still in hers. As they moved toward the doors, she glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the man in the Hawaiian shirt, but he was no longer anywhere to be seen.

Chapter Five

It was with greatly reduced spirits that Lucy returned to her humble Alphabet City apartment, Joth still in tow. They had trudged the six blocks from the subway station without incident. While the angel’s ragged appearance might have raised the occasional eyebrow in Midtown, on Avenue B it didn’t even warrant a second glance.

Lucy’s depression, however, was quickly replaced by alarm as she reached, keys in hand, for the door to her apartment, only to have it slowly swing inward.
“Shit,
” she hissed under her breath, her heart lurching into turbo-powered overdrive.

There was someone in her apartment, all right. She could hear them moving around. She contemplated running downstairs and fetching the super, but then she would have to explain what Joth was doing there, as he wasn’t on the lease, and she wasn’t really up to that right now. She was still agonizing over what to do when the door was yanked open from the other side, and she found herself staring face-to-face with the intruder.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Nevin said, as unprepared to see Lucy as she was to see him. He was dressed in what she had come to think of as his Downtown Art Uniform: a pair of tight-fitting black Calvin Kleins, a black Armani T- shirt, black hi-top Doc Martens, and a cropped black leather jacket. His dark, short-cropped hair looked fashionably bedraggled, and his strong, jutting chin was, as ever, cloaked in five o’clock shadow.

While inwardly relieved that she didn’t have a crackhead or a junkie tossing her apartment, Lucy was far from pleased to discover Nevin had entered the apartment while she was out and without telling her. But a part of her was also thrilled to see him. Perhaps he’d come to his senses and had come there to beg her to take him back? Then she saw the empty space on the walls behind him. Looking down, she spotted the artwork that had been hanging in the foyer propped against the hall closet’s door, bundled in old blankets and bound with twine.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!?!” she shouted, pushing her way past him.

“I just came by to pick up what belongs to me, that’s all,” he replied defensively.

“Y
ours?
Those are
my
pictures, damn it!
I
was the one who paid the models, bought the film, photographed them, developed the negatives and paid to have them framed! I was the one who paid for the nine sets of slides for the NEA Grant!”

“But
I
was the one who gave you the idea!” Nevin sneered in reply. “You even let
me
sign my name on the prints! So they’re just as much
mine
as
yours.
Besides,
I
was the one who filled out and signed the grant forms—which were approved by the way. In my name.”

“What?!?
Of all the
nerve
—! You lousy stinking
poseur!
You’re nothing but a thief and a whore! You couldn’t just dump me for that rich-bitch mall vampire; you had to steal my work,
too?
I hope that cunt chews you up and spits you right back on the street where you
belong!”

“You’re one to talk,” Nevin snorted, nodding at Joth, who was still standing in the hall, watching them as placidly as a cow chewing its cud. “Honestly, Lucy—couldn’t you do better than a crusty?”

“Leave him out of this!”She snapped. “He’s got
nothing
to do with you—or me, for that matter! But if you think you’re going to waltz out of here with those pictures, you’ve got another think coming, asshole!” She moved to block the door, hands on her hips, eyes seething with indignant rage.

“C’mon, Lucy—lighten up!” Nevin said, shifting his tactics by smiling and softening his voice. “After all we’ve meant to one another, it shouldn’t end like this! Neither of us wants this to get ugly.”

“It’s a little
late
for you to be worried about that, isn’t it?” she replied tartly.

“Lucy—please! Be reasonable!”

“You’re
not
leaving here with those pieces!”

Seeing he was not going to get any farther, Nevin’s eyes narrowed and his voice quickly lost its honeyed edge. “I’m not arguing with you any longer, Lucy! So get out of my way!” He picked up one of the bundles and headed for the door, but Lucy blocked him, pushing him hard enough that he staggered backward a couple of steps. His face darkened as he righted himself. “Get
out
of my fuckin’
way,
bitch!” he snarled.

“That’s it! I’m calling the cops!” Lucy’s growing rage forced her voice into a shriller register. With a slight shock of surprise, she realized she sounded exactly like her mother.

Nevin struck her so fast she didn’t even realize she’d been hit until she rebounded off the wall and dropped to the floor. He stood over her for a long second, breathing hard, the way he used to do after sex.

Joth quietly stepped forward, tilting its head to first one side, then another, looking at Lucy as she lay sprawled on the floor, then at Nevin. Nevin tensed, preparing himself for retaliation, but relaxed when the angel merely continued to stare at him. Mistaking Joth’s passivity for cowardice, he leaned forward until his nose was a millimeter from the angel’s face. “Whatchoo looking at,
pussy?”
he sneered
.
“You keep that crazy bitch out of my hair, or I’ll kick
your
ass, too!” With that Nevin snatched up the remaining bundled artwork and sprinted out the door.

Lucy groaned and rolled over to find Joth crouched over her, watching her every move intently, but making no effort to help. The back of her head throbbed fiercely from where she struck the wall and there was blood coming from one of her nostrils and a cut on her lip. As she struggled to sit up she kept telling herself she wasn’t going to cry. Crying didn’t solve anything. Then she realized the pictures were gone.

“You didn’t stop him,” she said, her voice so tight the words came out all squeaky. “You let him take my stuff! Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Was I supposed to stop him?”

“Couldn’t you tell I didn’t want him to leave with the pictures?” she sobbed. “Do I have to tell you to do
everything?”

The tears were hot and scalded her cheeks. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying her best to suppress the sobs that threatened to shake her apart. She was not going to cry! Crying was losing control. Crying was feeling sorry for yourself. Crying was letting someone get to you. She’d sworn she would never cry like that again back in junior high, when she suffered the taunts and jeers about her mother.

She flinched as Joth’s fingers caressed her tear-stained face, although its touch was as light as a spider web. The angel was hunkered down beside her, leaning so that its features were inches from her own. It held up one hand to stare in fascination at the dangling teardrop scooped from her right eye.

“Why do you excrete essence? Does something require Repairing?”

“I’m not excreting, I’m
crying,
you stupid bastard!” she snapped in mid-sob.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because, for your information, I’ve had a really,
really
crappy day!” she retorted. “First I get strong-armed out of the artists’ collective, my boyfriend dumps me for some trust fund trollop, I nearly jump off a roof, the art for my next opening gets stolen, I find out I’ve been swindled out of a grant, and my asshole ex-boyfriend slaps me around for a few laughs! And, if
that’s
not bad enough, I’m stuck with a stupid fucking angel who I can’t even get
cab fare
for! So, as far as I’m concerned, this has been the
shittiest
days of my life!” She looked up at Joth, hoping for some sign of understanding in the angel’s colorless eyes, but saw only emptiness. “Oh,
forget
it! I should know better than to expect sympathy from you! Well, at least there’s no way things could possibly get any
shittier.”

Lucy got to her feet, leaning her shoulder against the now-barren wall before limping across the foyer to close the door. An explosion of black dots momentarily filled her vision, swarming like clouds of mosquitoes off a stagnant pool. She winced and rubbed the back of her head. There was a lump the size of a duck egg just below the crown. Combing her hair was going to be a
lot
of fun over the next few days.

As she locked the door and slid the security chain into place, she became suddenly aware of a prickling on the back of her neck. She’d only felt anything like it once before: back when she was nine years old, and a tree ten feet away from the picnic pavilion had been struck by lightning. Although she dreaded doing so, she had no choice but to face whatever it was that was making every hair on her arms and neck stand at full attention.

She turned around and saw what looked to be a rip in the fabric of time and space in the middle of her living room. At least she assumed that’s what it was, not being overly familiar with such things. It was as if her living room was merely a piece of painted scenery that someone had cut a slit in from backstage. As the edges widened on the vulva-shaped portal, arcs of blue-white electricity shot forth. Accompanying the electric light show was a source less wind that rattled the windows and kicked up small whirling dervishes of dust bunnies and grit. Lucy shielded her eyes as best she could while gripping the doorjamb to keep her balance. Although her eyes were nearly squeezed shut, she could see a figure of some sort framed against the light. She looked to where Joth was standing and saw that the angel was pressed against the far wall, cowering in fear, its hands raised in ritual supplication.

There was a final, explosive burst of bright light and the wind from nowhere fell still. When Lucy dared to look again, the rift in the living room had disappeared and in its place were two figures, the sight of which made her realize that the shittiest day of her life was, indeed, far from over.

The first figure was humanoid in appearance, in the sense that it stood upright and had two arms, two legs, and a single head, while also being a lion. But not a big, fuzzy, cuddly
Wizard of Oz
Cowardly Lion type lion with a ribbon in its mane. This was an eight-foot-tall lion with a muzzle full of razor-sharp teeth and long, curved claws made from brass. Its mane fell to its muscular chest and was composed not of hair but tongues of fire. The humanoid lion also had huge wings of flame, which it flexed and twitched in time with its tail. However, despite the crackling flames, the temperature in the room did not rise, the paint on the walls and ceiling did not bubble and blacken, and the smoke alarm remained silent.

But as fearsome and disturbing as the winged lion was, it was nothing compared to its traveling companion, which hovered at its side. It was a gigantic eye roughly the size and shape of a beach-ball, surrounded by a corona of the same heatless fire the lion’s mane and wings was composed of. A mass of twitching, writhing tentacles, like those of a jellyfish, were tightly clustered beneath it.

At the sound of her gasp of horror, the floating orb swiveled in Lucy’s direction, revealing a cornea as big as a dinner plate and a pupil the size of a saucer. Lucy shrieked once and quickly clamped her hands over her mouth. The giant floating eyeball looked her up and down, and then seemed to quickly lose interest, swiveling back in the direction of Joth, who was still cowering in the corner, looking like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming tractor trailer rig.

Although it did not open its mouth, a deep, gravelly voice came from the direction of the winged lion. “Joth of the Lesser Elohim
,
you have left the Clockwork without permission of the Hierarchs. It is my duty, as a servant of the Clockwork, to escort you back to the Host.”

Lucy frowned. These creatures—whatever they were—were Joth’s superiors? Which meant they must be angels, too. But they looked nothing like anything she’d ever heard tell about in church. At least Joth more-or-less fit the part of an angel, but these two looked more like what she imagined batted for the away team.

The winged lion beckoned with its brass talons. “Come forward, Joth, and present yourself so that you might be Cleansed before your return to the Host.”

Although Joth was clearly frightened out of what little wits it possessed, the angel did as it was told and took a hesitant step forward, looking like a child who knows he’s about to be beaten within an inch of his life, but can’t understand why.

The sight of the normally placid creature’s trembling limbs and fearful expression struck Lucy like a fist. Whatever intergalactic moving violation Joth might have committed, surely it didn’t warrant such trepidation on the poor schmuck’s part. It seemed so unnecessary. These weirdoes were simply power-tripping on the poor guy. And nothing pissed her off more than bullies.

“Hey!
Who said you jerks could come in here and start ordering people around?”

The winged lion glanced over its shoulder in her direction, wrinkling its snout in distaste. “What is a
deathling
doing here?” it growled.

“I
beg
your pardon? I happen to
live
here, thank you very much! And I
don’t
remember inviting you—whoever
you
are!”

The winged lion blinked with a second pair of eyelids, which momentarily turned its blazing eyes into clouded marbles. “I am Nisroc of the Seraphim. This is my appointed watcher, Preil of the Ophanim. All of Creation is ours to traverse.”

“Oh,
yeah?
Well
this
piece of Creation happens to be
mine
, pal! And I
don’t
take kindly to strangers showing up and harassing my house guests!”

Joth stood riveted, watching the conflict between Nisroc and Lucy with uncertainty. The floating eyeball pivoted on its invisible axis and fixed Lucy with its unblinking gaze.

“This is most irregular” said the ophan in a high-pitched whine, like a dentist drill given voice. “This deathling is capable of perceiving us, Lord Nisroc!”