Landing (3 page)

Gabe sucks on his lip. “We take
breaks sometimes. Me and Tarren. One of us stays here, keeps an eye on the
place. The other does his own thing for a couple of days.”

“What?” I sit up. “You take off?
Just like that? What do you do? God, what does Tarren do?”

Gabe doesn’t meet my eyes. “We
don’t talk about it. It’s kind of a way to let off steam. Have some semblance
of privacy.”

“Oh come on, what could Tarren
possibly do? Go fishing? Lie out at a resort and drink strawberry daiquiris?”

Gabe shrugs. “I have a theory, but
it’s really none of my business.” He gives me a teasing little smile.

“Tell me.”

Gabe shakes his head, and his bangs
tumble across his eyes. “None of my business,” he repeats.

“You’re right. We need to respect
Tarren’s privacy,” I concede. I lie out across the roof on my stomach and perch
my chin on my forearms. I don’t look at him. I don’t say anything. Silence
cloaks us.

Gabe hates silence. He cracks in
less than two minutes.

“Prostitutes.”

“Oh, no way,” I giggle. “Not
Tarren. He’s so…about his…” I let it go. Gabe knows about the scars. “And
besides, he’s…well, it’s Tarren.”

“He’s a man,” Gabe shrugs again,
“and guys got needs. He comes back smelling like perfume sometimes, like
flowers. Once he even had scratches on his neck.”

“Yeah right.”

“It’s just a guess.” Gabe’s smile
loses its strength, and the shades of blue in his aura lighten as he becomes
thoughtful. “I’ve never asked him about it. Actually, I hope it’s true. Everyone
deserves to get laid.”

I let the moment stretch out
between us until I finally say, “And what do you do when you’re off the angel
hunting clock?”

Gabe looks at me, sighs, and turns
his gaze back up at the stars. I’m expecting some crazy lie about African
safaris or intergalactic space travel, but finally he says, “WildStarz2346, her
real name is Amanda, and she’s…sweet. Real shy. She lives in Denver.”

“You actually visit one of your
Second Life girlfriends?”

“Yeah. She’s got a pretty face, and
she cooks. She brings me breakfast in bed. It’s nice. She’s nice.” The shades
of his aura shift to a pale lilac. He’s fond of the girl, but it doesn’t extend
past friendship.

“She’s not Francesca,” I say.

“Francesca will forgive me.” The
smiles have slipped off his animated face. “Amanda and I keep each other
company.” My pompous brother is suddenly shy. The truth usually does that to
him.

I feel that kick again in my ribs,
the one that reminds me how lonely my brothers are in their secluded little
compound, fighting their secret war against the angels; risking their lives and
saving complete strangers for no glory, no money, no recognition of their
sacrifice.

“I think Francesca will
understand,” I tell Gabe. “You know, whenever you actually get around to
informing her that you’re kind of a superhero and that she’s madly in love with
you and lusting to have your babies.”

Sex and babies. And round we go
again.

Gabe chuckles, so it was worth the
sting.

“We’ll have a small, quiet wedding,
just family,” he muses. “I’m going to build her a porch swing, and we’ll lie
out there all night together before we go in and have mind-blowing sex.”

“I knew that mind-blowing sex was
coming.”

“Orgasmic, mind-blowing sex.”

“I get it Gabe.”

“With your super senses, you’ll
probably have to wear earplugs at night, you know, since we’ll only be a couple
miles down the road.”

His energy is riling up. The pale
shades of lilac are washed away beneath an infusion of deep plum—the color of
lust—and his aura beats fast like humming bird wings. I curl my hands into
fists beneath my chin. We’re too close together. The song grows loud, and my
thoughts turn flimsy and incongruent.

“Alright, conversation over,” I say
and manage to maintain a jocular tone. In a quick motion I am up and walking
swiftly across the roof. I drop down, catch the edge of the shingles, and swing
through the open window of the big master bedroom that used to belong to my
biological mother, Diana.  

“Goodnight,” Gabe calls through the
roof. When he starts whistling
That’s Amore
, I hum along as I pull out a
pair of PJs. The hum peters out as I take off my shirt and catch a glimpse of
myself in the mirror. Sometimes when I’m not paying attention, my own
reflection startles me. Tonight I’m ready for the short, auburn-dyed hair and the
wiry muscles stretching beneath my skin. I twist a little to catch sight of the
birthmark on my left shoulder and then quickly look away.

I lie down in bed and stare at
Avalon spread out across the ceiling. Avalon, the perfect world that Ryan and I
dreamed of, drawn by his skilled fingers, which connected to his hand, his
wrist, that arm I miss so much in the morning. An idiotic dream, matchstick
strong, that we thought was amazing and funny until it wasn’t.

Chapter 4

That night, I sleep a little, dozing
in fits until my body is satisfied. The night stretches long and quiet, a
convenient caldron for my thoughts to simmer and boil up over the lip. When
Grand’s face pushes through, I get up and walk into the hallway. I don’t turn
on any lights. Don’t need to. I feel the tug of my brothers’ auras as I pass
each of their rooms.

I tie my gaze to the banister of
the staircase and plant each step with purpose. I don’t dare stop or break from
the invisible rail I am walking. Once I get down to the living room, things are
better. I uncurl my hands.

My feet take me to the garage,
where my cage of rats sits on the workbench. As soon as I approach, the five
rats scamper to the far corner of their prison and huddle in a pack of
shivering, multi-colored bodies. Their yellowish energy leaps in fearful waves.
The separate glows blend together so it almost looks like they are all
connected inside a single bubble of light.

I stare at the rats, listening as
the hunger revs up in sweet melodies throughout my body. I pull off my left
glove—for no reason this is my preferred killing hand—and snatch a rat from the
pile. It squeals and writhes in my hand while its furry brethren watch on. I
release the tension of my control, just a little. The skin peels back from my
palm, the bulb comes up all hot and engorged. It latches onto the rat’s aura
and…

Silence.

The animal’s energy rushes through
me. No song. All of me is quiet. Then the madness kicks in.

I want more. That dark part of me,
my inner monster, is trying to kick down the door to the control room. I drop
the limp body, press both palms flat on the workbench, and wait out the storm
of addiction.
Workbench, hammer, motorcycle, gun cabinet…

It takes a minute until my hands
are steady enough so that I can pull my glove back on. The addiction is a known
adversary now, though it never gets easier.
Semper ardens.
It’s an
irrevocable part of the angel package, and it doesn’t help that I keep myself
on the edge of starvation in order to retain control. Precious control. I don’t
know how much longer I can stand this.

While I’m leaning over the bench,
recovering, a random thought flits through my mind. Something awesome. And I
just go for it—giggling quietly to myself the whole time — and then carefully
replace the duct tape when I’m done.

***

I wait on the roof for morning, but
the sun is taking its sweet time clamoring over the horizon. The sky is still
purpley dark, and the air is cold inside my lungs. The door below opens and
closes. Tarren steps out. He looks up, and I jump down, landing softly next to
him.

He takes off with long, powerful
strides, and I follow at his shoulder. Tarren puts himself through a brutal
penance, ratcheting up the pace, plunging deeper into the tangles of the forest
on a faint deer trail. Together we race against his demons.

Tarren is utterly unbearable
sometimes, well, most of the time. Especially now, when I think I can
understand.

We jump over roots, shimmy down
embankments, and dig in to get back up them. My own muscles begin to complain,
but I stay at Tarren’s side. His energy beats low and smooth, finally calm at
the apex of his suffering. Only then do we turn back.

Gabe is already at his computers
when we return, scanning through the latest Google alerts, trying to suss a
whisper of pattern from the dead. Bluegrass melodies spill from his Bose
speakers in fast, twanging harmonies.

I take two water bottles from the
fridge, guzzle the first without breathing, and wipe my mouth politely on my
sleeve.

“Anything?” I ask, coming up behind
Gabe. I glance at the shelf above his computer and assess the ongoing war
between his action figures. Ninja Turtles fight against X-Men. Chewbacca
throttles Batman. A Precious Moments figurine has an eye patch black-markered
onto its ceramic face and a plastic sword buckled over its pale blue overalls.
Superman has lost his leg, but he’s still up, leaning against the back wall and
plowing his fist toward a Jonas brother action figure.

“Angels, no. Obit of the Day,
maybe,” Gabe answers. “Listen to this—guy is found face down in the street with
Christmas lights wrapped around his leg. Electrocuted. But there’s no outlet
anywhere, and no one can figure out what the hell he’s doing with Christmas
lights in October.”

“Huh.” I stare at the spread of his
three monitors. The Google map on the left screen is a quilt of
different-colored pins. Whites are confirmed icicles, reds are maybes, and
those black beads each represent an angel found and killed. There are over 100
black pins scattered across the country, each surrounded by or trailing a cloud
of white.

“Think it qualifies as Obit of the
Day?” Gabe asks. The middle monitor displays obituaries. The best way to find
an angel is to follow the trail of bodies. On the right monitor, Rashad Patel,
our murderous college recruiter, gives me a rakish grin from his Facebook page.

He’s handsome. His friend count
indicates that he was well liked. Those same friends have scrawled sad,
hope-filled messages across his wall. They want him to be found. They want him
to be alive and back in their lives. His wife most of all. She posts a long,
elegant request for some sort of communication from him. Anything. She begs.

Does she know what he is?
I
wonder.
Is it possible to hide something like that? To kiss her and touch
her without losing control? She must know. She’s not a victim.

“Well?” Gabe asks. I study the
color of his aura, its gentle currents, searching for a reflection of my
distress. Nothing. He’s been playing this game his entire life, and he still
hasn’t figured out that the pieces aren’t plastic.

“I don’t like Obit of the Day,” I
answer.

“You just can’t appreciate the
divine comedy of death,” Gabe says. “Oh, hey, since you’re here, have either of
you seen my hat?”

“Which one?” I ask casually.

“Tree,” Tarren calls from the
kitchen. He’s washing off an apple in the sink.

“What?” Gabe yells over the water.

“It’s in the tree outside. Tall
one.”

“Maya, what the hell?” Gabe swivels
around to face me.

“Whoa, let’s cool it on the wild
accusations.” I hold up my hands. “Clearly it was Tarren. You know how he’s
always pulling shameful pranks for attention.”

I consider giving Tarren my
patented Squint O’ Death when he walks in the room, but decide to tone it down
to a Squint O’ General Aggravation. Tarren takes a bite of his apple and
shrugs.

We follow Gabe outside and crane
our necks up at the maple tree that stands at the edge the forest behind the
house. It is a gorgeous specimen, with roots thicker than my thigh and long
branches that carry bouquets of bloody leaves. Up top, the branches grow wafer
thin. Gabe’s lucky hat is threaded through the highest one.

“Oh, you suck,” Gabe groans.
“Clearly you’ve gone dark side and are now using your powers for evil.”

Tarren takes another bite of his
apple.

“The wind will probably knock it
down,” Gabe says after a while.

“No, she used duct tape. See.”
Tarren points with the apple, and I laugh.

“Whoops, I suppose I did.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just watch your
back from now on.” Gabe extricates himself from his hoodie revealing a
threadbare Transformers t-shirt.

“Gabe don’t,” Tarren says. “Maya,
go get it.”

“She put it up there cause she
thinks I can’t get it,” Gabe objects, “but I can.”

“It’s too high,” Tarren says.

“Oh ye of little faith.” The air
curls around Gabe’s nostrils. He runs a hand through his wavy locks, which are
the same coffee color as his eyes.

“I hate this fucking tree,” he
grumbles then takes a running start and grabs hold of the lowest branch.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Tarren
says and tosses the apple core a little ways into the woods.

I cup my hands over my mouth and
yell, “Come on Chuck Norris!”

Tarren’s aura grows brighter, more
jagged.

“Relax,” I tell him, though now I’m
beginning to tense. Gabe is climbing swiftly, moving up toward the top of the
tree where the branches are too thin for his weight. Tarren’s energy sparks the
heat in my hands. I anchor down the skin on my palms, but I still feel it, hear
it. The song sings me lullabies of murder.

“He shouldn’t be doing this,”
Tarren says, and his aura picks up pace around his body.

Gabe finds a perch and stands,
panning the upper branches and catching his breath.

“Alright, you’ve proven your
point,” I yell to him. “Let me go up and...”

“No, I can get it. I see how.” Gabe
is moving again. A branch snaps under his foot, and Tarren’s energy flares. I’m
already running to the tree, calculating how to get to him, but Gabe deftly
swings to another branch that doesn’t seem wide enough to stand on. He wobbles
and crouches low to catch his balance. And then he’s there, just below the hat,
reaching up, unwinding the tape, and pulling it off the branch.

He puts the cap backwards on his
head and shouts triumphantly, “The forces of good always prevail!”

His descent is slower and more
wrenching to watch. I know that Gabe is incredibly agile, but to my eyes, to my
humming body that could shimmy up and down that tree like a staircase, he seems
awkward and limited in his movement and balance. Tarren’s as rigid as a corpse
in rigor, and I don’t think Gabe has any idea of what goes on in his brother’s
head, how wildly Tarren’s energy whips when Gabe is in the least bit of danger.

There are two more close calls, and
by the time Gabe drops to the ground his elbows are scuffed and bleeding, and
he’s got leaves and twigs tangled in the waves of his hair. With dignity, he
scoops up his hoodie.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have
work to do,” he says dismissively and brushes past me. Tarren and I watch him
walk back to the house.

“You’re right, it was stupid and
dangerous,” I say.

“He’s a lot happier now. With you
around,” Tarren says and follows Gabe into the house.

I sway on my feet. This is a
stunning pronouncement coming from Tarren—he who often displays only
resentment, distrust, or open malice toward my presence. My knees feel funny,
so I sit down at the base of the tree. The wind picks up, blowing moist,
defeated maple leaves through the grass.

I hardly notice. Instead, I play
Tarren’s words in my head, touching them again and again with my mind like they
were a talisman. I try to hold it back, but a smile breaks through my
reservations. These little bits of happiness seem dangerous and brittle, but I
give in, let the smile linger, and listen to the wind.