Last of the Mighty (23 page)

“Augustine.”

My dad and I embraced. I didn't realize how much I'd missed him. I looked around. We were back in the dream forest.

“Heaven still chimes with tales of your exploits, my son. Well done. Very well indeed.” He was beaming. “No father has ever been prouder.” His smile was a mile wide.

He looked the same. Shiny black hair, white tunic, gold forearm guard, and that overwhelming love for mankind glistening in his lavender eyes. We talked for a while about the battle with Phaeus and how I was doing. About Amos and how things were going with Merryn and me. It felt very father/sonish.

“Where've you been?” I finally asked.

“Please, accept my apologies.” He bowed his head a bit. “Vero has been quite a taskmaster.”

“Vero?”

He nodded. “I've replaced poor Phaeus as the Chief Magistrate's attendant.”

“Wow. That's like…a huge raise, right?” I tried to sound upbeat, but knew Gadriel's promotion meant he wouldn't be around as much. If at all.

“It is a great honor,” he said, but I could tell he wasn't buying it. “Yet one that has not been etched in stone. I remain in what you might call a probationary period. As you may have ascertained by my dress.” He looked down at his lack of Fifth Choir gear.

What could I say? Don't go, I need you? Turn down a job closer to God because I want you here with me instead? It sounded so selfish. It was selfish. I reminded myself that my Father, yeah that One, knew best.

“Vero will not wait long for my return, dear Augustine, and I have come with a message. As you may well know, Heaven is rife with the rumor that Pit will open shortly. The time has come for you to amass your forces.”

“My forces?”

“You are of the Mighty, my son. Born to lead armies.”

“Yeah, I-I know. But how am I gonna…you know, recruit an army?”

“Timoah will assist you.”

There was that name again. The guy who had told Amos to spike the cemetery with hidden relics.

Gadriel read the question off my face and answered. “Timoah is a Holy Watcher. He and I are the only two that have remained pure since the day God made us. He will contact you in the days to come. If you—”

A voice echoed through the trees. “Gadriel!” it said.

My father's face fell. “Vero calls.” He looked so sad. I knew exactly how he felt.

“I will come to you again, my good son. When, however, I cannot say.”

We hugged. For too short a time.

“I love you with all of my heart, Augustine, and always will.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

It was the first time I'd said those words out loud.

It felt good. Felt right.

Much better than watching him disappear anyway.

Merryn and I had a date the following evening.

I arrived at her porch and decided not to knock on the door. I opted for the pebble-to-the-bedroom-window trick instead. Keeping it fresh.

As expected, every small stone in a hundred mile radius had mysteriously evaporated. Miraculously, I finally found one and let it go at Merryn's window.

It hit the target with a gentle tap.

Merryn peeked out.

I waved.

She smiled then bolted out of her room. I could hear the thunder of her feet on the stairs and across the entry.

She flung open the door, vaulted down the porch steps, leapt into the air, and snapped herself to me, peppering my face with kisses.

“What up, Og?” Uncle Will grinned from the doorway and gave me one of those sideways peace signs aimed at his own chest. Ganglander cool.

I gave him a chin bob and said, “Same ol'.”

Like he'd predicted, Uncle Will's article about angel ranks had been published in a few magazines. It was plain to see he was still thrilled about it.

“Come on,” Merryn grabbed my hand. “Let's ride.” And she grinned, joy sparking off her like a firework.

I opened the Ford Falcon's door for Merryn and she got in. Yep, the old, two-door station wagon was mine now. Amos left it to me in his will, along with a few other items, including every NAACP and CIA relic and some cash. Owning some of his stuff didn't make it any easier to live without Amos, but his gifts had been a nice surprise.

We waved to Uncle Will and Aunt Laurel as we drove off.

The hostess at Mama G's led us to a booth. We passed Keira and Tucker having dinner together. They'd been dating for a month now. Looked good together, too. Happy. We exchanged greetings before taking our seats in the corner. I arranged to pay for their meal.

We ordered, and Merryn took my hand under the table, squeezed it. Her gaze smiled at me.

I peered back at her and the world stopped.

After all this time, it was still hard to believe that someone with those lips and those eyes and that face and the purest heart I'd ever known was in love with me.

The pizza came and we dove in.

I said, “Saw my dad last night.”

“Yeah?” She grinned. “Me too.” She hoisted her eyebrows. “My real dad.”

Her real dad? What?

“You met your biological father?” This was big. “I didn't even know you were lookin' for him.”

“Wasn't.” She munched away, all no-big-dealish. Typical Merryn. The underplayer. “He found me.”

He found her? Was that even legal? I held my eyes to hers, waiting for some filling in of the blanks.

She just kept on chewing, bobbing her head and squishing up her eyes in the throes of all that sauce, melted cheese, and doughy crust. She even tossed in a few mm-mmm-mmmm's.

“Well…” my voice and face asked.

“Well what?”

“Whattaya mean ‘well what?'” By now, I'd even put my pizza down. It was that serious.

“Now, now.” Merryn sipped her Coke. Casual. Kidding with me. “No reason to get so Oggravated. Geez.”

My eyes hit her with the c'mon-spit-it-out-sister.

She heaved a weary sigh, as if I was forcing her to tell me the most mundane thing in the world.

“Okay, okay.” She smiled. Took another taste of Coke.

I leaned forward onto my elbows, dying for the deets.

“Well, whattaya wanna know?”

“How ‘bout we start with his name?”

Merryn gave me a nod. “Yeah.” She swallowed. “Okay.”

Finally, we were getting somewhere.

She looked me straight in the eye, and with a knowing smile, said, “His name is Timoah.”

Phineas Foxx
lives in a small beach village with his incurably gorgeous English wife, two perfectly beastly teenagers, a rotund Chihuahua and an elderly cat that may live forever.
Last of the Mighty
is his first novel.

Chapter One

Dixie Chauvin lugged a box into her new place and dropped it in the doorway. She hoped it was filled with clothes or Tupperware or anything other than her grandmother's china, but the thing was heavy. In a hurry to pack, she'd forgotten to indicate which boxes contained something fragile, so who could say what was crumbling inside the cardboard container.

The closing on her new home had gone off without a hitch, and she was still waiting for something to go wrong. The house was perfect. She'd fallen hard for it before the real estate agent had even opened the door the first time she'd toured it.

A wrought iron fence outside wrapped around a tiny garden where Hostas and Hydrangeas hid under a sprawling oak tree, one of the only ones left on Royal Street in the French Quarter. The courtyard opened to three grand buildings that were linked together by heavy canvas awnings. The other structures currently housed businesses, each with brick archways sheltering the porticos by their front doors. In the center of the courtyard was the quaintest fountain, also brick. Dixie could hear the sound of water cascading into the shallow pool beneath it from anywhere in her new digs.

When she'd stood in the doorway the first time, she had envisioned herself relaxing in a chair, catching a few rays as people wandered in and out of her boutique. It would be the most talked about in New Orleans, filled with silver jewelry and accessories you couldn't find anywhere else.

The crème de la crème was the studio apartment on the second story. The panel windows boasted a view of half of the French Quarter. She was finally in the process of realizing a long-time dream. Dixie couldn't remember the exact thing that had drawn her to the place. She'd seen twenty others before this one. Some of them had been updated and were ultramodern. Others were still gutted, awaiting the new owner's suggestions on decorations. She'd felt at home when she entered this particular space, as if its walls had known she was coming and were radiating a greeting just for her. Perhaps it was the brass spittoon in the corner of the flat upstairs. Maybe it was the parlor with its mahogany floors that had recently been refinished, or the columns in the foyer that the previous owner had restored and painted pure white.

Gazing around at the bare walls, it wasn't hard to wonder if the items she'd picked up in flea markets and antique shops would do them justice. It hadn't been easy to choose pictures that reflected the age of the building. Maybe it would have been easier if she'd had more knowledge about the place's history. At least then inspiration could be drawn from that information and something unique could be achieved in the interior design. As she stood with her hand on her hip staring at a blank wall imagining the place complete, her cell phone rang.

She fumbled through her knock-off Prada purse, which sat on the tile by the fireplace, and then answered. “Hello. Dixie Chauvin.”

“I hate when you answer that way.” Her best friend since childhood, Emily Jordan, snickered through her rich New Orleans accent.

“I'm trying to sound professional,” Dixie protested as she tossed her dishwater blonde bangs out of her eyes and tracked up the stairs.

“I thought I'd spend a week or so with you in the new place. That way I can help you get everything set up. What do ya think?” Emily always sounded cool. Not much rattled her, but she knew Dixie better than anyone, and she'd probably waited to call just to make Dixie squirm a bit.

Dixie stopped halfway up the stairs and leaned against the wall, expelling a grateful sigh. “Girl, I'd love it.”

Even though she had fallen head over heels for the place, she wasn't looking forward to spending time there alone. It was in the French Quarter, which had tons of superstition and creepy stories tied to it, and anyway, something about older buildings had always made her wary. She figured in a few weeks she'd become complacent and look forward to the seclusion.

“Good, because I've already packed my bags.” Emily giggled.

Emily had rented an apartment not far from Dixie because she was going to help her run the shop. They'd grown up in Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans, but Dixie didn't want to fight the traffic every day, and Emily had, without hesitation, quit her job answering phones for a doctor as soon as Dixie signed the purchase agreement.

“Come whenever. I'm going upstairs to stow my clothes in that gorgeous armoire in the apartment.” She started up the stairs once again, shifting the mound of blue jeans and dress pants she'd thrown over her arm.

“I won't be long. I'll pick us up a couple of cups of gumbo and a salad from Deanie's, and then I'll be right over.” Emily could always be counted on for food. Even though she reminded Dixie of a beanstalk, with her wiry frame and lanky limbs, she'd never missed a meal.

Dixie was in the loft by then and let out an exasperated gasp.

“What?” Emily's perky tone changed to concern.

Dixie crossed the cavernous space to the kitchen and started slamming cabinets and drawers. “Nothing.” She flipped around, kicked the bottom drawers closed, and frowned because it was the third time she'd done this particular task since she bought the house. When Emily chuffed at her non-response she said, “It's just the doors and cabinets are open every time I come in this building. Either someone has been extremely diligent in making sure they left nothing behind, or they're trying to drive me nuts.”

“Maybe the foundation tilts,” Emily offered.

“I guess so.” Dixie slapped the last two doors shut and pushed a box of dishes she'd dragged up the stairs earlier across the floor and then she hung the phone up.

If there was one thing that annoyed her, it was open doors and drawers. When they were kids, Emily used to walk through the house flipping all the cabinet doors open just to watch the reaction she got when Dixie entered the kitchen or bathroom. She bit her lip as she glared around the room and decided it might be the only fly in the ointment where the property was concerned.

The linen closet behind her was wide open, and as she leaned forward to shut the door, an aged piece of paper caught her eye. The interior of the cupboard wasn't lined with sheetrock but wooden panels, just as the bathroom and pantry in the kitchen were. The yellowed paper was stuck between the slats of the wall.

She snatched the page from its hiding place and pressed it against her thigh. It smelled like old tobacco and mildew, and she crinkled her nose while reading the words.

They bring their cameras alas,

Locking girls into this past.

Never can their faces glow,

For truth of who they are, few know.

Room and board and a portion they pay.

And I ask myself why do they stay?

What were the horrors they knew before,

Desperation brought them to this door?

Each night I sleep and pray to thee

Won't you set these young girls free?

Bindi Lanoux

Dixie felt the paper, which was more like parchment, and decided it could be as old as the house. It had probably been left behind by a prior resident, but she really liked the antique look of it. She'd frame it later and hang it on the wall in the parlor. She shoved the poem into the pocket of her jeans and went about unpacking.