Mercury Rises (3 page)

Eddie stifled a laugh at his earlier fears. This woman wasn't an agent of some insidious entity looking to employ a disgraced angel to do their dirty work for them; she was a representative of Midford's publishing company, who thought she had located Midford's elusive ghostwriter.

"Hold on," said Eddie. "You're trying to finish the series even though Katie Midford is presumed to be dead and the setting of the book is a three-hundred-yard-wide crater in the middle of Los Angeles?"

"Yes, well," said Wanda, "I'll admit it's a bit distasteful when you phrase it like
that
. But the book is already completed, right? And what better way to honor the memory of Katie Midford than to release the final book in the series as she had intended, along with the accompanying movies and merchandising."

Eddie frowned. Something still didn't make sense.

"If you have the finished book, what do you need
me
for?" he asked.

"Ah," said Wanda. "As I say, we're going on Midford's assurances that the book was nearly done shortly before the...Anaheim incident. We've never actually seen the book, but we assumed from her comments that the writer...that is, that you were nearly finished at that point."

"So," said Eddie, "the official story is that Katie Midford handed you the completed manuscript only days before her tragic death, and that you are fulfilling her final wishes by publishing it?"

"Oh my," said Wanda excitedly. "You do have a way of spinning a story. Yes, that's exactly it. We want to be true to Midford's dying wishes. I must remember that."

Eddie's brow furrowed. "And you're doing that by tracking down her ghostwriter in an attempt to get him to finish the series she was pretending to have written?"

"Exactly," said Wanda. "Of course, as I said, we assumed from Katie's assurances that the book really was nearly done. But if you're working on..." she looked somewhat distastefully down at his scribblings, "...something
else
, then I suppose we'll just have to accept the fact that Katie Midford's dream will go unfulfilled, along with our fourth-quarter revenue projections. Oh, Mr. Pratt, it breaks my heart to think of the poor children who will never get to see the seventh Charlie Nyx movie, and the poor shareholders who will, through no fault of their own, lose a valuable piece of intellectual property. Breaks...my...
heart
."

"Shareholders," murmured Eddie, the word echoing meaninglessly in his head. His brain had screeched to a halt in front of an earlier word in the sentence, and it now stood (in a figurative sense) stock still, with its eyes wide and its jaw open, staring at the word in awe. Lovely Wanda Kwan, the vaguely Asian-American publishing company representative, had uttered, through her lip gloss and perfect teeth, the one word that every writer secretly yearns to hear. That word is
movie
.

"Ms. Kwan," he began.

"Call me Wanda, please."

"Wanda, there is something I need to confess to you."

"Yes?"

"This manuscript, this book I'm working on...it's not really about an angel named Mercury."

"No?"

"No. It's about a young boy with a dream and a magical staff. A boy named Charlie Nyx."

"But you said---"

"I know what I said, Wanda. I was lying. You see, I was nearly done with the seventh book when I heard about Anaheim and Tia...Katie..."

"You call her Tia Katie?"

"Er, yes," said Eddie. "It's Spanish for
aunt
. She was like an aunt to me, you know. You know, a, um, Spanish aunt."

"She was like a Spanish aunt to so many people," said Wanda.

"Yes," Eddie went on, "and I didn't think there was any way the book would ever get published with Anaheim in ruins and Tia Katie dead, so I...changed it. I renamed a few characters and made them angels instead of, you know, what do you call them...?"

"Troglodytes?"

"Right, instead of troglodytes, because I was hoping to get it published with a different title...but underneath those superficial changes, it's still Book Seven of the Charlie Nyx series."

"Oh!" Wanda exclaimed. "This is so wonderful! Think of how happy the children and their parents, the shareholders, will be, when we announce that Katie Midford's dying wish, the publication of
Charlie Nyx and the Undead of Anaheim
, will proceed!"

Eddie felt a gnawing in his gut.
The Undead of Anaheim
? Good lord, was there any way that this project could be in poorer taste? "Right," said Eddie, trying to maintain his enthusiasm. "We're married to that title, are we?"

Wanda laughed. "It's only printed on the back covers of thirty million copies of
Charlie Nyx and the Tunnels of Doom
," she said. "So sure, we can change it." She chuckled and shook her head.

"So not really then?" asked Eddie.

"No, not really," Wanda replied cheerily. "You'll have to work with that title. I'm sure you can come up with a tasteful way of handling it."

Eddie began, "I'm a writer, not a---"

"I know, not a miracle worker. Don't worry, we've got a whole staff of writers who can help you work out these little problems."

"Oh, miracles I can do," said Eddie, "but
this
..."

She pretended not to hear him. "And once Book Seven is done, we'll have to talk about other projects. A lot of people are saying angels are the next big thing. I'd love to hear your ideas for a movie about a rogue angel at the...how did you phrase it?"

"The adventures of a rogue angel on the brink of the Apocalypse," said Eddie numbly. Wow, could it be possible? His report, ignored by the angelic powers in Heaven, made into a Hollywood movie?

"Oh, I do love the sound of that," gushed Wanda. "First things first, though. What's the earliest you can make it to Los Angeles?"

Eddie smiled. "If I leave right now, I can be there in four hours."

Wanda laughed. "You writers and your crazy imaginations," she said.

THREE

As the writing career of Eddie Pratt seemed poised to take off, that of Christine Temetri was about to crash and burn in the wake of a series of events that turned out, once again, not to have been the Apocalypse.

Her employer, the Christian news magazine known as the
Banner
, soldiered on despite having been deprived of its
raison d'être
, its headquarters, and its leader, Harry Giddings. Nearly a third of the
Banner
's staff had been killed in the earthquake that had leveled its building, and Harry had been violently sucked out of Mundane existence at the peak of his career by one very bad apple.

Troy Van Dellen, the
Banner
's irrepressibly chipper news editor, had rallied the staff at an abandoned strip mall in Yorba Linda two days after the Anaheim Event, as it was being called, and had even managed to put out a special edition of the magazine covering the near-Apocalyptic events that had occurred in Southern California of late (besides the earthquakes and the puzzling obliteration of Anaheim Stadium, a mysterious wildfire had blazed for days in the San Bernardino Forest). Now, six weeks later, it was becoming clear that without some firm direction from the
Banner
's corporate parent, the magazine would fold in short order. Deadlines were being missed, stories were going uncovered, and the staff members who weren't dead or missing were shell-shocked and demoralized.

Thus it was almost a relief when Troy informed Christine of an emergency meeting in the
Banner
's makeshift offices at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning. It was undoubtedly bad news, but at least their days in limbo would be mercifully brought to an end.

Christine trudged into the cavernous, fluorescent-lit building that had once served as an electronics outlet store. The folding chairs, Formica tables, and haphazardly placed phones and laptop computers reminded her of her meeting with General David Isaakson in a concrete block house on the Israeli-Syrian border---a meeting that had ended abruptly when the house collapsed, killing Isaakson and nearly killing her. And yet, somehow this hollowed-out shell of a store, with its stark lighting and faded sale posters that advertised long-expired special offers on electronic components that nobody needed five years ago and certainly didn't need now, managed to be even more depressing than the building that had tried to kill her. The most cheery item in the whole place was a poster depicting a starving African child, at the bottom of which were the words YOU CAN HELP. Christine sighed and sank into a chair, gripping her caramel macchiato with both hands.

Christine was tired. She hadn't slept well since she and Mercury had averted the Apocalypse. Partly she was having trouble readjusting to Mundane reality after having seen the strings holding it all up, but mostly she was finding it difficult to sleep on Troy Van Dellen's couch because his house smelled oppressively of lavender and his cat kept trying to sleep on her face.

She hadn't returned to her condo in Glendale since it had been invaded by demons. Her stated reason was that the earthquake had damaged the walls---which was true---but in reality she couldn't shake the image of the hulking, demonic Don materializing uninvited in her breakfast nook. Presumably the linoleum had been torn out by Uzziel's lackeys, but she wasn't feeling up to confirming the fact herself.

As she sat nursing her coffee, two men Christine didn't recognize were engaged in hushed conversation with an uncharacteristically somber Troy Van Dellen in a distant corner of the room. While they talked, the rest of the
Banner
's extant staff trickled in and, after a few forced pleasantries, seated themselves in anticipation of some kind of announcement from the higher-ups. They didn't need to wait long. One of the men, an older, balding gentleman in an expensive gray suit, left the huddle and strode toward the tables. A few paces behind him followed the other stranger, a stocky, pink-faced fellow sporting a blond crew cut. The older man stopped a few paces in front of the assembled staff members, cleared his throat, and spoke for precisely fifty-three seconds.

He said, in a staccato style that reminded Christine of movies from the 1940s, "Good morning. My name is Gardner Vasili. I'm an attorney representing the estate of Harry Giddings. I am, in accordance with Mr. Giddings's will, ordering the immediate dissolution of the entire
Banner
organization. All of the
Banner
's remaining assets have been sold at a private auction to a company known as the Finch Group. The Finch Group is, as you may know, the publisher of several magazines, including the country's fastest-growing news publication, the
Beacon
. As the
Beacon
is rapidly adding staff, I encourage each of you to consider applying for a position at their headquarters here in Los Angeles. I have in my hand," he said, waving a stack of envelopes, "an envelope for each of you. Inside are your last paycheck and a business card with the phone number of the
Beacon
's head recruiter. When you call, please tell them that you were an employee of the
Banner
and that you were personally referred by Gardner Vasili. Your dedicated service to the
Banner
will be taken into account. My associate, Dave, will lock up." He handed the stack of envelopes to the blond fellow, evidently named Dave, and walked out.

The room was silent for a few seconds. Then the staff erupted into a flurry of questions, pleas, accusations, and epithets, all directed at the hapless Dave, who had clearly been selected for this job due to his lack of knowledge of virtually everything other than how to hand out envelopes and lock doors behind him.

Christine took her envelope and grabbed Troy's as well. She handed it to him, and he smiled wryly.

"Guess I'll see you at the
Beacon
," said Troy, with a wink.

"Oh, absolutely," said Christine. They each opened their envelopes, pulled out the business cards, and tore them to pieces in unison.

"See you tonight?" asked Troy.

Christine nodded grimly. "One more night," she said.

"No worries," replied Troy. "I think Morrissey is starting to like you." Troy had named his cat Morrissey. Christine was afraid to ask whether it was because the cat physically resembled Morris from the old 9 Lives cat food commercial or because he temperamentally resembled the lead singer of the Smiths.

Christine had to admit that although she still didn't really get along with Troy, he had been exceedingly gracious about letting her crash at his house. And she and Troy shared another bond: their unmitigated hatred for the glorified birdcage liner known as the
Beacon
.

The
Beacon
was, in many ways, the mirror image of the
Banner
. Whereas the
Banner
had been established by a religious fundamentalist looking to herald the Biblical Apocalypse, the
Beacon
had been founded by a strident atheist who was hoping to usher in a glorious era in human history based on Science and Reason. The
Beacon
was, in fact, founded as a direct response to the
Banner
by Harry Giddings's chief rival (some would say nemesis), Horace Finch. Finch was a secular Jew who had assembled a network of television and radio stations throughout Eastern Europe after the collapse of the Soviet Union. His secular media empire gradually expanded toward the west as Harry's Christian empire moved east, and the two men had once met for drinks and a fist-fight in Tours, France.

Neither magazine had ever made a profit, both having been founded for ideological rather than pecuniary reasons. Toward the end, in fact, the rivalry had mutated into a contest of which magazine could bleed more red ink and still survive. Every day the
Banner
lost its thousands and the
Beacon
lost its tens of thousands. And now that Harry was dead and the
Banner
was on the verge of collapse, Finch had evidently decided to take the high road by looting its rival for its assets and staff. The
Beacon
didn't need any more reporters or editors; Christine could only assume that Finch's true motivation was to obliterate any memory of the
Banner
and prevent it from ever rising from the ashes.