The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (21 page)

He tossed his cigarette out the window. Even
its sizzle in the damp street concerned him. But with the
pedestrians and the raucous traffic he doubted his quarry could
stand being so finely attuned. Setting a hand on his gun, he lit a
fresh cigarette, bared his teeth through the smoke.

Felon turned to the papers on the seat beside
him. Margaret Travers. Age (Pre-Change): 37. Height: 5’ 8”, Weight:
130 lbs., Hair: Brown, Eyes: Green. Felon pulled her picture out.
Pale, a few freckles around the nose. Full lips. Slight overbite.
She was employed as a paralegal for Divine & Fair Law, a firm
that represented the Jehovah’s Witness offices in Archangel Tower.
Travers had worked with them off and on for forty years, and acted
as temp secretary for offices of other world religions in the
Tower.

The assassin imagined her Angel boyfriend
putting the moves on her there. A little cinnamon smell to the
air—a sprinkling of cologne. No woman would be able to resist a
Divine creature’s powers.

He looked up from the papers, glared at the
buildings. Travers owned one of the unimaginative condominiums that
lined both sides of the street. Hers had seven green steps that led
up to the two-story brick structure. The number and mailbox were
brass, as was an ornate knocker on the dark wooden door and railing
that followed the steps up to it. The file said she worked until 5
p.m., sometimes ate at Daniel’s Cafe but most often made dinner for
herself at home. She was punctual person with a penchant for rock
climbing and bicycling.

Felon set a cautionary note next to the rock
climbing. Since death was no longer permanent with the Change, most
people avoided thrill seeking, since living death was everyone’s
worst nightmare, especially a death by massive trauma—like a fall
from a cliff. After Blacktime, the unconscious period between life
and living death, bones and contusions did not heal. There were
surgical and repair techniques that could fix broken bones and
skeletal injuries, but few people took the chance of dying lightly.
Travers was a risk taker and she could be dangerous. He’d he cap
her fast.

Felon set the file down. Most likely, Travers
didn’t know her boyfriend was an Angel. When one of the Divine or
Infernal host walked the earth, he did so as a mortal for the
duration of his stay. Powerful—but mortal. And mortality bred
cowardice among the immortal. While they walked the earth, they
could catch colds, sprain an ankle or be seriously compromised by a
high caliber bullet. They retained a large percentage of their
Divine powers of perception, and they had immense strength. If they
had the time to shift into their Divine forms they were
invincible.

Felon looked back to Travers’ file. Passport
had delivered it and a notarized document for the 3 million dollar
cash deposit in the assassin’s account. A quick call to the bank
confirmed it. The file saved him having to do the backgrounder
himself and he was short of time. Using the Demon’s research
presented some risks, but the Baron had a legion of Demon soldiers
he commanded if he wanted Felon out of the way. There was no need
for the ruse.

Just before three-thirty, the assassin
watched a bus pull up to the curb across the street about
seventy-five yards south of him. That was her bus. She’d be on it
at six. A figure bundled in a wine-colored trench coat got out and
walked along the block toward the Travers’ condo. As he watched,
Felon struggled with his suspicions. He didn’t want to trust Balg
and hated more the fact that by proxy he had put his faith in a
Fallen. But the money was delivered. And they knew who they were
dealing with.

Felon looked away when he realized the
approaching figure was a woman. He’d found that women could sense a
stare. He had no scientific proof, but they seemed to know when
someone’s full attention was on them. Even if he was well hidden
women could tell when they were being watched.

Men were easier to surprise. For the
majority, if they had no reason to suspect a trap, it didn’t enter
their minds. Probably had something to do with the fact that men
were not preyed on as often. So for women, the assassin had
cultivated the sideways glance. He watched as she hurried against
the gusting wind and rain with one hand holding the brim of her
dark fedora and the other clenching a briefcase to her chest. The
woman glanced at the car, looked away and glanced again. Felon
dropped further down in his seat when she got close. The Angel
would be attuned to living things. Might even scan the street
through other eyes. The assassin had parked far enough away, but he
knew too much about Angels to take any extra risk. The woman
relaxed her grip on the brim of her hat as she walked past Travers’
home.

Felon made a mental note to park farther from
the bus stop next time. He took a deep breath and let his mind
shift back to the hunt. The hit had to be fast. An Angel took about
a second to shift to his immortal form, and the only way to delay
that was with heavy damage. High-powered handguns would be best.
Automatics, so he could chew a big hole quick.

Felon felt adrenaline rush through him as he
inventoried his armament. He would have his .9 mm in one armpit,
and the .44 magnum in a handmade holster across his belly—three
speed-loaders for that. He’d sling his Derringer in a holster
between his shoulder blades. He’d stick a .38 revolver in his right
boot and a 12-inch bayonet in his left. He counted extra clips and
speed-loaders for all the guns. Beneath his black suit and overcoat
he would wear lightweight Kevlar body armor and padding. All he
needed was that second delay.

He started the car and pulled away from the
curb. He’d drive a big loop and park farther down so he could watch
Travers when she got off work at five. Balg’s file showed her off
tomorrow, which would be a good time for her Angel boyfriend to
stop by for some earthly delights.

Felon would kill everything in the house.

29 - Ardor

He sensed the commotion too late to do
anything about it. He couldn’t move as quickly as the unleashed
Powers, so he knew he’d never make it back to the hideout in time.
The City of Light’s transit system was overcrowded and prone to
delay, and it was at such times that he regretted his disinterest
in automobiles. They were expensive and wasteful and they’d done
irreparable damage to the planet, but they would come in handy
during moments of crisis. Especially when it concerned Dawn’s
safety.

He growled impatiently and swore at passing
taxis, and then paced at each subway station, running between
transfer points—only to see the time saved consumed by dawdling
travelers and delays at stops. Most of his cavalry charge was set
to the music of silent cursing.

Mr. Jay ran the last few blocks to the
hideout. He charged into the building, heedless of the danger signs
he smelled everywhere. If something happened to Dawn he’d burn the
City!

A shudder ran through him at the top of the
stairs. Bullets and violence pockmarked the wall opposite the
hideout door. Dull light shone through holes around the doorframe.
Holding his walking stick like a club, he vaulted up the last steps
and leapt over the ruins in the doorway.

One quick look showed him that the gunfire
had come from inside the room—still not good but better. He studied
the scattered debris. Bullet casings clinked underfoot. He took a
deep breath and knelt at Dawn’s cubbyhole. The door was open. He
thrust his head into it. A light perfume of candy and children’s
soaps momentarily raised his hopes and brought tears to his
eyes.

Dawn was gone.

His fingers closed in the soft material of
her quilt. He dragged it out and clutched it to his chest as he
surveyed the damage. The shattered remains of a pink plastic teapot
wrung his heart.

The Powers
had entered. He looked
around the collected dust and detritus on the floor.
And more
little ones
! He stooped to study small footprints that
displayed in bits and pieces from beneath the clutter of wreckage.
That should be good.
Should be
because forever children were
unique creatures in his experience. He had no idea what a group of
them would do. But they weren’t known for violence against each
other. If there were murderous elements among them, their anger was
usually directed at the adult population.

But Dawn wasn’t like them—forever children in
a city like this. They were toughened by a life on the run. He
studied the shell casings: all of them from small caliber weapons
fire. So the kids had the guns.
Good
. He couldn’t resist a
small grin. That’s a topsy-turvy statement for a topsy-turvy world.
Their small bodies couldn’t counterbalance big weapons.

He turned his attention to the violence at
the door. Under powdered plaster and splintered wood, he saw faint
outlines, stains of spilled fluids. And then his spirits fell. He
recognized the pattern:
Ardor
, the blood of Demonkind or
Fallen. A sudden wave of panic shook him, threatened to sweep him
away. Dawn!

The chances of forever children repelling an
attack by Demons were small, and now that he had identified the
Ardor
, he sniffed the air for its potency. There was always
residue—always a hint to the amount that had been spilled. The kids
must have been well armed to spill so much. He kept the quilt
clutched to his chest and picked up his chair from the pile of
wreckage. He sat on it.

Neither Demons nor Fallen liked to have their
blood spilled, especially by mortal means. If that was the case,
the attackers either had a powerful personal motivation or they
were being compelled by great force. It had to be the Prime. He
remembered his vision of the pentangle.

He sniffed the air, but caught no hint of
human blood. He opened himself—
no
some there and there, only
drops. Flesh wounds perhaps, nothing more. That was good.

He shook off a wave of despair and got to his
feet. There was no telling where to start looking if Dawn was in
the hands of Demons—and Fallen were no better. Anxiety lashed him
until he pushed the thoughts of Dawn’s capture aside.

The small amount of human blood suggested the
forever children had survived the battle. If they were lucky, they
might have had some Powers of their own, and managed to spirit Dawn
away. And if they had failed to defend her they were either on her
trail or would have information that he could use to get her back.
He had to get her back.

Mr. Jay surveyed the room and then set about
collecting unopened cans of food and other undamaged supplies he’d
need on the hunt. These he put into his pack onto the neatly folded
shape of Dawn’s quilt.

30 – Human Error

Stoneworthy drove onto Towerview Avenue with
about twenty minutes to spare. The greasy rain smeared the
windshield with each stroke of the tattered wipers and forced him
to slow. Able was never a man to worry about the little things in
life: that guaranteed his apartment was out of coffee, his nose
hairs needed trimming and his car was in need of new windshield
wipers for over a year. The details were overshadowed by the larger
spiritual matters that usually consumed his waking life. There was
an occasion where he wore only one sock to the office. When Karen
asked him about it, he explained that it was the only clean one he
could find.

But when a man actually meets an Angel his
perspective changes. The little things will never look the same
again. Of course he had to be sure he didn’t expect too much from
others who hadn’t shared the experience. They were allowed to
doubt. That was why he was reluctant to tell Karen that the Angel
was expecting them—such a thing sounded ridiculous. And she already
had too much on her plate.

But
he
knew an Angel expected them at
eleven-thirty and he was terrified that he’d be late. It sounded
unbelievable to
him
and he’d actually looked an Angel in the
face. He didn’t want to push his luck with too much talk of the
visitation. She’d come this far on his word alone and he valued the
trust.

He knew he should talk to Karen about what
was bothering her, but this wasn’t the right time for it. He wasn’t
focused, and while her problems warranted attention, his mission
took precedence this once. They needed to find the right time to
talk. He was very worried about her.

But he couldn’t stop thinking how thrilled he
was that the Angel had chosen
him
. His work on Archangel
Tower had made him a minor celebrity among the City of Light’s
populace, but for such a thing to gain him the trust of an Angel?
What was he to God’s Firstborn children? A handful of clay—a pinch
pot with eyes.

He hoped his humility would be enough to gain
the trust of the Divine sinner. And that was the approach he’d
decided to take. Sin is sin, and we’re all God’s children. Who
better to guide one out of the wilderness than another who was
lost?

He coughed, and then politely waved at the
accumulating smoke. Poor Karen had been chain smoking for the
entire drive and had only opened her window a crack. The
environmental disaster she created was beginning to wear on the
minister’s patience—especially when he watched her use the lit end
of the last cigarette to ignite the next.

Stoneworthy realized he was being selfish.
Karen looked horrible. Worse than she did the day before. It was
obvious that his words of caution had fallen on deaf ears. Looking
at her now, it was as though she had found a way to multiply the
actions that resulted in her deathlike pallor and overall sickly
appearance.

He rolled down his window all the way. His
left shoulder was already quite damp. The minister leaned in toward
her about to speak—but her appearance silenced him again. It was
more than nervousness that made her face so severe. Then he
realized what might be the cause. He cleared his throat quietly and
glanced over.