Natural Born Angel Read online

  “You’re chasing ghosts, detective. This is downtown. You know that. It’s different from the west side.”

  Sylvester was deep in thought.

  “Now, if we’re done, I’m hoping you’ll excuse me. I’m one queen away from a full house,” Rusalka said, motioning towards the card game outside.

  The detective stood up and followed as the man led them out of the dingy room and into the smoky card game.

  “Now where were we. . . ?” Rusalka asked the other men as he reached the table.

  “I’ll show myself out,” Sylvester said, walking past the man in the wife-beater who had let him in.

  Sylvester stood outside in the dark alley, taking a deep breath. He coughed, his nose burning from the thick pollution from all the trucks running on the freeways that encircled downtown like a noose.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he cleaned his glasses again and mopped his brow.

  Another dead end. Shouldn’t have been surprising. The detective’s higher-ups in the ACPD had thought he was wasting his time by taking this case. A dozen missing, mostly homeless men and women from Skid Row, half of them John and Jane Does, right around the same time as this fire at the homeless shelter: not exactly front page news after the mysterious bombing of the Angel offices just a week ago, and not exactly a high priority for the police, either. The Angels had pull in their namesake city.

  But Sylvester couldn’t help feeling something was going on. And if there were twelve reported disappearances, how many actual disappearances were there? Sure, it could have been coincidence. But things were happening elsewhere. And Sylvester had learned to trust his intuition. Higher-ups in the ACPD had quietly urged the detective to quickly wrap the case up so it could simply be moved to a dead-end file in missing persons and they could label the fire as an accident, since the examiner wasn’t sure it was arson. But Sylvester wasn’t ready to move on. Not just yet.

  The detective’s mobile phone rang from inside his jacket. Sighing, he reached into the breast pocket and pulled out his phone. He checked the caller ID: it was headquarters.

  “Sylvester here,” the detective barked into his phone. He listened to the tinny voice on the other line. “Right now? I’m all the way downtown.”

  He paused to listen again.

  “Yes, I understand,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  When the elevator doors opened on his floor at the ACPD, Detective Sylvester found himself facing his old partner, Bill Garcia.

  “What’s going on, Bill?” the detective asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Susie and the kids and I were just sitting down to dinner when I got the call. I just got here.”

  Sylvester simply nodded.

  The two police officers began walking together through the open bullpen of cubicles that served as command for the Homicide Division of the ACPD. Sylvester’s mind wandered briefly back to the year before, when he had been tracking the demon that had been murdering Angels along the Walk of Angels.

  He thought of the night he was taken off the demon case, when he’d had a cubicle in this very room. His dismissal from the case had come by direct order of the Angel authorities. His bosses had planned to boot him back downstairs to deal with petty larceny, but instead of going home that night, he’d tracked the demon to Angel City High School, just in the nick of time – it had cornered Maddy and Jackson. Then, after his plan to help the girl and wrongly charged Angel escape Angel City had failed, the detective found all hell breaking loose on the freeway when the demon attacked the convoy of Angel vehicles. With grim purpose, he had driven to the NAS headquarters and challenged the Archangels to act – before it was too late. Some people in the department had called him a hero. In his eyes, he was just doing his duty and didn’t want a fuss.

  After Sylvester’s vindication during the demon crisis last year, all had been forgiven, and the detective had even been given a little more authority, along with his own office off the main cluster of cubicles. He’d become golden in the department. His office was small, the coffee-maker didn’t work, and the blinds looked like they came from 1982. But it was a good space for working on cases.

  Taking a breath, the two police officers stepped into the office. Captain Jim Keele smiled broadly when he saw them. He knew how to lay it on thick when needed.

  “David, Bill, come in,” the captain said, a steaming cup of coffee on his desk.

  “Captain?” Sylvester said expectantly.

  “You want to know why you’re here. Understandable.” Keele put his elbows on the table and grinned tightly. “You may have heard about the bombing of the Angel offices last week.”

  Garcia raised an eyebrow. “You’d have to be living under a rock not to know about it, sir.”

  “So you both understand the importance of this case. And right now we have no leads, except for a drowsy office worker on a smoking break who thought he maybe saw something. This is making things . . . difficult for us. For the department. A big black mark on our police work. Our lab hasn’t been able to pull anything of value from the site, and we’re standing around twiddling our thumbs.”

  “We’re running labs, Captain? What about the Angels?” Sylvester asked. “From what I’ve heard, they’re confident they can find those responsible. They’re insisting they can handle it themselves. They’re convinced it’s the Humanity Defence Faction, or some kind of splinter group.”

  “He’s right, Captain,” Sergeant Garcia said. “You sure you want to go against the Angels on this thing?” Garcia added, “We stay out of their way. I thought that was ACPD department policy if they gave the say so.”

  Captain Keele clasped his hands together in front of him. He leaned forward on the desk. “I can’t say from where, but we’re getting pressure on this thing. It doesn’t matter if the Angels think they can handle this alone. We’re doing our own investigation, whether they want it or not. You’ve seen what’s going on with Senator Linden, the support he’s gaining across the country. Some winds may be changing in the department. This goes high up. Higher than you would even dream. As you can imagine, politics are involved. Which is why we’re keeping this close.”

  Detective Sylvester narrowed his eyes, looking through his glasses at the captain. “About time at least some of our commanders got out of the back pocket of the Angels.” He motioned to Garcia beside him. “So what’s our role?”

  “David, we’re bringing you in special to handle the investigation from now on. Sergeant Garcia, you will be assisting in the investigation. You two were world-beaters last time around with the demon killings on Angel Boulevard. Let’s see if you can do it again.”

  Detective Sylvester pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Calmly, he put them back on and looked at Captain Keele: “You know how many homeless have gone missing this week now, Captain, before and after that fire? I just came back from downtown. We could be dealing with some sort of serial kidnapper or murderer or perhaps arsonist. We need to be focusing on this, as well. Maybe I could split— ”

  The captain cut him off. “One hundred and one per cent of your time is to be spent on this new case, Detective.” He took a sip of his coffee. “We have a mass murder, you investigate the murders. Not ghosts out on Skid Row. Have I made myself clear? Do you not see these stripes?” he said, motioning to the bars sewn into the uniform on his shoulder, indicating high rank. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you have some police work to do. You are dismissed.”

  Sylvester went home, but he wasn’t looking to relax: he was running two investigations now, whether Keele knew it or not.

  The dark spires of the Blessed Sacrament Church rose beyond the window of the detective’s apartment, which was in a classic Spanish-style Angel City building from the 1920s. The detective found a glass and placed two ice cubes in the cup.

  Opening a bottle of twelve-year Scotch h
e kept on top of the fridge, Sylvester poured himself a drink. The amber of the liquor spooled with the melting ice. He swirled the ice once, then twice, and took a drink, letting the warmth drop down his chest.

  Sitting down at the couch, he turned on the small TV he sometimes pulled out from the cupboard. He’d had to buy the digital-to-analogue converter in order for it to work any more. Somehow it seemed more sensible than getting one of those flat screens. He took another sip of his drink.

  As it warmed up, the TV showed footage of people huddled under blankets, being ushered away from a scene by emergency workers.

  “. . . and officials worry that at least fifty have died in a train-derailing accident at St Pancras Station in London. This comes just a day after an electrical storm in Northern Germany caused a series of fatal accidents along the Autobahn outside Hamburg.”

  Sylvester was watching the TV with one eye, the other on the case file in front of him. A correspondent was reporting from inside St Pancras Station, which was a combination of sleek, futuristic European styling and lighter neo-Gothic arches and details. The reporter was standing on the platform in front of a twisted and crumpled Eurostar train. It didn’t look strange for a derailment, although the reporter was saying that these modern trains had an impeccable safety record.

  But Sylvester suddenly stiffened.

  Standing up with the glass in one hand, he took a sip while turning the volume up with the other hand, all the while his eyes fixed on the screen. He got closer to the television and peered as the woman continued speaking.

  “Experts say they have little evidence for technical failure in the high-speed train, and forensic investigators are working to find some cause for the terrible accident in London today.”

  Sylvester leaned even closer, almost as close as he could to the screen. Behind the woman standing on the platform, behind the train wreck itself, along the red brick walls, were marks. Deep in the brick. They were so consistent as to almost look like stripes – or claw marks. Sylvester studied the image on the screen until it cut back to the anchors in the studio.

  In a daze, the detective walked back to his couch and sat down.

  The voice from the TV prattled on:

  “And up next: how Angels and Protections in the Immortal City are taking Senator Linden’s latest jump in the polls only five weeks before the election and after the Council threatened to retaliate against the Immortals Bill. Is the senator as dangerous to Angels as many claim?”

  He reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

  Sylvester drained his glass and pulled his laptop – a piece of technology he’d begrudgingly allowed the department to give him – out from under a stack of papers. After opening the computer, he searched for “St Pancras”, and dozens of hits came up. He began scanning the images of the accident.

  The clear, hideous gashes in the brick walls of the train station appeared again and again in the images. No one on the Internet seemed to comment on them; apparently they assumed the crashing train had made them. But the detective knew better.

  He had seen marks like that once before.

  Last year on a prison cell wall, dripping with blood.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jackson looked out of the tinted car window and took a breath. A dull sound could be dimly heard from outside, almost like being underwater. He looked over at Maddy, who anxiously peered out of the window. She took a big breath. Jackson wondered if she’d ever really get used to it. He’d been born into it, while the attention and chaos was being thrust upon her suddenly.

  The valet opened the door, and any sense of quiet dissolved into shouts, hollers and screams. Jacks and Maddy stepped on to the red carpet to the event on Santa Monica Boulevard. A mass of photographers pressed against their barricades, shouting, their cameras flashing, their voices competing with a throng of die-hard Angel followers who screamed in delight as they saw Jackson and Maddy pull up.

  The red carpet correspondent for A! gleefully announced to her viewers back home: “Angel City’s ‘It’ couple, Jackson Godspeed and Maddy Godright, have arrived at the event tonight!”

  The whole mess was held back by a cluster of security personnel who kept things in line for the Angels as well as Protections who were arriving.

  Maddy and Jacks took their first steps along the carpet, adjusting to the blinding flashes.

  Taking a deep breath, Jackson tried to summon the memory of what it had been like. Before the injury. He began walking down the carpet, trying to hide his still slightly noticeable limp. The crowd could sense something was slightly off – this was one of just a handful of official public appearances he’d made since he’d been injured. Nevertheless, Jackson turned, looked out into the adoring crowd, and waved, getting a large cheer from the fans. He smiled widely in appreciation.

  Suddenly he heard a cheer just as big, if not bigger, as the one he had received. He saw that Maddy was no longer by his side – she had stopped and was signing some autographs.

  “Maddy! Maddy!” the photographers screamed. “How was your first day of training? Jacks! Jacks! Jacks! Are you giving her any tips? Jacks, when do you think you’ll be back as a Guardian? Maddy, when are you going to get your wings?!”

  Maddy and Jacks just smiled and lightly waved at everyone, making their way down the red carpet.

  “Over the shoulder! Over the shoulder!”

  Maddy had enough experience to know by now what this meant. She cocked her body slightly away from the photographers on the edge of the carpet and looked back over her shoulder at them.

  “Who are you wearing?”

  “It’s a new designer named Fluxe from Paris,” Maddy said. She smiled as widely as she could as Darcy and her new assistant, Christina, met them and shepherded them through the on-carpet interviews.

  After a few interviews, Jackson and Maddy walked into the main event space, which was a lavishly decorated courtyard. Delicate, twinkling lighting was strung across the elegant space, as huge platters of oysters, bottles of champagne and steaming platters of seared scallops all streamed by, served to the beautiful Angel clientele, who indulged themselves with the best the Immortal City had to offer. The ruckus just outside now seemed to be a thousand miles away.

  Every head turned as Jackson and Maddy entered the space.

  A waiter with a tray of drinks somehow materialized at their side. Jacks pulled two full glasses off. “Thank you,” he said to the waiter before the man disappeared into a cluster of Angels across the room.

  Maddy looked suspiciously at the drink in Jackson’s hand as he offered it to her.

  “You’ve finished your first week of training. We have to celebrate!”

  “I still have a long way to go,” Maddy said quietly, thinking of what the professor had told her about the conflicting theories on her wings. And how totally out of place she felt at Guardian training. How much she had to learn. “And I have to wake up early tomorrow. I think I’ll stick to sparkling water.”

  Jackson leaned down and kissed behind her ear. “Maddy, you are going to do great. You already are doing great. Did you see how everybody looked when we walked in? They’re looking at you. They’re seeing what I’ve seen in you all along. I can see the Angel coming out in you. Embrace it.”

  “I guess so,” Maddy said uncertainly. Looking at Jackson’s flawless features, she wondered, as she had so many times, how she could even measure up to this Angel perfection. But Jackson’s eyes were so eager. Maddy squeezed his hand. “I mean, I know so. I know what you’re saying, Jacks.”

  Jacks wrapped his arm around her waist and turned away from the party-goers so that they had a private space on the periphery of the crowd.

  “How was the treatment today?” Maddy asked. “Dr Liebesgott has been trying out some new method, right?”

  A shadow crossed Jackson’s face at the mere word treatment. He couldn’t help it, Mad
dy knew. The Angel tried to keep his upbeat attitude, but his tone gave him away. “It’s going fine,” he growled. “But I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, Mark’s helping me find other ways to be useful. If that’s even possible.” He seemed to realize he was sounding a bit gruff and brightened his tone. “Let’s see if we can find Mitch and my sister.”

  Maddy wished she hadn’t said anything, but it worried her so much to see Jacks struggling every day and not getting better. Each day she hoped he would turn the corner to full recovery and rejoin the ranks of what she knew he wanted more than anything: to be a Guardian. What she herself was now training to become, she reflected uncomfortably.

  Leading her by the hand, Jacks took Maddy across the courtyard as they looked for Mitch. It was true, everyone was staring at them. But Maddy was kind of used to it by now. Jacks glanced over towards the bar and saw his sister.

  “I’m going to ask Chloe if she’s seen Mitch. Do you want me to bring you a seltzer?”

  “Sure,” Maddy said, kissing him in thanks. Jacks started walking through the crowd. In his wake, Maddy heard a female voice say clearly, “How is she going to make a save without any wings? Take the bus to try to make it in time?”

  There was no mistaking the Australian accent.

  Shrill laughter came out of the small group of Angels clustered around Emily Brightchurch, who was standing with her back to Maddy just a metre away. Emily was wearing a short skirt with a pair of towering Fendi heels that complemented her fierce crimson hair – and made her legs seem to go for ever. She turned around, oh-so-casually.

  “Oh, hi, Maddy. It’s funny, we were just—”

  “Emily,” Maddy frostily replied. She didn’t want a confrontation. Not tonight. Maddy unconsciously pulled at the right strap of her dress, which was digging into her shoulder.

  The Aussie sex symbol looked Maddy up and down. “Is your dress too small? There is a lot of pressure to size down here. And, you know, being an Angel takes a lot of work. I haven’t seen you at the gym lately. Just some friendly advice. The camera adds ten pounds.”