Angel Of The City (14 page)

But then he got into the dust. Month by month I watched him deteriorate, getting more hooked. Soon he was using all the money he got from scavenging just to pay for coal. He and my father got into several fights over it, some even coming to blows, but not even the old man could break the dust
’s grip on him.

Then one day I found a coat. Someone had thrown away a coat with three silver buttons. I couldn
’t believe it. Only some slag from the Garden District would have thrown away something so valuable. Selling those buttons would bring enough food for a week. My hands were shaking as I cut them away and quickly shoved them into my pocket before any of the other kids could see. But I wasn’t quick enough. Cole saw me.

He stood over me, his nose black from the dust, his eyes glazed over.

Give them to me, he said.

But dad hadn
’t found work in weeks. We were all so hungry. I knew if Cole got the buttons the money would be gone, up his nose in a pile of coal dust.

No, I said.

He threw himself on me in a rage, his eyes crazy. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. In the last couple of years, I’d grown bigger than him. Even so, he knocked me down easily and was tearing at my pocket and the precious buttons.

I wish I could say I don
’t remember hitting him, but I do. I remember it so clear. It was Cole who taught me that if you found yourself on the losing end of a fight, a strike to the throat could change things in a hurry. I can still see my hand closing in a fist as he sat on top of me; still feel the cartilage snap and break under my knuckles.

He fell back and landed on the trash pile, the back of his head hitting something hard. His eyes looked up at me unbelieving
, as red foam bubbled from his mouth. I didn’t make a move to help him. I just stood there, frozen, until those eyes went dark.

I never told my father the truth. He died
years later, never knowing who had killed his oldest son. By that time, I was the undisputed king of the trash piles. That was when a Counselor offered to sponsor me at the academy. Like everyone else, I had a deep-seated hatred of Counselors, cultivated at my father’s knee. But it was a chance to escape, to escape the poverty and misery of the seventy-fourth, to escape my past. I never even said goodbye to my mother as I followed him to his van.

I stir, not even realizing that my hand has moved to my left front pocket. Through the material, I caress the outline of the three silver buttons.

The sound of Pen awaking draws me from my thoughts. “No,” I say, to Abby’s questioning look. “No other kids.”

W
hen I wake, the first thing that irritates me is that I’ve fallen asleep in the first place. The second is that Abby is gone. The light in the room is dim, almost dark. I look behind me and can just see Pen still lying on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding the wound to her leg. I check her pulse—fast and thready. She needs a doctor and soon.

Abby returns
through the opening in the rubble, holding the flashlight.

“
Where have you been?” I ask.

“
I climbed the pipe and lifted the grate to look around.”

“
I thought I told you not to do that.”

“
It’s dark enough,” she snaps. “And Pen is getting worse. We have to get her to a hospital.” There’s an edge to her voice. She’s afraid.

“
Do you know where we are?”

She shakes her head.
“No. I don’t recognize the street. It looks deserted though. Curfew is in less than an hour so we shouldn’t be seen.”

“
Ok. You stay here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“
Stay here and do what? Hold Pen’s hand as she dies while I hope you don’t get caught or killed? I’m coming with you.”

There doesn
’t seem to be any reason to argue so I don’t. We decide to leave Pen here for now until we can figure how to get her out. The less we move her, the better.

We crawl up and over the rubble
to the cavern and I quickly reach the top of the storm drain. The light from above is fading fast. I carefully lift the access grate and poke my head out. It opens in a walkway next to the street. Like Abby said, it looks deserted, but we can’t take any chances. Since the raid of the station house, every Blueshirt and Counselor in the entire city will be working double shifts looking for us.

I pull myself out then reach back and help Abby to the surface. It
’s difficult enough for her, but I have no idea how we’re going to get Pen out in her condition. Right now though, I need to locate a shadow maker.

Once out, I lead us quickly to the relative safety of the shadow of the near buildings. They
’re mostly mid-level structures, fifteen to twenty floors with shops on the street level and apartments above. I can just make out a street sign on the corner in the last rays of daylight. Carpenter and 103nd street. I was wrong. We haven’t been moving east as I thought, but north-west. We’ve come up in the Heights quarter. And no one is going to want us here.

I explain the situation to Abby.
“I’ve done business here before, but I don’t know the area well. There used to be a shadow maker two blocks west, but that was years ago and he may be long gone.”

We make our way west through the alleys.
It’s risky because if other shades are out, that’s where we’ll run into them. Most shades work alone, but in the Heights they’re known to run in gangs—tribes really—who ruthlessly fight one another for control of turf and who absolutely do not tolerate outsiders. But the open street poses a greater risk. Besides the Counselors and Blueshirts, eager little eyes will be monitoring every video surveillance feed from around the city at CIS headquarters. We’ll just have to move carefully and trust to luck.

But luck, as they say, is a slag.

We’ve only been winding through the back streets and alleys for ten minutes when someone steps out from the shadows and blocks our way. I hear sounds behind us and don’t have to turn around to know our escape is blocked.

In the glare of a nearby scanner, I can just make him out. He
’s tall, six-three, six-four with shoulders that almost fill the alley. His hair is cut close to the scalp and his skin is so black it’s almost blue. He’s wearing some kind of tunic that drapes down to his knees and in his right hand is a machete.

I feel Abby draw close to me. I have the revolver in my pocket, but I have no idea how many are behind me or how they
’re armed, and starting a firefight would only draw Blueshirts and Counselors.

I raise my hands up slowly.
“I don’t want trouble. I just need to find a shadow maker.”

“
You need shit, Bonifrei,” he says, correctly guessing my birth quarter. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but a shadow maker ain’t going to fix you after we’re done.”

“
My sister,” Abby blurts out, “she’s been shot. She needs a doctor.”

“
Who the hell are you?” he asks.

I take a chance.
Someone has spent months spreading the myth of the Angel throughout every quarter of the city, why not use it to our advantage? “She’s the one the Counselors are all looking for,” I say. “She’s the Angel of the City.”

I
hear murmurs behind me.

The big man steps to the side and points across the street. On a building wall is a large white A, encircled.
“Her?” he asks.

Abby
nods.

The murmurs get louder, but b
road-shoulders looks unimpressed. “Is that right? Never met her myself, but they say she been in the Heights before. Met with some people. Guess if you was her, you’d know something about that.”

It
’s a challenge, and for our sakes, I hope Abby can answer it.

“
Yes, I uh… I met with someone named Benny Reese about three months ago.”

He nods.
“Benny, yeah, that’s what I heard.” His expression doesn’t change, but at least he lowers the machete. “Who shot your sister?”

At this point we have nothing and when you have nothing, more times than not, you
’re better off going with the truth. “Devon Blaze,” I say.

He snorts.
“Yeah? She shoot him back?”

I nod.
“Killed him.”

He grins a full set of
gleaming horse-teeth. “Good. Slag was always trying to muscle in on Heights territory. Where’s the girl?”

“
Next block over; Carpenter and a hundred and third. We came up through a storm drain, but I don’t know how we’re going to get her out. She’s hurt pretty bad.”

He nods his head slowly, as if thinking, then calls to his men behind us.
They step past us and huddle together, whispering. There are six of them and I notice that at least one has a pistol tucked in the back of his belt. When the huddle breaks, two men go running ahead. Broad-shoulders taps another on the chest. “Go tell the old man to get ready.”

The rest of us head back to the grating. Most of them pay me little notice, but seem intensely interested in Abby. I climb down with two of them and check on Pen while they mutter between them about the best way to get her out. Her breathing is rapid and a thin layer of cool dampness covers her face.

A few minutes pass before we hear a commotion above us. I look up and see a narrow metal basket, six feet long, being lowered by ropes through the opening. With help, I’m able to lift Pen and carry her over the rubble and into the cavern. The two men with me must have done this before, because it takes them only a minute to secure her into the basket. Once lashed inside, they give a signal and the basket rises, pulled up by those above, with us helping to guide it through the narrow opening.

I
’m the last one out. Four of them lift the basket with Pen still in it and carry her across the street and through another series of alleys. Broad-shoulders and I walk together with Abby in front.

“
You have someone who can fix her up?” I ask.

He nods.
“Real doctor too, not some shadow maker. He’ll want to be paid though.”

“
I can pay.”

“
Yeah, I figured. I recognize you. Seen you in the quarter before; did a little trading with some of my people.”

I nod.

“Lots of stories been floating around, Bonifrei. Rumors. For months we been hearing about the Angel of the City. Then we hear she’s captured and sent to the One Twenty Seven, only she escapes. They say a shade got her out. You the one?”

I nod again.

“Shit. I figured it was all Ministry head-games. Never really believed it. Never even believed she was real.”

He looks up ahead to where Abby is walking next to the basket, holding Pen
’s hand. “Lots of people do believe in her though. Lots of my own people, even.”

“
Like this Benny Reese?”

“
Benny ain’t one o’ mine; he ain’t no better than a rabid dog, but he’s major. He don’t own the Heights, but he takes a big chunk of the rent. He and I had some dealings a time back. Didn’t turn out so good. Truth is, he’d just as soon cut off my head as look at me. I heard about him meeting the Angel a few months ago. Ever since, he and his been going on about it, getting people all riled up. Say she’s going to bring down the Ministry and the Council both. Is that the truth? She got the power to do that?”

Honesty
’s been working so far, so I stick with it. “No.”

“
No. That’s what I figured. But the truth don’t matter, does it? Enough people believe in something and it becomes the truth.” He spits on the ground. “Council is going to come down hard on her when they find her.”

“
I know.”

“
Yeah and I don’t want that shit happening here, you got it? You get the girl patched up, then I want your three pale asses out of the Heights. Go to the Aramaic quarter. Let them find you there and burn down that garlic-smelling ghetto. They’d be doing the world a favor.”

It
’s four blocks before we stop at the back door of a non-descript duplex. Broad-shoulders knocks and a man opens the door, a little older than me. They exchange words and it’s clear the old man is none too happy. But a meaty finger thrust into his chest a few times changes his mind and he relents, angrily waving us inside.

The men lay the basket carrying Pen on the floor of the kitchen. In the bright light of the room she looks even worse and I
’m beginning to think we’re too late.

Broad-shoulders introduces Abby and me.
“This is Dr. Buyam; works at the clinic in the two sixty one. Does a little work for me on the side as well.”

Buyam is just under six feet tall, graying at the temples with a pencil thin mustache and wire-rim glasses. Lighter than broad-shoul
ders, he’s glaring at me with intense hazel eyes.

“
Two hundred,” he says. “And no argument.”

I reach into the envelope Devon gave me and peel away the exact amount, laying it in his hand.

His attitude eases up a bit when he sees the money, but not by much. Under his direction, Pen is gently removed from the basket and laid out on a long dining room table. Abby stands near her head and strokes her hair.

Buyam removes the blood-soaked bandages and shakes his head as he examines the wound.
“Significant tissue damage, but it looks like the bullet missed the major arteries. She’s lost a lot of blood though.” He pulls a medical bag from a side table and digs through it, coming out with a needle and glass vial. Grabbing Pen’s exposed arm, he sticks the needle in a vein and the vial begins slowly filling. “I need someone to go to the clinic.”

“
I’ll go,” I say.

He looks incredulously at me.
“And just how far do you think you’d get, you white fool?”

Broad-shoulders grins and waves one of his men over.

Buyam hands the man the blood. “Give this vial to Jennine in the lab. Tell her to cross and type for four units of whole blood—and tell her to keep it off the record. Wait for her to run the test, then bring the blood back here.”

With the runner gone, he rolls up his sleeves.
“The rest of you get in the living room and let me work in peace. And keep your hands off my shit.”

Abby hesitates.

“Go on,” he says, his tone only slightly kinder. “You can’t help her. You’ll only get in my way.”

I open my eyes and see Buyam sitting in
a chair across from me, smoking a cigarette. I’m half-lying, half-sitting on a couch, Abby sleeping next to me. Everyone else is gone.

“
Enjoy your nap?” he asks, in a tone like he just caught me screwing his daughter.

I rub my eyes.
“It’s been a long few days.”

“
I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“
How is Pen?”

He grunts.
“Alive, but another hour and she wouldn’t have been. She’s getting the last of the blood now.” He takes a long draw of the cigarette and studies me like he’s trying to decide where to put an incision. “Interesting scar on the back of your head.”

Instinctively I reach ba
ck and put my hand over it.

“
A little late for that. I’m a surgeon you idiot; surgeons are drawn to scars like a dog is drawn to another dog’s ass. Pretty sloppy work. Almost like someone tore something out.” The wall clock ticks away the seconds as we stare at each other, the smoke curling around his face. “Does she know?” he asks, nodding at Abby. “Does anyone know what you were?”