Landing

Landing

Girl With Broken Wings, Book Two

By J Bennett

Copyright
© 2013 by J Bennett

All
rights reserved

ISBN:
978-0-9840048-1-2

This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.

The
publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for third-party websites or their content.

Chapter 1

The cold of this October night
seeps through my jacket, finds my joints, and nestles inside. Aches settle into
the small of my back and in my elbows as I lean against the edge of the ice
cream shop’s roof. Day one of patrol in this small college town was fine. Day
two got annoying. Day three just sucks. I’m almost too bored to be nervous
anymore.

A quarter mile down the street, a
bar announces final call, and our next great generation stumbles out of the
doors, laughing. Idiots. Their energy fields are fogged and giddy with alcohol.
Such strong, healthy energy. They practically beg to be snatched and drained.

My body shivers involuntarily, and
I remind myself that I already drained a perfectly good rat before we left on
the stakeout. A perfectly good, small, tiny handful of energy that did little
but whet my appetite.

A group of guys lingers outside the
bar. They laugh and swing sloppy fists at each other. Their overt good spirits
are offensive. I don’t know them, but I can tell that they are enjoying every
minute of their dimwit college experience: signing up for useless classes like
Latin or Shakespeare II, meeting study groups in the library, pondering the
cork boards in the dorms for some obtuse club to join, banging drunk sorority
girls at parties, being normal and human and whatever.

In the midst of the group, I
immediately recognize the vibrant blue aura of my brother, Gabe. Technically
half-brother, that is. At least we share my good half. He’s already managed to
befriend the entire group. He hoots with the rest of the guys and has somehow
obtained a university hoodie, which hangs on his thin frame. His energy is as
foggy and looping as his compatriots, and I wonder if he actually downed a
couple of drinks, or if he’s just that good at acting. I’m learning that Gabe
excels at this bait trick. He takes pride in putting on a good performance and
usually manages to enjoy himself in the process.

“See ya losers!” Gabe calls fondly
as he breaks away from the group. His voice carries down the empty street.

“Friday man!” one of the guys yells
after him. “’s gonna be epic!”

“Maybe.” Gabe turns away and
continues with slow, plodding steps toward the industrial part of town. He
whistles a soft, off-key tune to himself. I watch the other boys stagger back
to campus. None of them peels away from the group. Good.

Our angel likes his victims drunk
and alone. In the middle of the week it’s slim pickings even in this college
town. We haven’t found a body in two days, which means it has to be tonight. It
has to be Gabe. My heart picks up its pace, and I tell it to mind its own
goddamn business.

But it is tonight. It is Gabe. As
he makes his way farther from the bar, the voices and giggles fade. This is the
kind of town that goes to bed at night, at least during the week. Cars roll by
in intervals, but there’s no one else left on the street except for Gabe and a
figure trailing behind him. The stranger must have seen his share of horror
flicks, because he lurks with some gusto, keeping to the shadows, hands plunged
deep into his coat pockets.

This is our angel. It’s easy enough
for me to tell. The space around his body is empty—bereft of the glowing blues
and greens and soft violets of a human aura. Angels don’t produce their own
energy; they drain it from humans. Gabe doesn’t know it, but he has just about
the most beautiful aura I’ve ever seen.
Blue as blue, true as true.
I’m
rambling like I always do when I get nervous.   

“Confirm,” I whisper into my
Bluetooth earpiece. “Black coat. By the nail salon.” The angel continues to
lurk his heart out.

A pause. “I see him,” Tarren
whispers back. He’s on the roof of a scrapbooking store across the street,
dampening his energy to a soft glow that even a hungry angel wouldn’t notice
unless he knew where to look. Even though I know he does, I am tempted to
glance up, find Tarren, and make sure he’s got his Barrett 82A1 semi-automatic
rifle trained on the figure.

Instead, I dig the cell phone out
of my pocket. Stupid shaking hands. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this,
but I still hate it. Dangling something dear over the abyss.

I tap into my saved messages, find
the right one, and hit
send
. Down below, Gabe reaches into his pocket,
still taking slow, unsteady steps farther from the main drag. A glow of light
graces his sharp nose and chin as he wakes up his phone and checks the message,
Leprechauns are extinct, because leprechauns piss Chuck Norris off.

“Awesome,” Gabe says. He picks up
his pace and whistles a little louder as he makes his way toward us.

I track the angel as he keeps to
the shadows—still lingering, watching, hungering. A car filled with music
blares its way down the street. Its headlights make a wide sweep as it turns
down the street Gabe has just crossed.

For a moment the angel is blocked
from view. When the headlights fade, I refocus on the scene below. There’s Gabe
still whistling. The angel is…gone.

Shit on a stick
!

I scan the street. Nothing. Back to
Gabe who is a hundred feet away from us and readying himself for the grand
finale.

“Oh sweet tiny baby Jesus,” he
moans.

Wait, wait!
I cry inside my
mind. But he’s going for it, staggering against the side of a building and
pretending to dry heave. There are no cars. No people. The trap is baited.

“Where?” Tarren hisses through my
earpiece. He’s lost the angel too. I hear my heart banging in my chest, and I
try desperately to calm it down. Angels are good at hearing heartbeats.

Gabe crumples to his knees,
heaving, swearing colorfully, praying to Keira Knightly for relief, pandering
for the Oscar.

My eyes catch swift movement.

“Oh, oh, there,” I hiss to Tarren.
“I mean, below you. Right under you!”

Inexplicably, the angel must have
turned down the same street as the car, gone behind us, and doubled back so
that he is now walking swiftly toward Gabe. He is directly below the
scrapbooking store, hidden for a moment beneath its polka dot awning. I know
immediately that Tarren has lost his shot, even before he whispers, “I don’t
have him,” his voice all tight and boiling into my ear. The angel picks up his
pace, moving so fast it’s like he’s gliding on ice. I pull out my gun and press
the extra lever to remove the safety.

Gabe sees the guy. “Just ignore me,
I’m fine,” he slurs, slowly getting to his feet, waiting for us.

“Maya,” Tarren hisses. The Glock
32C is big in my palm. I know how to hold it now. How to aim. I can usually
smoke a dozen empty beef ravioli cans without missing. But this isn’t beef
ravioli or Spaghettios or any other label that can be dispatched without a hint
of moral meltdown.

“Oh no,” I whisper, because I can’t
shoot. The angel is there, reaching out for Gabe. Time slows in order to
accommodate the lurching wave of fear that breaks over me. Panic drops black
snowflakes across my vision, because I know, just know, Gabe is going to die
for my cowardice.

“Oh fuck,” Gabe says as the angel
descends upon him, hands open and glowing.

Chapter 2

Tarren pulls out his sidearm, leans
over the roof at a crazy angle, and shoots down without aiming. The shot cracks
the night with sound, and a red flower blooms on the angel’s thigh. He staggers
forward. Gabe ducks the fatal grip, rolls, pulls his Beretta PX4 from the
holster inside his jacket, and puts two bullets through the angel’s head. The
shots are as loud and concussive as fireworks, and the shell casings clatter to
the ground.

In the silence afterward, I heave
in a long, wavering breath.

“What the fuck?” Gabe calls out,
gazing at the rooftops before quickly scooping up his errant shell casings.

“Maya, the car.” Tarren’s voice in
my ear is calm, which doesn’t mean anything. It’s his energy that belies his
wrath. Even from across the rooftops, I can see his muddy blue aura jumping
high around his figure, growing red and angry at the edges until he tightens
his grip again and dampens it back down. Tarren’s energy is the only way to
know him, and even that isn’t much good.

This isn’t the first time I’ve
frozen solid just when the moment called for a well-aimed bullet.

Shit, shit, shit.
With
shaking hands I tuck my gun into the holster beneath my jacket and then jump
off the roof. The landing doesn’t even sting. Tarren’s silver Murano SUV is
parked behind the ice cream shop, and I pull it up beside Gabe. He opens the
hatch, and I get out to help.

“Yo,” he says to me as I take the
corpse’s other arm.

“I fucked up.”

“It happens. But I got on my lucky
hat, so no harm can come to me.” Gabe’s dingy white ball cap is in place, as
usual, turned backwards to tame his wavy hair.

The tarp is already spread out
across the SUV’s trunk. I shove my small carrying case of rats into the corner.
I wouldn’t mind squeezing a couple of them dry right now. We lift, and the body
lands heavy.

“I fucked up,” I say again. “Same
as Poughkeepsie.”

“Nah, it’s Tarren’s fault.”

“Tarren didn’t have the shot.”

“Course he didn’t, but he’ll beat
himself up over it anyway.” Gabe pushes the legs all the way in. “Here’s the
deal. This dead bastard won’t be killing anymore college kids. I got invited to
an awesome frat party, so bonus there, and I don’t hear any sirens yet, so I
think we did just fine. Since there was an oh-so-slight mishap, Tarren is
automatically going to take full responsibility, be generally unbearable the
entire way back, and make himself train even harder than he already does for
the next month.”

“But I didn’t…”

“Nope, Tarren’s fault. Forgone
conclusion,” Gabe interrupts. I swear his eyes can twinkle on command.
“Therefore, since he’s already going to take all the blame, just let him do his
little self-crucifixion thing, and you and I should go party. They said it was
going to be epic.”

Tarren strides across the street,
the rifle bag slung over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he growls, and when
Tarren starts growling you better just shut the fuck up and do what he says.
Tarren takes the wheel, and I slink into the backseat.

“ID,” he barks.

“Yeah, yeah.” As soon as we start
moving, I crawl over the backseats into the trunk. It’s not every day that I
straddle a dead body, but it’s not exactly unusual anymore either. Life is just
peaches and cream.

The first thing I do, always do, is
check the corpse’s hands. Not that there’s any doubt, but still. I run my
finger along the dead guy’s palm. The skin overlaps in an X pattern, and if I
push through the center of his palm, I’d feel the hard, vein-covered bulb that
he uses to feed.

I stare at the dead angel’s hand,
at the hidden X embedded in his palm. He got so close to draining Gabe. My
brother could have been just another ice-cold corpse—an icicle—on the sidewalk.

I drop the angel’s hand and look
over his body. He’s thickened with muscles, tall, dark-skinned. Maybe Indian.
Hard to tell in the dark, and him losing the structural integrity of his skull.
I open his black jacket and feel around for pockets. Next the pants. That’s
right; I’m perilously close to sexually groping a corpse. Peaches and fucking
cream.

I don’t think they show this part
in the movies. The way blood turns sticky then crusty and somehow always gets
in my hair. The piss and shit, and there is usually at least some. The
knowledge that this was a person—kind of a person—who was probably loved by
some people somewhere who will wait and wonder forever.
Like Karen and Henry
,
but that’s still a bundle of nerve fiber endings that I don’t particularly like
jabbing at.

I find a car key and remote in the
angel’s front pocket. They are hooked together on a chain with a plastic Cookie
Monster on the end. I stare at Cookie Monster wondering what it means—an inside
joke, a bet lost, or perhaps a token of affection given by someone loved.

I have to remind myself that I hate
this angel, because he killed over eleven college kids that we know of people;
because he chose to monsterize himself. A familiar feeling prickles up the dark
part of my brain. Envy. I shouldn’t be feeling this. Can’t be feeling this.
Envy for the freedom to feed. Envy because he got to wake every single morning
and actually want to be the thing he was.

“Anything?” Tarren calls back.

“He’s smarter than most.” I sit
back on my heels, putting a hand down on the tarp as we take a sharp turn.

“No ID, no phone. Just a car key
and remote.” I crawl out of the trunk.

“Insignia?”

“No.” I’m already peeling off my
long-sleeve black top and fingerless gloves. I feel naked without the gloves,
and quickly pull on the extra pair I always keep tucked in the pocket of the
passenger seat.

We drive around this small,
sleeping town for the next two hours, and I lean my arm out the window and
press the alarm button on the car remote over and over again. We take the main
drag three times, pulling into each parking lot and then make wider and wider
circles around the town. I welcome the blast of cool air on my face and work to
soothe the shaking of my hands

In the passenger seat, Gabe leans
down, opens the door to a small cage between his feet, and pulls out Sir
Hopsalot.

“Hey you,” he says, scratching the
rabbit behind its long, floppy ears. I notice the slightest shiver in Tarren’s
aura. He and I are both less than amused that Gabe insists on bringing his pet
on all our missions. The smell and stray fur irks Tarren to no end — ironic
considering how often we cart around bloody corpses in the trunk — and I don’t
particularly appreciate having to ignore another tempting aura.

“It’s not here,” I tell Tarren,
still mashing down the alarm button. “If he was smart enough to leave his ID,
he probably parked the car miles away.”

“Motels and hotels,” Tarren says to
his brother. Gabe fires up his laptop, switches on his mobile Internet card,
and directs us to each of the three hotels in town. Nothing. Tarren’s grip on
the wheel keeps tightening.

“Blood was called in,” Gabe informs
us. He’s got a bead on our police scanner. “We’d better get out of Dodge.”

Tarren doesn’t answer. I close the
window.

“Someone will call in a missing
person; we’ll figure out who he is,” Gabe tells his brother.

“They’ll lock everything up. We
need to figure out where he came from, who he’s connected to.”

“I can still do that,” Gabe says. “Once
we know who this guy is, I’ll crack his email, his Facebook page, any other
social networking shit he’s got going on. We’ll know everything about him.
Hell, I’ll tell you what kind of underwear he buys.”

“How reassuring,” I say from the
backseat.

“Call Lo,” Tarren tells his
brother. He turns onto the highway.

“I hate that little perv. He’s your
geeky sidekick, you call him.”

“Gabe.” That’s all Tarren has to
say.

With an exaggerated sigh, Gabe
pulls out the earpiece connected to the police scanner and replaces it with his
Bluetooth set. I think about Lo, his leering black eyes and that voice too deep
for his teenage body. Gabe is right. Lo is a pervert, but he’s also a genius
and loaded with enough cash to set up a state-of-the-art lab in the guest house
of his stepmom’s mansion. As much as I despise his dirty mouth, I know that his
lab is the only thing that might produce the cure that will give me back my
humanity and end this secret war my half-brothers have been fighting their
entire lives. Not that I allow myself too much hope. I’m not an idiot.

“Hey there sugarplum,” Gabe says
after a moment. “Oh, you been practicing that? Could you turn down
Dora the
Explorer
for a second, I have a question.”

I strain to hear the other end of
the conversation, but the ambient noise of the highway drowns it out. Both Gabe
and Tarren have taken to using Bluetooth earpieces for all their calls.

“Whatever. We got some clipped
wings here,” Gabe says. “A day or so out from you. In the mood for any slicing
and dicing?... No, nothing new….Alright. That’s it…. Huh? Yeah, course she’s
here.”

Green shades swirl into Gabe’s
aura.

“Bad idea,” he says, and then,
after a pause, “Alright, hold on.” Gabe unbuckles his seatbelt, turns on the
overhead light, and twists around in the seat to stare at me. “Black pants,
white tank top, little clips in her hair. Lots of blood. She was on cavity
search duty tonight. Oh, she’s giving me the finger. I think you pissed her
off.”

More greens tease into Gabe’s aura
as he listens to Lo’s reply. “I’m gonna have to say your chances are, like,
zero. She’s got standards. So… What?” Gabe turns back into his seat. “No way.
She’s my sister. I’m not asking her that.” He laughs.

“Hang up the phone,” I say.

“Dude, she’s already pissed at me,
and she’s got super strength….You think I’m going to cheapen my sister’s
integrity for $50?” His aura jumps as he listens to Lo’s next offer. “Really?
Swear? Don’t lie to me you little punk. Alright. Alright. Hold on. She’s going
to kill me.”

Gabe peeks up over the seat. In the
light I can see the gold flakes caught up in his brown eyes. Elf eyes.
Trickster grin.

“Maya, most dearest little sister?”

“Yes Gabe?” I answer sweetly.

“Lo would like to inquire as to
your cup size. You know, your bra.”

“Please tell Lo to go shove his
microscope up his ass,” I say, still keeping my voice sugar, though really I’m
in no mood for these games. I lie down across the backseat and close my eyes
for emphasis.

“Nah, she’s not going for it,” Gabe
slides back down into his seat. “Told ya. So next time…what? The hell you will!
I asked her. That was the agreement. You owe me $200, and you’d better have—”

“Hang up the phone!” I yell.

“Whatever. Tarren could make ten
times that off your mom any day of the week.”

“Get off the phone,” Tarren says.
His voice is ice. His energy flares, and the skin on my palms splits open.
Quickly, I clasp my hands together and trap them between my legs.

“Shit,” Gabe pulls the Bluetooth
out of his ear. “Okay that—”

“This isn’t a joke,” Tarren cuts
off his younger brother. “None of it is. You almost got killed tonight.”

“It wasn’t that close.”

“Yes it was.” Tarren’s voice is
hoarse. His energy jumps again, and for a heartbeat the color of his aura is
bleached white. “I can’t…,” he stops himself, and the words hang there between
all of us.

Softly, Tarren says, “Every mistake
could cost us something we cannot afford to lose.”

Now it’s Gabe’s aura that spazzes.
Pained reds. It’s a veritable glow-fest up front. Heat pours from my hands as
the bulbs lift out of my palms. I hunch my shoulders. I know this drill
now—know it well—but the hunger still echoes in my brain like a siren’s song.

“No fair,” Gabe accuses, “using her
words.”

He can only mean Diana. Their
mother. My mother.

“Lo didn’t want the body?” Tarren
asks.

“No.”

“Then find us a place to bury it.”

“This is Illinois, take your pick,”
Gabe says, but he lifts the lid on his laptop and clicks to Google Earth. Their
energies are calming down, but I keep my palms tucked between my legs until the
tremors fade.

***

Gabe finds a wide spread of pasture
a couple of exits later. I wipe down the car key, remote, and Cookie Monster
keychain and replace it in the angel’s pocket. We wrap the body in tarp,
obscuring the man’s shape into a blue, oblong mass. A shoulder-high fence rings
the property to keep in a herd of sleepy cows. I lift the body up and over, and
the boys catch it on the other side.

There’s really only enough room for
two people to dig at a time. We rotate, and tonight Tarren takes watch. He
stretches out on his stomach on the Murano’s roof, scanning the fields around
us through a pair of binoculars and listening to the police scanner for any
trouble.

Gabe and I dig. There’s an art to
it as Gabe has shown me. Dig around the sides first, otherwise the hole will
get smaller and smaller as you dig down. The exertion warms my muscles, and,
across from me, Gabe takes a moment to shed his blood-stained hoodie. I can
smell the sweat coming off him.

“Hey, you want to, like, go cow
tipping when we’re done with this?” he whispers to me.

“What the hell is that?” I raise an
eyebrow at him.

“You know, it’s like…you push cows
over,” Gabe says. Despite the fact that he’s actually twenty-three, Gabe’s
maturity level has a habit of dipping into prepubescent territory on occasion.
I’ve come to believe that this is in direct response to Tarren, who is
twenty-six going on forty.

“And then what?” I ask.

Gabe laughs like this is the
dumbest question in the world. “Then they fall over. God, how do you not know
this?”

“We don’t have cows in Connecticut.
Least not in Hartford,” I say with a shrug. I throw another shovelful of dirt
onto the growing pile. “Anyway, cow tipping sounds lame.”