Leaping (17 page)

I see Kyle and Jane in my mind.  Kyle wears a lopsided grin.
He could hug you with an expression. And Jane was beautiful and pale as a swan.
She was one of those women who could wear crimson lipstick and look classy
instead of desperate.

I only learned later, after Jane and Kyle were dead, that
they were Angels of Mercy. Gem’s people. Angels who have committed to only
killing those who are either confirmed criminals or fatally sick. Is Fiona an
Angel of Mercy too? I look up into the sky at the heavy sun.

No humans anywhere near this godforsaken chunk of desert.
Jane and Kyle wanted to bring me here.

Yes. Fiona is an Angel of Mercy. I’d bet every stich of
clothing I own on it. Gem’s warning rings in my mind. If I kill his people, he
will come after me. Not just me. He’ll come after my brothers. No quarter for
family members.

I can suddenly envision my brothers as they trek to Fiona’s
farmhouse. Tarren’s straight back and broad shoulders create a commanding
presence. His face will be intense, set in that hard way that allows for no
mercy. Gabe will be walking at his shoulder, just a step behind, his face
shaded by the brim of his ball cap. His steps will be light, graceful, all
coiled speed. They will be quietly discussing their entry story, who will
shoot, and who will bind. Tarren may be thinking about whatever sicko
experiments he and Lo have planned for Fiona while she’s chained up in his lab.
 

The painful throb in my chest seems to double in intensity
as I quickly pack up the mirrors, shoving them roughly into the nylon backpack.
I toss it into the back of the still-running truck, and eventually find two
holsters and guns to fill them. My chest is tight and achy as I swing my right
arm through straps of the holster, but the pain doesn’t stab all the way
through me anymore. I slam the door closed hard enough to rock the truck. 

I start walking, following my brother’s footsteps. I ignore
the throb of pain, the weakness that seems to have settled deep in the crooks
of my bones. One step. Another. Then another. I break into a run.

Holy mother fucking bizarro world. I have to save Fiona.

I run cautiously through the desert, keeping my right arm
pinned to my side. It doesn’t help. Each step sends a throb of pain like a
pinball circling the wound. As I close the distance between my brothers, I order
my mind to form a plan. Something. Anything. But only one thought comes.

I have to stop them.

I have to out-think Tarren. I have to betray Gabe…again. I
have to save an angel who might not want to be saved.

Tranq them.
The idea pops over my head like a beacon.
And when they wake up, tell them…
I slow as I catch sight of my brothers
a half mile ahead of me. They walk with purpose, and their auras hold tight to
their bodies, low and controlled.

A power.
I’ll tell them an angel mind whammied them.

It’s perfect. No, actually pretty horrible, but it could
work. They’ll ask me – “Why didn’t the angel kill us?” and I’ll just shrug
helplessly and say, “All I know is you stopped communicating, so I came in. You
were both unconscious and the angel was gone.”

I give my bottom lip some more guilty chewing. My brothers
trust me, and I’m going to betray them. Ruin Tarren’s mysterious plan. Save an
angel, the creatures we’ve dedicated our lives to stopping. Siding with the
enemy. Isn’t that the definition of treason? I taste blood on my lip.

Gem could kill them if Fiona is an Angel of Mercy.
And
if she is, it would be like murdering Kyle and Jane all over again, something
on the top of my take-back list if I ever stumble across a time machine. I have
to do this…even if my brothers will never understand…never forgive.

I hear the low clucking of chickens in the distance. The
farmhouse looms about a quarter mile ahead of my brothers. This far from
civilization, I was expecting something weathered and dilapidated that gave off
a strong teen horror movie vibe. But the farmhouse is…cute. The main house
wears a fresh coat of bright white paint. Flower boxes filled with colorful
blooms sit under windows with brown shutters, and a long porch wraps around the
entire house like a hug. It’s even got a porch swing and wicker furniture
arranged invitingly around the front door. I can imagine an old couple leaning
back in those chairs, sipping homemade lemonade on a hot day.

A trim brown stable sits next to a huge chicken coop and
several pins where goats dip their heads into feed boxes. A shudder slams my
body at the sight of the stable. I flash back mercilessly to the barn in Poughkeepsie
we stumbled across last year, and I remember again the emaciated teenagers
chained within every stall, some of them unconscious, some of them staring at
us with big, glazed, hopeless eyes. They’d been snacks for a group of angels
hiding out in the countryside of New York, little playthings to be taunted and
abused. Rain and Chain had been kept in that barn. Rain still has nightmares
about it, he’s told me. And Chain…I’m not sure he’ll ever recover.

I blink away those haunted memories. As I creep closer to
the stable, I feel auras throbbing from within, but they are healthy, calm
animal auras. The whole farm is alive with movement and noise, even in the heat
of the day. Chickens wander around the massive coop, clucking and strutting. I
watch them twitch their heads to the side or jab down at the ground. So many
chickens. At least a hundred out in the pen, and how many more inside the coop?

A trickle of doubt runs down my back like sweat. Animals
freak out when they sense angels. Some deep instinct of theirs can ferret out
our otherness, our danger. I’ve had pet stores explode around me in squeals and
thumps and loud caws of fear. What type of angel would live with all of these
animals around their home? How could they stand all the racket those chickens
must create anytime an angel got close?

“Strange to see so many animals around,” Gabe says. His comm
is muted, but I can hear his voice faintly in the distance. “Tarren, what if…”

“We knock. Check the hands. If it’s a human, we use the same
story. Give Maya a call if they let us use a phone, and then leave,” Tarren
responds.

My plan is morphing as my brothers close the gap on the
farmhouse. I’m not sure I could sneak up behind them, not when they’re on such
high alert, and I’m already panting with exhaustion. The farmhouse is set too
far back from any decent hiding spot. Sometimes the tranq messes with memory.
You might wake up and not remember the last half hour before you got tagged.
But sometimes you remember everything. When Gabe tranqed Tarren in Peoria,
Tarren remembered every single bit of his brother’s “I’m dying, lean in closer”
performance.

It’s likely that the angel has already felt them anyway. I
can’t tranq my brothers and leave them unconscious on an angel’s doorstep.

New revised plan. I let them tranq the angel. Get her out of
the equation. I know my brothers. After the angel is down, they’ll go through
the entire house checking for other angels or human victims. They’ll most
certainly glance in the stable as well to clear it, especially after
Poughkeepsie.

And that’s where I’ll be waiting.

There’s just one big problem with my plan. I need the
animals to behave. If the horses start kicking their stalls, or the pigs
squeal, or whatever’s inside freaks the shit out, my brothers will come
running. I’ll just have to use that. Tranq them, stand guard. The noise will
flush out the angel, and I’ll…I guess I’ll have to tranq her too. When
everyone’s down for the count, I’ll pull the truck up and get my brothers out.

I take a big gulp of air and push all the guilt, all the
thousand nagging worries punching big holes in my plan away. A small spark of
adrenaline is starting to pump me back up, leveling out the heavy throb of pain
in my chest. I sidle up to the stable, keeping my gaze on my brothers. So far
the animals are quite within. I watch my brothers climb the steps of the porch.

“Let me handle this. You just nod and smile,” Gabe says to
Tarren.

I lift the latch on the stable doors, and pull the left door
open just wide enough to slip in. The air inside is warm and smell of earth and
hay. A soft nicker emanates from one of the stalls. My eyes quickly adjust to
the shadows, and I make out three stables on each wall, making six in total. A
big head hangs out of the first stable on my right and large black eyes stare
at me with unsettling gentleness.

Why aren’t the horses freaking out?

Doesn’t matter. I need to get into position. I could hide
behind the door, but that’s too close. I don’t want my brothers to even have a
chance to see me. My heart pounds.

Shit.
This plan feels so weak. So many things could
go wrong. We’ve already had one epic fuck up in the last 24 hours. Am I going
to add another? The angel. That’s what’s worrying me the most. Fiona is the
unknown, the gambit who could jump out of the rafters at any moment.

I don’t feel any energy coming from the first stall on my
left. Empty. Perfect. The top part of the door is already open. As soon as my
brothers enter the stable, I’ll pop up, shoot a tranq dart, and duck back down.
They won’t even know where it came from. Even if they manage to stagger toward
the stall, they won’t make it far before the powerful Fentanyl takes them out
of commission.

Yes, this is a good plan. Or, not a horrible plan. My chest
still feels like it was pounded gleefully with a mallet, but it should hold
steady for two quick shots. If only I knew where that damn angel was.

I sigh as I unlatch the door to the empty stall and step in.
My eyes alight on a large pile of hay in one corner…and a slim figure hunched
in the other. Her face turns up, and I stare into wide, terrified eyes.

Brown eyes. Familiar eyes.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, “Raven.”

“Bad, bad, this is bad,” a man says behind me. I didn’t feel
him coming, because he has no aura. “We gotta’ kill her now,” he sighs.  

 “No, Caleb,” a new voice says. Soft. Calm.

Pandora. Stable.
I’d just need to unmute my phone and
whisper those words and Gabe and Tarren would know that I was pinned down. That
I needed help. But Raven.
How is Raven here?
These thoughts flash
through my mind, sparkling shards in a whirlwind of confusion, as my hand moves
to my tranq gun and I pivot.

I can hear the man behind me suck in a heavy breath.

My pivot is complete. I’m perfectly balanced on the balls of
my feet. My chest cries out in pain as I lift my gun, and I wrap my left hand
around my right wrist to keep my arm steady. The man is surprisingly scrawny.
Pale. His big, wide-set eyes and heavy lips give him a frog-like appearance.

I catch more movement. A woman, steps out of the farthest
stable.

 “Don’t move,” I hiss.
Pandora. Stable. Pandora. Stable.
Pandora. Stable.
The two words echo in my brain, but something stops me.
The woman’s soft gaze. The languid, careful way she keeps moving forward and
places a hand on the thin man’s shoulder. He flinches at her touch and ducks
his head.

“We have to kill her. She saw us. She’s got a gun,” he
mumbles. I watch his hands, the way he flicks his thumb and middle finger together.

“We are not killers,” the woman says. She’s looking right at
me, and her dark eyes seem like endless pools. Her skin is a rich brown, the
color of hot chocolate, and a thick braid of black and silver hair falls over
the simple sun dress she wears.

“But she’s going to kill us,” the man says. His fingers keep
flick, flick, flicking. “You said. You said if the Vigils found us, they’d kill
us.” He stares at his feet. His body is stiff, and his clothes – old jeans and
a long t-shirt with a faded Rubik’s cube on the front – don’t sit on him well.

The woman’s gaze hasn’t left my face. “I’m not sure that she
will.”

My first instinct is to start shooting, but could I get them
all before they unleashed some destructive power at me? What if more angels are
lurking in the stalls or hiding in the shadows? The pain from my wound crackles
through my chest and shoulder blade like fire. I can barely keep the gun
elevated. I have no idea if I’ll even be able to tag these angels, close as
they are.

I don’t shoot. It’s half self-preservation and half the
calmness radiating from the woman in the sun dress. Her gaze is gentle, as if
she will accept any decision I make without anger or disappointment.

“Are you Fiona?” I manage. My voice sounds high. Fearful.
The way a trapped mouse would speak.

“Yes, and I think that you must be Maya.”

I keep a firm grip on my gun as a hundred questions all try
to find their way out of my mouth at once.

“You doing okay, Honey?” Fiona asks. I think she’s talking
to me, but I see her gaze shift behind me. I turn and glance over my shoulder.
Raven stands at the back of stall, arms wrapped around her waist. I know that
posture. She’s pressing her palms into her body, trying to hold back her
appetite.

Raven nods. “I know her.”

Fiona looks back to me. “Gem brought her here nine months
ago. Youngest one I’ve ever gotten. She’s doing really well though. She’s great
with the animals. They’re starting to warm up to her.”

“They don’t like me. I don’t like them!” The skinny man
says. His voice is flat.

“It takes patience, Caleb,” Fiona tells him.

“They aren’t patient with me,” Caleb says back. “Mr. Darcy bit
my shirt. Not this shirt. Another one. The red one.”

I stare at the three of them.

“Mr. Darcy is a goat,” Raven says. She scrunches up her face
and throws a look at Caleb. “Was a goat.”

“He tore my shirt. He was bad,” Caleb says.

“You shot Nicolas,” Raven says to me, her voice soft and
hesitant. “And War. Did you kill them?”

I open my mouth but no words come out. I’m still having
trouble processing this scene. Fiona gives a smile. All calm and loving. I
immediately want her to be my grandmother. Something tells me that she would
make fantastic cookies if I still ate human food.

“How much has Gem told you?” she asks me.

“Nothing,” I manage. Gem. Yes. The pieces are starting to
come together. Raven disappeared the night I killed Nicolas. I’d spent days and
weeks imagining her wandering around Peoria alone, afraid, and wracked by
hunger as a newly minted angel. I wasn’t sure what was worse – my vision of Raven
alone and scared, or my worry of Raven finding War again and taking shelter
under his sadistic wing.

“Gem,” I say to Raven. “Gem found you, and he brought you
here.”

Raven nods. “He explained, uh, this.” She turns her hands
over, palms up, to showcase the creases Xing through their center. “What I am.
About the need.”

“She wasn’t the first who was turned against her will,” Fiona
says, “as I believe you know.” Our gaze meets again. Gem went into my mind and
rifled through every filing cabinet. I have no secrets from him. How many did
he tell this short, unassuming woman in the sun dress?

“And then there are those of us who changed our minds.” The crow’s
feet around Fiona’s eyes crinkle. She is still a handsome woman, but it’s easy
to see that she was beautiful once. It isn’t age that took her beauty away from
her. Something else. Life. Regret. Or maybe I’m reaching again. Trying to paint
a picture when I don’t even know where all the lines are.

“I killed my cat. And then my mom. My dad said it served her
right. They were divorced,” Caleb says. He glances at Fiona and then away. “But
he got mad. I didn’t get fixed. I was supposed to be fixed. I killed Ms.
Regina. She lived next door. She was nice.” I wonder how he doesn’t rub his
fingers raw with all the flicking.

“How.” The word pops out of my mouth. “How do you live here
so far away from everything?” There are so many bigger questions I need to ask,
but somehow this one is front and center.

“We feed on the chickens,” Fiona replies.

“They each get to live one year though,” Raven says. “We
keep track.”

“That can’t be enough,” I blurt out. Three angels. They’d
have to drain at least one chicken a day each just to survive…and even then,
they’d be on the edge of starvation.  

“The sun helps,” Fiona says. “We spend a lot of times
outdoors working in the garden, working with the horses, and absorbing from the
sun.”

“And the pound.” Raven’s voice is soft. Her fingers curl
into her palms. Her big brown eyes keep gazing at me and then looking down. I
feel the hunger coming from her. Even my slight aura is triggering the need.

“Pound?” I ask.

“Every week,” Caleb announces.

“Out in Henderson. The owner is one of my graduates,” Fiona
says. “His facility only holds so many animals. They pick up a lot of strays or
pets that were abandoned due to behavior problems. If it becomes clear that the
animal is unadoptable they would normally be euthanized.”

That word strikes me. Euthanized.  That’s the same word
Tarren used; it’s what he wants to do with Fiona, this handsome, sad woman who
tends bursting flower boxes.

“We euthanize them instead,” Caleb says. “It’s practical. Fiona
says it’s practical. You say it’s practical.” Caleb glances at Fiona and then
to me. “Do you want to see the flower garden?”

 “Are you going to hurt us?” Raven asks. Her face clouds
with fear, and I know that she is remembering back to the night I shot Nicolas.
I lower my tranq gun and slip it into the holster, trying not to show the
rivets of pain running up and down my body with each movement.

“No, I won’t hurt you” I say. Gem and I have an agreement,
but even if we didn’t…

I look at Fiona, at her dry, brown hands and chipped
fingernails “You don’t kill people,” I say. This isn’t really a question. Fiona
already said it, but I need to make sure.

“Those who live under my roof do not take human lives,” Fiona
says. “I teach any who want to learn how to take just enough sustenance from
animals. We care for them, appreciate them, and then we feed humbly from them.”
She smiles. It is not the beatific smile of a saint. No, this is a sinner’s sad
smile. One that finds purpose in struggle and strife. “Some leave here and feed
on the homeless, the criminals, those wasting away in hospice care, but others
pledge to preserve human life at all costs. And some stay, because this is the
place they need to be.” She gently touches Caleb again on the shoulder and
doesn’t seem at all perturbed when he shrugs her off and steps back.

I raise an eyebrow and mouth,
autism
?

“Caleb,” she responds out loud.

Now that my gun is holstered, Raven has relaxed. The last
time I saw her she was a quivering, weeping bundle of fear. Now she looks at me
quizzically, and the cock of her hip is all teenager. Even out here in the
middle of nowhere, it’s obvious that she has spent considerable time weaving
her hair into two, thick Dorothy braids. She wears a white sun dress that
flatters her thin figure and clashes adorably with her laced up work boots.

This farm life, this…haven, I guess, has been good for her.

“What about the other guys?” Raven asks. “Can you, like,
call them off?”

Oh…holy…shit. I somehow managed to completely forget that my
brothers are prowling around the farm, tranq guns ready. And they only need to
bring in one alive. I suck in a tense breath, and my chest hates me for it.

“Is the house empty?” I ask Fiona.

She nods. “We were cleaning the stables when we felt them
approach. No one comes out here. No one human, anyway. I told Raven and Caleb
to hide in the empty stalls.”

“They don’t know about Angels of Mercy,” I tell her.

“Well, uh, then you might want to hand out the ‘Not All
Angels Are Evil’ memo pretty quick,” Raven says, her voice touching on haughty.

We all perk up as an energy signature approaches the stable.

“Can you speak with them?” Fiona whispers.

Diana’s first rule of angel hunting is shoot first, ask
questions…never. “They won’t understand,” I hiss. “All three of you, get in the
empty stall at the end.”

Raven looks at Fiona who nods and grabs Caleb’s arm. “We’re
hiding again, Caleb,” she says with supreme calm. They move deeper into the
stable. I slip into the middle stall on the left and leave the top half of the
door open, which provides a clear view of the entrance. I pull the tranq gun
out of my holster just as the door creaks open.