Broken Angels (11 page)

In spite of all the complicated deals and arrangements the IAI had with some law enforcement agencies, the Watcher agents were in no way considered true officers of the law. Darryl couldn’t touch either one of them until they’d proven themselves to be a threat; then his status would change. He’d be allowed just enough legal authority to put an end to the threat, like someone making a citizen’s arrest. Watcher agents had unofficially been given a bit more leeway to act over the past two years, but there still were limits by which to abide. A tightening economy had led to increased crime, underfunded and overworked security forces, slower response times, and formerly borderline lawbreakers crossing the line more and more often as there was a greater chance they’d get away with it. That was just another reason Darryl wanted to join the HSA as one of their armed agents—fewer limits, more authority to act. He’d never again have to bide his time, waiting for someone who was clearly guilty, clearly the enemy, to make the first move. He’d already sent a message to Adam asking him to contact the proper authorities, but it could take up to thirty minutes for them to arrive. Something would surely happen before then. Darryl considered himself patient, but young terrorists lacked that virtue.

After walking the Mall’s gravelly path all the way to Fourth Street, Michael and Christine turned around and started walking in the other direction, on the grass. The show was about to start. Unseen and undetected, Darryl followed them until the pair stopped in the grassy area of the Mall right between the Natural History Museum and the Smithsonian Castle. It was no random spot. It was an area almost equidistant from the Metro entrance and the entrance to the sculpture garden, and very near the children’s merry-go-round. It was the area with the highest concentration of people. And at two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun seemed to shine down on the spot from directly above. It was perfect.

Although the merry-go-round’s tune was loud and distracting, the greaser and his girl most likely blocked it out and, in their own minds, substituted the music of Bill Haley or one his contemporaries as they began their dance routine. Darryl was the first member of their audience; little by little, however, more and more curious onlookers stopped and stepped closer, wondering at the spectacle, talking about it, laughing at it, and taking pictures.

Michael and Christine moved deftly on the grass. Darryl was sure he was the only one to notice they had raised their bodies to stand a quarter of an inch above the ground’s surface. They were literally dancing on air.

Many Virus-carriers could perform some amazing feats. They couldn’t fly, but they could defy gravity within very severe limitations. Vince Ceniza once told Darryl it had something to do with the Earth’s magnetic fields and the “magnetic” part of carriers’ electromagnetic talents. Michael and Christine’s talents included some phenomenal dancing skills.

The two weren’t dancing as if they were in a 1950s dancehall. They were performing physical riffs on 1950s dances, mimicking while adding modern touches to them so that, while the movements made their nostalgic nods toward the fads of a simpler and more conservative time, they also seemed to be smart, forward-looking, and more than a bit threatening, dangerous, like all truly experimental artworks. Michael and Christine moved and threw each other around as if they were trying to kill themselves, and knowing the mind-state of the terrorists associated with The ID, Darryl believed that maybe they actually were, themselves and whoever else got close enough.

In spite of the frenetic display of some amazing stunts, Michael and Christine didn’t draw a large crowd. Those who did approach stayed only a few minutes before moving on to go about their sightseeing. After they’d been at it for a little more than ten minutes, Darryl knew the two wouldn’t wait much longer to strike.

And they didn’t.

When about fifteen people were within a good enough range, Michael released Christine to twirl, spin, and dance by herself as he pulled an object from his pocket and made a motion as if he would run it through his hair. A comb? Darryl wondered as he squinted at it. No—a switchblade, he realized too late as Michael threw it, hitting a man several feet away in the back of the neck. It happened so fast and far away from where most eyes were focused that no one in the crowd moved or screamed until Christine reached for the woman standing closest to her, put her hands on the woman’s cheeks, dug her false nails into the skin and jerked her hands down, ripping deep gashes in the woman’s face.

The woman’s scream was infectious as members of the crowd caught on and tried to run. Most who had gathered in close to watch the duo were older, middle-aged individuals and couples, some with young kids, none of them in the best shape for sprinting. Their attempts to get away were slow and clumsy.

Michael ran, leaped, and glided a couple of inches above the grass for several feet toward three of the most vulnerable runners—a beer-bellied man, his hysterical and paunchy wife, and their obese eight-year-old. They scrambled to run away, but the handholding family only succeeded in running into one another. Michael had drawn another switchblade and was just moments away from reaching them, getting his hands on one of them.

“Gonna carve some of them steaks outta ya, big daddy!” the greaser said. “Then gonna milk yer cow! Hear her squeal while I make veal!”

Darryl flung his corresq. The metal circle sailed out from invisibility and hit its target, breaking the skin on Michael’s wrist. He yelled and dropped his knife. Darryl then stepped out from behind his unseen screen, appearing as a thing enshrouded in bluish shadows and purplish light, intangible violet and orange wings spreading out behind him as he rushed toward the costumed hoodlum.

The sudden appearance of a seemingly alien being failed to intimidate Michael. As swift as Darryl was, Michael was even swifter in removing his leather jacket and tossing it at his attacker.

In an ordinary circumstance, such a maneuver would slow Darryl down by only half a moment; he’d step aside instead of stepping forward, moving out of the way of the tossed object. But this maneuver wasn’t made by an ordinary opponent. After the jacket left his hand, Michael used a Dirty-Light Magick trick to withdraw all light surrounding the jacket, making it appear as a large and growing black blanket. Darryl couldn’t see beyond it or anything around it, and within a sliver of a second, a thick wall of blackness had appeared in front of him. He was forced to stop.

He was then forced backward when Michael emerged from the wall a few feet in front of him, swinging his fists at Darryl’s head.

Darryl fought back, swinging and connecting, hitting Michael in his throat and his right temple. Michael stumbled to the left, and Darryl made sure he went all the way to the ground by clasping his hands together and bringing them down hard on the back of Michael’s neck.

He turned around to locate the other one; he spotted her farther down field, finishing up a dangerous dance move with her unwilling elderly partner. The dancing partners parted for good when the tip of one of Christine’s saddle shoes made violent contact with the underside of the old man’s chin.

Darryl couldn’t make it down there in time before she hurt any others, so he stayed put, squinted, and concentrated. Christine began shrieking almost immediately, feeling the infrared radiation burning her face. Apparently confused about the cause, she didn’t run; the girl only collapsed to the ground, hiding her head under her arms. Darryl let up and turned away, just in time to see Michael lunging at him with another knife.

Darryl raised his left arm in defense and grunted when the blade slashed his forearm. He used his right arm to grab for the wrist of the hand holding the knife, leaving himself open to a punch in the right side of his gut. Darryl brought his right arm back, backhand-slapped Michael across the face, and followed it up with a quick punch under the jaw.

As the greaser stumbled backward, Darryl considered himself lucky that Michael lacked the strength to make the punch in the gut mean much, but he was also frustrated he was fighting like an amateur. The Watcher agent was too skilled for that, or felt he should’ve been, especially against someone who was proving to be nothing more than a punk kid.

Michael recovered in no time and rushed at him. Darryl backpedaled with three quick steps before launching himself to skate on the air, gliding several inches off the ground for several feet backward. When he landed, he spread his arms and drew a greater amount of light around his body. The light already enshrouding him flared, making him seem like a taller, wider being of light and shadows—a fearsome angel. His intention was to make it nearly impossible for the enemy to locate the real being of flesh and blood at the center. One who had Michael’s abilities could have found him, given time—but Darryl wasn’t about to waste any.

He rushed forward, sending eagle-shaped flares of light ahead of him in order to misdirect Michael’s attention. The greaser backed up, almost tripping over his own feet, before turning around to retrieve his jacket. Once in hand, he swung it at every shape of light that came near him.

Perhaps Michael thought the black leather flag would kill the lights, or maybe he was just panicking. Whichever, it did nothing to help him as Darryl got within ten feet, stopped the lightshow, and dived, tackling him to the ground.

He delivered three rapid punches to the punk’s face before realizing he’d forgotten something. Darryl remembered that something when the saddle-shoed foot kicked him the back of the head. He fell forward, and Michael pushed him off as he scrambled up to his feet.

Darryl’s head throbbed. The wound on his bleeding arm stung like a fresh grease-burn. He felt winded. And he had trouble thinking of what to do next as he lay on his back, looking up at Michael and Christine standing on either side, looking back down at him.

And this is how it ends. This couldn’t be right…

“It’s been a big tickle, daddy,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Christine said, “but you shoulda split after you got your first lucky shots.”

“Ain’t no one around left to pound.”

“’Cept you.”

Darryl laughed. “You two goofs are the ones who shoulda cut out,” he said with a smirk. “The heat’ll be here any second.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “But we got plenty of time before they make the scene to end you.”

The greaser held his switchblade up near his face and smiled. Christine followed her partner’s lead and held up her hands, curling her fingers, giving them the appearance of a panther’s claws.

“Good lord,” Darryl said. “You two look and sound like a couple of fuckin’ idiots…I’m sorry, but I can’t be seen like this.”

He turned invisible and maneuvered his body, grabbing Michael’s foot as he kicked at Christine’s legs. He managed to keep both of them off-balance as he got to his knees.

Darryl had planned to duck and roll away from them, but he wasn’t quick enough. Michael swung his blade, cutting through Darryl’s T-shirt, breaking the skin.

Darryl winced.

The knife had cut a line at least four inches long. Not a deep cut, but a stinging one (the blood-cell parasites in both of his open wounds were getting excited). Darryl didn’t make a sound, but he did make up his mind about what had to happen next. He had to go all out. He couldn’t continue to stall. He couldn’t continue to engage these two as if he was self-evidently their superior. He had to put them down, now, or die.

He became visible again, and Michael swung the knife down again, straight at Darryl’s neck. Darryl used both of his hands to catch the wrist, then twisted it. Between clenched teeth, he said, “Drop it or—” He broke it, declining to give the kid a choice in the matter.

Michael screamed louder and longer than Darryl had heard anyone scream in a long while, but somehow through that cloud of sound, the Watcher agent heard distant sirens. He looked in their direction and didn’t see them but determined by the noise they made that three law enforcement cars were on their way.

He turned his attention back to Michael, who was now crying as well as screaming.

“What’s fifties slang for ‘I’m gonna break your neck, you dumb li’l shit’?” Darryl asked as he applied more pressure to the broken wrist.

Michael continued to scream and bawl as Christine looked around frantically.

It wasn’t until Darryl released the wrist and hit Michael under his jaw that the girl went back on the offensive, raising her arms and opening her palms toward Darryl. When he turned toward her to try to figure what she was doing, he felt the answer. Infrared radiation enveloped his body, the heat steadily increasing its intensity.

Darryl didn’t move a step. He again clenched his teeth and fought back, focusing on the girl’s nose, giving her a bit of the same offense, concentrating in one small area.

Christine screamed, dropped her arms, and brought her hands to her nose as she turned to run away, away from Darryl and away from the sirens. With both hands on her face, she appeared to be galloping in the general direction of the Metro entrance. Maybe the girl thought she could escape on the subway. No way, Darryl thought.

He hit Michael thrice more in the jaw to ensure he’d stay put. The boy was already on the ground, but Darryl hit him until he was flattened. He then scrambled to retrieve his corresq and looked for Christine. She’d tried to shield herself with bent light. Nice try, honey.

Darryl adjusted his vision, located the invisible girl, and sprinted in her direction. When he was within a good enough range, he stopped and hurled the corresq. The silver circle sailed through the air in a straight line for fifty feet before hitting Christine in the back of the neck, the metal cutting into the skin as the impact forced her forward. She became visible again as she fell face-first into the grass. Once down, she didn’t move. She didn’t even make a sound.

Now to shut down the other one.

Darryl turned around, but the police cars were now in view, turning off Seventh Street onto the Mall’s grass. They weren’t far from Michael. They’d get him.

Darryl waved his arms in the air, pointing at Michael and gesturing toward Christine to make sure they saw both. He then went to get his toy back.