Downside Rain: Downside book one (17 page)

The
angel stares at River, whose hand rests on the floor almost touching mine, as though
he’s braced to grab me and haul me out of here.

The
angel’s head cocks to one side. It regards River with a tiny quizzical frown
and my nerves jitter. But the pale creature smiles, revealing glossy white
teeth.

A
weight lifts from my shoulders.

The
woozy smile blanks out, its face settles into a stony countenance and its mouth
opens on a note like liquid silver.
“A silent grave. Does something of you
linger here, beloved? Do your bones tie you to the earth?”

My
heart trips. It must mean Castle.
Does something of you linger here?
It
knows Castle remains as a spirit? But I can’t talk about Castle with River here.

Its
alabaster brow creases. It leans over, the hand with the bottle draped on an
upraised knee. With a penetrating gaze boring into me, it dramatically
flourishes the bottle. “
And in the depths
of sorrow
flowers
bloom,”
it warbles.

Flowers
bloom in the depth of sorrow. Is that a good thing? Does the angel mean
everything’s not as bad as it seems? Or is it referring to Castle, his return
from the grave is a blessing? Or it merely acknowledges I put a flower on his
grave? With a small smile, I nod.

Its
face puckers angrily. Shit, I misinterpreted, not for the first time. Castle is
so much better at this. “I don’t know what you mean. I hoped you’d tell me who
killed Castle.”

It
soars to its feet. I shrink back as what looks like a ten-feet-tall animated
statue towers over me menacingly. River inches closer to me.

“What
you in your ivory tower, deceit and death and gloom?”
the angel shrills dramatically. It flings out its hand again and loses hold of
the bottle, which shoots across the loft and explodes on the wall.

Letting
out a frustrated grunt, I lean back on my hands to gaze up at it. “I’m
sorry!
I wish I understood, but I don’t!”

Its
huge eyes blink once. It sways on its feet, collapses into a squat with back
braced on the wall and gradually lists to one side.

“Do
you care that Castle’s dead?” I don’t mean to say it aloud but the thought
spontaneously produces words.

The
angel opens its mouth, closes it. What looks like a bead of quicksilver forms
in the corner of one eye, becoming transparent as it dribbles over a concave cheek.
It falls to land with a musical tinkle. I pick up the perfect, glistening crystal
before it disappears in the surrounding garbage. It glitters prismatically, like
the angel’s eyes.

Movement
makes me look up. The angel takes my hand and its chill flesh burns, but I hold
still.  It turns my hand, and a stream of crystal tears pour from its folded
fist into my palm.

It
saved the evidence of its sorrow for me. Humbled, I curl my fingers and bow my
head. I want to bawl and let my tears mix with the angel’s.

Movement
lifts my gaze. The angel is on its feet again; its wings sweep up and clash
together. I squint against the glare.

A
wing furls down, the tip gently rests on my head.
“Sunrise. Sunset,”
it
sings mournfully.

“Yeah,
I know, life goes on.”

I
make a tiny hill of tears on the floor. I can’t keep them, won’t sell them or
use them, and people kill to get their hands on angel’s tears.

River
peers down. “They look like diamonds.”

“They’re
worth more than diamonds.” But I don’t tell River what an angel’s tear can do.

“I
almost lost my lunch when it smiled. Looked like it wanted to take a bite out
of me.”

River
has been yammering for five minutes but I can’t concentrate on the words.

“Hells
and damnation!” I stop long enough to stamp one foot. “I’m sure it tried to
tell us something important.”

“It
wasn’t just nonsense?”

“No.
It only sounded like nonsense to us.”

“How
long have you been friends?”

“Friends?
I doubt it understands the concept of friendship. Castle introduced himself
long before I came on the scene. I don’t know how they got along then, but when
Castle and I came we mostly talked to each other and the angel burbled
something every once in a while. Castle managed to figure out most of what it meant.
I think we’re the only people it has any sort of relationship with.”

“If
the angel is so powerful, why didn’t it save his life?”

My
stomach hurts. I didn’t think of that. It would’ve helped Castle if it could,
wouldn’t it?

“It
can’t predict the future, it knows the past and the present, so it knew Castle
was beyond help, it was too late for that,” I reason.

“Is
it really a fallen angel?”

“So
it’s said. The question is, from where did it fall?”

Deep
in our own thoughts, we walk in silence for a moment. I wish I could decipher
the angel’s messages.

“It
seems so . . . sad,” River says.

“Little
is more pathetic than fallen angels.”

“There
are more?”

“Only
the one in Gettaholt, but I hear there are quite a few Downside.” And they often
weep, hence the black market in angel’s tears. As many times as I have visited
the angel and the number of tears I could have laid hands on, I could be exceedingly
wealthy. But there are some things I won’t do.

At
least I feel better about River. The angel accepted him. I don’t believe it
would if River means me harm or his motives are dishonest.

“Did
anything
it said make sense?” River asks.

I
wrap my arms around myself and an inner chill seeps through my bones. As
excited as the angel was, I’m positive it tried to tell me something vitally
important. “No,” I tell River.

A
dozen paces on, I’m walking alone. I stop and turn my shoulder to look at River
where he hangs back. He regards me with a new hardness in his eyes.

“Something
the matter?”

His
voice is as stony as his eyes. “The angel knows everything,” he muses. “You
were tight as a drum until the angel smiled at me, then you relaxed. You took
me there so it could . . . assess me. You don’t trust me.”

Crap.
I feel about two inches tall. “I’m sorry.” I give him a weak smile. “Someone
put ideas into my head.”

“Like
what?”

“You’re
a plant for the Greché who want an
in
with the Peralta family.”

He
visibly bristles. “That’s just . . . ridiculous. You could have told me.”

“What
was I supposed to say,
hey, dude, you a Greché spy?”
I reply
caustically. “You were at their house, it
did
seem handy.”

“Who
is it? Verity?”

“It
doesn’t matter, you don’t know them.”

“I
fought those vampires for you.” He sounds livid. “I didn’t give a damn about
Verity, it was for you.”

Make
that one inch tall. I flinch in an exaggerated manner. “Can we forget about
it?”

He
flips hair from his face with a jerk of his head. “I can’t believe you bought
into it.”

“
Gods
almighty!” I snap. “I hardly know you! I don’t trust easily, I don’t take
things at face value and I will
not
spend the rest of the day
apologizing. It
was
a legitimate concern and I dealt with it. End of
story.” He needs to grow a thicker skin.

He
opens his mouth, shuts it and gives me a dark look. I sandwich my lips together
and look away. Great. We’re both mad.

I
walk off and he catches up with me. We tromp along, not looking at each other.

I
glance at him after a few minutes and catch him watching me. He no longer looks
angry, but his expression is one I imagine an Upside kid would wear if he came
here and discovered Saint Nicholas isn’t a jolly old fellow and his elves don’t
make toys for good little kids. His disappointment in me is worse than the
anger. I silently
tsk
at myself - he’s not the only one who needs to
grow a thicker skin.

He
suddenly stops. “Damn. I forgot the groceries.”

“You
bought groceries?”

“I
left them at. . . .” His gaze drops to his boots.

He
left the groceries at Angelina’s apartment. “We’re not going back for them.”

“No
way.” His mouth twists wryly. “I’ll pay the gnome another visit.”

“Gnome?”

“The
shopkeeper across the street.”

I
know why, coming from Upside, he misidentified Noddy. Just the same, it’s
funny. “Noddy?” I splutter. “He’s not a gnome, he’s a Munchkin.”

River
stops walking again. I keep going and he hustles to catch up. “You’re kidding
me, right?”

He’s
smiling, his tone is light. The tightness in my chest diminishes. I’m sure the
hurt is still there, you don’t let go of a sense of betrayal just like that,
but he’s handling it.

I
keep a straight face as I wag my head. “Where do you think Baum got the idea?”
But I can’t keep up the act, his expression is so comical. “Noddy is a rock
troll.”

“I
thought rock trolls would be . . . kind of rockish looking.”

“Rockish?
Is that a word?”

I
stagger as my heel snags on a loose cobblestone. River reaches out but I skip
sideways. “Did you meet his wife?”

“I
saw a gigantic . . . female, with huge. . . .” he gestures with both cupped
hands.

“Betty,
a mountain troll. She’s Noddy’s wife.”

His
brows jerk up and a look I easily interpret comes into his eyes.

I
snort. “You’re trying to imagine how they do it, aren’t you.”

He
averts his head but not before he smirks. “Do what?”

He
knows, and I know, but I can’t resist saying, “If you’d seen under his apron
you’d know rock trolls are - ”

‘Hey!”
River still won’t look at me. “I don’t need to know that.”

“Have
it your own way.” Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Just trying to further your
education.”

With
a sideways glance at me, he changes the subject. “Will you help me find an
apartment?”

“Sure.
I’ll be looking myself.” I’m moving. I’ve lived in my apartment for nearly five
years, but Angie crossed the line when she lured in my guest. There are plenty
of inexpensive, half-decent apartments in Gettaholt, though finding a vacant
unit will be a challenge. “It won’t be easy. We’ll go down to Housing and put
our names on the list and it’s a
long
list, so don’t expect to move in
the near future.”

But
I can’t wait months, I want to be far away from Angie
now
. We can get a
motel room while we move up the list; they cost no more than my apartment.

Rain
falls, at first lightly; I bring my shoulders up to my ears but it still
dribbles down my neck.  River’s hair gleams and water drips off the ends to
become lost in the rain slicking his leather coat.

“I
have a job tomorrow, and something else I should take care of. Want to come
along?” I flash him a half-smile.

“What’s
the job?”

“Some
pests need to be resettled in another location where they can’t cause mischief.”

He
joins his hands behind his back and watches the pavement pass beneath our feet.
“Big pests or little pests?”

“Little.”
I hold up my hand and make a four-inch space with thumb and forefinger. “Help
me and you get half the fee.”

“You
have a deal.”

I
don’t tell him everything. Hands-on experience is the best teacher for these
particular pests.

I
wake in the night to see River kneeling at the window, but he doesn’t watch the
street. He looks at something in his hands and lets out a low, amused chuckle.

I
sit up and rub my eyes. “What have you got there?”

He
shuffles on his knees and holds up the object. “I bought it at the market.”

“A
mobile phone?” I blink. “You
paid
for a cell-phone? You know - ”

“It
can’t make calls,” River finishes for me. He grins widely. “But it has cool
games.”

I
fall back on the mattress. He’s still messing with the phone as I drift into
darkness.

The
relocation service I use is in the corner of a hardware store. The cyclops stows
everything in a hemp sack and pushes a piece of paper to me over the counter. “You
know the deal, Rain, twenty-four-hour rental, you return it late you pay for
another twenty-four. Sign here, please,” he says in a bored tone as he takes a
pen from the pocket of his blue canvas coveralls.

I
sign on the dotted line. “And the unit?”

He
leans one massive, muscular forearm on the countertop. “On its way.”

“Thanks.
An hour should do it.” We probably don’t need an hour to take care of a small
hive but one never knows. I smile into his single blue eye, rest the sack and a
long, slim plastic case against the counter and go looking for River.

Goods
hang from the bare beams on the low ceiling and are stacked on metal and wood
shelves. The wood floor creaks under other patrons’ feet but not mine. I find
River poking into several shelves deep in the store. Guys and hardware stores
have meaningful relationships.

“Ready
to get this done?”

His
head whips in my direction. “I know lots of this stuff, but some of it. . . .”
With a perplexed expression he shakes his head and scratches his scalp.

I
head for the exit. “Come on.”

“He’s
not as big as I thought they’d be.” He jogs his head at the Cyclops who is
unloading a box of tools and hanging them up.

“Big
enough.” I lift the case and nod at the sack.

River
grasps and jiggles it. “What’s this?”

“I
don’t want to haul everything out. I’ll explain when we arrive at the location.
Anyway, I want to see your face.”

“Don’t
know whether I like the sound of that.”

I
smile and walk faster.

We
cross the river, autos streaming between us and the far footpath. Boats large
and small cruise the murky water out of the city or head to the wharves to join
those already moored. River stops to lean on the rail and watch crates being
unloaded from a big cargo boat; its plate-metal sides gleam redly.

“How
far to the sea?”

I
stand beside him. “There is no sea, but a network of rivers connects most
cities. It’s why they developed where they are, except Gettaholt, which grew up
around The Station before there was a station.”

We
carry on and soon walk among the tenements on the west side of the river. The
relocation service’s van is parked outside a soaring structure of five floors, in
front of steps which go down to the basement.

A
dwarf in blue coveralls, his gray beard neatly braided, climbs from the van and
opens the rear doors as we approach. He swings the unit to the sidewalk when we
reach him. With a nod, he gets back in the van and drives away, leaving us in a
cloud of exhaust.

“You
can bring that,” I tell River.

He
bends to grab the unit’s handle, starts to come upright and stops with a grunt.
“This is heavier than it looks.”

“Than
the dwarf made it look,” I correct. “A lot of muscle is packed into a small
dwarf body, something you’d do well to remember.”

He
comes upright with the unit dragging down one side of his body. “What is it?”

“Relocation
specialists do what the title implies, move undesirables from the city to
habitats suitable to their survival. They don’t perform an actual capture,
that’s a job for others, so we have to catch and box the pests for transit
first. He’ll be back in about an hour, which should be plenty of time.”

The
double doors are wide open. Mr. Tipola steps out and makes chivvying motions. We
follow him through the door.

Big
feet stuffed in orange patent leather high heels, the goblin rattles up the
stairs. His padded rear end bobs in front of my face. River trudges after me.

“What
a week, what a week,” Tipola prattles. “I cleared the attic out months ago but
the contractors had a backlog. They finally arrive yesterday and what do they
find? A hive, a hive! I have plans for the attic.” He pauses to strike a
dramatic pose, hands out from his sides, long bony fingers protruding from a
froth of lace at his cuffs, one hand holding a white lace-edged handkerchief
between thumb and forefinger.

Continuing
up the stairs, his hat slips off his head and sails over mine. I snatch and
miss. River catches the thing and passes it up to me.

I
hand the hat to the goblin when we stop on the landing. He settles it on his bald
pate. Now he’s stationary, I hope it will stay there.

Goblins
have moist shiny skin and they sweat. A droplet slides alongside the inner
corner of his large, lashless green eyes and the long pointed nose, pauses
above the wide lipless mouth, detours around and meanders down Tipola’s jutting
chin. Watching it is kind of mesmerizing. The goblin pauses in his chatter to
draw in a breath and the sweat bead hits the damp patch on his doublet.

One
more flight to the top of the staircase. I tug Mr. Tipola’s coat, he stops and
turns and I put a silencing finger to my lips. I prefer the pixies don’t hear
us coming. He lowers his voice but continues to yak in a whisper. I tune him
out.

This
building gives me a feeling I can’t at this moment fathom. I know it, have felt
it before, but can’t identify it. The place is filthy and I’ll be surprised if
Tipola spends much on upkeep. Rat droppings litter the stairs and the smell of mold
makes my nose itch. He’s the type of landlord I despise, who knows people are
desperate for housing and won’t complain about substandard living conditions for
fear of eviction,.

“Let’s
get kitted up here,” I tell River, and with a frown at Tipola, which he
ignores, add, “Hopefully they don’t know we’re here.”

He
positions the small extraction unit on the landing and flexes his fingers,
which are probably numb from toting the thing. It will weigh more when we bring
it down loaded, but according to Tipola the hive is small so not too many
pixies will be stuffed inside. An established hive has numerous partitioned
living and working spaces, but this is a fraction of the size so must be to
house the queen’s vanguard, sent to find a good location for a new colony. It
will consist of a single inside space with their hammocks and weapon racks
attached to the walls.

The
unit’s hose is in good condition, the plug solid. I flip the switch; the needle
rises to indicate a full charge.

And
I can’t see River’s face as I examine the unit, a good thing as I have to
smother laughter each time he tries to do the same.

He
has held in his mirth since we arrived and met Mr. Tipola and his lurid sense
of style. Teetering on his heels, the goblin sports mustard-yellow hose and short,
padded orange breeches, which make him look like he stepped into a pumpkin and
decided to wear it around his waist. His black doublet has slashed sleeves over
a ruffled lace undershirt, and that ridiculous blue sock hat refuses to stay on
his slippery skull.

If
River snorts again, I’ll lose it.

I
squat to take mesh face masks from the sack and pass one to River. He turns it
in his hands and pulls and releases the elastic strap, making it twang.

“.
. . or even a penthouse suite,” the goblin finishes.

“Sounds
lovely, Mr. Tipola,” I offer. Penthouse suite? In this dump? I want to laugh
again.

“Indeed,
indeed.” The goblin looks up the staircase.

I
smile at him. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ll
leave you to it.” Down he trips until the staircase turns a corner and he moves
out of sight.

Next
from the sack, two pairs of leather gauntlets and an aerosol can.

“Hive,”
River ponders. He eyes the equipment. “We’re clearing out a wasp nest?”

“Worse.
Pixies.”

I
stay hunkered down on the landing to open the hard-sided case. A long-handled
net is clamped to each section. “Pixies are four to five inches high, depending
on the length of their stinger. They also carry arms - usually lances and
daggers - and of course they fly. They’re ferocious but not intelligent, or
they wouldn’t decide to make a new community in an inhabited city building.” I disengage
a clamp and remove a net. “The mesh is coated in adhesive so don’t touch. I
hope to clean out the nest before they’re any the wiser, but in case a few
escape, button up your coat, turn up your collar, put on the gloves and mask
and be ready with that net.”

He
puts on the mask and starts buttoning his coat one-handed, muttering, “Pixies
with stingers. Is nothing sacred?” Pulling on the gloves, he peers at me
through the mask’s mesh. “Where are the stingers?”

“Where
do you think? On their butts.” I hand the net to him and get upright to button
my leather coat. “They can paralyze mice and small birds and a sting gives us a
nasty welt.”

“Great,”
he says, abruptly sullen. “But you can fade out and lose it.”

I
offer him a smile. “River, you can do it, it’s there inside you. You just need
the right stimulus.”

He
doesn’t smile back.

With
gloves and mask in place, I tuck the aerosol can of tranquilizing spray in a
pocket. “If I can get to the nest unseen, this will put the pixies in a
temporary stupor.” I point at the unit. “That works like a vacuum cleaner, it
will suck them out. We trap escapees in the nets.”

“Sounds
like fun,” he says dryly.

“You’ll
know it if any get you with a stinger. Now, let’s do this quietly.”

I
get the other net and pick up the extraction unit. We continue up the stairs to
the top floor. A dirty wood door with blue paint flaking from the frame is dead
center in the passage which extends the width of the old apartment building.

I
nod at River to open the door because I’m all out of hands. I go in fast, gaze
sweeping the room for a hive attached to the wall. It should be up high to
allow the pixies to use one exit/entrance normally situated on the bottom.

The
attic is large, and bare.

River
scans the room. “Where is it?”

This
space has been used, but a long time ago. Dangling strips of wallpaper shift
slightly in the heavy damp air which pushes through a broken windowpane. Mold mottles
the corners of the room in gray patches which climb the walls and spread across
the. . . .

Ceiling.
A black oily cloud boils on the ceiling. I can see in the dark, but not through
this unnatural pall.

A
faint
chitter
emanates from the mass. “River - ” I begin as the cloud falls.

Dropping
flesh, I throw myself aside and open my eyes a second later in a crouch,
clothes, equipment and blades strewn at my feet. A dark humped mass writhes on
the board floor, thrashing limbs draped in shadow.

River
is in there.

My
desperately groping hands find two obsidian blades among my clothes. I rise up,
charge across the attic and dive in. Panic suffocates me - I’m blind in a cloud
of satanic darkness. The stink of rotting flesh clogs my nostrils and coats my
tongue. A moist rubbery
something
wraps around my waist. I slash with a
blade. A shrill sound grates through my head, hot wetness scalds my hand.

Tentacles.
A nest of tentacles swarms me, which means a controlling body lurks somewhere
in this mess. It can be cut, but its blood is acidic and eats at my skin.

Hacking,
jabbing, I wade in deeper.
Gods, don’t let me cut River.
Or if I cut
him, nothing vital. The blood stings, tempting me to drop flesh, but I will lose
my blades. My sight is becoming accustomed to the dark miasma. The limbs all around
me are paler than the surrounding shadow.

A
tentacle wraps my hips. I cut down; it uncoils and withdraws. Another grasps my
left wrist. I slash with the blade in my right hand.

“River!”

The
limbs are more thickly entwined in front of me, a nucleus of rubbery arms. A
noise, staccato thumps. I fight through to where a dozen tentacles encase
River’s long lean body. His heels drum the floor. His left arm is trapped to
his side but his right hand, jammed against his throat, prevents a limb from
strangling him.

If
this isn’t reason enough for his body to automatically drop flesh, I don’t know
what is. Yet he’s solid, using the strength of full flesh to resist the
creature.

Blades
swinging, jabbing, I reach him. His eyes are closed; he doesn’t know I’m here.

Huge
lambent, lidless eyes glow palely beyond River’s contorting body. Below them, a
horned beak clacks and drips bright-yellow acid which sizzles on the board
floor.

I
climb through the tentacles which hold River. Other limbs slither out, twisting
to get me before I reach the head. Dropping so much weight I can only just hold
onto my blades, I eel between them.

Not
much free space, but enough. Pulling full flesh, leaning through a gap, my hands
arc out and curve in. Each blade punctures a milky eye which pops like broken
egg yolk. I put so much force into the blows, my fists submerge to the knuckles.