Human for a Day (9781101552391) (13 page)

“It's not too bad. Just a graze. Come on, let's go back to my place and I can stitch it up for you. Cheaper for you than taking you to a hospital and that way I can thank you properly.”

Deniel shrugged back into his jacket, moving slowly as he slid it around his injured arm, “Thank you. But the police? There was gunfire.”

Julian barked again. “Like I said, you're not from around here, are you? No sense in having you bleed out while we wait for them to show. I'm only just around the corner.”

The two of them made their way to Julian's place. It was a small apartment with two locked doors at the entrance, one of which had bars. Julian led Deniel into the elevator and they got off at the twelfth floor. When they entered Julian's apartment, the smell of roasting ham filled the air. Julian called out to his wife as soon as he entered the door. A young woman walked around the corner to greet them. When she saw Deniel, she lowered her head and turned aside.

“We have company. Set out another place for dinner.” His wife gave a quick nod and then disappeared back into the kitchen. “Don't mind Melanie. Come on, let's get you fixed up.”

Julian took Deniel to a small study and had him sit down on a stool. He left the room and came back with a big white box labeled “Medical.” Opening it up, he pulled out sutures, triple antibiotic ointment, and a small syringe filled with a clear fluid. After the initial pokes from the needle, Deniel felt nothing as Julian stitched his arm up. Once he was finished, he cleaned up the wound and then the two of them went back to the dining room. Melanie stood in the doorway to the kitchen. As soon as they entered she turned around and retreated to get the food. Julian and Deniel took their seats and Melanie came back with the ham, placing it in the center of the table. As she was putting it down, Deniel noticed that she had a large bruise on her left cheekbone.

“Are you all right, Miss Melanie?”

“Oh, yes. I'm fine. Just had an accident in the kitchen.” When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. She scampered back into the kitchen.

“Excuse me for a minute, Deniel. Help yourself to some food.”

Julian got up from the table and disappeared in the kitchen. Deniel waited, not sure how long he should do so. It wasn't long before he heard shouting from the kitchen. It was subdued at first, but quickly grew in intensity. When he heard a crash of metal he bolted from his chair hard enough to knock it over. With two strides, he was through the door leading into the kitchen.

Melanie was on the floor in the corner and she held her hand to her face. A fresh red mark formed on her cheek. Julian stood over her with his hand over his head. Deniel caught the tail end of what he was shouting.

“ . . . let him see you like that? Are you trying to make me look bad?”

Deniel lunged across the kitchen and grabbed Julian's wrist in his hand. He yanked back, forcing Julian to face him. He brought his other hand up in a cross punch, sending Julian reeling until he collided with the counter. He fumbled on it with both hands trying to stay upright. Melanie screamed and pushed herself further back into the corner.

“It is wrong to strike those who are defenseless. You should seek forgiveness.”

Julian seemed to lose the capacity for language. Pushing off the counter, he drove himself right at Deniel. It was a clumsy attack, and Deniel faded back so that it passed several inches in front of his face. He pushed on the back of Julian's arm, using his own momentum against him to drive him into a wall. Deniel clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes as Julian turned around. He held a kitchen knife in his hand.

Taking a step forward, he slashed through the air. Deniel jumped back out of range. He dodged a second attack as the knife came back across his body. Julian lifted the blade and stabbed at Deniel's throat. Deniel stepped to the side and pivoted so that he could grab Julian's wrist. Before he had a chance to twist, Julian reached around and punched Deniel directly in his recently stitched wound. Deniel yelped as a flash of fire shot down through his fingers. He barely managed to twist away as the knife came across again. It scraped him across the chest, cutting through the shirt and just a bit of skin underneath.

Julian tried to stab again, and Deniel had little time to react. Thousands of years of training kicked in. He struck Julian's hand from the side, making the attack go wide. In one fluid motion, he struck Julian's elbow and used his other hand to guide the knife in a big circle. It came around and sunk deep into Julian's neck. His eyes went wide and he dropped to the ground, blood pooling underneath him.

Melanie screamed again between sobs. Deniel stood over the body, looking down at the corpse. His eyes slid from the corpse to focus on his right hand. It was covered in blood and he still held the knife in his hand. He backpedaled out of the kitchen, away from the body and the hysterical woman. He bumped into a chair and stumbled over it, falling to the floor and dropping the knife. He needed to get away. Picking himself up, he sprinted out of the apartment and made his way to the stairs. He bounded up the stairs four at a time on his way to the roof. When he reached the final platform, he burst through the door with his shoulder, only stopping when he was on the roof.

Deniel fell to his knees and looked up at the stars, half-hidden by clouds. They blurred in his vision as tears pooled and traced down his cheeks. Falling forward onto his forearms, he sobbed. What had he done? How could it have come to this? The man was a sinner, but he didn't deserve to die. Emotion overwhelmed him: despair like he had not felt in all his eons of existence. It was a human emotion and heartbreaking in its power.

The sound of sirens shook him from his sorrow. Standing, he shuffled over to the edge of the building. Looking down at the ground 15 stories below, he saw police cars at the front of the building—their telltale lights decorating the street in an almost festive glow. Feeling that overwhelming despair, Deniel climbed up to stand on the edge. He had failed. He was not worthy.

He fell forward, closing his eyes as he rushed to meet the ground.

 

With a gasp, Deniel woke up. He jerked to a sitting position and looked around. Everything was black. It wasn't dark; just black for as far as he could see. He heard the staccato tone of someone walking in boots on a hard floor. Deniel stood up and turned around. A meticulously groomed man walked towards him wearing a suit. He had a charming smile and eyes that seemed to glow of their own accord.

“Brother,” the stranger said as he came forward and put a hand on Deniel's shoulder.

Deniel looked down and his shoulders sank. “I failed. I was not worthy. I died as a sinner and have fallen from grace.” He sighed. “Are you here to gloat, Lucifer? To claim me as a trophy?”

The other man softened his features, pulled Deniel to his feet, and shook his head from side to side. “No, brother. You are no trophy and you did not fail.”

“But I killed a human. He didn't deserve to die.”

“What about the millions that you were commanded to kill? Did they deserve it?”

Deniel paused and looked up with his eyebrows furrowed together. “I don't know. They must have. Otherwise . . .”

There was a brief pause and then Lucifer finished the sentence for him. “Otherwise, He would have been wrong.”

Deniel snapped his gaze to meet his brother's. “That's not possible.”

“Are you sure?”

Deniel had no answer. His head swam in the possibility of what was being suggested.

Lucifer continued. “You have not failed. You just realized what I realized so many years ago.”

“What is that?”

“Father can be wrong.”

They stood there without saying anything, one providing comfort to the other through a gentle touch on the shoulder. After several breaths, Deniel reached up and put his hand on top of his brother's. He closed his eyes. In response, Lucifer stepped in and wrapped his arms around Deniel in a gentle embrace.

“Why was I tested?”

“It's the only way I could show you the truth. Living as a mortal, separated from His voice, you see the world as it truly is with all its faults and beauty. Father agreed to the test because He believes He is infallible.”

With his eyes still closed and his voice a whisper, Deniel asked a question. “What do we do now?”

“Now we search for the truth without being blinded by the light, and try to help those that we can. Will you join me?”

“Yes.”

Tanith Lee

 

 

 

 

T
hey were playing it on the radio, that first time I saw him.

He was by the highway. Just sitting there, and the sun was going west, shining back on him so he glowed like gold. He was a kind of a crossbreed, I guess, biggish built but lean, and his coat real good. I like animals. Always have. They can sometimes reach me where a human can't. That's wrong, maybe. Or maybe it ain't.

Now don't think I just pull over and run up to any animal I see. I know about rabies, even with the shots, and this was pretty wild, lonely country I was driving through; those long plains and mountains combed up on the backdrop, and maybe one thirsty tree per mile. But he had a collar and he looked in real good shape. Only thing was the way he just sat there.

So I pull up and roll down the window. I say to him, “Hey, boy, how y'doing? You okay there?”

He turned his head and looked right at me. He had one of those long noses. He had white teeth—no suspicion-making froth or nothing. And his eyes. Black. Great big eyes. I never saw eyes, any eyes, so damn sad.

 

First thing I did, I looked at his collar. Sure enough there's a tag on it.
Scott
, and an address. No place I heard of, but out there, no reason I would. I was making for Santa Zora with the delivery, and no need to get there until tomorrow. I left early, get bored waiting around, nervous, if I'm honest. I like to be doing something. Ever since Della. Since then.

Well, the dog seemed calm and together, but how'd I know what kind of trash might come along the road next. And anyhow, in another hour maybe it'd be jet black dark and only the stars for company. The back of the pickup had some space and the stuff I was carrying all boxed-up and waterproof. So I offered the dog a lift to the next town, which according to my info was only a few miles on. From there, I could get directions to the address he had and could drive the poor guy back to his folks.

He just jumped in the back of the pickup like he'd done that a hundred times already. He laid himself down and kind of sighed, the way a dog does. He shut those sad eyes of his, and we drove on, until the sun set chili-red and turned the mountains into crimson glass.

 

In the town main street I found a guy who knew the way to the address on the tag.

I bought a plastic bowl and a bottle of water, and let the golden dog take a drink. He was thirsty as those desert trees.

We cut off along this dirt road that was full of ruts and stones, and I could hear my cargo complain a tad, but the dog seemed to be sleeping. Took me another half hour. The stars were lit up by then. It was a long, low, white house with a flat roof and some kind of palm trees grew there. Had a swimming pool, too, in the backyard. The other houses around were sort of the same. When I got out, I saw the dog was awake. He was sitting there, looking at the house.

I thought, I guess he knows he's home. But he didn't make a move or a sound. So I thought, hell, they'd maybe just gotten him and he didn't know it yet. Or maybe he does a bit and that's confusing him. “Hey, boy,” I said to him, putting my hand on his head, gentle, you got to be gentle, “hey, gonna be fine.”

 

I go to the door and knock. A little round Spanish woman answers.

I say I need to speak to Mr. Scott.

She looks worried. But then her eyes slide past me and she sees the golden dog in the house lights. She sputters out something in Spanish and makes the sign of the cross over herself and then she slams the door shut. I hear her running back inside the house along the tiled hallway. I stand there wondering if maybe I should beat it. Then the door opens again and now there is a tall, well-built guy, thirty-five or so.
He
looks instantly right past me. He's still looking past, in a scary, blank kind of way, when I say, “Mr. Scott?” At which he goes red under his tan and glares at
me
.

“That isn't my name.”

“Not Scott?” I ask, thinking maybe the feller in town gave me the wrong directions.

But this man says, “My name's McCall.
Scott
, for the sake of—Scott is the name of that—the
dog
.”

I laugh, seeing the dumb but quite logical mistake I made. “But he's your dog,” I try then. “I found him out on Route—”

“I don't care where in the
hell
you found him,” the man says, cracking his sentences out at me like rounds from a gun. “Get him offa this property. Take him
outta
here. Do you get me? Yeah? Fucking get lost.
Both
of you.”

“But why? What—”

And then there is this girl, running out toward the door. She's about seventeen, young and sweet, slim, with a pale white skin despite the desert, and long, dark, curling hair and great big dark eyes—and the thing that comes to me is, crazily, how like the eyes of the dog hers are—huge, dark
, sad
.

“Rosalie,” cracks out the man, “leave this to me.”

“But Dad—is it—
oh
,” she sighs, stalling just behind him. And the big black eyes are on the pickup, on the dog, and her eyes are raining as it never would rain out here, but for human tears. “Dad,” she weeps. “Oh Dad, make it go.”