Recovering (15 page)

I give him a big, sloppy grin as he unhooks the stupid velvet
rope and allows us access to the staircase. “You guys are the best. Oh My God,
Tucker Cartwright. This is unbelievable,” I gush as we head up the stairs. As
soon as the goons are behind us, I give Gabe an angry glare.

“Piss on his face?”

“Batman doesn’t drive the getaway car,” Gabe says again as we
reach the second floor and survey a long hallway filled with closed doors.

“They’ll be able to give descriptions of us to law
enforcement,” Tarren says. I’m probably imaging the icicles of unhappiness
dripping off his words.

“Gabe’s got his mask, you’ve got your cowboy hat, and I’m
wearing a wig. It’s fine,” I hiss back at him.

Tarren decides
to generously withhold any additional rebukes. “Gloves on. How many humans up
here?” he asks. 

As Tarren and Gabe each pull a pair of thin leather gloves
from their pocket and Bat Utility Belt, respectively, I lower a barrier in my
mind and let the angel part of me extend. Heat roils through my hands, and the
seams in my palms pull, asking for release. I feel the auras of my brothers so
close and the mass of energy throbbing downstairs. I push, focusing my mind on
this hallway.

“Multiple humans up here. There and there,” I point to two
rooms in the hallway. Their auras lick against that sensitive part of my brain.
“We have to be careful.”

“Don’t see any cameras,” Gabe says, scanning up and down the
hallway. “Small favors.”

Tarren is quiet for a moment, just a moment, as his mind
calculates. We could be facing two angels up here or a dozen behind every door.
And we’ve got humans in the mix.

Tarren’s lips press tight. The plan is woven. “We go room by
room,” he says. “Use the heat sensor to identify and then clip all the wings we
find. Tranq any humans. Do it quick. Do it clean. No alarms. I’ll take the
first three doors. Gabe the next three. Maya, those two on the other side.”

“I didn’t bring a tranq gun,” I admit, “but I don’t sense any
humans in my rooms.”

Tarren gives me a look that says,
We’ll discuss this
later.

You try finding a place for two guns and a phone while
wearing ten square inches of clothing,
I think back at him.

“Exit point?” Gabe’s voice is low, finally serious. I watch
the teasing greens drain from his aura, leaving it a dark blue, the color of
the ocean on a cloudy, unhappy day.

“There.” Tarren points to one of the doors. “According to the
layout, that should be the bathroom. There’ll be a window that lets out on the
side of the house. As soon as your rooms are cleared, get the bodies out and straight
back to the car.”

“Should have bought my Bat Grappling Hook,” Gabe grumbles.

Tarren’s eyes have shifted from pale blue to gray and look hard
as flint. I study his smooth, controlled aura.
Does he still get nervous?
I
wonder. Especially with a job like this. So many ways this could melt down. All
it would take is a single human letting out a scream, or an angel with a power
we’ve never seen before. I pull in a deep, long breath and nod my assent.

“Right on,” Gabe says.

“Quick, quiet, clean,” Tarren says. Our team motto.

We each turn away, moving toward our assigned doors.
Adrenaline sloshes through my veins, and I’ve grown used to this sick
anticipation. Blood and bullets.
Unless it’s one of us tonight,
I think.
That familiar knot of dread is back, sitting heavily in my stomach. I know that
we cannot jump through the fire forever without getting burned ourselves.

My heels softly plow the thick carpet as I wrap my gloved
hand around the first door. My right hand is already cradling my Glock in a
strong grip. No human auras within the room, but that doesn’t mean an angel
isn’t waiting to jump out at me like the rubber zombies in the haunted tunnel.
I turn the door handle, and the door opens into an office. My gun is up, ready,
sweeping the parameter. My eyes search the shadows and find nothing.

I close the door softly behind me. My prickling angel sense
feels the auras of my brothers up here with me. A muffled shot rings from one
of the other rooms, seemingly so loud, but I know the pounding music downstairs
will drown it out. I wish the silencers they show in the movies really existed.
They don’t. Silencers muffle a shot, but it’s still loud. Still a risk.

I move to the second door. The knob resists my hand.
Locked.

On any other mission I’d have a lock pick kit squirreled away
in an inner pocket, but in this tight, nothing-there costume, I come up empty. I’m
so not asking my brothers for an assist. I turn the knob harder. My muscles
tense. I imagine all my hybrid angel strength pouring out of me into the knob.
Come
on, dammit. What’s the point of having super strength if I can’t…
something
snaps within the handle and it turns willingly in my grasp.

I shake out my throbbing hand. Point to hybrid angel girl!

I open the door slowly and move into a vast room.
Damn…
I’ve never been across the ocean, but I’m pretty sure a European castle could
fit into this room.
Whoa, narcissistic much?
My eyes travel around the
room. Tucker Cartwright, Tucker Cartwright, Tucker Cartwright. He gives me a
swarmy grin from the beach, from behind the wheel of an old Corvette, leaning
up against a lamp post in the rain with the Eiffel Tower behind him. Not
phallic at all. His posters and calendars and portraits compete with each other
to fill up every possible inch of space on the walls. Was this room decorated
by a 12-year-old girl? I’m surprised I don’t see magazine cutouts encircled by
huge hearts taped to the walls.

I catch a figure looming in my peripheral and spin, almost
blowing the head right off a life-sized cardboard cutout of Tucker Cartwright. The
cutout grins at me, his eyes saying,
Yeah I’m hot. Wanna fuck?
 

“Shit!” a voice hollers from a massive bed sitting in the
middle of the room.

I turn and shoot, but the man is already rolling out of the
bed. My first bullet kicks a hole through his pillow. He hits the floor with a
thud, all bare ass and skinny legs. Tucker Cartwright.
So not pleased to
meet you.
I aim for his chest, but he puts a hand up, and I’m off my feet
flying through the air.

I take out the cardboard cutout before I hit the wall hard
and slide to the ground.
Telekinesis, dammit!
The room is all floaty, a
thousand Tucker Cartwrights sloshing up and down the walls. I shake away the
dizziness as I jump to my feet…. and notice the gun is nowhere near my grip.

“You wicked cunt!” Tucker Cartwright hisses, and I hear the
door slam behind me. “You’re one of ‘em whatchamacallem? The…the Vigils?”

He folds his arms around his chest like he is madly, truly
offended. “And crashing my fucking party. Probably ate a fuck ton of my shrimp
too, didn’t you?” I find my gun firmly couched beneath the sole of his foot.
“God, I can’t believe this.” He looks at me and runs a hand through his long,
tousled hair. “What the hell is wrong with your aura?”

Bad. This is very bad. I always knew the vigilante life would
put me in a coffin at an early age, but seriously, Tucker Cartwright? The
world’s lamest fake famous person whose vocabulary consists 50% of the word “Fuck”?

“Oh wait. Wait. Wait. Wait!” Tucker says as he leans over and
picks up my gun. “You’re that girl, the half angel.” His eyes are wide, and his
mouth turns up into a cruel smile. “War said that you were dead. Burned to a
crisp.”

“War.” The word is growl out of my throat as Warren’s ugly
face flashes across my memory. I haven’t gotten around to killing that
grotesque sack of shit yet, but he’s high up on the priority list.

Tucker hefts my gun. He moves a step closer, and I hold my
ground. My muscles are tense. If I were facing a human I wouldn’t be nervous at
all. Slow, fat-fingered humans. But another angel – a full-fledged angel is
another ballgame. Tucker is faster than me, stronger too. All of my enhanced
abilities are shadows compared to what a full angel can do.   

Stall,
I think.
Distract him. Get out of his
shooting path.
“How’s my buddy War doing?” I ask and give Tucker a flashy
smile of my own.

“He’s pushing the angel religion shit,” Tucker says as he
takes another step forward. “They lap it up.”

Behind Tucker’s naked ass, I noticed a figure sprawled in the
bed on top of the cheetah coverlet. The long-legged woman is naked and dead,
and her thick black hair fans out across the black satin sheets. Tucker’s body
glows with the ethereal energy he soaked up from the woman.

Tucker must notice my gaze. He gives me a smile that almost
drips with slime. “It’s ridiculously easy. They’re so excited, so innocent.” He
nods toward the bed and pitches his voice into a high falsetto. “Ooohhh, Tucker
Cartwright, I’ll suck your dick if you give my headshot to your agent.”

The asshole laughs. Actually laughs. And that’s when I decide
that Tucker Cartwright definitely won’t be killing me tonight.

“And their eyes,” Tucker says. “They get so big and scared as
I drain the life out of them.” He looks at the bed again. “That one hardly
fought at all.”

He’s brimming with the power of his recent feed. It’s making
him cocky and stupid. I can work with that.

“How do you get away with it?”

 “Heroine overdose. So tragic,” he says and tilts his head. I
see the spoon and syringe on the nightstand. “All these young actresses.
Hollywood just chews them up and spits them out.”

I move, dashing right.
BOOM
! The gun goes off. Then
I’m on top of Tucker. My blade flashes in my hand. I see the slap of surprise on
features as my dagger puts a red smile across his neck, from ear to ear. His
telekinesis explodes, throwing me hard into the ceiling. The plaster cracks and
rains down as I fall. I tuck my body. The landing isn’t graceful, but I roll
and keep all my bones intact as I make it to my feet. In a distant place, my
elbow throbs with muted pain.

The gunshot. I look down as panic spreads like ice in my
chest. Was I hit? Specks of blood dot my chest like tiny rubies, but I don’t
see a big gaping hole. No rivulets of blood run down my arms or legs or spread
a wet puddle across my costume. The flecks of blood aren’t mine. 

Near the foot of the bed, Tucker spills his blood across the
white travertine tiles. I watch the liquid pump from his wound and slide across
the floor in a crimson wave. My stomach tightens, and the normal college
sophomore I used to be screams somewhere far, far in the back of my mind.

Tucker grabs his neck as if he could hold his severed artery
together. As if he could save the life I’ve already taken from him. I stand in
front of him, watching, waiting, trying to remember that he is a very bad
person and deserves to die.

The gunshot was muted by the silencer, but it was still loud.
It could bring Troll One and Two rushing up the stairs. I know this, but my
legs don’t move. I have to watch. No matter how bad Tucker Cartwright was, I
must stand vigil for his last moments. My eyes keep flicking away from the
shuddering body, but everywhere they go, they see Tucker again and again and
again like his ghost is accusing me from every poster.

Tucker’s hand hits the tile with a wet thud. His face is
ghastly pale, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. The glow is gone from his ashen
skin. A few more tiny bubbles of blood slip down from the corner of his mouth,
and then Tucker Cartwright’s life is over. But his face, all his thousand faces
will be safe inside my perfect memory forever.

My legs are shaky as I force them to move toward the bed.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the young woman who stares at me
with unseeing brown eyes. She truly is beautiful. I bet she was one of those
people who everyone described as “full of life.”  Not anymore. I carefully lift
her body with one arm and pull the big cheetah print comforter off the bed
before setting her back down. I don’t have time for this, but I pull the black
silk sheet over her body, covering her nakedness. It’s pointless. The police
will tag and bag her. She’ll be naked on a slab in a morgue in a few hours, but
right now in this quiet moment when her parents and siblings and all her
friends still believe she is alive, she deserves to be covered.

I toss the comforter on the floor, keeping it away from the
spreading crimson puddle of Tucker’s blood. The liquid catches in the grout
between the tiles and runs down them like a frisky stream.

Trying not to look at his face or the gaping wound I put into
his neck, I lift Tucker’s limp body and drop him onto the comforter. Blood
still dribbles from his wound.

Shit, I killed Tucker Cartwright.
The thought is
almost absurd, but here I am, rolling his body into a cheetah print log.

Gun.

I turn and find my gun sitting in the puddle of Tucker’s
blood. My blonde wig lies nearby, looking like a mangled Pomeranian. I’m
starting to shake now, and time seems to be pulsing in my veins instead of blood.
Did Tucker scream? Are the goons coming?

I shove the wig on my head, twisting it the right way and
shoving escaped wisps of my hair inside. Then I reach into the blood and grab
the glistening gun and push it awkwardly into my holster. I feel wetness sliding
down my leg. The throbbing in my elbow intensifies. I look up at the ceiling,
at the long crack my body made when Tucker launched me upwards.  

That’s definitely going to be a mind fuck for the police.

I look around the room again, at the pillow with the charred
bullet hole in its center, at the pale starlet wannabe shrouded in the black
sheets, and finally at the pool of Tucker’s blood. It seems darker now, more
wet. Should I try to clean up? Did I leave DNA on the ceiling?

Get out. Just get out. Think through the rest later.