Chapter One - ...He has established his throne for judgment.
Autumn comes late to the city, advancing on rising winds and icy air. Trees bury litter under an avalanche of browning leaves as branches shed their greenery to stand out, stark and naked, against the sky. The air is cold and the sun's light is harsher, colder and less forgiving. It is impossible to see the sky when the sun is out; the mirrored windows of the skyscrapers reflect back the sun's light, dazzling the unwary with their reflected glare. The people on the paths walk fast, eager to reach the warmth of their destination.
In the heart of the corporate sector, a modern, thirty nine storey block stands as the glittering jewel of the city. The design won several awards - commemorated by tasteful brass plaques in the reception. The global Head Office of Zeter Enterprises was a monument to capitalism at its very best. The walls were almost entirely mirrored windows and slender steel frames. The company's logo was cut into the central panels of glass.
The sun was sinking below the horizon as Betty Michaels saved her work and logged out of her workstation. The clock on the nearest wall read 4:58 pm as she pulled on her scarf and faintly battered coat. It was Thursday and time for the 'Big Boss' Karl Brereton to make his weekly PR appearance as 'the common working man' that the tabloids and the general public believed he was.
Which meant no lifts - security would have sealed them off until the CEO was safely out of the building (give or take half an hour or so) - and a long shamble down the stairs in the mob of tired, grumpy office workers who weren't photogenic enough to be seen leaving through the main reception. Betty knotted her scarf and set off. Most of her co-workers were shuffling out in silence, there were a few subdued conversations and the tinny sound of music from personal music players and iPods. Security was waiting just inside the doors to reception, crowd managing for the Boss's big exit from the building.
Betty sighed, tucking her hands into her pockets as she waited for the guards to start letting people pass in more than ones or twos. Ten past five. Upstairs, the Boss would be leaving his office, complete with a 'discrete' security detail. A token 'norm' - probably some airhead from Human Resources who knew to keep her (or occasionally as a politically correct gesture - his) mouth shut long enough to be wined and dined and snapped by paparazzi - would be brown-nosing along beside him.
Security allowed them all out as soon as they knew the Boss was on his way down, obediently managing the stage for the farce ahead. The crowds of workers made their way past the main desk, even as the lift chimed and the doors opened. The bodyguards slid easily into the mass of workers, vanishing like sharks into a fish shoal. One, Lester Judon - if she remembered his name from the picnic last July, nodded to her as he stepped past her with professional awareness.
Out into the icy air and the slippery pavement, all crowded together for warmth as they herded towards the buses and subways. Betty burrowed deeper into her scarf and pockets and tried not to lose all her warmth to the biting wind. She bumped into one of the upper level executives, no one she knew, but he was wearing the sort of suit that cost at least a month's worth of her salary - before taxes.
He was tall and looked wiry under the immaculately tailored wool. He has very, very dark hair and a swarthy complexion - he looked like a Mediterranean native who hadn't got enough sun. He was carrying a polished leather briefcase and had a carefully folded newspaper tucked under his arm. He was carrying a long black coat draped over his arm and as she stammered an automatic apology, he drew a pair of expensive sunglasses from his breast pocket and glanced at her.
Betty flinched back, eyes skittering away from that impassive coal-black gaze. Later, when she described the encounter to her mother, she would hunt for the words to describe the way the gaze had seared clear through her exhaustion, her grumpiness and her illusions. It was like being a toddler once more, toddling away from a large mess and being called back by Mother's voice. She felt like that child looking up into eyes that saw every sin, everything you were and were not. It could not have lasted more that a second, if that, and she was left, trembling and shaking in her threadbare coat. He nodded once, perfunctorily, then the glasses hid those awesome eyes and he stepped forward into the crowd and was gone.
Betty was carried along by the press of the crowd until she regained her wits enough to get her feet under her again. A busy and narrow street crosses the crowd's path. A huge truck with 'Fresh Zest Inc' emblazoned across its side rumbles impatiently. The pedestrian lights blinked once, twice and winked out. The herd of tired commuters contracts on the edge of the pavement, those unlucky enough to be on the edge teeter for a second as the titanic truck and two taxis zoom through. Mr. Brereton was caught in this sundered part of the crowd, his bodyguards moving to create a small pocket of clear space around Mr. Brereton with professional speed.
He was, Betty thought absently, a repulsive man. Not that he was ugly, quite the opposite in fact. His teeth were even, pearly white and immaculate. His skin creased around his nose and at the corner of eyes but Botox has smoothed away the rest. His eyes are slightly too close together, giving his expression a tinge of 'melodramatic super villain'. Add in the (allegedly dyed) black eyebrows and a frown line and you got the stereotypical Big Bad Boss.
She was looking at him curiously. He looked so much smaller when he was ten feet away. The professional images on the website had added nearly half a foot and she was looking at him, the man who had added twenty percent on to her hours worked while stripping away five percent of her wages in less than three months. She had spent hours thinking of how much she hated him as she tapped away at her workstation and listened to her co-workers try to juggle rent and childcare and a thousand other details with the monotonous task ahead. But even behind the protective screen of his bodyguards, she caught a glimpse of his petulant expression and the whole facade crumbled.
He was just a man. Not a hero, not a god. Just a little boy in a man's suit.
In that moment, as pity replaced contempt and indifference edged out hate, she saw the tall businessman with the riveting gaze step sidewise into the clear space. He did it so skillfully, one hand holding his briefcase open as he tucked the newspaper inside it. The black coat hung like a curtain, hiding his hands. The first warning she had was the flash of sun on chrome as the gun - an old Desert Eagle - swept up. She saw the long gleaming barrel with a tiny angel picked out in bronze against the chrome and the Celtic knot work etched in the shape of a cross. Long, tanned fingers curled around the grip and one tightened on the trigger.
There was a thunderous bang and then an endless instant of total shock. Derek Brereton hung in air, body twisted into an unnatural contortion with blood and brain matter spraying outwards in a static firework effect. The people beside him had hands thrown up and dashes of red spatter already staining their coats and skin. Betty watched as the strange businessman dropped the gun back into the briefcase, snapped it closed and stepped back, just as time rushed back in a tsunami of screaming and chaos. Betty stood rigid as the mortal remains of Derek Brereton (minus a considerable chunk of his skull) crashed into the ground.
She lifted her head to look for the assassin, but like a shadow in the twilight, he had melted back into the crowd and vanished into the gathering night.
The street was filled with running people, all too intent on their own escape to notice the tall, lanky businessman detach himself from the chaos and pace briskly down a nearly deserted side street. Sirens screamed and flashing blue lights send reflections skittering away into the dark. He flicked away a microscopic speck of lint and straightened his tie before turning the corner at a more sedate pace. He reached the bus-stop just as the bus pulled up and the creaky doors swung open. The bus driver, old and grizzled with a permanently serene curve to his lips, nodded tranquilly at the business man.
"Evenin' Mr. Lacune."
The businessman nodded, unsmiling, as he dropped the exact change into the machine and accepted his ticket. "It is a good evening, Mr. Jesse Ahlers. You are well?"
"I'm good." The driver replied, pausing to consider his words and nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Yeah, I'm doing good for myself. Gettin' a mite cold but that's the way of the world, I reckon. No sense in fightin' the way the world works."
The businessman paused and his lips lifted in a brief, satisfied smile. "I think, Mr. Ahlers, that there we will have to agree to disagree on that."
"You don’t say" Jesse closed the doors and switched on his indicator, hands curling familiarly around the big smooth wheel. "Well, I ain’t gonna argue with a passenger. That sorta stuff gets yah fired."
His gappy white teeth flashed in the dark as he smiled. He liked this shift, had been driving along this here route for nigh on twenty years and he’d seen just about every weird and bizarre thing to ever happen in this city. He knew most of the commuters who caught the five one six from the corner of Hodge and Main streets by name and even spoke to a few of the more friendly passengers.
He enjoyed the challenge of coaxing conversation out of silent regulars, making it almost a game. Mr. Lacune had been the biggest challenge of them all and he still counted the brief conversation, heavily laden with silences and the distraction of fresh passengers and stupid drivers, as his greatest success.
The traffic was worse than usual, turning a forty minute journey into something over an hour and a half. There were squad cars everywhere and the TV crews started to swarm not long after. The passengers muttered and stared out the window or dug out smudged newspapers or glossy magazines to read. Mobile phones jangled nosily and soon there were a dozen one-sided conversations going on.
Jesse ran his fingers absently along the curve of the wheel, humming 'Save the last dance for me' off-key and under his breath. He kept one eye on the mirror, watching the restless commuters shift in their seats while the (generally) older and more patient commuters waited resignedly for the traffic to inch forward again.
There was a kid standing in the aisle. A boy - maybe sixteen or eighteen, tops. He was dressed in what Jesse's daughter called 'smart casual' clothes and Jesse called 'lazy suit' clothes - a T-shirt, slacks and leather shoes. Good ones too. All in all, an average middle-class white boy who he would have expected to be driving to and from the city center. Years of dealing with drug abusers, drunks and the city's scum gave one a sixth sense for subtle wrongness. The boy wasn't right. He was too restless, bouncing on the balls of feet. He was always moving, hands flexing and rifling through his pockets.
The lights changed - just as police car shot through the intersection just as gears started to grind into motion. Jesse stepped on the brake and the bus jolted. The boy got catapulted sideways along the aisle and stumbled awkwardly into a seated lady who was talking on her phone with her partner or spouse. She glared icily at him and he stumbled back into place, slurring a half-hearted apology as he staggered forward.
He lurched forwards, lips moving in a meaningless litany of profanity and complaints. Jesse sighs, recognizing the boy's type. A serial complainer, probably out of his head on drugs or drunk.
"-fucking piece of shit. Can't fucking believe this shit. Fucking cops, acting like they own the place. Not taking that shit from anyone."
The boy lurched sideways, into Mr. Lacune. The silent businessman was studying a crossword puzzle, an expensive silver pen in one hand, the paper on the briefcase. He looked up at the boy, blinking wordlessly through tinted lenses and the boy just froze, the stream of swearwords trailing off into a mortified silence. Mr. Lacune studied this middle-class excuse for a man for several seconds. The entire bus was watching, even the loudest mobile phone conversations had become whispers as he looked up at the boy and offered him a bland, totally impersonal smile. The boy skedaddled back as if he'd been burnt and dived for the relative safety of a seat in the back, beside Mrs. Obbligato Dunbar.
Poor little bastid. Jesse thought, noticing the relief of the other regulars that the sacrificial lamb had been offered. Miz Dunbar was the resident 'crazy old cat lady' who never went anywhere without an entire handbag crammed to the brim with pictures of her 'little darlings.' Mr. Lacune continued with his crossword as if nothing had happened until they finally arrived at his stop. The paper was carefully stowed in his polished briefcase and the pen capped and tucked into his jacket pocket.
"Goodnight, sir." Jesse waved him off
"Thank you, Mr. Ahlers." Mr. Lacune nodded and stepped off the bus.
The doors squealed shut behind him and Jesse flicked on the indicator. A good evening, he thought.
He walked briskly along the street as the street lamps flickered on overhead. It was a clear evening with a sharp taste of frost and the streets around the block were almost deserted. There were a few harried commuters scuttling for home and a few housewives (and one or two househusbands) heading back with shopping bags crammed under their arms. There was a derelict building that attracted graffiti artists like blood attracted sharks. There was a new design on the biggest expanse of bare brickwork and he paused to look up at it.
It was an angel, wreathed in huge black robes that were apparently in the middle of a whirlwind - well, that was the only conclusion he could draw, judging from the tatters fluttering away in every direction. The wings were pure, pristine white and two red eyes gleamed menacingly from under the cowl. It wielded something that was probably meant to be a scythe. Scrawled underneath in shaking rounded letters was the pseudo philosophical "Don't fear the Reaper!!"
He smiled, amused as he always was by humanity's defiance of the inevitable. Besides, what sort of fool thought an angel of death had white wings? He turned away, pacing briskly up the street towards the refurbished building at the corner of the block. He punched in the code on the keypad, deciding at the last minute not to just miracle open the door. It was too early to take any risks and he enjoyed the trivial gesture of 'human life'. Besides, it was more seemly that he not use his powers. The whole purpose of living here was to create a convincing human persona and too many hazed moments could jeopardize that. He stepped into the faintly musty hallway.
He trooped up the stairs, back straight and nodded politely to other tenants as he passed. Once he stopped to help the elderly Mrs. McGuire with her groceries, nodding agreement as she cussed the lift, the lift's maintainers and the no-good 'gangster' landlord in the most genteel manner possible. She was an indomitable old woman with perfectly coffitured silver hair and handsome features, carefully preserved with cosmetics. She was profuse in her thanks and he nodded and smiled, seeking to extract himself with the minimum of effort.
"And tell your boy that I was asking for him, won't you?" she said with a saucy wink, holding the door open for him as he dusts off his coat.
He blinked but inclined his head politely. "My- ...room-mate will be gratified to learn you prefer him."
"Ah, g'wan with you, sure aren't you the big strong lad who helped me with my shopping. Can I offer you a wee cuppa tay?"
He edged back towards the safety of the hall, not sure why he is retreating from this mere human but fearing the gleam in her eyes. He really did not understand humans and the last thing he wanted was to reveal his true nature through some sloppy mistake. "Thank you, no."
She sighed and looked at him with misty grey eyes. "Ah...the Church may not agree, love, but I think it's wonderful. Off with you then, and enjoy your evening."
He nodded - starting to feel like a pendulum - and made his way up the last flight of stairs. Her door closed only as he opened his briefcase to extract his keys. He could hear music floating through the wood and was severely tempted to turn right around and go ...elsewhere. Not that he had anywhere to go, but the sound of happy, 'hippy' music throbbing in the air made him wish to find such a place.
He unlocked the door and the music spilled out like a cascade of bubbles and he only just suppressed a wince. The loft apartment - picked solely because it was the most suitable for the human personas - boasted a balcony and a wall of ceiling to floor windows. The building was tall enough that the sun shone through for practically all the hours of daylight. The sun is a half-disc on the horizon with a sea of shadows and dims streetlights under it. The light was mostly glare, he had to squint somewhat when he turned to hang up his coat.
The whole apartment smelt of cooking and he paused, sniffing experimentally. He had just set his briefcase on the table when there was a blur of red-blond hair and a flash of pink(?) before he was nearly bowled over by his overly enthusiastic roommate.
"WELCOME HOME!"
"Oof!" He staggered sideways, and glared down at the lanky body attached to his waist. "This is unseemly and unbecoming behavior, Sammandiriel."
The smaller angel smiled brightly from under the thatch of rumpled blond hair. "This is the greeting between two Homo sapiens who share a domicile. I act thusly to add vermistude to our deception, Valim. I would think that it would please you."
The darker angel closed his eyes for a second, acknowledging the point, and his shoulders slumped. "Then the food is also...?"
"Part of the set, so we may act our parts." Sammandiriel finished with a flourish. "Let us partake of this repast with good spirit, the better to sleep this night and rise refreshed for the morrow's work!"
Valim sighed and followed his superior back into the kitchen/dining room and ate the vegan meal of nuts and vegetables. It was best not to question these occasional bursts of archaic language; Sammandiriel was chaos incarnate. They did not speak, though Sammandiriel sang along to the music as he sashayed around the kitchen. Valim ate mechanically, scooping up exact portions of his dinner and chewing without really registering the taste. The lull in his thoughts that followed a successful execution held in him in a languid state and he regarded the rest of the evening through the grey clouds of apathy.
They sat on the balcony for an hour or two, on worn cast-iron chairs. Not talking, not sharing thoughts but just taking a moment's repose that stretched into hours. The stars were all out, drifting above the dirty yellow haze of artificial light when Valim rose and turned back into the apartment. He paused at the door and spoke quietly. "He was the ninth."
Sammandiriel nodded and pulled himself up. "We'll go to church tomorrow. Don't forget to wake in time."
The words were serious, despite the casual tone. Valim nodded and walked into the bedroom, stripping off his clothes as he did. He folded everything neatly and donned the pin-striped nightshirt before climbing into bed and closing his eyes. He felt more than saw the lights being turned off and the bed dipped as Sammandiriel flopped down with an explosive 'huff' of breath.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, Valim allowed his conscious mind to shut down completely.