Broken Angels Page 9

  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.

  Darryl began to feel a little sorry as he neared Christine. He hadn’t meant for the corresq to hit her so hard. He’d only intended to stun her, slow her down. He’d have to talk to Zel about modifications, but for now, what was done was done. Two Infinite-Definite terrorists defeated and captured. Another victory.

  Still, they were truly a third-rate pair. Their fighting skills were nowhere near the level of their dancing skills, and Darryl had barely managed to hold his own against them. If they hadn’t given him a chance to catch his breath…Darryl didn’t want to think about it. He’d more important things to do.

  SIX

  Robert was seated in a cushioned booth, but he was far from comfortable. He was trying to think, trying to focus, and trying his damnedest to ignore his two best friends. It would only be a matter of time before they tried to pull him into their latest argument. He wished a waiter would hurry up and drop off a basket of rolls or something.

  “Research and personal experience have taught me,” Kurtis said, “that women don’t like to be stared at.”

  “Of course not,” Anika said. “You needed research to teach you that? It’s common sense. It’s rude to stare at people.”

  “And yet,” Kurtis said, “women put a lot of attention into how they dress, are neurotically concerned about their appearance, spend considerable amounts of time maki
ng themselves up—from hair to face to shoes—just so people, men and women, will look at them. But if a guy looks too long, he’s a rude dog. If a woman does, she’s probably a jealous cat.”

  “You’re such a chuckhead,” Anika said.

  “Rob, am I not right?” Kurtis asked. “Aren’t women confused about what they want?”

  Robert again glanced over his left shoulder. “I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

  “They’re of a divided mind,” Kurtis said, “wanting every onlooker’s two eyes to operate independently—one admiring the view, the other going about its own business, staring into space or whatever.”

  Robert had the talent to see in two directions at once, with a little concentration and under the right conditions. But these conditions weren’t right. He felt a lot of things weren’t right. He’d had an odd feeling ever since entering the restaurant. Shortly after taking a seat in the booth with his friends, he began to feel he was being watched by someone—someone behind him, probably seated at the bar. He didn’t trust the reflections he saw in his knife and spoon, and he didn’t want to make his suspicion obvious. Instead, for the past five minutes, he’d been using over-the-shoulder glances, trying to spot his spy while pretending as if he were looking for his table’s waiter. So far, nothing.

  “Oh, nice, Kurt, really nice,” Anika said. “Take a crack at Rob’s vision impairment. Just because he doesn’t agree with you and is too polite to say so.”

  “That’s not what I said. The only impairment among us three, Nika, is your hearing. I was taking a crack at certain individuals’ opinions on social etiquette, not Rob. His one eye is better than your two ears. Anyway, our boy seems to be too busy doing what the divided minds want rather than caring about what I say about it.”

  “Yeah, Rob, what are you looking at anyway?” Anika leaned to her right, out of the booth, peering past Robert and toward the restaurant’s door. The rushing waiter behind her had no time to stop or swerve when Anika’s head popped out in front of him. The head made contact with his hip, causing the waiter to lose his balance, his tray of food to topple, and the food and dishes on the tray to tumble to the floor.

  “Oh, I’m so, so sorry!” Anika wailed as the stooping waiter bit his lip to hold in his language.

  Damn it. More eyes turned in their direction. That wouldn’t simplify anything.

  Anika continued to make apologies as she stooped down to help the grumbling waiter pick up whatever could be picked up before restaurant’s cleaning staff could get there. After Kurtis finished a healthy round of chuckling, he nudged Robert with his elbow, signaling he wanted to slide out of the booth and help. Robert stood up and let him out, but rather than join his friends, he took the fact that two drops of alligator stew had landed on his shirt as a good excuse to remove himself from the center of all eyes and comments.

  “I need to go wash this off my shirt,” he said, happy that the mess in front of him was blocking the direct route to the bathroom. He had no choice but to turn around, head toward the door, turn left into the primary dining room area, and then head toward the bathroom. The U-shaped route would take him through the entire patron’s section of the restaurant, giving him the chance to get a good look at everyone, seen and unseen.

  Counting, subtracting, compartmentalizing—using only the instruments of the eye and the mind…Robert felt proud his mathematical skills were one of the few abilities the parasites hadn’t given him. He’d been an intuitive math whiz long before he’d gotten infected. Beyond the electromagnetic effects and the physical agility, his adding, subtracting, and measuring skills were often the most useful in dangerous situations. But maybe not tonight.

  By the time Robert reached the door of the bathroom, he was still unsure. He’d seen no one who raised his suspicion, no one whose eyes lingered on him too long, absolutely nothing that looked out of the ordinary. Nothing except for the spots of stew on his shirt.

  Inside the restroom, he took the plaid handkerchief out of his pocket, wet it, added a dab of liquid soap, and worked on the stains.

  Robert stared down at the sink while waiting for the small areas to dry. He didn’t want his eye to meet the reflecting glass dead on. Staring into a perfect mirror, he knew what the results would be. He just couldn’t afford to have his body break down in a public place, especially not now. Not when he needed his friends’ help. Not when everyone at the Institution to whom he’d normally turn had other priorities. Kurtis and Anika had been his best friends for over a decade, and in all that time, they’d remained the best code-breaking cyber-sleuths and quickest researchers he’d ever met. Best of all, they know how to keep secrets on lockdown. They had the skills to perform research discreetly and securely. But he’d yet to tell them what he needed from them now. Anika had asked him to meet them at a spot where they already had dinner reservations; Robert now wondered why he hadn’t tried to persuade her to meet in a more private setting.

  He glanced at the mirror, just to make sure he looked fairly presentable. A glance was all it took. He looked fine, eye patch and all. He smiled a wry smile.

  On some of the rare occasions he had trouble falling asleep, he wondered how other people saw him—when he wasn’t consciously altering his appearance, that is. He wondered if the eye patch inspired fear, or pity.

  “Fear” would be the runaway winner if those who gawked knew what the patch really concealed.

  Enough parasites had congregated in his right eyeball to completely remake it. It had ceased being an “eye” long ago. It was now a little black sphere—whose exposure to too much free-flowing air would cause it to react and produce a beam of unclassified radiation. Just thinking about those little bastard alien microorganisms made his head ache.

  Robert glanced at the mirror again. This time he couldn’t look away so quickly.

  His “normal” eye had taken on a new appearance. He could see well enough out of it, but looking directly at it, it appeared as a miniature moon lodged in his eye socket—pale, cratered, and lifeless. Those goddamned parasites…

  Some Virus-carriers were skilled enough to control the color of their irises, as they could manipulate the light reflecting off their skin and clothes, changing their appearance at will. But Robert had no part in what was happening now. Something had inspired the parasites in his head to make him see what wasn’t real. Him thinking of them—resenting them—concentrating too much on what they’d done to his body…

  Robert took his pill bottle out of his pocket and swallowed one, to kill the hallucination if nothing else.

  As his eye’s appearance began to regain normalcy, small sections at a time, he grinned at the thought of those parasitologists and other scientists who insisted the microbes associated with the White Fire Virus were nonliving. Some people could be insistently brilliant but remain consistently clueless.

  Call it a sixth or seventh or nth intuitive sense, but Robert just knew the parasites weren’t the microscopic equivalent of zombies. The tiny creatures hadn’t come from nowhere only to occupy human cells, feed on recipes of blood and light, multiply, and eventually die. They weren’t only alive, they were communicating with one another—like a colony of tiny alien ants, or bees. And their method of parasite-to-parasite communication just had to be, at least in part, responsible for most of the hosts’ supernatural abilities.

  Robert imagined a vibrant community of conspirators, living inside each and every Virus-infected body—a community that sometimes softened the reflexes, seemingly unconcerned with alerting its host to immediate danger.

  Something banged into Robert’s elbow.

  “Oh, sorry dude.” The guy who’d pushed the door into him didn’t seem sorry. “You done?”

  “Yeah,” Robert said as he brushed by the jerk.

  Time to turn his attention back to business anyway. Just the right time, it appeared.

  Robert was surprised to see the mess by his table had been cleaned up so quickly; he was even more surprised to finally catch s
ight of someone who looked out of place.

  A long-legged, raven-haired woman was sitting at the bar, near the door, alone. It wasn’t the attractive woman’s lack of companionship that set off his suspicion. It was her drink. Coffee. Unusual, he thought. And he thought so again when he saw lipstick on the cup. This was the first Robert was seeing of the woman; neither his round-the-restaurant count nor his over-the-shoulder glances had picked up even a hint of her. Had she entered the restaurant, ordered coffee, and added something to it in order to cool it enough to allow her to take more than one comfortable sip, all while he was in the bathroom? Improbable.

  But maybe he was overreacting, trying to justify the suspicion he felt due to one look cast in his direction the moment he came out of the bathroom. At least it seemed like a “look.” It was difficult to know for sure. As Robert approached his table, watching the woman the whole time, he saw—in the slim moments when she turned her head—the woman’s eyes were in constant shadow, such a deep shadow that he could barely see the whites of her eyes, never mind the irises. There could be no telling what she was looking at. To his eye, though, the woman appeared to be a little nervous about something, trembling in a very warm restaurant.

  “Probably afraid of being alone, feeling alone in such a crowd,” Kurtis was saying as Robert sat down. “Hey, Rob.”

  “What are you two talking about?”

  “Why Melodie Might feels the need to cry onstage during her performances.”

  “Every time,” Anika said.

  “Who?” Robert asked.

  “Melodie Might,” Anika said. “The ballad-singer. With The Mad-Poet Experience.”

  “The what?” Robert asked.