Falconback (Mythklok, Chapter 81)
Dec. 22nd, 2011 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Falconback (Mythklok, Chapter 81)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My version of what Charles was up to during those nine months. Don't worry – no mpreg. :D
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: Before AND after jump.
OK, here's the deal: I am posting this because there's no way I could post anything else for another two weeks. I realize no one's gonna read it now, because it's Xmas, plus an actual GOOD writer is doing some N/C slash on CLDK. But the other thing is, this is not really holiday-appropriate: it's a downer, and it was literally something I had to stop working on when I was depressed. So maybe you can ignore it for now, but if you're in the mood in a week or so, and out of other stuff to read, you could take a look.
Mythklok: it just keeps going, and going, and going....
Last time: Charles and Ganesh had sex. Yes, I know they do this most every episode, but I thought I'd mention it. I wrote a story for H&G that no one is ever going to read, put together a Seekrit Pals gift that evidently amused someone for all of thirty seconds before it was utterly and completely forgotten, got very depressed, and wrote a fic about a puppy instead....
I guess it's been a while, so I should take this seriously, huh? OK. So, last time, we wandered back in time a bit to tell the story of How Charles Got His Gear. Bert the Power caused disruption in Dethklok's rehearsals. Rikki Kixx admitted that Ganesh's “kidnapping” was mostly a ruse to verify Charles had access to Breagan's Dethklok game. The game is not only brutal and metal, but a source of prophetic wisdom. Also: Wotan (with Raziel's assistance) has been pressuring Charles to tell them what happened when he was supposedly dead.
“It is OBVIOUSLY DEFECTIVE!”
Anna cringed, trying to keep her face expressionless. Between closing the shop last night and opening up this morning, and doing, you know, her homework, there hadn't been a whole hell of a lot of time for sleep. And now this military wife was gonna shatter a window or something with her fucking screeching.
Retail. Anna closed her eyes and reminded herself. She would finish her college degree and then get a good job, maybe helping the hungry children or some shit like that. And then she would never, ever, ever have to work retail again.
“Are you LISTENING to me YOUNG LADY?”
“Yes ma'am,” Anna sighed, trying to keep the weariness out of her voice. It was her theory, if customers spotted a vulnerability, it was like sharks to blood. “As I have explained, I need my manager's approval to take returns on band instruments.”
“This violin is CLEARLY DEFECTIVE, or little Rumsfeld would not be having difficulties!” attested the woman, patting her poufed up hairdo and pointing to the sullen pre-teen who had shuffled in with her.
“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am.” Anna's face was a smooth Noh mask. She had long, utterly, utterly straight brown hair, very clear olive skin, and soulful brown eyes. She would have been pretty if she had thought to smile more. But no one would tell Anna something like that.
“Is there a problem?”
Anna almost broke into a smile at the sound of the familiar voice. “We're having trouble with an instrument, Mr. Warriner,” she said. A lot of the other clerks didn't like working with Mr. Warriner. Jenny said he spooked her. It was probably this very habit, of suddenly appearing right behind you. when you least expected it. That and the thin red scar running raw down the side of his temple.
Anna didn't give a shit. Besides, there was no such thing as ghosts. And unlike certain other clerks she could name, Mr. Warriner actually didn't seem like a complete moron, something to his credit!
“I am so terribly sorry,” he said, picking up the violin. “Let's see here.” He plucked expertly at the strings, and then was drawing a bow across it. Now the other customers were openly staring: not at the amusing melee, but at the lovely melody.
Anna bit back a grin. There was obviously nothing wrong with the fucking violin. Except little Rumsfeld, whose sullen expression only soured.
“Well,” said Mr. Warriner, “I see what the trouble is! You don't like the tone, do you, uh....”
“Rumsfeld!” preened the mother, who was looking a lot more agreeable.
“Rumsfeld,” said Mr. Warriner.
“And I am Mrs. Diggler. Of the Digglers.”
There would have been no need to add the latter part to anyone who had grown up in the town. Anna had been bullied by someone with the last name of Diggler throughout her public school career, as had just about everyone other kid. She had hoped that, like most military families, this one would soon be on to the next post, but they had seemed to instead root like some kind of horrible career military kudzu.
“Oh, you must be the wife of Colonel Diggler?” asked Mr. Warriner. Mr. Warriner, unlike Anna, was not from around these parts.
“Why, yes, the very same!”
“I used to give lessons,” said Mr. Warriner, snapping the violin back into its case. “To a select few,” he hastily added.
“Mr. Warriner!” bustled Mrs. Diggler. “I don't suppose I could persuade you to a few sessions with our little Rumsfeld? His father is so anxious that he move to first chair!”
“I was pretty picky about my students. But in this case....” Mr. Warriner smiled blandly. “Well, when someone is as obviously talented as Rumsfeld. May I give you my card?”
“How delightful!” said Mrs. Diggler, taking the business card and the defective violin. “We shall give you a call!” she sang. And, taking a glowering Rumsfeld by the hand, she sailed out of the shop.
“Mr. Warriner,” said Anna quietly.
“I told ya you could call me Jerry,” he told her.
“It, uh, seems weird. You could be my … professor. Or something.” She suddenly felt extremely stupid, although now he was sporting a real smile, and not the fake one he reserved for customers. “Anyway. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said. The keen green eyes roamed over the counter. “Whatcha readin'?” he inquired, picking up a paperback she had left splayed just underneath the countertop, God is a Douchebag.. “Is this for your economics class?” he asked.
“It's for me. I'm an atheist,” she confessed.
“Hrm. Well, haven't read the book, but I'd have to agree with the title.” He put the book down and patted his jacket pocket. “Would you mind? I'm due for a break, and it seems quiet. I mean, now that we're Diggler-free.”
Anna smiled despite herself. “You shouldn't smoke,” she said, nodding nevertheless.
“Yeah, and I should eat your vegan crap even though it's not really food. I agree.” He grinned and sauntered outside.
He had brought his sandwich. The deli down the street from the music place made really good steak sandwiches. One thing about living in the American Midwest. Maybe the only thing about living in the American Midwest.
He sat on the hillside, in his favorite spot, out of sight, in the tall grass, and began to unwrap the waxed paper. They had added some mustard. Not much, and this place only had French's, but just enough to bring out the flavor. He took his first bite, his teeth stabbing through the terrible soft white bread they used here, and into the soft, delightful meat, cooked just so. Not too much fat, but not too lean: it melted in your mouth.
He chewed contentedly for a moment, and then drew out his field glasses. Taking great care that they should not glint in the sun, he focused them, as he had for so many days, so many lunchtimes, on the gates set up along the chain link fence.
Sariel was a patient being. He could wait and watch.
It was always the same routine. Guards checking credentials, scanning ID cards, peering into faces.
And then the part that puzzled him: the dogs. They couldn't be checking for weapons, because most of the personnel who went through carried at least a sidearm. Explosives were a possibility, but if that were really a worry, they would have been checking underneath vehicles with a mirror.
Narcotics of course was another possibility, but who would be stupid enough to sneak drugs onto a military base when there were so many of them available right outside, in the town?
It had to be something else. And he needed to know before he made his attempt. He took another bite of the delicious sandwich. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. He stretched it, rubbing the sore spot. Playing violin sometimes made it ache. He was lucky, the Docateer had told him. Being hit by a big fucking crossbow is considered “lucky?” he had replied. And that had been the end of that conversation.
“Lunch with all your friends?”
“Fuck you, Raziel,” he told the little angel who had definitely not just alit in back of him.
“Whatcha doing, Little Brother? Sitting around eating again?”
“I am doing surveillance work.”
“Meaning you're sitting around stuffing your face.”
Charles chewed thoughtfully. He put the field glasses to his eyes.
“Ya know, you might not need those if you'd just wear your eyeglasses.”
“I'm not supposed to be Charles Ofdensen any more. I'm Jeff Warriner.”
“And Jeff Warriner has super sight?”
“Something like that.” He sensed Raziel pacing back and forth in back of him. Stalking. “This isn't what you'd do, is it?”
“Ah fuck no. By now I would've taken a sword to a motherfucker. Heh.”
“Never one for subtlety.”
“Ain't my style.”
“Sooo. Whaddya think the dogs are for?” he asked, picking a thread of beef from between his teeth.
The nonexistent Raziel paused. “Play fetch?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“Why, what's your brilliant idea?”
“I dunno,” Charles admitted.
“Maybe that guy knows.”
“What guy?” Charles asked, actually turning around to confront nothing. He turned back around to look at the gate again, and then instinctively hit the ground. He carefully poked his head back up over the grass.
The dogs were yelping, jumping up and down. There was a terrified looking guy, arms up in a surrender gesture, pulled aside. And then the soldiers were pulling him around, to the back of the guardhouse.
Out of sight.
“Fuu-uu!” said Charles, who had quickly crammed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth. There was a good spot up the hill where he could see, but he had to get there quickly. No chance of breaking out the wings, he'd be spotted in an instant. He hadn't tried this in a while – a long while – but he swallowed the gob of meat and bread in his mouth and, concentrating, took a Step.
The next Step brought him to solid rock. Good, the overhang. And the next: to nothing at all.
He somehow got himself twisted around as he fell, so he was able to grab on to the edge of the overhand. He managed to break his fall, but he spent the next few moments absolutely still, hoping the motion hadn't given away his position. His shoulder now throbbed. He controlled his breathing, and then very carefully pulled himself up so he was safely seated on top of the overhang. He hastily pulled out the field glasses again. No, it didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to the hillside. Good. But now there was a minor commotion around the guard shack as more people arrived. A vehicle with an indignia he didn't recognize had pulled up. Charles focused his field glasses on the person they had detained. There was something odd about him.
And then, many things happening at once, two burly MPs coming out of the car, the detainee, with surprising strength, suddenly wresting out of the grip of the guards, sweeping out an arm....
Charles dropped the glasses in surprise. He dropped to his knees, grabbing them, looking again, just in time to see the detainee – who now seemed unconscious – stuffed like a potato sack into the back of the car and driven off.
He focused the glasses on the car. The door was painted with some kind of military logo. It looked like some kind of bird, sitting atop a globe.
Charles sat back on his haunches, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. He looked down at his hands. Badly cut, from when he'd fallen. He traced one of the cuts. He needed to get down from there, get some soap and hot water.
The gesture. The glint of metal. It was unmistakeable. But were his eyes playing tricks on him?
A cornered detainee. Suddenly drawing a sword.
From nowhere.
“He thinks it's a Stradivarius?” said Anna.
“Where did this guy find it again?” asked Mr. Warriner. They were in the back of the music shop. One of the weird things about Mr. Warriner – one of the many weird things about Mr. Warriner – was that he seemed to like to sit in the dark with no lights on. Anna was wondering if maybe he was some kind of vampire.
“In his attic?”
“Well, yeah, that's where medieval Italian violins often end up – in somebody's attic in the Midwest.”
Anna grinned. “So, how do you tell?” she asked.
“Some of 'em, it's not easy. There's some made about the same time, by rivals and his apprentices and such, and they'd put his mark on it. Even back then, people liked his violins.”
“You act like you were there,” she laughed.
“Huh. How old d'ya think I am?” he asked pleasantly.
“Uh, I dunno,” she said, backpedaling. “Um, over 30?”
“Yes, I am definitely over 30 years of age,” he laughed, “and this is definitely not a Strad.” he concluded, setting down the violin.
“Oh! Is it from a rival?”
“Nah. It's from Japan, most likely.”
“Whoa. Burn.”
“Are you two finished? We have paying customers!” snarled Mr. Daniels, their manager, who had just stomped in an turned up the lights. “What's the verdict on this instrument?” he demanded.
“I took a look at it, Mr. Daniels,” said Mr. Warriner. “I'm afraid I'm just not able to verify that it is a Strad.”
“You wasted all that time to tell me nothing?” grumbled Daniels, thoughtfully rubbing his mustache. “This is a very important customer!” Daniels was a bulky man, and the small back room seemed cramped now that he had entered. Anna noticed though that Mr. Warriner never seemed terribly intimidated by by him.
“I have contact info for a guy, in the city, if he wants to look into this,” Mr. Warriner supplied. He pulled out one of his business cards and scrawled a name and phone number on the back. This he handed to Mr. Daniels.
Mr. Daniels grumbled something and, taking the violin and the card in his big hands, stormed out again.
“You always know a guy,” Anna marveled.
“I've been around for a while,” said Mr. Warriner. Nobody knew too much about Mr. Warriner's past, other than some oblique references to a divorce, and how she'd “taken everything.” So, the younger staffers (some of them) thought this made them obligated to make it up.
“You kinda lied to him?” she tried.
“Not really. No. I wasn't able to verify it. And neither will anybody else.” He smiled slightly, eyes blinking in the harsh neon light. “Still reading your book? God still a douche?” She blushed slightly and pulled the book to her.
“I just don't believe. You know? I believe in science,” she said.
“That’s fine. Hey,” he said as he stood up, as if it were an aside. “You know much about the Digglers?”
Anna sighed heavily.
“I'm going to give their youngest a violin lesson tonight. Anything I should know?”
“I knew a couple of the older boys,” she began.
“And you didn't like 'em?” he asked.
Anna shifted in her chair. It was like tattling to an adult. Only she was an adult now, wasn't she? She could vote. Although she still couldn't drink beer. Well, not legally anyway. “It was weird. They were a military family, so I think a lot of us were waiting for them to, you know, shove off?”
“That's generally how it goes. Yeah.”
“But, they've been around for ages.” She rolled her eyes. “I've just gotta get outta this town, ya know?” She looked up, not entirely sure why she'd told Mr. Warriner about this.
He smiled. “You will. Give it time.” He looked at his watch. “Well, it's about time for me to take off.”
“Not me,” she grumbled. “I got stuck closing again. I always get scheduled for closing!”
“Well. Maybe some time I'll trade off? I like closing,” he told her. “But not tonight unfortunately. I'll see ya tomorrow.”
Anna watched him go, and then followed him into the showroom.
“International spy!” Nelda whispered.
Anna cracked a smile at her fellow clerk, although she also made a big show of rolling her eyes. Nelda looked a bit like a blonder, chubbier, altogether bubblier version of Anna. They had actually been mistaken for sisters before, a mistake that caused Nelda to giggle, and Anna to roll her eyes heavenward at ALL THE STUPID.
Anyway, Ann couldn't begrudge Nelda: she had gotten Anna a job in a music store. Horrible as it was, it went towards tuition and books. To make up for the sometimes crushing boredom, the two had taken to speculating on Mr. Warriner's true background. Because, of course, he couldn't just be a divorced ex-music teacher. Could he?
“A little young,” said the Raziel who wasn't there.
“A little young for what?” snapped Charles.
“Still, I like her better than She Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Raziel! She's a kid.” He fumed and continued walking. Why couldn't his mind conjure up somebody less annoying? Even Nathan Explosion would have been better....
No. Do not think of the boys. Too distracting. This had to be done.
“Going to the Digglers?” asked Raziel.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself.
“That was pretty clever, magicking the kid's violin like that so they'd return it!”
“Did you like that?” asked Charles. He smiled, admiring his own craftiness. “Although, in retrospect, Rumsfeld might be a rotten enough violinist it didn't need a spell. Regardless, now he'll improve with my tutoring.”
“Are you prepared for that? Had your rabies shots?”
“He can't be worse than William Murderface.” Don't. Think. About. The boys. “Anyway, I wanna take a look at this guy before I break into the base. I wanna see what I'm up against. From what I can tell, he's either a genius, or a complete ass.
“I'm betting the latter.”
“Yeah, me too. But it doesn't pay to underestimate people. Anyway, there's the house. I'm gonna have to stop talking to myself. They might think I'm weird.”
“Sariel.”
“What did I just say?”
“If she's not the next Mrs. Sariel....”
“She's not!”
“Then she's a friend?”
Charles found himself caught short. “Maybe,” he allowed.
“That might not be safe, Sariel.”
“Safe for who?” he demanded, forgetting and turning back. But there was no one there. No one at all.
“Should we go ahead and practice those arpeggios?” Rumsfeld attempted to give him the Death Glower, but Charles returned a rather nastier look, and suddenly, Rumsfeld was drawing bow against stings, making a terrific racket.
They were in a room one might call the parlour. There was an upright piano. Charles wondered if anyone there actually played.
The front door opened, and then shut with a bang. “I'm home!” boomed a voice. Charles recognized the individual from the many photos spread about the room: Colonel Diggler.
“Who are you?” he demanded of Charles.
“Dear, this is Mr. Warriner, Rumsfeld's violin teacher,” said, Mrs. Diggler, who had just come out of the kitchen, and was wiping her hands on her apron.
“Warner? I don't remember authorizing a damned violin teacher,” rumbled Colonel Diggler. He wasn't a tall man, in fact, he was about Charles' height, but seemed much more solid.
“Warriner,” Charles corrected gently, watching as Diggler dumped his house keys and his ID badge casually in a ceramic bowl near the door. Well, this answered one question. Diggler had either remained at this post for so many years because he was a genius, or because he was a complete fool. Somebody's complete fool.
“Mr. Warriner says he thinks we can get Rumsfeld to first chair!” trilled Mrs. Diggler.
“Eh, waste of time, sawing at a damn violin,” grumbled Diggler.
“That's what I tooooooold you,” whined Rumsfeld.
“Rumsfeld! No backtalk!” scolded Col. Diggler. “You'll listen to Mr. Warner and practice your damn lessons!”
Col. and Mrs. Diggler swept out of the room, leaving Charles eyeing the ceramic bowl.
Charles smiled and enjoyed the solitude. Even though the town's main street was still crowded with pedestrian traffic, Raziel had evidently decided not to follow him home. He wiggled his fingers in his pants pocket. He was wearing on his thumb a small, transparent sticker: the chip he'd surruptitiously peeled off Col. Diggler's ID badge whilst young Diggler was murdering his scales. His father, the great idiot, would probably never notice it was missing, and then he'd stomp around and blame his underlings when the ID badge failed to work.
“There is no recession for metal. The recession is an ASSHOLE!”
Nathan?
Charles cast a glance at the electronics store. An array of televisions, most of them tuned to the same news channel. He had purposely not included a television among the furnishings in his modest apartment.
He cast a glance around. There was a small group of people already in the shop crowded around the televisions. He quietly joined, being careful to stay in the back. Nathan and William had just announced that Dethklok intended to perform the most expensive concert ever attempted. He tried to keep from smiling. It was an amazing stunt, very like something he would have done.
But he wasn't there.
He frowned as he listened to the idiot analysts gleefully discussed rurmors of a bankruptcy. Bankruptcy? Not possible. How the hell could anybody go through all that money that fast?
Kitty glasses? Doritoland? A ruby metronome??
This was not just anybody, he reminded himself. This was Dethklok.
He sighed and hurried home, rubbing the small chip pasted on his thumbnail in worry. Maybe Raziel was right? He had wasted too much time hanging around. It was time to draw a sword and kick some ass.
“Geez. One ticket would cost my entire tuition.”
Anna and Nelda stared, clucking their tongues, at the Metal Tattler article about the upcoming Dethklok concert. Anna didn't particularly like their music, but it was all anyone was talking about. And a lot of guys liked Dethklok. And....
“Nathan's sort of cute,” Anna confessed.
“WHAT?”
“Well. Just. He has something. You know?” Anna backtracked.
“Are you kidding? Skwisgaar is the babe!”
“WHAT? Look at him! You can totally tell he's so stuck up!”
“Girls?”
Anna and Nelda whipped around, Nelda unsuccessfully trying to hide the tabloid behind her back.
“It's OK,” smiled Mr. Warriner. “I was just wondering if you might know of someone with a sewing machine I can borrow.”
“Nelda!” Anna supplied. “You need something sewed?”
“Well, it's sort of … a Halloween costume,” he explained.
“You cosplay Mr. Warriner?” asked Nelda.
“Something like that,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Nelda does all our stuff for Wizard Con!” said Anna. “Have you been to Wizard Con?”
“Uh,” said Charles. “Can't say as I have. Anyway. I have a little something I bought in a thrift shop. I just need to get some finishing touches so it looks right.”
“What are you doing after your shift?” asked Nelda as Anna blanched.
“I have had professional tailors make suits for me. They did not fit this well. Thank you.”
Anna and Nelda beamed at Charles. Nelda had managed to move enough objects aside to afford a decent view on the full length mirror that was leaning against one wall in the cluttered house. Nelda evidently had several roommates, but as this was a Saturday night, they were all currently out and about.
Charles studied the military fatigues: they were perfect. And she had managed to take them in so he didn't look like he'd borrowed kit from Nathan Explosion. Or a Nathan-sized soldier at least.
Charles sat down on a couch and began to unlace his boots.
“So, this is for cosplay?” asked Nelda, who was still sitting in front of her sewing machine. Anna went to shush her, but Nelda waved her off.
“Well, I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone, OK?” said Charles.
Both girls leaned forward.
“Because, it's kind of embarrassing. My friends and I, we do military … recreations?”
“Oooooooh!” chorused the girls, who were suddenly both furiously nodding.
“And, you know. We're like nerds everywhere. Gotta get everything just right. Anyway.” I'm going to hell for this, he thought. “How much I owe you?”
“Aw, don't worry about it,” said Nelda.
“No, I wanna recompense you guys. You stayed home on a Saturday. You should be out doing.... Well, whatever it is you kids do.” He stood. He was even shorter in stocking feet.
“Take us out for a drink!” blurted Nelda.
“I hope you mean a malted,” laughed Charles. “I know you girls aren't old enough.”
“OK!” said Nelda.
“You mind if I change in your room again?” asked Charles. Nelda waved him off.
“NELDA!” whispered Anna after he had closed the door.
“A malted?” asked Nelda. “Is this guy from the stone age or something? I think I was right about the vampire thing.”
“Nelda! Oh, gawd. This is so embarrassing!”
“Aw, come on! We'll figure out if he's a vampire or a zombie.”
“He's neither, Nelda!”
“You think he's just a guy?”
“Well....” admitted Anna, but then Mr. Warriner had appeared in his street clothes. As he wouldn't reconsider heading out to a bar for a real drink, they made instead for a nearby diner, Mr. Warriner matching a cigarette to smoke as they walked. Anna noticed that at certain points, Mr. Warriner appeared to be muttering something to somebody who wasn't there. Eccentric old guy, that was for sure.
He insisted on buying them not only milkshakes (or a soy smoothie in Anna's case), but full dinners, although Anna also noticed that he mostly just picked at his own plate.
“You know, you need to eat as well as smoke,” Anna scolded at one point as she munched on her salad.
Mr. Warriner grinned. “You sound a lot like someone I know.”
“Not your ex I hope?” asked Nelda hopefully.
“Nelda!” said Anna.
“Naw. A … relative, actually.”
But before they could probe more, Nelda not so subtly poked Anna in the ribs, and they watched as a couple of young, slightly scruffy-looking men came into the diner and were escorted to a table. The boys cast a glance over to the girls and broke out in frank grins, causing Nelda to smile back and Anna to cower.
“You like those boys?” Mr. Warriner asked. He had taken out his pack of Marlboros and set them by his plate, as if he couldn't wait to get outside and continue smoking.
“Didn't you recognize them?” asked Nelda. “They're in All Your Bass!”
“Is that a band?” he smiled.
The girls giggled at the sad display of terminal unhipness.
“I wonder why they're eating at this crappy place?” wondered Anna.
“If they're in an unsigned band, they're probably lucky to be eating at all,” laughed Mr. Warriner.
Nelda and Anna exchanged a glance.
“Hey, I'm gonna go grab a newspaper from the counter,” said Mr. Warriner. “You guys want anything else?”
“Whoa. You still read treeware?” asked Nelda.
“I'm an old-fashioned guy,” laughed Mr. Warriner as he rose and meandered over to the register.
“Does he know them or not know them?” asked Nelda. “What's up with this guy?”
“Maybe he did something in music? Before?” ventured Anna, who found herself dragged into the guessing game.
“He's a music zombie!” laughed Nelda, to much giggling.
“So, as I was telling you....”
The girls suddenly started. Mr. Warriner was now standing at their table, along with the grinning rhythm section of All Your Bass.
“My nieces are in town from Norway, and they don't know much English.” Both Nelda and Anna began to say something, but stopped short. “And, you know, I've been called away for this emergency meeting, so I'd really appreciate it if you could show them around.”
“Hey sure, dude,” said the shaggier or the two musicians.
“Hey, is that SOY?” asked the somewhat less shaggy guy, pointing to Anna's smoothie.
“Uh. Ja. Ja!” said Anna. “Uhhhh. Weegan!” she said, proudly pointing to herself, and stealing a glance at Mr. Warriner.
“Aw, cool,” said the musician, sliding into the booth next to her. “Me – vegetarian!” he said, slapping his chest.
Charles was already walking out, the smile having faded as he stared at the tabloid headline.
“Mordhaus plunges to earth. Dethklok Gone Bust?”
It took Anna a second or two to make out where she was when she awoke.
Hotel room. She heard the shower running.
She flashed a glance at the clock radio by the bed. Shit! She leapt out of bed and started rooting for clothes.
“Oh, hey, you're up dude!”
It was the bassist of All Your Bass, wearing nothing but a towel. He looked very cute that way, actually, and Anna had the sudden thought of calling Nelda to switch shifts with her. That is, if Nelda wasn't similarly occupied with a drummer.
“I gotta get to work. Oh, shit, the stuff about speaking Norwegian....”
“Yeah, I guessed.” He flashed a grin and held up God is a Douchebag. “Started reading it. Hope you don't mind.”
“Naw. I'm an atheist!” she said.
“You might call me a seeker,” he said.
“Yeah, whatever that means!”
He tilted his head and looked at her. “You gotta rush? I kind of wanted to have breakfast, since we could actually talk instead of sign each other.”
Anna blushed. “Yeah, I don't know why we did that....”
“How the fuck do you know Charles?”
“Who?”
“Charles Ofdensen? You know, your 'uncle?' I mean, you don't have to say if it's some kinda top secret.”
“Charles Ofdensen?” repeated Anna. The name sounded familiar.
“You're really related to Dethklok's manager?”
Anna went and grabbed the newspaper that had been shoved under their hotel room door. She flipped it open to the inevitable Dethklok concert article. “Not this guy?” she asked, pointing to the small inset photo of a pissy looking guy with glasses.
“Yeah,” agreed the bassist. “That guy.”
“He's dead!” Anna insisted.
“That's what they told us!” he lectured. “Are you gonna believe them?”
Anna stared at the small, blurry black and white photo.
And when she got into work that day, she found Mr. Warriner had called in sick.
The sun was hanging low and red in the western sky. A silver angel was sneaking around the hillside.
Or trying to sneak.
“Whoa, you really need to eat some more of those crappy sandwiches!”
“I don't remember asking your opinion, Raziel.”
“I thought this was a spy mission?”
“It is,” he told her, or rather told the Raziel who was in his mind. He unwrapped the bundle he was carrying and carefully spread the contents out on a rock. “I have to be careful when I Court Form. I need to appear completely human. It's easier when I start out like this.” OK. Uniform. ID card. Everything.
“You sure you're ready for this?” asked Not Raziel.
“I thought you were the one telling me to hurry the fuck up?”
“All I'm saying is, you're not jumping in because Mordhaus is falling down?”
Charles sighed. Of course that's why he was going. He couldn't even fool an imaginary Raziel.
He cleared his mind. It was something he had always been able to do, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Angels like Raziel, when they went to Court Form, looked something like a human. Fortunately most humans weren't terribly observant, so they missed the differences. But when the angel Sariel went to Court Form he changed somehow, and was able to actually become almost human.
It was the almost part that worried him. That's why he had started out in full True Form. And then he put everything he had into it, tucking away the angelic part, folding it like some weird magical origami. Until finally he stood there, just a scarred up guy in jeans, shivering in the wind, looking like a complete douche bag.
Well, at least imaginary Raziel appeared to have bugged out.
He shed the jeans and scrambled into the camouflage patterned ACU, making certain now that everything was buttoned, snapped and laced correctly. He placed the very last item, the patrol cap, square on his head and straightened up. Good. This felt good.
He tucked away his jeans and other civvies, and then went to watch the front gate. He was just in time: a shuttle bus from the town had arrived. Being dead careful to be quiet about it he waited until most of the passengers had disembarked, and then, quite suddenly, there was another being at the edge of the crowd.
He got in line as the foot passengers queued at the gate. There was also a small line of cars waiting. He had chosen this time, just around twilight, on purpose. Not only would the darkness be good cover, there was usually a lot of traffic around the gate from people returning from errands in the city.
He showed his ID badge, meanwhile giving the dogs what he hoped wasn't a nervous glance. He held his breath while the noses traced over him. And then he passed, trying not to increase his pace as he walked through the gate and into the base.
And then the dogs were going crazy.
He heard the commotion and stopped breathing. Would it be normal to turn around? Yes, he needed to stop and turn.
The dogs were whining – someone had a leftover sandwich in his pocket. The guards laughed and handed the sandwich back to the guy. Charles forced himself to start breathing again. The waxed paper: it was the same deli shop he went to every lunchtime. He hoped the guy wouldn't recognize him from there, so he turned and walked determinedly towards the main building.
It was always good to look like you knew where you were headed, so he made sure to walk smartly. His big trouble was, now he was inside, he had no fucking idea where he was going. It was all standard prefab looking military issue: lots of places that looked more like airplane hangars than headquarters for whatever vast conspiracy. He walked towards what looked like the main building, but then was distracted by something he glanced out of the corner of his eye. Being careful not to turn his head, he slowed his pace a fraction, and let his eyes drift to a more disused looking building.
That logo: an bird that had swallowed a globe.
He resisted the urge to head straight for the building, and instead ended up completely circumnavigating the main building. Now that he was past the dogs, it was time for a bit of angel magic, though he had to be careful it didn't end in a clusterfuck like when he'd tried to Walk to the overhang on the hillside the other day. He cursed himself, wishing he wasn't so out of practice on his angel tricks. Maybe Raziel was right, and he had been trying to actually become human this time. Spirit Walking onto the base would have saved a fuckload of time, but in his present state, he would have risked ending up Walking right into a wall.
He concentrated very hard, and ended up right where he wanted to be, underneath a window. It was up high, too high for any human to access without a ladder, but fortunately gravity was not as much a concern to an angelic being. After making certain no one was watching, he simply walked up the wall, and into the building.
He found himself in a large, darkened room. He made sure to keep the brim of his cap low. He imagined there were security cameras everywhere.
He looked around, his eyes very quickly adjusting to the dark. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting, although, in reality, he wasn't quite certain what he had been expecting. He thought to see a lot of blinking high tech equipment. But the only evidence of that was two rather aged PCs stuffed in one corner. Instead it had more the feel of a disused library special collections area.
Not knowing what else to do, he powered up one of the PCs. He cringed as the hard drive creaked to life.
While he waited for Windows to show up, he poked around the room. Sitting opened on the table was a book on millennial cults. In fact, all of the books stacked on the table appeared to be about small, obscure religious cults.
He turned his attentions to the bookshelves. There was an entire section that appeared to be nothing but genealogies, going back for generations. They were from all over the world. He saw a tome in what looked to him like Norwegian, so he pulled it down. He had an odd thought, and flipped through a few pages. Yes, Toki Wartooth's village was in here, and there were the names of his mother and father.
He replaced the volume and, frowning, went over to the aged computer. The screen was password protected. He smiled and opened the top desk drawer, laughing as the sticky note with the password, “WHIRLEDBIRD,” was the first thing visible. Well, at least someone had a sense of humor. He clicked on a file with the strange bird logo. It was labeled, “Falconback.” The contents seemed to be more apocalyptic texts. He sorted the files by the last date accessed, and started reading the latest one. His Hebrew was as rusty as his Walking skills, but it appeared to be a prophecy concerning the demons, Gog and Magog, and something about a wall of copper and iron. A wall of metal? thought Charles. Something the boys would like.
He clicked randomly on a couple other files. Something about the Ragnarok. It had been a long time, but maybe he needed to consult Lord Wotan on this?
He thought he heard a noise. He grabbed a thumb drive from one of his many military issue pockets, and threw the file on there, although he despaired making any sense of this crap.
He looked up. That was definitely footsteps he was hearing. He grabbed the thumb drive, flicking off the computer, but didn't leave. Now he heard voices. He spied a footlocker pushed against one of the walls and quickly made a decision. As quietly as he could, he opened the top and climbed inside, silently lowering it back down. He could only see a patch of the floor through some narrow slits in the metal, but he could hear everything.
He held his breath as the door opened and the lights snapped on. He cringed as something was set down just beside the locker. He peered through the slots at him. Odd: it looked like a violin case.
“Yessir, this is the base's Falconback archives.”
And then Charles stopped breathing. “This is everything?” That voice. It was unmistakeable.
“Yessir, Mr. Selatcia sir,” responded the first voice.
“And is this location secure?”
Charles tried to stop himself from shivering.
“Don't be paranoid, Selactia,” growled a third voice. “We've got guards on the base, guards on the building. Overkill for a bunch of dusty goddam books.”
“I will decide what is overkill, General Crozier,” hissed the one they called Selatcia. “You recall the incident, the other day, with the guard dogs?”
“We neutralized the intruder. Probably some punk hopped up on drugs,” grumbled Crozier.
“Has this computer been used recently?” Charles stopped breathing again. He had turned the old PC off, the but fan had come on.
“Sir, they're a bit old, sir,” said the first voice. “They tend to be fussy.”
“Fussy?” repeated Selatcia. Charles could almost feel the poor soldier try not to pee his pants.
“Selatcia, there isn't any goddamn danger here. We're wasting men on all this security.”
“Patience, General Crozier. We will continue as we were for the present time. There are agents working against us, even now. We need to be on guard.”
And then someone lifted up the object – it was a violin case – the lights shut off, and Charles listened as the footsteps retreated.
Charles remained in the locker for a while, and then, as quietly as he could, he opened the top and slipped out. What the hell had Selatcia meant about agents working against them?
He was about to leave when he spotted the small white patch on the ground. Had someone dropped it? He crouched down. It was a business card. He stared, and then the blood in his veins turned to ice.
His business card. The one with the phone number.
The one he had given out to the customer with the “Stradivarius.”
He was out of breath from running.
He still clutched the bundle with the fatigues. As soon as he was out of the gates, outside the base, he had torn them off, pulled on jeans and a T shirt, and made himself Walk as close as he could get to town without giving himself away.
“Gas leak,” someone was saying. He heard the sirens in the distance, though it looked like every fire truck and ambulance in town was already there.
It wasn't a gas leak. They would put it down to that, having no other options. That would be the official story. But no explosion caused damage like this. It was as if some great hand from the sky had come down and surgically extracted the music store, cutting it out like a tumor, leaving the rest of the block magically intact. The walls of the deli next door didn't even show scorch marks.
Of the music store itself, there was nothing left but a blackened rubble, like the smoking remains of a Labor Day barbecue, slowly being brought to ambient temperature by the dampening spray of the fire hoses.
“You know who was on the schedule?” He looked around. Nelda, dressed in a coat thrown over pajamas, untied running shoes on her feet.
She meant, who was on schedule to work that night. To close. He shook his head.
He looked down. There was a charred paperback book sitting open at his feet.
Suddenly, the other sounds, the muttering firemen, the hoses, the sirens, all faded in the background. There was him, and the book.
He crouched. His fingers tentatively traced the charred pages.
He put a hand underneath, flipping it over.
The title page was blackened, but still readable.
God is a D-
“Sariel.”
Raziel's voice.
“Sariel.”
Raziel was there. Really there. He peered at her numbly. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
He looked down. He was at Valhalla, sitting on Wotan's couch, and one of the big stupid wolves had just forced its great head under his hand. It looked up at him with those idiot eyes.
He brought up his hand and stared at it. “Dogs,” said Charles.
“What?” asked Raziel.
“Wotan,” said Charles. “Your wolves. You think they could pick out who's an angel, and who's not?”
Wotan was also there in the room. He sat back, scratching his short beard. “Well. I don't see why not! You mean, like those dogs at that military base were doin'?” Wotan looked at the wolf seated next to him. It was looking at him questioningly, ears up. “Freki. Engel?” he asked. The wolf barked and went to nose Raziel, ignored Ganesh, and then nosed Charles.
“Hey, that's not bad,” commented Raziel, patting Freki.
Did wolves have a Court Form?
Charles realized that although he had seen Wotan walking in the world of men before numerous times, he had never seen Geri and Freki outside the land of Asgard. What he saw before him did not look like an immortal god and his magical wolves, but rather a bearded guy and two big dogs. You actually noticed little Raziel, on his arm, and mostly for those ridiculous shoes.
“This is brilliant,” said Ganesh, who was walking beside Charles.
“Not my idea,” Charles reminded him. He paused. They were outside a stadium and it was seething with crowds. He glanced up at the posters. Baconology Mass Wedding Event TODAY they said, underneath a rather large picture of Rikki Kixx, taken in his more comely days.
“Wotan,” called Charles, as he saw the god striding up to the turnstiles.
“No dogs, sir” muttered one of the bored looking ticket takers.
“It won't be a problem!” blustered Wotan, who walked right in with wife and dogs and absolutely no objection from anybody.
Charles looked up at Ganesh, who grinned. “Uncle has his ways....” he said. Ganesh grabbed Charles' arm and strode up to a turnstile with a female attendant. “We're with him,” Ganesh cooed at her, batting his eyes and pointing a thumb at Wotan.
“Of course,” she muttered, blearily letting them though.
“....And I have mine,” said Ganesh, completing the thought.
“Smug,” said Charles, grateful for the distraction. “They're out on the field Wotan,” he called ahead. Wotan nodded and guided Geri and Freki out to what was usually the playing field. It looked like a wedding exposition. Charles thought he had never seen so many wedding gowns. And they must have done all the rental shops in town out of tuxes.
“Puts our poor ceremony to shame,” muttered Ganesh.
“They don't have wedding pie,” said Charles.
“Yes, that is true!”
Raziel sauntered over, lowering her sunglasses.
“How do you even walk in those shoes, Raziel?” asked Charles.
“You just put one foot in front of the other,” she said. “There is something weird going on,” she said more quietly.
“Oh, ya think?” said Charles.
“No, I have noticed it too,” said Ganesh.
“Wanna tell us what you're seeing?” asked Charles.
“I wish I could make sense of it all. There is a lot of power here,” said Ganesh.
Wotan at last came over, his wolves on a leash. He reigned in the dogs, and stood, in silence, for a moment.
“I didn't believe it. That's why we went around to check twice,” he said.
“You gonna tell us what you found, Wotan?” asked Charles. “Are there any angels?”
“All of them,” said Wotan, draping an arm around Raziel, who looked up, puzzled.
“They're all angels?” she asked.
“Every bride, and every groom here today. They're at least part angel. Least as far as these beasts can tell.”
Charles gawped at the assembled crowd. “I'm an idiot,” he whispered. “Wotan,” he said, “We should....”
“Yeah, I agree,” said Wotan, who had his cell phone out.
“Who are you calling?” asked Raziel.
“Cousin Poseidon. I believe a little disruption is called for.”
“Well, have him wait til I'm under cover! I don't wanna ruin these shoes!”
“That is definitely the highest priority here, my dear,” smiled the god.
They had arrived, Charles and Ganesh, back at their suite in Mordhaus.
“Do not hug me! And I don't wanna talk about it,” Charles instructed Ganesh.
“OK,” said Ganesh, who immediately sat down, yanking Charles into his lap and murmuring, “Let's talk.”
“Bastard!” said Charles. He wriggled up and pushed himself off Ganesh and onto the couch, although his legs were still thrown across Ganesh's lap.
“I am well aware I cannot force you to talk, Sariel,” said Ganesh. “I am not stupid, after all.”
Charles looked miserable. “You don't....” he started. “I don't encounter people who are just innocent. Like that.”
“On the contrary, the world abounds with innocents,” said Ganesh quietly. “You simply don't let yourself be open to them like that.”
“She would be alive if it wasn't for me.”
“And if the manager hadn't scheduled her to work at that period of time. And if she hadn't been working for money for college....”
“Ganesh!”
“Sariel. This was a terrible thing. I can't minimize it. And it must be a terrible burden. But that girl's fate, her karma: that was written, long before you or I, or for that matter, Uriah.”
Charles was quiet for a time. “You know fucking well I don't believe in fate.”
“She didn't believe in God. And one of His angels murdered her. In cold blood.”
Charles nodded sadly.
“And now,” said Ganesh, “to ease my own guilty conscience, I must admit that I have cruelly tricked you into talking about something you did not wish to.”
“You are an asshole,” Charles agreed. “I don't want you to....” he said, trailing off.
“I will not try and make you feel better. But here,” he said, pulling Charles back into his lap. “This will make me feel better, and you love me, so you will put up with it!”
Charles felt his breathing go rough. And there were many arms now wrapped around him. “Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I will.”
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My version of what Charles was up to during those nine months. Don't worry – no mpreg. :D
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: Before AND after jump.
OK, here's the deal: I am posting this because there's no way I could post anything else for another two weeks. I realize no one's gonna read it now, because it's Xmas, plus an actual GOOD writer is doing some N/C slash on CLDK. But the other thing is, this is not really holiday-appropriate: it's a downer, and it was literally something I had to stop working on when I was depressed. So maybe you can ignore it for now, but if you're in the mood in a week or so, and out of other stuff to read, you could take a look.
Mythklok: it just keeps going, and going, and going....
Last time: Charles and Ganesh had sex. Yes, I know they do this most every episode, but I thought I'd mention it. I wrote a story for H&G that no one is ever going to read, put together a Seekrit Pals gift that evidently amused someone for all of thirty seconds before it was utterly and completely forgotten, got very depressed, and wrote a fic about a puppy instead....
I guess it's been a while, so I should take this seriously, huh? OK. So, last time, we wandered back in time a bit to tell the story of How Charles Got His Gear. Bert the Power caused disruption in Dethklok's rehearsals. Rikki Kixx admitted that Ganesh's “kidnapping” was mostly a ruse to verify Charles had access to Breagan's Dethklok game. The game is not only brutal and metal, but a source of prophetic wisdom. Also: Wotan (with Raziel's assistance) has been pressuring Charles to tell them what happened when he was supposedly dead.
“It is OBVIOUSLY DEFECTIVE!”
Anna cringed, trying to keep her face expressionless. Between closing the shop last night and opening up this morning, and doing, you know, her homework, there hadn't been a whole hell of a lot of time for sleep. And now this military wife was gonna shatter a window or something with her fucking screeching.
Retail. Anna closed her eyes and reminded herself. She would finish her college degree and then get a good job, maybe helping the hungry children or some shit like that. And then she would never, ever, ever have to work retail again.
“Are you LISTENING to me YOUNG LADY?”
“Yes ma'am,” Anna sighed, trying to keep the weariness out of her voice. It was her theory, if customers spotted a vulnerability, it was like sharks to blood. “As I have explained, I need my manager's approval to take returns on band instruments.”
“This violin is CLEARLY DEFECTIVE, or little Rumsfeld would not be having difficulties!” attested the woman, patting her poufed up hairdo and pointing to the sullen pre-teen who had shuffled in with her.
“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am.” Anna's face was a smooth Noh mask. She had long, utterly, utterly straight brown hair, very clear olive skin, and soulful brown eyes. She would have been pretty if she had thought to smile more. But no one would tell Anna something like that.
“Is there a problem?”
Anna almost broke into a smile at the sound of the familiar voice. “We're having trouble with an instrument, Mr. Warriner,” she said. A lot of the other clerks didn't like working with Mr. Warriner. Jenny said he spooked her. It was probably this very habit, of suddenly appearing right behind you. when you least expected it. That and the thin red scar running raw down the side of his temple.
Anna didn't give a shit. Besides, there was no such thing as ghosts. And unlike certain other clerks she could name, Mr. Warriner actually didn't seem like a complete moron, something to his credit!
“I am so terribly sorry,” he said, picking up the violin. “Let's see here.” He plucked expertly at the strings, and then was drawing a bow across it. Now the other customers were openly staring: not at the amusing melee, but at the lovely melody.
Anna bit back a grin. There was obviously nothing wrong with the fucking violin. Except little Rumsfeld, whose sullen expression only soured.
“Well,” said Mr. Warriner, “I see what the trouble is! You don't like the tone, do you, uh....”
“Rumsfeld!” preened the mother, who was looking a lot more agreeable.
“Rumsfeld,” said Mr. Warriner.
“And I am Mrs. Diggler. Of the Digglers.”
There would have been no need to add the latter part to anyone who had grown up in the town. Anna had been bullied by someone with the last name of Diggler throughout her public school career, as had just about everyone other kid. She had hoped that, like most military families, this one would soon be on to the next post, but they had seemed to instead root like some kind of horrible career military kudzu.
“Oh, you must be the wife of Colonel Diggler?” asked Mr. Warriner. Mr. Warriner, unlike Anna, was not from around these parts.
“Why, yes, the very same!”
“I used to give lessons,” said Mr. Warriner, snapping the violin back into its case. “To a select few,” he hastily added.
“Mr. Warriner!” bustled Mrs. Diggler. “I don't suppose I could persuade you to a few sessions with our little Rumsfeld? His father is so anxious that he move to first chair!”
“I was pretty picky about my students. But in this case....” Mr. Warriner smiled blandly. “Well, when someone is as obviously talented as Rumsfeld. May I give you my card?”
“How delightful!” said Mrs. Diggler, taking the business card and the defective violin. “We shall give you a call!” she sang. And, taking a glowering Rumsfeld by the hand, she sailed out of the shop.
“Mr. Warriner,” said Anna quietly.
“I told ya you could call me Jerry,” he told her.
“It, uh, seems weird. You could be my … professor. Or something.” She suddenly felt extremely stupid, although now he was sporting a real smile, and not the fake one he reserved for customers. “Anyway. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said. The keen green eyes roamed over the counter. “Whatcha readin'?” he inquired, picking up a paperback she had left splayed just underneath the countertop, God is a Douchebag.. “Is this for your economics class?” he asked.
“It's for me. I'm an atheist,” she confessed.
“Hrm. Well, haven't read the book, but I'd have to agree with the title.” He put the book down and patted his jacket pocket. “Would you mind? I'm due for a break, and it seems quiet. I mean, now that we're Diggler-free.”
Anna smiled despite herself. “You shouldn't smoke,” she said, nodding nevertheless.
“Yeah, and I should eat your vegan crap even though it's not really food. I agree.” He grinned and sauntered outside.
He had brought his sandwich. The deli down the street from the music place made really good steak sandwiches. One thing about living in the American Midwest. Maybe the only thing about living in the American Midwest.
He sat on the hillside, in his favorite spot, out of sight, in the tall grass, and began to unwrap the waxed paper. They had added some mustard. Not much, and this place only had French's, but just enough to bring out the flavor. He took his first bite, his teeth stabbing through the terrible soft white bread they used here, and into the soft, delightful meat, cooked just so. Not too much fat, but not too lean: it melted in your mouth.
He chewed contentedly for a moment, and then drew out his field glasses. Taking great care that they should not glint in the sun, he focused them, as he had for so many days, so many lunchtimes, on the gates set up along the chain link fence.
Sariel was a patient being. He could wait and watch.
It was always the same routine. Guards checking credentials, scanning ID cards, peering into faces.
And then the part that puzzled him: the dogs. They couldn't be checking for weapons, because most of the personnel who went through carried at least a sidearm. Explosives were a possibility, but if that were really a worry, they would have been checking underneath vehicles with a mirror.
Narcotics of course was another possibility, but who would be stupid enough to sneak drugs onto a military base when there were so many of them available right outside, in the town?
It had to be something else. And he needed to know before he made his attempt. He took another bite of the delicious sandwich. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. He stretched it, rubbing the sore spot. Playing violin sometimes made it ache. He was lucky, the Docateer had told him. Being hit by a big fucking crossbow is considered “lucky?” he had replied. And that had been the end of that conversation.
“Lunch with all your friends?”
“Fuck you, Raziel,” he told the little angel who had definitely not just alit in back of him.
“Whatcha doing, Little Brother? Sitting around eating again?”
“I am doing surveillance work.”
“Meaning you're sitting around stuffing your face.”
Charles chewed thoughtfully. He put the field glasses to his eyes.
“Ya know, you might not need those if you'd just wear your eyeglasses.”
“I'm not supposed to be Charles Ofdensen any more. I'm Jeff Warriner.”
“And Jeff Warriner has super sight?”
“Something like that.” He sensed Raziel pacing back and forth in back of him. Stalking. “This isn't what you'd do, is it?”
“Ah fuck no. By now I would've taken a sword to a motherfucker. Heh.”
“Never one for subtlety.”
“Ain't my style.”
“Sooo. Whaddya think the dogs are for?” he asked, picking a thread of beef from between his teeth.
The nonexistent Raziel paused. “Play fetch?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“Why, what's your brilliant idea?”
“I dunno,” Charles admitted.
“Maybe that guy knows.”
“What guy?” Charles asked, actually turning around to confront nothing. He turned back around to look at the gate again, and then instinctively hit the ground. He carefully poked his head back up over the grass.
The dogs were yelping, jumping up and down. There was a terrified looking guy, arms up in a surrender gesture, pulled aside. And then the soldiers were pulling him around, to the back of the guardhouse.
Out of sight.
“Fuu-uu!” said Charles, who had quickly crammed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth. There was a good spot up the hill where he could see, but he had to get there quickly. No chance of breaking out the wings, he'd be spotted in an instant. He hadn't tried this in a while – a long while – but he swallowed the gob of meat and bread in his mouth and, concentrating, took a Step.
The next Step brought him to solid rock. Good, the overhang. And the next: to nothing at all.
He somehow got himself twisted around as he fell, so he was able to grab on to the edge of the overhand. He managed to break his fall, but he spent the next few moments absolutely still, hoping the motion hadn't given away his position. His shoulder now throbbed. He controlled his breathing, and then very carefully pulled himself up so he was safely seated on top of the overhang. He hastily pulled out the field glasses again. No, it didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to the hillside. Good. But now there was a minor commotion around the guard shack as more people arrived. A vehicle with an indignia he didn't recognize had pulled up. Charles focused his field glasses on the person they had detained. There was something odd about him.
And then, many things happening at once, two burly MPs coming out of the car, the detainee, with surprising strength, suddenly wresting out of the grip of the guards, sweeping out an arm....
Charles dropped the glasses in surprise. He dropped to his knees, grabbing them, looking again, just in time to see the detainee – who now seemed unconscious – stuffed like a potato sack into the back of the car and driven off.
He focused the glasses on the car. The door was painted with some kind of military logo. It looked like some kind of bird, sitting atop a globe.
Charles sat back on his haunches, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. He looked down at his hands. Badly cut, from when he'd fallen. He traced one of the cuts. He needed to get down from there, get some soap and hot water.
The gesture. The glint of metal. It was unmistakeable. But were his eyes playing tricks on him?
A cornered detainee. Suddenly drawing a sword.
From nowhere.
“He thinks it's a Stradivarius?” said Anna.
“Where did this guy find it again?” asked Mr. Warriner. They were in the back of the music shop. One of the weird things about Mr. Warriner – one of the many weird things about Mr. Warriner – was that he seemed to like to sit in the dark with no lights on. Anna was wondering if maybe he was some kind of vampire.
“In his attic?”
“Well, yeah, that's where medieval Italian violins often end up – in somebody's attic in the Midwest.”
Anna grinned. “So, how do you tell?” she asked.
“Some of 'em, it's not easy. There's some made about the same time, by rivals and his apprentices and such, and they'd put his mark on it. Even back then, people liked his violins.”
“You act like you were there,” she laughed.
“Huh. How old d'ya think I am?” he asked pleasantly.
“Uh, I dunno,” she said, backpedaling. “Um, over 30?”
“Yes, I am definitely over 30 years of age,” he laughed, “and this is definitely not a Strad.” he concluded, setting down the violin.
“Oh! Is it from a rival?”
“Nah. It's from Japan, most likely.”
“Whoa. Burn.”
“Are you two finished? We have paying customers!” snarled Mr. Daniels, their manager, who had just stomped in an turned up the lights. “What's the verdict on this instrument?” he demanded.
“I took a look at it, Mr. Daniels,” said Mr. Warriner. “I'm afraid I'm just not able to verify that it is a Strad.”
“You wasted all that time to tell me nothing?” grumbled Daniels, thoughtfully rubbing his mustache. “This is a very important customer!” Daniels was a bulky man, and the small back room seemed cramped now that he had entered. Anna noticed though that Mr. Warriner never seemed terribly intimidated by by him.
“I have contact info for a guy, in the city, if he wants to look into this,” Mr. Warriner supplied. He pulled out one of his business cards and scrawled a name and phone number on the back. This he handed to Mr. Daniels.
Mr. Daniels grumbled something and, taking the violin and the card in his big hands, stormed out again.
“You always know a guy,” Anna marveled.
“I've been around for a while,” said Mr. Warriner. Nobody knew too much about Mr. Warriner's past, other than some oblique references to a divorce, and how she'd “taken everything.” So, the younger staffers (some of them) thought this made them obligated to make it up.
“You kinda lied to him?” she tried.
“Not really. No. I wasn't able to verify it. And neither will anybody else.” He smiled slightly, eyes blinking in the harsh neon light. “Still reading your book? God still a douche?” She blushed slightly and pulled the book to her.
“I just don't believe. You know? I believe in science,” she said.
“That’s fine. Hey,” he said as he stood up, as if it were an aside. “You know much about the Digglers?”
Anna sighed heavily.
“I'm going to give their youngest a violin lesson tonight. Anything I should know?”
“I knew a couple of the older boys,” she began.
“And you didn't like 'em?” he asked.
Anna shifted in her chair. It was like tattling to an adult. Only she was an adult now, wasn't she? She could vote. Although she still couldn't drink beer. Well, not legally anyway. “It was weird. They were a military family, so I think a lot of us were waiting for them to, you know, shove off?”
“That's generally how it goes. Yeah.”
“But, they've been around for ages.” She rolled her eyes. “I've just gotta get outta this town, ya know?” She looked up, not entirely sure why she'd told Mr. Warriner about this.
He smiled. “You will. Give it time.” He looked at his watch. “Well, it's about time for me to take off.”
“Not me,” she grumbled. “I got stuck closing again. I always get scheduled for closing!”
“Well. Maybe some time I'll trade off? I like closing,” he told her. “But not tonight unfortunately. I'll see ya tomorrow.”
Anna watched him go, and then followed him into the showroom.
“International spy!” Nelda whispered.
Anna cracked a smile at her fellow clerk, although she also made a big show of rolling her eyes. Nelda looked a bit like a blonder, chubbier, altogether bubblier version of Anna. They had actually been mistaken for sisters before, a mistake that caused Nelda to giggle, and Anna to roll her eyes heavenward at ALL THE STUPID.
Anyway, Ann couldn't begrudge Nelda: she had gotten Anna a job in a music store. Horrible as it was, it went towards tuition and books. To make up for the sometimes crushing boredom, the two had taken to speculating on Mr. Warriner's true background. Because, of course, he couldn't just be a divorced ex-music teacher. Could he?
“A little young,” said the Raziel who wasn't there.
“A little young for what?” snapped Charles.
“Still, I like her better than She Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Raziel! She's a kid.” He fumed and continued walking. Why couldn't his mind conjure up somebody less annoying? Even Nathan Explosion would have been better....
No. Do not think of the boys. Too distracting. This had to be done.
“Going to the Digglers?” asked Raziel.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself.
“That was pretty clever, magicking the kid's violin like that so they'd return it!”
“Did you like that?” asked Charles. He smiled, admiring his own craftiness. “Although, in retrospect, Rumsfeld might be a rotten enough violinist it didn't need a spell. Regardless, now he'll improve with my tutoring.”
“Are you prepared for that? Had your rabies shots?”
“He can't be worse than William Murderface.” Don't. Think. About. The boys. “Anyway, I wanna take a look at this guy before I break into the base. I wanna see what I'm up against. From what I can tell, he's either a genius, or a complete ass.
“I'm betting the latter.”
“Yeah, me too. But it doesn't pay to underestimate people. Anyway, there's the house. I'm gonna have to stop talking to myself. They might think I'm weird.”
“Sariel.”
“What did I just say?”
“If she's not the next Mrs. Sariel....”
“She's not!”
“Then she's a friend?”
Charles found himself caught short. “Maybe,” he allowed.
“That might not be safe, Sariel.”
“Safe for who?” he demanded, forgetting and turning back. But there was no one there. No one at all.
“Should we go ahead and practice those arpeggios?” Rumsfeld attempted to give him the Death Glower, but Charles returned a rather nastier look, and suddenly, Rumsfeld was drawing bow against stings, making a terrific racket.
They were in a room one might call the parlour. There was an upright piano. Charles wondered if anyone there actually played.
The front door opened, and then shut with a bang. “I'm home!” boomed a voice. Charles recognized the individual from the many photos spread about the room: Colonel Diggler.
“Who are you?” he demanded of Charles.
“Dear, this is Mr. Warriner, Rumsfeld's violin teacher,” said, Mrs. Diggler, who had just come out of the kitchen, and was wiping her hands on her apron.
“Warner? I don't remember authorizing a damned violin teacher,” rumbled Colonel Diggler. He wasn't a tall man, in fact, he was about Charles' height, but seemed much more solid.
“Warriner,” Charles corrected gently, watching as Diggler dumped his house keys and his ID badge casually in a ceramic bowl near the door. Well, this answered one question. Diggler had either remained at this post for so many years because he was a genius, or because he was a complete fool. Somebody's complete fool.
“Mr. Warriner says he thinks we can get Rumsfeld to first chair!” trilled Mrs. Diggler.
“Eh, waste of time, sawing at a damn violin,” grumbled Diggler.
“That's what I tooooooold you,” whined Rumsfeld.
“Rumsfeld! No backtalk!” scolded Col. Diggler. “You'll listen to Mr. Warner and practice your damn lessons!”
Col. and Mrs. Diggler swept out of the room, leaving Charles eyeing the ceramic bowl.
Charles smiled and enjoyed the solitude. Even though the town's main street was still crowded with pedestrian traffic, Raziel had evidently decided not to follow him home. He wiggled his fingers in his pants pocket. He was wearing on his thumb a small, transparent sticker: the chip he'd surruptitiously peeled off Col. Diggler's ID badge whilst young Diggler was murdering his scales. His father, the great idiot, would probably never notice it was missing, and then he'd stomp around and blame his underlings when the ID badge failed to work.
“There is no recession for metal. The recession is an ASSHOLE!”
Nathan?
Charles cast a glance at the electronics store. An array of televisions, most of them tuned to the same news channel. He had purposely not included a television among the furnishings in his modest apartment.
He cast a glance around. There was a small group of people already in the shop crowded around the televisions. He quietly joined, being careful to stay in the back. Nathan and William had just announced that Dethklok intended to perform the most expensive concert ever attempted. He tried to keep from smiling. It was an amazing stunt, very like something he would have done.
But he wasn't there.
He frowned as he listened to the idiot analysts gleefully discussed rurmors of a bankruptcy. Bankruptcy? Not possible. How the hell could anybody go through all that money that fast?
Kitty glasses? Doritoland? A ruby metronome??
This was not just anybody, he reminded himself. This was Dethklok.
He sighed and hurried home, rubbing the small chip pasted on his thumbnail in worry. Maybe Raziel was right? He had wasted too much time hanging around. It was time to draw a sword and kick some ass.
“Geez. One ticket would cost my entire tuition.”
Anna and Nelda stared, clucking their tongues, at the Metal Tattler article about the upcoming Dethklok concert. Anna didn't particularly like their music, but it was all anyone was talking about. And a lot of guys liked Dethklok. And....
“Nathan's sort of cute,” Anna confessed.
“WHAT?”
“Well. Just. He has something. You know?” Anna backtracked.
“Are you kidding? Skwisgaar is the babe!”
“WHAT? Look at him! You can totally tell he's so stuck up!”
“Girls?”
Anna and Nelda whipped around, Nelda unsuccessfully trying to hide the tabloid behind her back.
“It's OK,” smiled Mr. Warriner. “I was just wondering if you might know of someone with a sewing machine I can borrow.”
“Nelda!” Anna supplied. “You need something sewed?”
“Well, it's sort of … a Halloween costume,” he explained.
“You cosplay Mr. Warriner?” asked Nelda.
“Something like that,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Nelda does all our stuff for Wizard Con!” said Anna. “Have you been to Wizard Con?”
“Uh,” said Charles. “Can't say as I have. Anyway. I have a little something I bought in a thrift shop. I just need to get some finishing touches so it looks right.”
“What are you doing after your shift?” asked Nelda as Anna blanched.
“I have had professional tailors make suits for me. They did not fit this well. Thank you.”
Anna and Nelda beamed at Charles. Nelda had managed to move enough objects aside to afford a decent view on the full length mirror that was leaning against one wall in the cluttered house. Nelda evidently had several roommates, but as this was a Saturday night, they were all currently out and about.
Charles studied the military fatigues: they were perfect. And she had managed to take them in so he didn't look like he'd borrowed kit from Nathan Explosion. Or a Nathan-sized soldier at least.
Charles sat down on a couch and began to unlace his boots.
“So, this is for cosplay?” asked Nelda, who was still sitting in front of her sewing machine. Anna went to shush her, but Nelda waved her off.
“Well, I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone, OK?” said Charles.
Both girls leaned forward.
“Because, it's kind of embarrassing. My friends and I, we do military … recreations?”
“Oooooooh!” chorused the girls, who were suddenly both furiously nodding.
“And, you know. We're like nerds everywhere. Gotta get everything just right. Anyway.” I'm going to hell for this, he thought. “How much I owe you?”
“Aw, don't worry about it,” said Nelda.
“No, I wanna recompense you guys. You stayed home on a Saturday. You should be out doing.... Well, whatever it is you kids do.” He stood. He was even shorter in stocking feet.
“Take us out for a drink!” blurted Nelda.
“I hope you mean a malted,” laughed Charles. “I know you girls aren't old enough.”
“OK!” said Nelda.
“You mind if I change in your room again?” asked Charles. Nelda waved him off.
“NELDA!” whispered Anna after he had closed the door.
“A malted?” asked Nelda. “Is this guy from the stone age or something? I think I was right about the vampire thing.”
“Nelda! Oh, gawd. This is so embarrassing!”
“Aw, come on! We'll figure out if he's a vampire or a zombie.”
“He's neither, Nelda!”
“You think he's just a guy?”
“Well....” admitted Anna, but then Mr. Warriner had appeared in his street clothes. As he wouldn't reconsider heading out to a bar for a real drink, they made instead for a nearby diner, Mr. Warriner matching a cigarette to smoke as they walked. Anna noticed that at certain points, Mr. Warriner appeared to be muttering something to somebody who wasn't there. Eccentric old guy, that was for sure.
He insisted on buying them not only milkshakes (or a soy smoothie in Anna's case), but full dinners, although Anna also noticed that he mostly just picked at his own plate.
“You know, you need to eat as well as smoke,” Anna scolded at one point as she munched on her salad.
Mr. Warriner grinned. “You sound a lot like someone I know.”
“Not your ex I hope?” asked Nelda hopefully.
“Nelda!” said Anna.
“Naw. A … relative, actually.”
But before they could probe more, Nelda not so subtly poked Anna in the ribs, and they watched as a couple of young, slightly scruffy-looking men came into the diner and were escorted to a table. The boys cast a glance over to the girls and broke out in frank grins, causing Nelda to smile back and Anna to cower.
“You like those boys?” Mr. Warriner asked. He had taken out his pack of Marlboros and set them by his plate, as if he couldn't wait to get outside and continue smoking.
“Didn't you recognize them?” asked Nelda. “They're in All Your Bass!”
“Is that a band?” he smiled.
The girls giggled at the sad display of terminal unhipness.
“I wonder why they're eating at this crappy place?” wondered Anna.
“If they're in an unsigned band, they're probably lucky to be eating at all,” laughed Mr. Warriner.
Nelda and Anna exchanged a glance.
“Hey, I'm gonna go grab a newspaper from the counter,” said Mr. Warriner. “You guys want anything else?”
“Whoa. You still read treeware?” asked Nelda.
“I'm an old-fashioned guy,” laughed Mr. Warriner as he rose and meandered over to the register.
“Does he know them or not know them?” asked Nelda. “What's up with this guy?”
“Maybe he did something in music? Before?” ventured Anna, who found herself dragged into the guessing game.
“He's a music zombie!” laughed Nelda, to much giggling.
“So, as I was telling you....”
The girls suddenly started. Mr. Warriner was now standing at their table, along with the grinning rhythm section of All Your Bass.
“My nieces are in town from Norway, and they don't know much English.” Both Nelda and Anna began to say something, but stopped short. “And, you know, I've been called away for this emergency meeting, so I'd really appreciate it if you could show them around.”
“Hey sure, dude,” said the shaggier or the two musicians.
“Hey, is that SOY?” asked the somewhat less shaggy guy, pointing to Anna's smoothie.
“Uh. Ja. Ja!” said Anna. “Uhhhh. Weegan!” she said, proudly pointing to herself, and stealing a glance at Mr. Warriner.
“Aw, cool,” said the musician, sliding into the booth next to her. “Me – vegetarian!” he said, slapping his chest.
Charles was already walking out, the smile having faded as he stared at the tabloid headline.
“Mordhaus plunges to earth. Dethklok Gone Bust?”
It took Anna a second or two to make out where she was when she awoke.
Hotel room. She heard the shower running.
She flashed a glance at the clock radio by the bed. Shit! She leapt out of bed and started rooting for clothes.
“Oh, hey, you're up dude!”
It was the bassist of All Your Bass, wearing nothing but a towel. He looked very cute that way, actually, and Anna had the sudden thought of calling Nelda to switch shifts with her. That is, if Nelda wasn't similarly occupied with a drummer.
“I gotta get to work. Oh, shit, the stuff about speaking Norwegian....”
“Yeah, I guessed.” He flashed a grin and held up God is a Douchebag. “Started reading it. Hope you don't mind.”
“Naw. I'm an atheist!” she said.
“You might call me a seeker,” he said.
“Yeah, whatever that means!”
He tilted his head and looked at her. “You gotta rush? I kind of wanted to have breakfast, since we could actually talk instead of sign each other.”
Anna blushed. “Yeah, I don't know why we did that....”
“How the fuck do you know Charles?”
“Who?”
“Charles Ofdensen? You know, your 'uncle?' I mean, you don't have to say if it's some kinda top secret.”
“Charles Ofdensen?” repeated Anna. The name sounded familiar.
“You're really related to Dethklok's manager?”
Anna went and grabbed the newspaper that had been shoved under their hotel room door. She flipped it open to the inevitable Dethklok concert article. “Not this guy?” she asked, pointing to the small inset photo of a pissy looking guy with glasses.
“Yeah,” agreed the bassist. “That guy.”
“He's dead!” Anna insisted.
“That's what they told us!” he lectured. “Are you gonna believe them?”
Anna stared at the small, blurry black and white photo.
And when she got into work that day, she found Mr. Warriner had called in sick.
The sun was hanging low and red in the western sky. A silver angel was sneaking around the hillside.
Or trying to sneak.
“Whoa, you really need to eat some more of those crappy sandwiches!”
“I don't remember asking your opinion, Raziel.”
“I thought this was a spy mission?”
“It is,” he told her, or rather told the Raziel who was in his mind. He unwrapped the bundle he was carrying and carefully spread the contents out on a rock. “I have to be careful when I Court Form. I need to appear completely human. It's easier when I start out like this.” OK. Uniform. ID card. Everything.
“You sure you're ready for this?” asked Not Raziel.
“I thought you were the one telling me to hurry the fuck up?”
“All I'm saying is, you're not jumping in because Mordhaus is falling down?”
Charles sighed. Of course that's why he was going. He couldn't even fool an imaginary Raziel.
He cleared his mind. It was something he had always been able to do, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Angels like Raziel, when they went to Court Form, looked something like a human. Fortunately most humans weren't terribly observant, so they missed the differences. But when the angel Sariel went to Court Form he changed somehow, and was able to actually become almost human.
It was the almost part that worried him. That's why he had started out in full True Form. And then he put everything he had into it, tucking away the angelic part, folding it like some weird magical origami. Until finally he stood there, just a scarred up guy in jeans, shivering in the wind, looking like a complete douche bag.
Well, at least imaginary Raziel appeared to have bugged out.
He shed the jeans and scrambled into the camouflage patterned ACU, making certain now that everything was buttoned, snapped and laced correctly. He placed the very last item, the patrol cap, square on his head and straightened up. Good. This felt good.
He tucked away his jeans and other civvies, and then went to watch the front gate. He was just in time: a shuttle bus from the town had arrived. Being dead careful to be quiet about it he waited until most of the passengers had disembarked, and then, quite suddenly, there was another being at the edge of the crowd.
He got in line as the foot passengers queued at the gate. There was also a small line of cars waiting. He had chosen this time, just around twilight, on purpose. Not only would the darkness be good cover, there was usually a lot of traffic around the gate from people returning from errands in the city.
He showed his ID badge, meanwhile giving the dogs what he hoped wasn't a nervous glance. He held his breath while the noses traced over him. And then he passed, trying not to increase his pace as he walked through the gate and into the base.
And then the dogs were going crazy.
He heard the commotion and stopped breathing. Would it be normal to turn around? Yes, he needed to stop and turn.
The dogs were whining – someone had a leftover sandwich in his pocket. The guards laughed and handed the sandwich back to the guy. Charles forced himself to start breathing again. The waxed paper: it was the same deli shop he went to every lunchtime. He hoped the guy wouldn't recognize him from there, so he turned and walked determinedly towards the main building.
It was always good to look like you knew where you were headed, so he made sure to walk smartly. His big trouble was, now he was inside, he had no fucking idea where he was going. It was all standard prefab looking military issue: lots of places that looked more like airplane hangars than headquarters for whatever vast conspiracy. He walked towards what looked like the main building, but then was distracted by something he glanced out of the corner of his eye. Being careful not to turn his head, he slowed his pace a fraction, and let his eyes drift to a more disused looking building.
That logo: an bird that had swallowed a globe.
He resisted the urge to head straight for the building, and instead ended up completely circumnavigating the main building. Now that he was past the dogs, it was time for a bit of angel magic, though he had to be careful it didn't end in a clusterfuck like when he'd tried to Walk to the overhang on the hillside the other day. He cursed himself, wishing he wasn't so out of practice on his angel tricks. Maybe Raziel was right, and he had been trying to actually become human this time. Spirit Walking onto the base would have saved a fuckload of time, but in his present state, he would have risked ending up Walking right into a wall.
He concentrated very hard, and ended up right where he wanted to be, underneath a window. It was up high, too high for any human to access without a ladder, but fortunately gravity was not as much a concern to an angelic being. After making certain no one was watching, he simply walked up the wall, and into the building.
He found himself in a large, darkened room. He made sure to keep the brim of his cap low. He imagined there were security cameras everywhere.
He looked around, his eyes very quickly adjusting to the dark. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting, although, in reality, he wasn't quite certain what he had been expecting. He thought to see a lot of blinking high tech equipment. But the only evidence of that was two rather aged PCs stuffed in one corner. Instead it had more the feel of a disused library special collections area.
Not knowing what else to do, he powered up one of the PCs. He cringed as the hard drive creaked to life.
While he waited for Windows to show up, he poked around the room. Sitting opened on the table was a book on millennial cults. In fact, all of the books stacked on the table appeared to be about small, obscure religious cults.
He turned his attentions to the bookshelves. There was an entire section that appeared to be nothing but genealogies, going back for generations. They were from all over the world. He saw a tome in what looked to him like Norwegian, so he pulled it down. He had an odd thought, and flipped through a few pages. Yes, Toki Wartooth's village was in here, and there were the names of his mother and father.
He replaced the volume and, frowning, went over to the aged computer. The screen was password protected. He smiled and opened the top desk drawer, laughing as the sticky note with the password, “WHIRLEDBIRD,” was the first thing visible. Well, at least someone had a sense of humor. He clicked on a file with the strange bird logo. It was labeled, “Falconback.” The contents seemed to be more apocalyptic texts. He sorted the files by the last date accessed, and started reading the latest one. His Hebrew was as rusty as his Walking skills, but it appeared to be a prophecy concerning the demons, Gog and Magog, and something about a wall of copper and iron. A wall of metal? thought Charles. Something the boys would like.
He clicked randomly on a couple other files. Something about the Ragnarok. It had been a long time, but maybe he needed to consult Lord Wotan on this?
He thought he heard a noise. He grabbed a thumb drive from one of his many military issue pockets, and threw the file on there, although he despaired making any sense of this crap.
He looked up. That was definitely footsteps he was hearing. He grabbed the thumb drive, flicking off the computer, but didn't leave. Now he heard voices. He spied a footlocker pushed against one of the walls and quickly made a decision. As quietly as he could, he opened the top and climbed inside, silently lowering it back down. He could only see a patch of the floor through some narrow slits in the metal, but he could hear everything.
He held his breath as the door opened and the lights snapped on. He cringed as something was set down just beside the locker. He peered through the slots at him. Odd: it looked like a violin case.
“Yessir, this is the base's Falconback archives.”
And then Charles stopped breathing. “This is everything?” That voice. It was unmistakeable.
“Yessir, Mr. Selatcia sir,” responded the first voice.
“And is this location secure?”
Charles tried to stop himself from shivering.
“Don't be paranoid, Selactia,” growled a third voice. “We've got guards on the base, guards on the building. Overkill for a bunch of dusty goddam books.”
“I will decide what is overkill, General Crozier,” hissed the one they called Selatcia. “You recall the incident, the other day, with the guard dogs?”
“We neutralized the intruder. Probably some punk hopped up on drugs,” grumbled Crozier.
“Has this computer been used recently?” Charles stopped breathing again. He had turned the old PC off, the but fan had come on.
“Sir, they're a bit old, sir,” said the first voice. “They tend to be fussy.”
“Fussy?” repeated Selatcia. Charles could almost feel the poor soldier try not to pee his pants.
“Selatcia, there isn't any goddamn danger here. We're wasting men on all this security.”
“Patience, General Crozier. We will continue as we were for the present time. There are agents working against us, even now. We need to be on guard.”
And then someone lifted up the object – it was a violin case – the lights shut off, and Charles listened as the footsteps retreated.
Charles remained in the locker for a while, and then, as quietly as he could, he opened the top and slipped out. What the hell had Selatcia meant about agents working against them?
He was about to leave when he spotted the small white patch on the ground. Had someone dropped it? He crouched down. It was a business card. He stared, and then the blood in his veins turned to ice.
His business card. The one with the phone number.
The one he had given out to the customer with the “Stradivarius.”
He was out of breath from running.
He still clutched the bundle with the fatigues. As soon as he was out of the gates, outside the base, he had torn them off, pulled on jeans and a T shirt, and made himself Walk as close as he could get to town without giving himself away.
“Gas leak,” someone was saying. He heard the sirens in the distance, though it looked like every fire truck and ambulance in town was already there.
It wasn't a gas leak. They would put it down to that, having no other options. That would be the official story. But no explosion caused damage like this. It was as if some great hand from the sky had come down and surgically extracted the music store, cutting it out like a tumor, leaving the rest of the block magically intact. The walls of the deli next door didn't even show scorch marks.
Of the music store itself, there was nothing left but a blackened rubble, like the smoking remains of a Labor Day barbecue, slowly being brought to ambient temperature by the dampening spray of the fire hoses.
“You know who was on the schedule?” He looked around. Nelda, dressed in a coat thrown over pajamas, untied running shoes on her feet.
She meant, who was on schedule to work that night. To close. He shook his head.
He looked down. There was a charred paperback book sitting open at his feet.
Suddenly, the other sounds, the muttering firemen, the hoses, the sirens, all faded in the background. There was him, and the book.
He crouched. His fingers tentatively traced the charred pages.
He put a hand underneath, flipping it over.
The title page was blackened, but still readable.
God is a D-
“Sariel.”
Raziel's voice.
“Sariel.”
Raziel was there. Really there. He peered at her numbly. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
He looked down. He was at Valhalla, sitting on Wotan's couch, and one of the big stupid wolves had just forced its great head under his hand. It looked up at him with those idiot eyes.
He brought up his hand and stared at it. “Dogs,” said Charles.
“What?” asked Raziel.
“Wotan,” said Charles. “Your wolves. You think they could pick out who's an angel, and who's not?”
Wotan was also there in the room. He sat back, scratching his short beard. “Well. I don't see why not! You mean, like those dogs at that military base were doin'?” Wotan looked at the wolf seated next to him. It was looking at him questioningly, ears up. “Freki. Engel?” he asked. The wolf barked and went to nose Raziel, ignored Ganesh, and then nosed Charles.
“Hey, that's not bad,” commented Raziel, patting Freki.
Did wolves have a Court Form?
Charles realized that although he had seen Wotan walking in the world of men before numerous times, he had never seen Geri and Freki outside the land of Asgard. What he saw before him did not look like an immortal god and his magical wolves, but rather a bearded guy and two big dogs. You actually noticed little Raziel, on his arm, and mostly for those ridiculous shoes.
“This is brilliant,” said Ganesh, who was walking beside Charles.
“Not my idea,” Charles reminded him. He paused. They were outside a stadium and it was seething with crowds. He glanced up at the posters. Baconology Mass Wedding Event TODAY they said, underneath a rather large picture of Rikki Kixx, taken in his more comely days.
“Wotan,” called Charles, as he saw the god striding up to the turnstiles.
“No dogs, sir” muttered one of the bored looking ticket takers.
“It won't be a problem!” blustered Wotan, who walked right in with wife and dogs and absolutely no objection from anybody.
Charles looked up at Ganesh, who grinned. “Uncle has his ways....” he said. Ganesh grabbed Charles' arm and strode up to a turnstile with a female attendant. “We're with him,” Ganesh cooed at her, batting his eyes and pointing a thumb at Wotan.
“Of course,” she muttered, blearily letting them though.
“....And I have mine,” said Ganesh, completing the thought.
“Smug,” said Charles, grateful for the distraction. “They're out on the field Wotan,” he called ahead. Wotan nodded and guided Geri and Freki out to what was usually the playing field. It looked like a wedding exposition. Charles thought he had never seen so many wedding gowns. And they must have done all the rental shops in town out of tuxes.
“Puts our poor ceremony to shame,” muttered Ganesh.
“They don't have wedding pie,” said Charles.
“Yes, that is true!”
Raziel sauntered over, lowering her sunglasses.
“How do you even walk in those shoes, Raziel?” asked Charles.
“You just put one foot in front of the other,” she said. “There is something weird going on,” she said more quietly.
“Oh, ya think?” said Charles.
“No, I have noticed it too,” said Ganesh.
“Wanna tell us what you're seeing?” asked Charles.
“I wish I could make sense of it all. There is a lot of power here,” said Ganesh.
Wotan at last came over, his wolves on a leash. He reigned in the dogs, and stood, in silence, for a moment.
“I didn't believe it. That's why we went around to check twice,” he said.
“You gonna tell us what you found, Wotan?” asked Charles. “Are there any angels?”
“All of them,” said Wotan, draping an arm around Raziel, who looked up, puzzled.
“They're all angels?” she asked.
“Every bride, and every groom here today. They're at least part angel. Least as far as these beasts can tell.”
Charles gawped at the assembled crowd. “I'm an idiot,” he whispered. “Wotan,” he said, “We should....”
“Yeah, I agree,” said Wotan, who had his cell phone out.
“Who are you calling?” asked Raziel.
“Cousin Poseidon. I believe a little disruption is called for.”
“Well, have him wait til I'm under cover! I don't wanna ruin these shoes!”
“That is definitely the highest priority here, my dear,” smiled the god.
They had arrived, Charles and Ganesh, back at their suite in Mordhaus.
“Do not hug me! And I don't wanna talk about it,” Charles instructed Ganesh.
“OK,” said Ganesh, who immediately sat down, yanking Charles into his lap and murmuring, “Let's talk.”
“Bastard!” said Charles. He wriggled up and pushed himself off Ganesh and onto the couch, although his legs were still thrown across Ganesh's lap.
“I am well aware I cannot force you to talk, Sariel,” said Ganesh. “I am not stupid, after all.”
Charles looked miserable. “You don't....” he started. “I don't encounter people who are just innocent. Like that.”
“On the contrary, the world abounds with innocents,” said Ganesh quietly. “You simply don't let yourself be open to them like that.”
“She would be alive if it wasn't for me.”
“And if the manager hadn't scheduled her to work at that period of time. And if she hadn't been working for money for college....”
“Ganesh!”
“Sariel. This was a terrible thing. I can't minimize it. And it must be a terrible burden. But that girl's fate, her karma: that was written, long before you or I, or for that matter, Uriah.”
Charles was quiet for a time. “You know fucking well I don't believe in fate.”
“She didn't believe in God. And one of His angels murdered her. In cold blood.”
Charles nodded sadly.
“And now,” said Ganesh, “to ease my own guilty conscience, I must admit that I have cruelly tricked you into talking about something you did not wish to.”
“You are an asshole,” Charles agreed. “I don't want you to....” he said, trailing off.
“I will not try and make you feel better. But here,” he said, pulling Charles back into his lap. “This will make me feel better, and you love me, so you will put up with it!”
Charles felt his breathing go rough. And there were many arms now wrapped around him. “Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I will.”
