Angels are dying.
4
Faye couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, little snatches of a dream flittering in and out of her subconscious. The part of her aware that she dreamed tried to push away the dark vignettes, but only succeeded in pulling herself further in to the seedy depths of another person’s mind.
Faye could never completely make out the face of the black-haired boy in the dreams, but she felt his emotions, heard his thoughts. There were times she caught a clear glimpse of his eyes, or the twist of his mouth, but other than that, his face remained a swirl of gray in her mind. She watched him prowl the city. The dark alleys and cross streets offered infinite places to become one with the shadows, and were as familiar to him now as his childhood home had once been. Of course there was nothing left of that old white house with its peeling paint and shoddy floorboards. He’d made sure of that. The fire that burnt the building to the ground had been magnificent to watch, and the sense of freedom that came with it–Faye knew he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
The knife kept him going. Faye watched him crouch down, pull the weapon out, and caress the blade. A tiny drop of blood welled at the tip of his finger. The boy examined it, fascinated when the crimson liquid pooled and fell to the ground.
“Momma,” he said. The knife had belonged to his mother, Faye was sure of it, and she knew the boy viewed the weapon as an extension of her. A little picture of the woman flashed in Faye’s mind–tall with weathered skin and oily hair the color of dishwater. Her lifeless eyes reminded Faye of a shark.
The boy held the knife with reverence and examined the bone handle. There were carvings deep in the surface, along with letters written in an unfamiliar language. He ran a finger over them, tracing their bumpy outline, and smearing his blood on the handle. It seeped into the pores of the bone, leaving no trace behind to mar the knife’s appearance.
The blade looked dull and dirty, but if flashed just the right way, it sparkled. One could almost hear it sing of the agony it rendered to those unlucky enough to be caught in its path.
He stood and swung the knife out at Faye, though she knew he couldn’t see her. She watched him pretend to battle an imaginary opponent for a few minutes before delving deeper into his mind. Faye tried to get a sense of who the boy pretended to fight, but his only thoughts were of his mother. He wondered how Momma had gotten her hands on such a special knife. After all, she was just a common killer with no sense of the greater picture. He could only assume it had been given to Momma to pass along to him when the time was right. Perhaps it had been a gift from his father. Shame the man hadn’t been around to teach him how to use it!
The boy had discovered on his own it could do more than just kill.
A man crept into the alley, staying just on the fringe of the shadows. Faye pulled a name from his head. Tom. Her heart quickened as she sensed his intentions–sex with the young teenager.
“Watch out!” Faye called, but her words were not heard in the dream. Helplessness planted itself in her stomach, a sick little flower that blossomed strong.
The boy turned and stared into the shadows before sniffing at the air. Urine, sweat and alcohol–Tom’s body odor gave him away, and he lumbered out from his hiding spot.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Tom stepped toward him. Faye’s heart beat faster, knowing the man lied.
“But I’m going to hurt you, mister, if you come any closer,” the boy said, brandishing the knife.
Tom chuckled and took a tentative second step. “Don’t make this hard. I hate it when they struggle.”
The boy lowered his head, but not before Faye had seen anger flash in his eyes. She shivered and pressed a hand to her mouth, as Tom, with an overconfident swagger, edged closer to the boy.
“I promise to be quick, kid.” Tom rested his dirty hand on the boy’s shoulder and Faye felt the bile rise in her throat. She wanted desperately to intervene, to step forward and break the confines of the dream. Her heart pounded louder, almost blocking the sound of the boy’s voice.
“Me too,” the boy said as he plunged the knife into the soft belly of the man before him.
* * * *
Faye gasped for breath. Damn. She hated those dreams. They’d been occurring regularly the last few months, but whenever she woke up, she couldn’t quite remember all the details. The boy always starred in them, though she struggled to remember what he’d been doing, or the contours of his features. Whatever happened in the dream, whatever sight she’d seen that caused her heart to race, would be erased from memory, though often the boy’s residual emotions would remain behind. This time wasn’t any different. Already the visions faded, but the sense of loss, of utter abandonment stayed. Or were those her own feelings? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Faye rolled over in bed and grabbed the little notebook on her nightstand.
Momma. She wrote the word down and circled it twice, knowing it meant something important. It was the key to…her mind struggled to make the connection.
“It’s the key to…” she said, her voice shaky.
The significance of the word would not come. Frustrated, she placed the notebook back on the nightstand and sank down in her bed. The morning traffic rumbled outside of her apartment on busy Lamar Street. A soothing, normal Sunday morning sound, she relished in knowing her shop, the Flower Pot, would be closed. It was definitely a perk of being self-employed.
The Flower Pot had once been an old gas station leftover from the fifties. Faye had purchased it seven years ago, seeing the potential in the abandoned location and its unique two-story design. It had taken some time, but now the run-down gas station with its curved arches and old-fashioned feel was a small thriving florist and plant nursery. Flowers bloomed in bright pots outside. The exterior of the building, once a mixture of whites and greens, had been given a cheery yellow makeover. Painted daisies grew all over the sides of the shop, intertwining with the business’ name printed on the front wall.
Faye escaped there, content to be one with nature, and satisfied her plant world would bring her peace. From time to time, loneliness crept in, but that’s what her stint at the Black Cat was for. Most people would see it as artistic release, not a cry of despair. Admitting to such a feeling would have been tantamount to asking for help. That wouldn’t do.
The small room above The Flower Pot served as Faye’s personal living space. Nothing more than a simple efficiency apartment, she’d done her best to create a soothing environment with soft brown and olive tones. The tiny kitchen and dining area appealed to Faye’s need for open space–no places for unwanted visitors to hide.
This morning, as the last remnants of the unsettling dream slipped away, depression twisted in her stomach, battling with the anxious butterflies that had made it home when she’d seen Azal in the audience last night. Her gaze flitted for a moment on the only picture she allowed herself to have out and then just as quickly, she glanced away.
She hated being spied on, manipulated. For seven years, she’d managed to fill her time with things that kept her from wondering too much about the Others, and with
