Los Angeles
March 19, 2168
Peter Romito slouched in the back of a yellow hovercab, the worn leather seat gummy with human residue. Stale perfume, and the musk of sex lingered in the cabin, poorly masked by machine oil and vanilla-scented air-freshener. Thank God it was dark so he couldn’t see the stains. After a night spent turning tricks, he didn’t need reminders.
The cab banked and soared over Sunset Boulevard. An updraft jarred the cab like a speed bump. The vibrations from the engine settled in his teeth, and he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. Twelve hours had passed since he swallowed his last hit and his brain cells were screaming for a fix. He dug a quarter sheet of Slam out of his pocket. Each of the six perforated squares were the size of his thumbnail. He squinted at the foil seals, all of them broken. He knew he had run out, but that didn’t stop him from checking.
Peter sighed and crammed the sheet back into his pocket. He bundled up in his trench coat and gazed out the window. Storm clouds blotted out the stars, but the darkness couldn’t penetrate the maze of glass towers. Some of them were dazzling geometric puzzles, others pierced the clouds like alien temples. Far below, a second city had been smothered by the first, chunky blocks and monoliths of concrete, steel and stone. They were crumbling reminders of a half-remembered past, but from up here, with a God’s-eye view, history looked like make-up on a whore.
As if he sensed Peter was drowning and wanted to push him deeper, the driver reached for the stereo beneath the navigation screen. The old black man turned up the volume and Billie Holiday crackled over the speakers:
“Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest, the shadows
I live with are numberless...”
Peter looked at the driver in the rearview mirror. Twin crescents of blue dots underscored his eyes, glowing like the tails of fireflies. A rosary with a gold crucifix swung from the mirror.
The driver met his gaze. “You’re wondering about my ink.”
Peter shrugged. “We’re all marked, one way or another.”
The old man studied his face. “How old are you?”
Peter thought about saying ‘old enough,’ but decided to stow the smart-ass answer. “I turn twenty-one tomorrow.”
“Well, tomorrow is an hour away. Happy birthday, kid.”
Peter snorted. “Been a long time since I was a kid.”
“You may find this hard to believe, but I was young once too. Back then I had something to live for.”
Peter gave up any hope of burrowing into himself. “So, what happened?” he asked.
The driver shifted in his seat. “You heard of Silent Night?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “You mean the suicide bombing?”
The driver nodded. “Yeah, by the Sol Invictus cult. It was Christmas eve of ’43, before you were born. When I lived in New York, I had a beautiful wife. Four kids, three girls and a boy. My wife took the kids to see the tree in Rockefeller Center. Just before midnight, the crowd lit candles and sang ‘Silent Night.’ When the clock struck twelve the leader of the cult set off a plasma bomb. I saw the blast all the way from Harlem. The bomber claimed that baby Jesus stole their holiday. My family was killed along with five thousand people. You couldn’t sift their ashes from the snow.”
“Jesus.” Peter lowered his eyes.
“The tattoos under my eyes are the tears I shed for my family. I moved out here to get away from the ghosts.”
“And it didn’t work.”
“Course it didn’t, but you’ve got your own ghosts to worry about, don’t you?”
Peter shivered and hugged himself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. You’re haunted. You don’t jack up on Slam unless you’re running from something.”
Peter didn’t reply. He couldn’t hide the fact that he was shaky from withdrawal. His pupils were black holes that swallowed his eyes. Sweat gleamed on his pallid skin in the cold, recycled air.
“Give yourself a birthday present. Leave that shit behind. You’ve got a lot of living to do before you stop breathing.”
“I thought I hired a cab, not a therapist.”
The old man huffed and shook his head. “Tough as nails, huh?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve been hammered plenty.”
The cab shuddered, struck by a gust of wind. Billie Holiday crooned in the background.
“Gloomy is Sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all...”
Peter pressed his hands over eyes. “For Fuck’s sake, can you turn off that song?”
“Sorry. Hit a nerve?” The old man killed the stereo. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just that I’ve seen way too much of what you’re going through. Girls giving head for a hit of Slam right where you’re sitting. People will do anything to escape, know what I mean?”
Peter lowered his hands. “What are you trying to say?”
The old man shrugged. “It’s not a good time to be in the business. People are getting hurt, found with pieces missing.”
“The Crucifix Killer,” Peter said, going cold inside.
“They found another body this morning. One of my regular customers. Apparently, she’d been dead for a week.”
“Her name was Meagan. She was a friend of mine.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Meagan didn’t even have a habit, the money was too good. A year ago her father was killed in a shoot out with the narcs. A week later her mom died of an overdose. Meagan started selling her ass to feed her little brother. But seeing she was a regular, I’m sure you knew that.”
The news hit the old man hard. “I had no idea.”
“We’ve all got our stories, all got our ghosts. You said I was haunted, and you got that right. But my problem wasn’t that my parents died too young, mine was that my father lived too long. You think I’m strung out because Daddy never bought me a pony. The truth is, I was my father’s pony. He rode me until I bled, and then rode me some more.”
The driver winced. “You’re nobody’s pony.”
“But that’s just it. We’re all ponies. God’s little stable. That glowing ink on your face only proves my point. And people like that sick fuck they call the Crucifix Killer? They’re the ones that are holding the reins.”
The old man reached for the rosary and squeezed the crucifix. A terrible sadness filled his eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” Peter said, “I’m sorry your family.”
The old man swallowed hard and released the crucifix. “Like you said, we’ve all got our ghosts. Problem is, the dead travel with us.”
Peter wiped his mouth. “Christ, I hope not.”
Rain pattered the windshield and the wipers swept the glass. The old man took a pack of menthol cigarettes off the dashboard. He lit one, took a drag, and slowly exhaled. “So, do you have plans for your birthday?”
“I’m spending it with Tony. She’s my fiancée.”
“You’re kidding me. Well, there you go. You do have something to live for.”
Peter closed his eyes. He wished Tony could say the same for him.
Tony was five years older than him, a streetwalker gone straight. She had worked hard and made a break with the job that brought them together. Without a habit like his to support, it hadn’t taken long. She pursued art, her first love, and now a dozen of her paintings hung in a local gallery. She had even rediscovered her faith, and become a regular church girl. With good credit and a full stomach, faith was easy to come by. But despite his cynical attitude, Peter loved her deeply. He loved her with all the love that he didn’t have for himself.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he told the driver. “Forget Sunset Terrace. Take me over to the Reef, landing platform twelve.”
The old man fought back a smile and punched in the new destination. Sunset Terrace was skin central, but the Reef was a sprawling residential complex. “Calling it an early night?”
Peter didn’t answer. Thanks to the old man, his conscience was itching, and there was only one way to scratch it. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed-dial. Tony answered on the second ring.
“Peter!”
“How’s it going, babe?”
“I’m doing all right. I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow night.” Her voice grew cautious. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. You busy now?”
“Just putting the final touches on a new painting. It’s too normal, though. Kinda turns my stomach. I’m ten seconds away from slashing the canvas.”
Peter smiled. “That’s my girl.”
“Where are you?”
“In a cab, five minutes from your doorstep.”
“Really? Come on over. I just hope you don’t mind if I smell like turpentine.”
“Heh.” Peter squeezed the bridge of his nose. “My favorite perfume.”
“I love you.”
“You too.” Peter closed the phone.
The cab flew past an egg-shaped ring that arched into the sky, with a hologram projected inside. A 3-D model of a DNA chain spiraled up the center, broken and collapsing like an old suspension bridge. Stars spun around the chain, repairing the links. The image zoomed out through the eye of a middle-aged Latina. A ring of lightning spread across her face, obliterating decades. She smiled and lines of text replaced her lovely skin --“End Time. Born Again. Dynagene Pharmaceuticals.” The hologram blinked out and the loop started over.
The driver shook his head. “Whatever happened to growing old gracefully?”
“There’s no such thing. LA’s morgues are packed with beautiful corpses.”
“Rotten hearts in young skins, that’s the real problem.”
“Well, when they hand out new hearts, I’ll be the first in line.”
The driver glanced over his shoulder. “You and me both.”
Beyond the egg, a coral reef flanked Santa Monica Boulevard, sparkling with thousands of windows. Hovercars drifted around the scarlet towers, lit up like strange fish from the bottom of the sea. The driver tilted up the steering wheel and the cab dropped altitude. Skyways connected the towers, studded with landing platforms. The cab slowed and came to a stop over one of the decks. The whir of the engine rose in pitch and the cab slowly descended. Peter’s door lifted open and the air hissed out of the cabin.
The cab fare flashed in red on a grimy console wedged between the seats. Peter punched in a tip and pressed his thumb on the scanner. It charged his account and the printer spat out a receipt. He ripped it off and crammed it into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he said, climbing out.
The old man tipped an imaginary hat.
#
The Priest stood in a narrow alley south of Hollywood Boulevard, the long skirt of his black cassock flapping in the wind. Thunder rumbled overhead, and he squinted at the stripe of sky between the old brick walls. Mist beaded on his eyelashes and settled in his hair, which swept back from his forehead in black, glossy waves. He lowered his head and wiped the condensation from his face. His fingers grazed the white square of plastic on his throat. An electric current traveled up his arm and chilled him to the core. The Collar, his badge of office, was the master of his soul. It had led him to this alley with murder as its goal.
On the wall to his left, someone had stenciled an inverted pentagram. The pentagram was two meters wide with a goat head in the center. Hebrew letters circled the star like numbers on a clock face, printed within a narrow border. He read the letters and whispered, “BAPHOMET.” Blue sparks crawled across the seal, an effect that in an earlier age would have been taken for sorcery. But the Priest recognized the source of the strange luminescence, the seal was made of millions of nanomechs. He touched one of the glowing letters and the characters shifted, spelling out the first law of the fallen--“Thou art God.” After several seconds, the letters shifted back. The Priest grinned and lowered his hand.
The Collar whispered like a lover. “There is no God but God.”
“And I will touch the stars and sit at his right hand.”
“But you are his right hand, and your fingers drip red.”
“Red as the heart that I will liberate this night.”
“Come,” the Collar prodded him. “Our wait is nearly over.”
The Priest approached the end of the alley, keeping close to the wall. Across the street stood a Gothic church, converted into a night club. Light blazed through the scarlet glass in the rose window high above the entrance. Over the doors, “Church of Steel” had been written in
Fraktur. The letters were made of brushed steel and backlight with red neon. Industrial music leaked through the vaulted copper doors, the heavy beats pulsing like a mechanical heart.
Crowded on the stairs of the church and spilling onto the street, were several dozen men and women dressed for a nightmare. Black vinyl was the fabric of choice, rippling like crude oil. Several women wore corsets which pushed up their breasts. Piercings gleamed on eyebrows, spikes jutted from lips, and tattoos scrawled over skin like tribal hieroglyphs.
Some of the tribe had been enhanced by strange technologies. One couple had horns grafted onto their skulls, shiny black spirals like the gods of the hunt. A woman with a shaved head went without a shirt, exposing chrome vertebrae imbedded in her spine. Eyes glowed in the dark like jewels lit by flames, their irises injected with luminescent proteins.
Then there were the old school Goths who worshipped Rice and Poe, anachronisms dressed for a Victorian funeral. There were velvet jackets, long coats, veils and flowing skirts, mostly black, burgundy, and deep, smoky purple. Cool poses of disdain appeared
de rigeur, but a few who didn’t give a damn broke convention and laughed. These were the ones who embraced the scene with a wink and a nod. Everyday was Halloween in the shadows of the towers.
“Dressed to kill,” the Priest hissed.
“Or be killed,” whispered the Collar.
The Priest scanned the pale faces. “Travis isn’t here.”
“Patience, the night is young and murder is a virtue.”
“We’ve already been waiting for an hour. That whore I paid off on the strip said that he would be here.”
The Collar caressed his throat and gently reassured him. “Hell calls, and the heart will answer.”
The Priest slowly licked his lips. It all came down to the heart.
The Collar had first spoken to him on the day of his ordination. The Priest was lying face down on the floor of the cathedral, arms outstretched as if he’d been crucified. The Bishop of Los Angeles presided over the service, watching as he bound himself to the Church with a chain of words.
“Fear not,” the Collar said. “I’ve got places to take you. You have much to learn before you enter the house of the Father.”
In the years that followed, the Collar led him on a pilgrimage of flesh. His teachers had been high-class hookers and back-alley whores, Slam addicts willing to trade their skins for a fix. He had honed himself into an instrument of agony and ecstasy, experienced every mortal sensation until all that remained was taking a life or surrendering his own. Mercifully, before the ensuing ennui could strangle him, the Vatican appointed him Director of Project Ezekiel.
The Vatican established the project to determine if any of its off-world colonies still existed. Nearly a century had passed since Rome lost contact. The colonies were early casualties of the Great Collapse, which followed in the Red Death’s bloody footprints. If any colonies had survived, the Priest was charged with serving as the Holy See’s ambassador.
His appointment to director came as little surprise--he had championed the project from its inception. He had even brokered a partnership with the Yutani Space Consortium, which would have exclusive rights to develop alien technology. Rome hoped that the Church might once again become universal, if only in an interstellar sense.
With his appointment, the Collar told him that the time of purging was at hand. He would wash his robes in the blood of the martyrs. None of them appreciated the honor that was theirs, but one by one, through love and the knife, they came to an understanding. Through him, the corruptible put on incorruption and Death was swallowed up in victory.
“He’s coming,” the Collar said.
The Priest scanned the street. A glossy, black spider cycle roared overhead. The plasma coils in the wheels spun like balls of lightning. The biker shot between the buildings and looped through the cross street, hunched over the engine like a jockey. He leaned hard into the turn and sped back toward the church. Brakes flared on the nose of the bike and it hovered over the ground. It looked less like a spider than a wingless, alien wasp. The biker shut down the coils and landed near the alley. He killed the engine and tugged off his helmet.
The man was in his mid-twenties, his head shaved to the scalp. He climbed off the bike and peeled off his black leather jacket. A tattoo of a Chinese dragon opened its jaws around his nipple. The red dragon wrapped around his shoulder, snaking down his back. Travis’ muscles knotted as he tossed the jacket on the seat. The Priest noticed a small device attached to his spine, a finger-length metal rod between his shoulder blades. A pair of glowing red lenses studded the rod. The biker set the alarm and a gleaming black carapace slid over the cockpit.
“It’s him,” the Priest hissed. His cock crept down his thigh.
Sensing he was being watched, Travis glanced toward the alley. His green eyes narrowed to slits beneath a prominent brow. Did he see the Priest’s face gleaming like a mask of marble? Perhaps he noticed the white square, a beacon at his throat. Travis spat, turned away, and strode toward the club. His knee-high motorcycle boots thudded against the asphalt. When he reached the middle of the street, he reached over his shoulder, switching on the metal rod. Scarlet wings unfurled and slowly beat the air. The glowing traceries of light didn’t catch the wind; they were holograms, illusions of angelic grandeur.
“Beautiful,” the Priest gasped, stunned by the display.
Travis mounted the steps and a pair of Goths who were smoking cloves rushed to embrace him. He returned their hugs and strode through the doors.
The Priest waited a few seconds and went after him. For the first time in twelve years his vestments served as camouflage. A few of the Goths looked his way with fleeting disdain. One woman with purple braids smiled, embarrassed for him. His cassock wasn’t a faux-pas, it was a cliché. Perhaps he should have taken it further and capped his teeth with fangs.
The Collar refuted the cliché, but no one seemed to notice, despite the fact that it marked the Priest as an enemy of the people. Even the kid collecting the cover didn’t pay attention. He was too busy enjoying the hands that slid around his waist, which belonged to a Chinese girl in an emerald snakeskin dress.
The Priest reached into his pocket and pulled out a credit card, an untraceable card that he had purchased the day before. The kid frowned and swiped the card, irritated by the distraction. He returned the card and grabbed a rubber stamp. The Priest held out his arm and the kid stamped his wrist. The Priest looked at the glowing ink, a Jerusalem cross, and stepped through a billowing pair of floor-length velvet curtains.
Fog flooded the sanctuary and pooled around his feet. Purple spotlights washed over the crowd on the dance floor. The music wasn’t melancholy as he expected; snarled lyrics and arias rode synthetic waves. His eyes were drawn to the crucifix that towered above the altar. A halo of green lasers fanned out from the cross, giving Christ a ghoulish hue. He looked like a deep sea god, risen from the depths, passing judgment on the damned.
The galleries along the nave were a circus of atrocities. Women writhed half-naked, caged in rebar crosses. Strips of black electrical tape crossed out their nipples. Tied to a St. Andrew’s cross was a man in a black leather hood. A woman in a rubber nun’s habit drizzled wax on his chest, pouring it from the glass chimney of a votive candle. The wax trickled down his stomach, clotting in the hair, and hardened into stalactites that dripped from his crotch.
The spectacle froze the Priest. He struggled to swallow. Nothing he imagined could have prepared him for these obscenities. But another, honest part of him felt like he’d come home, the part that throbbed between his legs to the downbeats of the music.
The Collar tightened like a leash. “This is not your yard. You are not allowed to taste the fruit of Hades’ garden.”
“But it’s so sweet,” the Priest said. He caressed the bound man’s thigh.
The Collar choked the Priest and he yanked away his hand. He clutched his throat and reeled toward the dance floor.
“See with my eyes,” the Collar whispered, relaxing it’s grip. “See what has become of the house of your Father.”
“It’s still His, all of this, the beauty and the terror.”
“You have work to do. Another fruit to pluck.”
The Priest gave a slight nod and searched for the red-winged angel. The dancers swayed with hypnotic grace to the alternating beats, reaching up and plucking invisible apples from the air. None of them paid attention to their siblings in extremis. Even Hell failed to shock with enough exposure.
Then the priest spotted Travis leaning on the bar. His ruby wings were folded close, given substance by the swirling fog. The Priest pressed through the crowd and the dancers parted before him, driven back like magnets with the same polarity. He waited as the bartender filled a glass with wine, and set it on a napkin in front of Travis. The bartender, a tall woman in a vinyl tank top, had a hard face and bobbed, burgundy hair. Frosty white contact lenses blotted our her eyes.
Travis spotted the Priest in the mirror behind the bar. He met his gaze and took a sip of wine.
The Priest squeezed in beside him and waited to be served.
“What are you having?” the woman asked.
“Same thing as the angel.”
The bartender glanced at Travis. Travis raised an eyebrow. A sneer touched the woman’s lips as she filled another glass.
“You don’t remember me,” the Priest said.
“How could I forget?”
The Priest smirked and paid for his drink.
Travis swirled the wine in his glass. “Everyone here thinks you’re wearing a costume. And they’re right, but for all the wrong reasons.”
“You’d know all about that. The wings are a real nice touch.”
Travis tilted his head, cracking his neck.
“Your wings were broken when I met you, but I see you bought some new ones. I’d like to think that I contributed to your redemption.”
Travis refused to look at the Priest. He set his glass on the bar. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“And that bike of yours, very nice. Very expensive.”
“Leave now, before you get hurt.”
The Priest winced, “That’s gratitude.” He reached for his glass of wine.
Travis’ hand shot out and clamped around his wrist. He glared at the Priest. “Not here. I’m not fucking around.”
The Priest didn’t even flinch, he simply stared at Travis. The look in his eyes chilled the man, and his skin broke out in goose bumps.
Travis swallowed and released the Priest. “What do you want?”
The Collar rasped, “To split your ribs and lick your beating heart.”
The Priest covered the Collar with his hand, fearing Travis would hear it. “I want to help you touch the sky. To be the father you never had.”
“Fuck off. I’m not on the market.” Travis picked up his wine and started to walk away.
“You still eating Lotus?”
Travis stopped in his tracks.
The Priest smiled into his glass. “Hard to get these days.”
Travis turned around. “What would you know about that?”
“I know you were the first person I ever tried it with. Ever since, I’ve felt that we share a special connection.”
“It has a way of doing that. You know what they say, love at first fuck and loathing at first light. So tell me, how much are you holding?”
“Enough to take you to heaven and back.”
“Be more specific.”
“Twenty mils. Right here in my pocket.”
Travis shivered. “You’re full of shit.”
“I’m a Priest.”
“Yeah, and I was an altar boy.”
The Collar chuckled softly.
Travis narrowed his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”
“You know the alley with the pentagram across the street?”
“Sure I know it, Devil’s Snatch. Next to the Pan’s Pipes bookstore. Did a rivet girl there once, after Church got out.”
The Priest sighed, more bored than surprised by the confession. “Meet me there in five minutes. I’ll head out first. You feed me your junk and I’ll hand over mine.”
“That’s it? No reciprocation?”
“Just make sure you put your heart into it.”
“What’s the catch? With what you’re holding you could have your own fucking choir.”
“But I wouldn’t have you, would I? And you’re so very special.”
Travis pressed his lips together. He could already taste the Lotus, like honey mixed with wormwood. “All right, you’ve got a deal. But I swear to God, if you burn me...”
“There’ll be Hell to pay.”
Travis winked and strutted away from the bar.
The Priest gave a thin-lipped smile. “Don’t forget your wings.”
#
The Priest waited in the alley, hugging himself. The mist had become a light rain which soaked through his cassock. Finally, he saw Travis leave the Church of Steel. Travis crossed the street, ruby wings aglow. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed and ducked into the alley.
“Where’s your car?” Travis asked.
“Who needs a car?”
Travis wiped the rain from his scalp. “The storm is getting worse.”
The Priest smiled. “A good night for a baptism.”
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
The Priest didn’t deny it.
“Okay, Father, show me what you got.”
The Priest pulled out a vial of glowing sky blue liquid. Despite its name, Lotus wasn’t a narcotic. It amped the user’s senses, making him feel like ten-thousand volts charged his nervous system. On Lotus, you were a high-speed modem jacked into the universe.
Travis whistled, impressed. “Where did you get it?”
“From someone who no longer needed it.”
Travis grinned. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
The Priest tipped the vial upside down and righted it again. The Lotus glowed brighter. “Would it make a difference?”
“Not really.” Travis’ grin stretched even wider.
“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”
“One more question, Priest. How do you want to die?”
“What--?”
Travis spun around and kicked the Priest in the chest. His boot forced the wind from the Priest and he crashed into the wall. The vial flew from the Priest’s hand and he slid to the pavement, but before the vial hit the ground, Travis blurred with speed. He caught the vial in midair and landed in a crouch.
The Priest grunted and clutched his ribs, without a hint of fear. He looked at Travis, trying to breathe, his eyes full of questions.
“You should have done your homework, Priest. Time stands still for the Lotus eater.”
The Priest wheezed, “Synaptic enhancement.”
Travis tapped the tip of his nose. “Another gift of the Lotus. How do you think I cut through this city like a razor? I can fly at two-hundred clicks without even blinking.”
“Keep him talking,” the Collar rasped. “The real fun’s just begun.”
“Quiet, let me handle this.”
Travis frowned, confused. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”
The Priest gasped. “The devil, and he’s got your back.”
Travis glanced over his shoulder at the Seal of Baphomet. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he? You picked the wrong God.”
“Not quite.” The Priest punched Travis in the mouth. Blood flew from Travis’ lips in a thick, ropy spray. Travis snarled and rammed his fist into the Priest’s face, but the Priest dodged at the last second and Travis’ knuckles cracked against the bricks. Travis forgot that he gripped the vial and it shattered in his hand. Shards of glass sliced his palm and the Lotus sprayed through his fingers. Travis howled and the Priest punched Travis again, hurtling him onto his back. The rain quickly diluted the blood that ran down Travis’ chin. It trickled over his heaving chest, smearing across his dragon tattoo.
The Priest stood over Travis with his arms out from his sides, looking more like a gunslinger than a man of the cloth. A cold, blue blade of light emerged from his fist.
Travis stared at the blade and shuddered violently. He clenched his wrist and opened his hand. Shards of glass poked like fins from his palm and fingers. The blue Lotus swirled with his blood.
“Oh, Shit,” Travis groaned. His teeth began to chatter.
“What do you see?” the Priest asked.
Travis thrashed and groaned. Fragments of his ruby wings sprayed across the pavement.
“What do you see?” the Priest repeated.
Travis tried to focus. The white tab on the Priest’s throat blazed, blinding white, and his face shone brighter, brighter, as if a star inside his head was trying to escape. “Oh, Christ,” Travis moaned. His eyes rolled up and veins throbbed on his forehead.
“Close enough,” the Priest said. His lips curled into a smile.
“He’s dying,” the Collar said. “His heart’s about to burst.”
The Priest knelt between Travis’ legs and slid his hand under the hustler’s back. Travis’ skin felt like greased ice. His chest hitched, counting off seconds. The Priest hauled Travis to a sitting position, and Travis’ head slumped against his shoulder. His ruby wings unfolded like an eagle taking flight. The Priest stabbed Travis in the gut and yanked upward, splitting his sternum. Blood sizzled against the blade and sweet smoke rose from the wound.
“Momma...” Travis whimpered. He shuddered and went limp.
The Priest kissed Travis on the forehead and laid him on the ground. He unbuckled Travis’ boots and tugged them off his feet. Next he stripped off Travis’ socks and tugged down his pants. His cock rolled over his thigh like a huge, bloated maggot. Even in death, the conqueror worm filled him with longing. He rolled up Travis’ pants and shoved them under his back, propping up the man’s spine so his wings could unfurl. Blood bubbled from his lips and streaked down his cheeks, but the rain quickly washed it away. The Priest made a second cut across Travis’ chest, and pried open his ribcage, exposing his heart. The Collar throbbed with release, an orgasm of violence.
The Priest severed the veins and arteries and wrenched the heart from its cradle. Still kneeling, he held the heart over his own, and bowed his head for a moment of silence. Normally, he wrote a Bible verse close to the body, finger-painted with the blood of the sacrifice, but with the rain his message would be lost. Let the murdered angel be his message then--his wounded hand and empty breast serving as stigmata.
“Let us pray,” the Collar whispered.
The Priest closed his eyes. He recited a poem he had written as a memorial:
“The Son of Man turns away,
He cannot bear the sight
Of angels bleeding for the city
That makes Hell seem bright.”
“Amen,” the Collar said.
The heart beat once. Amen.The Priest strode down the alley, away from the Church of Steel. He pulled out his phone and called his hovercar. The number triggered a homing device and a minute later a black sedan glided overhead. It descended ahead of him, perpendicular to the alley. Rain streaked down the slanted plane of the dark-tinted windshield. The door rose and he popped the locks on a ribbed aluminum briefcase, which he’d left on the driver’s seat when he put the car on autopilot. He dropped the heart into a plastic bag and zipped shut the seal. Blood oozed from the severed arteries. He opened a second bag and removed a damp towel; cleaned his hands, wiped the locks and gently closed the briefcase. He tossed the briefcase on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. The door sealed like a coffin lid and he soared into the night.
