20.
GRIEVOUS ANGELS
-MOZ-
The noise in my body
never stopped. All night I lay awake, tissues struggling against
one another, blood simmering. I could feel the beast fighting
against everything I’d been, trying to remake me into something
else, trying to replace me. Even my sweat raged, squeezing angrily
from my pores, like a bar fight spilling out onto the
street.
When I looked in the
mirror, I didn’t see my face. It wasn’t just that I was thinner,
cheekbones twisting at new angles, eyes widening—it was something
deeper, pushing up from beneath my skin, remote and contemptuous of
me.
As if someone else’s
bones were trying to emerge.
The crazy thing was,
part of me was dying to know what I was changing into. Sometimes I
just wanted to get it over with, to let go and slip across the
edge. I’d almost said yes tonight when Pearl had asked me to the
Morgan’s Army gig, wondering what hundreds of bodies pressed in
close would do to my hunger, already halfway to uncontrollable. I
imagined their scents filling the air, the crowd noise mingling
with the roar inside me. . . .
But not yet—not
without Min. In her arms, I still felt like myself. Besides, I had
plenty more to learn down here, playing for quarters
underground.
A woman was watching
me, listening carefully, clutching her purse with both hands. She
wasn’t sure yet whether to open it and reach in, risking that extra
tendril of connection with the strange boy playing guitar in the
subway. But she couldn’t pull herself away.
Union Square Station
was almost empty at this hour, my music echoing around us. The red
velvet of my guitar case was spattered with silver, and more coins
lay on the concrete floor. All night, people had thrown their
quarters from a distance and moved on. Even through dark glasses
they could see the intensity leaking out of my eyes. They could
smell my hunger.
But this woman stood
there, spellbound.
I’d always wondered
if charisma was something in your genes, like brown eyes or big
feet. Or if you learned it from the sound of applause or cameras
snapping. Or if famous people glowed because I’d seen so many
airbrushed pictures of them, their beauty slammed into my brain,
like advertising jingles with faces.
But it had turned out
that charisma was a disease, an
infection you got from kissing the right person, a beast that lived
in your blood. Connecting with this woman, drawing her closer, I
could feel how I’d been magnetized.
She took a step
forward, fingers tensing on the purse clasp. It popped
open.
I didn’t dare stare
back into her spellbound eyes. There were no police down here
anymore, not late at night. No one to stop me if I lost
it.
Her fingers fumbled
inside the purse, eyes never leaving me. She stepped closer, and a
five-dollar bill fluttered down to lie among the coins. A glance at
her pleading expression told me that she was paying for
escape.
I stopped playing,
reaching into a pocket for my plastic bag of garlic. The spell
broken, the woman turned and headed for the stairs, the last
strains of the Strat echoing into silence. She didn’t look back,
her steps growing hurried as she climbed away.
Something twisted
inside me, angry at me for letting her go. I could feel it wrapped
around my spine, growing stronger every day. Its tendrils stretched
into my mouth, changing the way things tasted, making my teeth
itch. The urge to follow the woman was so strong. . .
.
I put the plastic bag
to my face and breathed in the scent of fresh garlic, burning away
the noises in my head, smoothing the rushing of my
blood.
Min had given me the
bag for emergencies, but I used it all the time now. I’d even tried
to make Luz’s disgusting mandrake tea, which Mom said stank up the
apartment. Nothing soothed the beast like meat, though, and
nothing—not even Min—tasted as good. Raw steak was best, but there
was a shortage these days, the price climbing higher all the time,
and plain hamburger ripped out of the plastic still fridge-cold was
almost as wonderful.
I stood there
inhaling garlic, listening.
Min was right—you
could learn things down here. Secrets were hidden in New York’s
rhythms, its shifts of mood, the blood flow of its water mains. Its
hissing steam pipes and the stirrings of rats and wild felines all
rattled with infection, like a huge version of the illness inside
my body.
My hearing could bend
around corners now, sharper every day, filling my head with echoes.
I could hear our music so much better, could almost see the beast that Minerva called to when she
sang.
And I knew it was
down here, somewhere . . . ready to teach me things.
A little after
eleven-thirty, its scent came and found me.
The smell was
drifting up from below, carried on the stale, soft breeze of
passing trains. I remembered it from that first night I’d gone out
to Brooklyn, when Minerva had led me down the tracks and pushed me
into that broken section of tunnel; the scent made me angry and
horny and hungry, all at once.
Then I heard
something, a low and shuddering note, more subtle than any subway
passing underfoot. Like when Minerva made the floor rumble beneath
us as we played.
I scooped up the
glittering change and stuffed it into my pockets, shut the
Stratocaster safely into its case, snatched up the little
battery-powered amplifier. By then the smell had faded, pulled away
by the random winds of the subway, and I stood there uncertainly
for a moment. Union Square sprawled around me, a warren of
turnstiles and token booths and stairways down to half the subway
lines in the city.
I half closed my eyes
and walked slowly through the station, catching whiffs of perfume
and piss, the bright metal tang of disinfectant, the blood-scent of
rust everywhere. Finally, another dizzying gust welled up from the
stairs leading down to the F train. Of course.
F for fool, I thought.
Or feculent.
Downstairs the
platform was empty, silent except for the skitter of rats on the
tracks. The push-pull wind of distant trains stirred loose bits of
paper and kept the scent swirling around me, the way the world
spins when you’ve had too much beer.
I pulled off my dark
glasses and stared into the tunnel depths.
Nothing but
blackness.
But from the uptown
direction came the faintest sound.
Walking toward that
end of the platform, a cluster of new smells hit me: antiperspirant
and freshly opened cigarettes, foot powder and the chemical sting
of dry-cleaned clothing . . .
Someone was hiding
behind the last steel column on the platform, breathing nervously,
aware of me. Just another late-night traveler scared to be down
here.
But from the tunnel
beyond, the other scent was calling.
I took another step,
letting the man see me. He wore a subway worker’s uniform, his eyes
wide, one hand white-knuckled around a flashlight. Had he heard the
beast too?
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m
just . . .” I shrugged tiredly, adjusting the weight of my guitar
and amp. “Trying to get home.”
His eyes stayed
locked on mine, full of glassy terror. “You’re one of
them.”
I realized I’d taken
my sunglasses off; he could see straight through to the thing
inside me. “Uh, I didn’t mean to . . .”
He raised one hand to
cross himself, drawing my eyes to the silver crucifix at his
throat. He looked like he wanted to run, but my infection held him
in place—the way I moved, the radiance of my eyes.
An itch traveled
across my skin, like the feeling I got climbing the stairs to
Minerva’s room. I was salivating.
The fear in the man’s
sweat was like the scent of sizzling bacon crawling under your
bedroom door in the morning—irresistible.
“Stay away from me,”
he pleaded softly.
“I’m trying.” I put down the amp and guitar and fumbled
in my jacket for the plastic bag of garlic. Pulling out a clove, I
scrabbled to peel it, fingernails gouging the papery skin. The
pearly white flesh poked through at last, smooth and oily in my
fingers. I shoved it in my mouth half-peeled and bit down
hard.
It split—sharp and
hot—juices running down my throat like straight Tabasco. I sucked
in its vapors and felt the thing inside me weaken a
little.
I breathed a garlicky
sigh of relief.
The man’s eyes
narrowed. No longer transfixed, he shook his head at my torn
T-shirt and grubby jeans. I was just a seventeen-year-old again,
tattered and weighted down with musical equipment. Nothing
dangerous.
“You shouldn’t
litter,” he snorted, glaring at the garlic skin I’d dropped.
“Someone’s got to clean that up, you know.”
Then he turned to
walk briskly away, the scent of fear fading in his
wake.
I breathed garlic
deep into my lungs.
Mustn’t eat the nice people, Minerva’s voice chided
in my head.
I was going to try
that mandrake tea again. Even if it did taste like lawn-mower
clippings, that was probably better than the taste of—
Down the tunnel the
darkness shifted restlessly, something huge rolling over in its
sleep, and I forgot all about my hunger.
It was down there,
the thing that rumbled beneath us when we played.
I grabbed my
Strat—leaving the amp behind—and jumped down onto the tracks. The
smell carried me forward into the darkness, the tunnel walls
echoing with the crunch of gravel, like Alana Ray’s drumbeats
scattering from my footsteps. The scent grew overpowering, as
mind-bending as pressing my nose against Minerva’s neck, drawing me
closer.
The ground began to
swirl, the blackness suddenly liquid underfoot. As my eyes
adjusted, I realized it was a horde of rats flowing like eddies of
water around my tennis shoes, thousands of them filling the
tracks.
But the sight didn’t
make me flinch—the rats smelled familiar and safe, like Zombie
sleeping warm on my chest.
The scent led me to a
jagged, gaping hole in the tunnel wall, big enough to walk into,
just like the cavity where Minerva and I had first kissed. It led
away into pitch-blackness, its sides glistening. The rats swirled
around me.
I could smell danger
now, but I didn’t want to run. My blood was pulsing, my whole body
readying for a fight. I listened for a moment and knew
instinctively that the hole was empty, though something had passed
this way.
I reached out to
touch the broken granite, and a dark gunk as thick as honey came
off on my fingers. Like the black water, it shimmered for a moment
on my skin, then faded into the air.
But its scent left
behind a word in my mind . . . enemy.
Just like Min always said: I call the enemy
when I sing.
The ground rumbled
underfoot, and the rats began to squeak.
I started running
down the subway tunnel, feet crunching on gravel, the rats
following, anger rippling across my skin. My tongue ran along my
teeth, feeling every point. My whole body was crying out to fight
this thing.
Then all at once I
heard it, smelled it, saw it coming toward me. . . .
A form moved against
the darkness, shapeless except for the tendrils whipping out to
grasp the tunnel’s support columns. It dragged itself toward
me—without legs, with way too many arms.
I staggered to a
halt, a nervous garlic burp clearing my head for a few seconds. I
realized how big it was—like a whole subway car rolling loose—and
how unarmed I was. . . .
But then the thing
inside me tightened its grip on my spine, flooding me with anger. I
pulled the Stratocaster from its case and held its neck with both
hands, bringing it over one shoulder like an ax. Steel strings and
golden pickups flashed in the darkness, and suddenly the beautiful
instrument was nothing but a weapon, a hunk of wood for smashing
things.
The rats flowed
around me, scrambling up the walls and columns.
The thing refused to
take any shape in the darkness, but it was heading toward me faster
now, its body spitting out gravel to both sides. It lashed at the
dangling subway work lights, popping them one by one as it grew
closer, like a rolling cloud of smoke bringing
darkness.
Then something
glimmered wetly at its center, an open maw ringed with teeth like
long knives—and me with an electric guitar. Some small, rational
part of my mind knew that I was very, very screwed. . . .
It was only twenty
yards away. I swung the Stratocaster across myself; its weight made
my feet stumble.
Ten yards . .
.
Suddenly human
figures shot past me out of the darkness, meeting the creature head
on. Bright metal weapons flashed, and the monster’s screech echoed
down the tunnel. Someone knocked me to one side and pinned me
against the wall, holding me there as the beast streamed past.
Cylinders of flesh sprouted from its length, grasping the steel
columns around us, ending in sharp-toothed mouths that gnashed
wetly. Human screams and flying gravel and the shriek of rats
filled the air around us.
And then it was gone,
sucking the air behind it like a passing subway train.
The woman who’d
shoved me against the wall let go, and I stumbled back onto the
tracks. The monstrous white bulk was receding into the darkness,
leaving a trail of glistening black water. The dark figures and a
stream of rats pursued it. Weapons flickered like subway
sparks.
I stood there,
panting and clutching the Strat like I was going to hit something
with it. Then the creature slipped out of sight, disappearing into
the hole I’d found, like a long, pale tongue flickering into a
mouth.
The hunters followed,
and the tunnel was suddenly empty, except for me, a few hundred
crushed rats, and the woman.
I blinked at her. She
was a little older than me, with a jet-black fringe of bangs over
brown eyes, a scuffed leather jacket and cargo pants with
stuffed-full pockets.
She eyed the guitar
in my hands. “Can you talk?”
“Talk?” I stood there
for another moment, stunned and shaking.
“As in converse, dude. Or are you crazy
already?”
“Um . . .” I lowered
the Strat. “I don’t think so.”
She snorted. “Yeah,
right. So, like, dude, are you trying
to get yourself killed?”
She led me to an
abandoned subway stop farther up the tracks, a darkened ghost
station. The stairways were boarded over, the token booth trashed,
but the graffiti-covered platform was abuzz with hunters regrouping
after the chase. They slipped up from the tracks, as graceful as
the dark figures climbing down the fire escape that night I’d met
Pearl.
Angels was what Luz called the people in the
struggle. But I’d never figured on angels carrying backpacks and
walkie-talkies.
“Easy with that
thing,” the woman who’d saved me said. “We’re all friends
here.”
“What? . . . Oh,
sorry.” I was still clutching the Stratocaster like a weapon. The
shoulder strap dangled from one end, so I slung the guitar over my
back.
Confusion was finally
setting in. Had I really just seen a giant monster? And wanted to
fight it?
I looked at her. “Um
. . . who are you?”
“I’m Lace, short for
Lacey. You?”
“Moz.”
“You can say your own
name? Not bad.”
“I can do
what?”
Instead of answering,
she pulled a tiny flashlight from a pocket and shone it in my eyes.
The light was blinding.
“Ouch! What are you
doing?”
She leaned closer,
sniffing at my breath. “Garlic? Clever boy.”
A guy’s voice came
from behind me. “Positive? Or just some wack-job?”
“Definitely a peep,
Cal. But a self-medicator, by the looks of it.”
“Another one?” Cal
said. His accent sounded southern. “That’s the third this
week.”
Tracers from the
flashlight still streaked my vision, but I could see Lace’s
silhouette shrug. “Well, garlic is in
all the folklore. Who told you to eat that stuff,
Moz?”
I blinked. “Um, this
woman called Luz.”
“A doctor? A faith
healer?”
“She’s, uh . . .”
What was Min’s word? “An esoterica?”
“What the hell’s
that?” Cal said. My vision returning, I noticed he was wearing a
Britney Spears T-shirt under his leather jacket, which seemed
weirdly out of place.
“Probably something
esoteric,” Lace said.
I shook my head. I’d
never met Luz face-to-face. “She’s a healer. Some kind of Catholic,
I guess. She uses tea and stuff.”
“Amateur hour,” Lace
said in a singsong voice. “So, Moz, how long have you had an
appetite for rare meat?”
I thought of Min’s
kiss. “Three weeks and four days.”
Cal raised an
eyebrow. “That’s pretty precise.”
“Well, that’s when I
first . . .” My voice faded. It didn’t seem like a good idea,
telling them about Min. “Who are you
guys anyway?”
Lace snorted. “Dude.
We’re the guys who saved your butt. You almost got flattened by
that worm, remember?”
I swallowed, watching
as two angels lifted a third onto the platform. He was bleeding
from a huge gash on one leg, black water dripping from the wound.
He didn’t cry out, but his face was knitted in pain, his teeth
clenched.
And I’d been about to
fight that thing alone?
“Uh,
thanks.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Have you got any girlfriends? Any roommates?
Cats?”
“Cats?” I thought of
Zombie’s strange gaze. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking
about. Or what that thing was! What’s going on here?”
“He doesn’t know
anything, Lace,” Cal said. “Just bag him and let’s get moving. That
beastie’s only wounded; it might swing back around.”
The woman stared at
me for another moment, then nodded. “Okay. So here’s the thing,
Moz. Old-fashioned folk remedies aren’t going to keep your head
together for much longer. Very soon, you’re going to do unpleasant
things to your friends and neighbors. So we’re taking you for a
little trip to New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?”
“Yeah, Montana’s
full.” Lace smiled, pulling a small, thin object from her cargo
pants. A needle glistened in the darkness at its tip. “This won’t
hurt a bit, and you shouldn’t be there more than a week or two,
thanks to your esoterica friend. Got to admit, she kept you in
pretty good shape.”
“Hey, wait a second.”
I backed away, holding up my hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve
got a gig next week.”
“A gig?” Lace glanced
at the guitar on my back and shrugged. “Cool. But I’m afraid you’re
going to miss it. We need to train you.”
“Train me for
what?”
“Saving the world,”
Cal said.
I swallowed. “You
mean Luz is right? There really is a struggle?”
“She told you about
the . . . ?” Lace’s voice faded, and she closed her eyes, sniffing
the air. “Hey, Cal—did you feel that?”
I had. My magic powers were spinning. I took a step
away.
“Not so fast, Moz!”
Lace grabbed my arm, thrusting the needle closer.
As I pulled free from
her grip, the ground broke open beneath us. . . .
Columns of flesh tore
themselves up from the concrete of the platform, rings of teeth
flashing in the darkness. One whipped past me, leaving my jacket
sleeve in ribbons. I was already running, dodging through the
flailing tendrils, stumbling over broken concrete.
The angels fought
back, swords whistling through the air around me, as deadly as the
gnashing teeth.
I jumped from the
platform, then glanced back. Lace was spinning in place, her long
sword slicing low through the air, cutting through columns of flesh
as they thrust up from the ground. Black water spewed from the
ragged stumps.
My hands reached for
the neck of my Strat again, itching to pull it off my back. I was
dying to run back and rejoin the fight, but I shut my eyes, yanked
out the garlic, and bit straight into an unpeeled
clove.
The burning sharpness
cleared my head: I didn’t want to be part of any struggle. I didn’t
want to go to some camp in New Jersey. All I wanted was to stay
here, be in my band, play gigs, and get famous!
I turned away from
the battle and dashed down the tracks, running back toward Union
Square Station. As I passed the gash in the tunnel, a storm of rats
spilled out, headed back toward the fight. I danced like a barefoot
kid on hot asphalt as they swept past.
Finally the lights of
the station glimmered in front of me. I leaped up onto the platform
and kept running, climbing stairs and slanting tunnels until I’d
dashed into the open air.
My pockets were
heavy, jingling with enough change to catch a taxi out to Brooklyn.
I had to tell Min what I’d seen. The enemy was just like she’d
said: something monstrous. There really were angels, and they were
recruiting, taking infected people away to . . . New Jersey?
Whatever. The
struggle was real.
I hailed a cab and
gave the driver Minerva’s street name. When he said he didn’t go to
that part of Brooklyn anymore, I leaned forward and bared my teeth,
asking him to reconsider. He turned, met my demented rock-star
gaze, and changed his mind.
Once the cab was
speeding up the Williamsburg Bridge, climbing away from the earth,
my nerves began to calm. I was headed toward Minerva, to safety.
I’d escaped the angels, and as long as I stayed out of the subways,
they’d never find me again. . . .
Then I remembered
that my guitar case and amp were back there, underground. I sank
down into the vinyl seat, eyes squeezing shut.
The amp didn’t
matter—I didn’t need it anymore—but the case. If the angels came looking for me, they’d
find it on the tracks. Inside was a polite note, asking anyone who
found this guitar to please call Moz at this number. Big
Reward!
And, of course, the
note gave my address as well.