Natural Born Angel (Immortal City 2)

Susan took a deep breath and looked back at Maddy, light lines of concern crossing her still-youthful face. “It’s really nothing. But I know the Archangels and other doctors have told you that your wings will be coming in just like an Angel’s. From what I’ve seen in the charts, your Immortal Marks have developed enough that wings should be emerging literally any day. And I know this is what the media expects now, too. But the truth is we don’t know when or, really, how you will . . . mature. There’s no reason to expect anything will be different. But this is a whole new world for us.”

Cold, sharp anxiety washed over Maddy like a sneaky wave at the beach.

“Different?” Maddy said, remembering her recurrent nightmare of those almost demonic appendages, deformed, unwanted. Had her dream been some kind of harbinger of what was really going to come, no matter what the Angel specialists or Jacks or anyone told her?

The professor turned away again, distractedly making keystrokes on a small keypad linked to a monitor. The insistent blue light in the room slowly started to flicker and fade.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. We have no reason to believe anything will be different at all, Maddy.” The computer screens powered down. Susan turned back to Maddy, a big smile on her face, pulling up enthusiasm. “Now what do you say we go find some lunch, seeing as Sadie seems to have gone among the missing?”

“Sure,” Maddy said, gathering her bag. Susan opened the door, and the shocking sunlight poured into the dimly lit room. But Maddy’s mind was far away. Still turning over this word, and what it might mean for her: different.

CHAPTER 9

The man walked down the dark back alley, passing overflowing skips that reeked in the still-hot night. His shoulders slightly hunched – a bad habit. Above, in the hazy night sky only a few blocks away, the lights of the sleek office skyscrapers shone above downtown. Although heat from the sunny day still radiated off the bricks and asphalt in the back alley at night, the man wore an overcoat, his hands thrust deep in the pockets. He preferred it that way.

The soles of his battered loafers stuck to the asphalt, which was covered with the residue of waste and rubbish that never seemed to get scrubbed away.

Downtown in the glorious Immortal City. Once upon a time, the Angels were an integral part of downtown, drinking in swanky bars, dining at old-school steak restaurants, holding Angel events in the ornate auditoriums, driving their beautiful, glamorous cars underneath the towering buildings that were being erected almost every week. But that was years ago. Now every night it became an abandoned camp for the homeless and hopeless, a teeming ground for roving criminals and those who didn’t want to be found. It seemed like a lifetime away from the manicured, glorious lives of the beautiful Angels – but their sparkling houses on the hill were only a five-minute drive away.

“Spaarrre some change, mister?” a man slurred, pulling a swig of liquor from the brown paper bag between his legs. “Barely survived the Angel City Mission fire and hav – hiccup – haven’t been able to sleep a wink since. The dreams, I tell ya.”

The voice came from beside the olive green skip, startling the man in the overcoat. Looking down, he saw a scraggly man with a bloated face and red nose, his hair and beard matted. The man was dressed in what seemed to be a collection of filthy rags. The bum’s image reflected in the standing man’s wire-rimmed glasses.

“Maybe next time,” the overcoat man said before moving on.

He soon reached an unmarked door in the alley. His fist moved forward and rapped on its metal surface.

After some shuffling behind the door, a slat opened up behind a metal grate, which was at eye level. A pair of dark eyes inspected the man outside suspiciously.

“Closed.” The man’s voice inside boomed into the alley before he slid the slat shut again. The alley lay silent.

The man in the overcoat reached forward and banged on the door again. This time harder.

“I’m here for Rusalka.”

The slate behind the metal grate stayed halfway open.

“Oh, it’s you,” the man inside said. “Wait here.”

The slat closed again. He was gone for maybe thirty seconds. All of a sudden, the sounds of multiple deadbolts unlocking came from inside.

The door into the alley opened. The man inside was wearing a white wife-beater, which stretched against his sizeable gut. It was tucked into a cheap pair of grey polyester trousers.

“Why didn’t you say it was you? Freddy said you was coming. We’ve been waiting. . .” The man in the wife-beater trailed off, his eyes growing wide.

The man in the overcoat had pulled out a Smith & Wesson pistol with one hand. Slowly, the other hand reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a badge.

Detective Sylvester smiled briefly at the look on the man’s face. Sometimes he enjoyed doing his job.

“Rusalka down there?”

The man nodded mournfully.

“Show me,” Sylvester said, motioning with his pistol.

The man led the detective down the dismal hallway to a room. About six men sat around the table, a pile of chips in front of them, each studying a hand of poker. The room was hot and smoky from acrid tobacco smoke, and many had unbuttoned their shirts. They sat over their cards, sweat dripping from their brows.

Looking up, they saw Detective Sylvester standing there with a gun.