03 Reckoning - Guardian Page 2

  * * *

  San Francisco, California

  Claden Markett was one of the wealthiest and most corrupt arms dealers on the West Coast, using the San Francisco docks as his preferred place to conduct business. He had once dominated New York City using the same tactics of murder, thievery, and intimidation but that was back in the mid-1800s. No one would remember him now, especially with his new, fictitious name.

  More importantly, he was good with handguns, wielding them as effortless as an old western gangster, and he maintained a small group of bodyguards equally as dangerous.

  This was just a small summary what his dossier told me and it would come in handy this evening.

  I’d watched him throughout the day, careful to duck from cover each time he looked up in search of me. He knew I was nearby but he couldn’t pinpoint me. His radar was less precise than Pablo’s had been.

  Every once in a while he spun quickly around only to find behind him an elderly lady struggling with grocery bags or snapped his head in the direction of a stray dog approaching. Knowing that none of these were me, he grew tenser, more agitated throughout the day, a clear advantage to me.

  Finally night fell and he withdrew to an office on the docks, where all but two of his cohorts filtered in behind him. The windows, grimy with years of buildup, obscured any possibility of a view but my senses were up and I could hear them clearly.

  Claden was issuing orders for the evening and they involved me.

  “We have company,” he told them. “Keep your eyes open.”

  By the time he’d finished his warning, the two men outside his office were already unconscious and dragged around back. When the next two emerged from the small building, they too were rendered useless and piled with their friends.

  Humans had never been a challenge for me, my strength and skill far exceeding any level a man could reach. Claden’s men, in particular, were merely inconvenient and annoying obstructions to the one I had come for.

  When the last two had fallen, I waited just outside the door, leaning against a stack of crates with arms crossed, and whistled.

  Claden opened the door slowly, a handgun at his side.

  “Magdalene,” he stated almost jadedly.

  “So we meet again,” I replied.

  His head ducked to the side and he smiled in memory of our last reunion, which hadn’t been pleasant other than the fact he’d survived it. He lifted his eyes and looked directly at me then.

  “Heard you were comin’,” he said wistfully.

  “Oh yeah? From who?”

  “Word’s spread. You can take out two of us, even three, and we won’t notice.” He paused to suck in a deep breath from between his teeth. “But fifty of us…well that makes us a little uneasy.”

  “Sixty three,” I corrected him, surprised at the arrogance in my tone.

  Claden didn’t seem to notice. “You do understand that the attempt to decimate us has been done before and failed.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I won’t fail.”

  “Be honest with yourself, Magdalene. There is only one of you and there are hundreds of us.”

  The insinuation was clear yet I chose to ignore it. “I like those odds,” I said with calm confidence. “I will prevail, you will die, and the humans will live in peace.”

  He paused to stare at me before asking, “Why do you love them so much?”

  “Why do you hate them so much?” I asked.

  “I don’t hate them. They serve a purpose. They provide for me, whether they like it or not.”

  “They are not here to provide for you.”

  He grinned lightly. “Oh yes they are…” His face fell slightly then. “Everyone serves a purpose, Magdalene. Take Eran, for example.” My muscles tensed at the sound of his name and Claden found he’d sparked in me the reaction he’d intended, which only emboldened him. “Eran is your guardian, dedicated to protecting you at all costs. That is his purpose and yet…” He swept his hand across the dock. “Yet, he isn’t here to defend you.”

  “I don’t need his help, Claden,” I replied, stepping forward.

  The gun in his hand shifted and I realized Claden had strengthened his grip as I closed the distance between us. He was still frightened of me, I realized, but tried to hide it by continuing.

  “You will find yourself regretting those words,” he threatened.

  “I don’t believe so,” I said, taking another step. With a rapid snap of my shoulders, my appendages released, stretching wide and imposing.

  Claden raised his arm, the gun barrel pointing directly at my chest, even as his own appendages extended. They looked a sickeningly dull grey color in the dim light of the dock.

  His expression grew dark a moment later and his finger cautiously squeezed the trigger. I was ready for it.

  My wings pumped once and I sprang several stories high, the bullets riddling from the end of his gun and each aimed in my direction. With heightened senses, I knew where each bullet would pass well before it reached me and my body swerved effortlessly to avoid them.

  When the cartridge was empty, Claden threw it aside and reached inside the door. He faced me again with two more guns, these ones being .50 caliber Desert Eagle’s.

  These sounded like small canons launching, echoing down the lengthy San Francisco dock.

  Still, these too missed.

  When he had exhausted his supply of ammunition, I hovered above him, waiting to catch his eye.

  Then I grinned with arrogance, swiftly moving to a position of attack and launching myself towards him.

  Our bodies collided with such force that we tumbled along the hard, rutted dock, peeling back shards of wood the size of lamp posts.

  It was now a test of speed and strength, both in which we seemed equally matched.

  Our fight took us over the water and back again, landing us against the wall of his small office.

  Then something happened that I least expected…Claden got the upper hand. He slammed me against the wall and held me there with one arm to my neck, his free hand hastily digging inside his jeans.

  That brief distraction turned the fight in my favor, or so I thought. As I drew a dagger from my suit and thrust it up through his heart I found a second later that Claden had a gun to my head with his finger on the trigger. He only needed to squeeze.

  But he never got the chance.

  Claden’s body was suddenly thrown back, his limbs flailing weakly. He landed with a thud and tumbled until his body rolled over the edge of the dock and into the water.

  In his place, standing before me, was Eran.

  CHAPTER TWO: HOME

  Eran’s eyes were wild, even madly delirious for a moment before reasoning could work its way back in.

  “Damnit, Magdalene,” he seethed. “That was too close. No more. I draw the line here. No more!”

  He stepped back and turned away, his hands running through his dark, wavy hair. He was breathing hard but not from exertion, from nervous frustration.

  Still in a surreal state and trying to grasp that he was here, not safely back in New Orleans and not a figment of my imagination, I struggled to respond appropriately and failed.

  “How did you find me, Eran?” I heard myself say quietly.

  His head snapped in my direction and his charming English accent took on an ever firmer tone. “Do you understand me, Magdalene? I’m serious. No more hunting Fallen Ones. No more.”

  I blinked a few times trying to clear my thoughts, which were running as fragments through my hurried mind. “I don’t understand. How are you here? How did you find me? I was so careful…”

  What I really wanted to tell him was: I want you here, need you here, desperately ache to have you here beside me, but I want you to leave. Now. I came alone with a purpose and that was to keep you safe, well away from the Fallen Ones I’m now hunting. If you are here, you are not safe.

  He was still for the moment, staring blindly at me. It was almost as if he was confused by my questio
n. So I repeated it.

  “How did you find me?”

  He sighed and dipped his head. His hands were now on his hips and he leaned to the side slightly as if he were taking time to debate whether to answer me.

  I opened my mouth to repeat my question but he beat me to it.

  “I never found you,” he said, glancing in my direction for a reaction. My brow creased in confusion so he lifted his head and clarified, “I never needed to find you because I never lost you. I was here with you the entire time.”

  His words slowly sunk in and when they did my surreal state was replaced with anger.

  “You followed me?” I demanded.

  He nodded, not wanting to admit the truth in so many words.

  “Florida?”

  He nodded.

  “Texas?”

  He nodded again.

  “Colorado? Oklahoma? Kansas? Arizona? Mexico?”

  “The entire time, Magdalene.”

  “Then you were there in Juarez. I did see you in the rain…”

  “I was there,” he admitted. “I-I thought you might need my help so I stayed close.” He shrugged lightly. “Closer than usual.”

  My shoulders dropped in annoyance.

  In response, he approached me and placed his hands on them and dipped his head to catch my eyes, which I was certain reflected a burning fury.

  In a soft, placating tone, he explained, “If I hadn’t followed you, I wouldn’t have been here tonight. And if I hadn’t been here tonight…” He paused to swallow back uncomfortable thoughts. “You wouldn’t be here either. Not anymore. Because of that, I’ll accept my fate…that you’re angry with me…but I do not regret my decision. You are too important.”

  The anger I held quickly dissipated. What welled up were all the emotions that I’d subdued, denied over the last few weeks: misery, loneliness, grief…

  “I-I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered and then collapsed inside the safety and comfort of his encircling arms.

  His embrace was strong, reassuring me that everything would be fine now; and again I battled internally over clinging to the consolation Eran offered or to shun him for his own safety. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t deserve this horrid life of hunting on the road. He deserved better.

  In the end, the choice, however, was not left up to me.

  When I stirred against him, he drew in a breath and spoke again, this time more hesitantly. “I’m bringing you back to New Orleans.”

  My jaw dropped and I instantly stepped out of his grasp. “That is not up to you to decide.”

  “I am your guardian. I decide what is best to keep you out of trouble.”

  This was our argument, an unending debate, on who had authority over my fate. Of course, as my guardian, it wasn’t likely that he’d ever see that there was only one person with the power over my destiny and that was me.

  He continued explaining his point which only aggravated me more. “I’ve let you take on the last sixty four Fallen Ones on your own. You’ve eliminated the least dangerous of our enemies and you’ve done a fine job of it but you are now in new territory. You’re beginning to encounter more perilous Fallen Ones and I won’t allow you to continue as you have been. Tonight was only a hint of what awaits out there. The ones remaining are far more treacherous and they know you are coming. More important, you – as skilled a fighter as you are - are not prepared to handle them.”

  My ego took an enormous hit at his assertion but that was just my emotions speaking to me. The truth was, as much as I wanted to disagree with him, I knew he had a point. I was not a guardian. I was a messenger and had only trained myself in defense in the case I should run across one of our enemies. Hunting and attacking Fallen Ones was an offensive strategy and required a different set of skills, ones that I had never honed.

  In a last ditch effort to make me go quietly, he added, “Magdalene, you need a break. Come back to New Orleans with me.” His voice had a hint of pleading behind it; whether it was manufactured to influence me or was sincere I couldn’t be sure. “You can always sneak out again,” he finished with a half-smile, attempting to cajole me.

  I ignored it. “And then you’ll follow me again.”

  His expression turned to a frown. “Yes, Magdalene. I will. You know I will.”

  “Eran,” I stated firmly. “The reason I left before was because I am tired of putting those I love in harm’s way. I will not…cannot allow you to follow me.”

  “And I won’t allow you to enter harm’s way, most certainly not without me.” He crossed his muscular arms across his broad chest to emphasize his stubbornness.

  I released a groan in amazement.

  His lips pinched together then as he debated on whether to say what was on his mind, finally deciding to simply acknowledge it openly. “I-I miss you.”

  I wanted to oppose him, disagree with him, tell him that he was only using those words as a ploy to get me back to New Orleans. The truth was I believed him, I felt it in him, and any remaining anger over his approach to convincing me to break from hunting disappeared completely then. More so, in that brief moment I realized that his absence had done more to me than I had realized.

  Inside, I had been slowly dying.

  Eran, far stronger than me, had broken through the wall I’d created to prevent the loneliness from penetrating. And here I stood, staring at the one person who I desperately needed, admitting that he needed me too, and it was something no wall could shut out. I’d gotten a taste of what my world was like without him and it was nothing but buildings and faceless people. It was a tasteless, colorless world void of emotion. It was death on earth.

  “Eran…” I mouthed, though no sound came out.

  Again, his arms came around me, warm, caring, and firm.

  “I’m-I’m torn…I’m so torn…”

  “I know,” he whispered against my hair. “I know…”

  One of his arms fell to the middle of my back while his other slipped behind my knees, and the next thing I knew I was being lifted.

  My head fell against his chest, his stimulating scent collecting around my face. I breathed deeply, enjoying a part of Eran I’d missed so much. Only vaguely was I aware of where he was taking me. If I were honest with myself, it really didn’t matter.

  We passed over the city and seconds later landed in the vacant driveway of a brownstone duplex in a more upscale neighborhood. I recognized it as the place I’d stashed my bike so that it would remain untouched.

  Gently, he encouraged me on to the bike and collected the helmets from a small storage compartment.

  As I watched him, I wondered aloud, “How do you think everyone is back home?”

  I hadn’t allowed myself to think about them during my travels. It hurt too much.

  “Worried about you, would be my guess.”

  Eran watched me, a slight frown still tainting his beautiful face. His eyes, always a clear aqua-blue, lingered on me, waiting to see what my next move might be.

  When he handed me a helmet and I took it, his frown changed to a slight, hesitant smile.

  Still torn, I didn’t want him to get his hopes up. “I ca-I can’t stay long,” I warned quietly, hating the way I sounded weak in my determination.

  He nodded, breaking in to a pinched grin. He didn’t want to appear too excited. Without another word, we strapped on our helmets, mounted my bike, and set out for New Orleans.

  Ironically, I realized that we looked like a typical couple out for a late night bike ride. Those we crossed paths with had no idea that the worst black arms dealer on the West Coast had just tried to kill me or that his body now lay at the bottom of San Francisco bay.

  Gradually, the population dwindled until we reached a stretch of unoccupied land, where Eran’s wings extended and carried us through the air.

  I ignored the pestering feeling that I was leaving my mission to eradicate Fallen Ones from existence – the same feeling that had urged me on over the last weeks despite my exhaustion and
utter sorrow at being separated from Eran. I brushed away those thoughts completely so I could concentrate on something more encouraging. I focused on enjoying every inch of Eran’s body pressed next to mine, the heat that penetrated his clothes, and the flexing of muscles as he maneuvered the bike on the ground and then as he carried us through the air. I was deeply disappointed as we came up to the New Orleans city lights.

  Eran had taken the ‘quick’ route by using his appendages to lift us through the air and curtail the delay of the roadways. Up here, it was a straight shot so we made it to New Orleans just as dawn broke.

  Landing my bike at the back door of our old Victorian-style home on Magazine Street seemed surreal to me. It was only a few weeks ago that I had snuck out of this very same door. Since then, my focus, my instincts, my habits had changed. Hunting Fallen Ones was not easy and it required a different way of thinking, of being, in order to survive. I had changed to accommodate it and yet I still recalled what it felt like to be me when I’d lived here. I could relate it best to feeling like someone returning home from college for the first time, still the same person but with a widened perspective on life.

  “The lights are on,” I noted, taking off my helmet.

  Eran had already stowed his in the compartment and took mine to do the same.

  “And I smell coffee,” I added, which didn’t surprise me. Each house has a distinct aroma to it. Ours could be likened to the sweet, nutty smell of a Starbucks coffee shop.

  As I waited for Eran, a large, swarthy woman passed by the back window, which looked directly in to the kitchen. She was carrying a large mug with her, which again did not surprise me.

  “She’ll be happy to see you,” Eran said, coming up behind me.

  “Me too,” I murmured, taking the door knob and opening it to a screaming gaggle.

  In an instant, chairs were tossed aside, the kitchen table skidded two feet, and arms were wrapped around me and Eran, some thick and brawny and some long and wiry.