Chapter One: Flying Fire

Nathaniel

 

 

I don't smack my clients for their stupidity as much as I might like to.

My new case receives at least ten points for visual effect, another ten points for creativity, and a slap upside the back of his head for recklessness. The roof is an interesting place for target practice — I have to give him some credit for that ounce of ingenuity. The view of the Milky Way streaming across the night sky is clear, brilliant, and infinite. Why can't my client see that hanging above our heads is a vast universe full of astounding mysteries? Wondering and dreaming about what is out there and how we fit into the grand scheme of things is a perfectly acceptable reason not to end one's life. But it doesn't work that way, does it? People who contemplate their own destruction aren't thinking about what the world or universe around them has to offer. They're too busy justifying why they don't fit in to this world.

Steven Kroller walks to the edge of the roof and stares at the backyard. Do I stop him now? The underwhelmed look in his eyes, the way he takes a drag off his cigarette, it’s as if he’s getting ready to put his boots on instead of setting fire to the backyard. I don't think he's going to jump, but my latest assumptions haven't exactly been spot on. I remain vigilant. At least, until I get to know my new client better.

The hunting bow lies discarded on the roof shingles. Steven used his last arrow with his previous shot after lighting the end with a lighter. The arrow cut the night air with a zing and stuck in the upright target at the edge of the lake. The flames were instant and impressive. He’d soaked the target with combustible fluid. I watched it burn and begin to crumble. Bits of paper and ash drifted to the small wooden dock over the lake. Steven didn’t seem to notice or care that the deck could erupt into flames. He takes a last hit off the cigarette and flicks the butt over the edge of the roof into space. Steven retraces his path and grabs his backpack. He settles down again near the edge, facing the backyard and the water beyond. His hands are steady and precise as he folds five paper airplanes by starlight. Lights from inside the house provide a faint glow across the lawn. Crooked shadows from trees and bushes reach for the still water of the lake behind the house.

I gauge about a twenty-foot drop to the flowering shrubs below the eaves of the house. Not much cushion, really, should say a teenaged male accidentally fall off the roof and land in the yard. I glance back to my client. Steven flicks the metal lid open on the cigarette lighter, thumbs the igniter, and the airplane wings catch fire. He throws.

The plane doesn’t glide with much, or any, grace over the yard. The wings shrivel into curling, charred paper as the plane spirals and crashes to the lawn. My client watches with the same indifference he showed toward the burning target on the dock. There's no apparent joy or pleasure from his actions, but he must be getting something from this destructive behavior, because he throws another one. This time, he only lights the back of the paper plane. He aims toward the patio and the plane circles slightly before landing on a hot tub cover. It singes the vinyl and burns out. Number three is another calculated throw, and I get a sense of what he’s going for. We watch together, even though he has no idea I’m his uninvited guest. Angels of Death are rarely ever acknowledged by the living. It’s how this gig works.

The third plane burns out before it lands in a copper fire bowl at the back corner of the patio. Steven holds up the fourth plane and stares at it for a long quiet moment. With another turn of the thumb wheel, his lighter flares to life. He places the tip of the flame to the corner of each wing before aiming at the fire pot. It's a direct hit and the tinder inside the large bowl catches with a whooshing gust of orange and yellow flames. The small explosion raises my eyebrows and I pass Steven the contemplative side eye in an attempt to understand what this young pyromaniac is thinking and feeling. He's finally showing some emotion. His cynical gaze is narrowed and there’s a slight smirk twitching the corner of his lips.

The back door of the house slams open. A screechy female voice yells, "Steven! You are in so much trouble.” Her head tips upward. “Get off the damn roof right this instant."

There’s more yelling from below, but I tune her out and stick by my client’s side. He backs away, grabs his pack and bow, and heads to the open window in the dormer on the other side of the roof. With the bow in front of him, he aims toward the bed and chucks it inside. Something slips from either his hand or pocket. There’s a small clink and a scraping sound as the item slides down the roof shingles. Steven lands on his knees and dives after the fallen article. A flash of silver glints in the starlight before Steven’s hand clasps around it. He falls forward, sprawling across the roof with his head hanging over the edge.

I react before thinking about the consequences of my actions, and grab ahold of his ankles. I heave backward until he’s able to clamber onto his hands and knees. Steven jerks out of my grip and scrambles through the open window, where he collapses into a tangled heap on the floor.

"Steady there," I say as I climb in after him. With little regard to his shock, I not so gently heft him off the floor and deposit him on the bed.

The thudding of determined footsteps rattle the walls as someone pounds up the stairs.

"Your father is going to hear about this!" The same shrieking female voice from the backyard is outside the bedroom door. "I am so sick and tired of your crap. Don't ignore me. I know you're in there."

"Is she your mom?" I ask in a low voice.

He's staring at me like an open-mouthed numbskull as he recovers from the fact that I miraculously materialized from thin air and saved his butt from falling off the roof — which I did, but he needs to snap out of it.

"Is she coming in?" I ask.

"It's locked." He pries his gaze from mine to glance at the rattling doorknob.

"You're not going to get away with this! You're a canker sore on my ass, you know that?" she says.

With a final jerk of the door handle, the foot stomping retreats back from where it had originated.

"I’ve got to get out of here." Steven glances around his bedroom. His tongue passes over dry lips before he rises from the bed. He retrieves the fallen backpack from the floor and begins to stuff it full of clothes and personal items from the dresser and closet.

At the window, he turns to ask, "What were you doing on my roof?"

"Watching you shoot flaming arrows."

"Are you going to have me busted or something?"

"Wasn't planning on it," I say.

He appraises me with a cool unreadable glare before ducking through the open window without further ado.

There’s two reasons I follow him outside. One, so I'm not left standing alone in a stranger’s house, and two, because it's my job. I'm the lucky Angel of Death who babysits suicidal head cases and shows them the way to the afterlife should they need it. I shouldn't complain. This afterlife job has given me something I never thought I would have: the missing half of my soul and the entire contents of my heart. Her name is Juliana Crowson, and if it hadn't been for my angel duties, I wouldn't have met her. I also wouldn't currently be seeking my replacement, either.

You see, love has a way of finagling itself into every crevice of your being. Love weaves millions of ultra-fine iridescent threads tightly together so you are utterly and forever bound to the person who holds your heart. I accept that I am bound to Juliana. I chose her the first moment I saw her and I vividly recall the feeling of the first strings being tied around my heart. She is my light. She is my dark. She is everything worth living for. Which is why I'm looking for someone to take my place as an Angel of Death and trade for his life. Trading would give me the opportunity to live with Juliana as a man and not as a spirit. How am I going to find this person? That's my quandary, isn't it? Eternity in servitude isn't exactly most people's idea of heaven.

But there must be a way. I need someone who is just bizarre and unconventional enough to agree to trade places with me. I’m determined to find this oddball person. Liam, a former Angel of Death, succeeded at falling. I have to assume he forced his replacement to submit to him, but unlike Liam, I'm not a violent person. I won't make someone trade with me, but I will find a way to make it happen. To have my life back and be with Juliana in the flesh would be worth any and every sacrifice. As far as I can tell, Steven hasn't realized I'm not a living human, and for the sake of keeping things simple, I'm not telling him. Not yet.

Steven crouches next to the southwest corner of the roof. He rolls over onto his stomach and lets his legs hang over the side before sliding over the edge. I follow his lead and lower myself down. My foot finds the brackets for the drain spout, then a lower window ledge, and finally the railing on the front porch. He lands on the deck below with a light thump of soft-soled shoes, but not knowing the way, I stumble into a large pot of flowers. The decorative pot tips and spills pink and white flowers and potting soil onto the porch.

Steven shakes his head with contempt at my clumsiness before turning and hurrying off the porch into the driveway. With hurried movements, I scoop up the mess and right the sideways flowerpot. The front door opens and I decide a little of my angel powers can be helpful in certain circumstances. I release my physical form so the angry woman doesn't see me.

She steps outside. Her gaze zeroes in on the spilled dirt and her nostrils flare. In the wash of yellow-tinted porch light, she appears not only pissed off but also frazzled with her fluffy blonde hair askew and dark smudges below red-rimmed eyes. Her voice screeches into the phone held up to her ear. Every word echoes across the yard as she rants into the phone. I hurry to catch up with Steven.

"He's sneaking out of the house again. I know he has nowhere else to go, but I can't live with your son anymore. You need to make him leave."

The engine turns over and starts as I stand next to the car door. I let myself in and sit on the passenger seat.

"Why are you following me?" Steven asks.

"I need a ride," I say.

"You don't want to ride with me," he says.

"Sure, I do."

"I appreciate the save earlier, but get out."

"Your mom’s headed this way," I say.

The blonde lady comes into view, waving the phone in front of her.

Steven glances up, sees the crazed look on her face, and shifts the car into gear.

“You’re going straight to hell if you don’t talk to your father!” she yells.

We pull out of the driveway, leaving a spray of gravel in our wake. When we're out of sight of the house, Steven pulls over. There are a few other lake houses, but they sit far from the road and the street is void of any light in this remote, but exclusive subdivision. The glow of red dash lights illuminates my client’s face.

"I gave you a ride. Now, get out."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter and a box of cigarettes. He lights one and then fiddles with the metal lid of the lighter case. The repetitive clicking sound fills the otherwise quiet interior of his two-door coupe. Steven cracks his window before switching on the car stereo.

"Where did you learn to shoot a bow like that?" I ask.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Nathan," I say. Until I get to know my client better, I'm hesitant to give him my full name. Once he knows it, he can call me to him whenever he chooses. Being able to summon me is powerful. For now, I'm uncertain he’s earned the right and responsibility. Tonight is my first meeting with Steven and I'm still new to these cases. Having worked with only a handful, I don't have any point of reference or much experience with suicidal clients. Being the newbie on the job is about as sucky as it sounds.

"Are you some kind of stalker or something? I'm not into that shit, so go away."

"I'm new around here. I saw you on the roof and thought I'd check it out."

It wasn't a lie, but there were some critical details left out. Steven gives me a look that says he isn't buying my story.

"Your mom's a piece of work," I say.

I have to try something to get Steven to relax and talk to me. Maybe stalking him isn't the best decision I've ever made, but like I said, this is all new to me. The four other suicide cases were completely different from one another. Two died before I could do anything about it and the other two were journeys of misadventure. Not fun. So far tonight, this is resembling the latter.

"She's not my mother."

"Sorry. I didn't know."

"She's my nightmare."

"Apparently so," I agree. At least he's talking and not insisting I leave.

The thought came too soon as he says, "I don't owe you anything."

"Never said you did."

"But you're thinking it, right? Save the neighbor from falling off the roof and maybe he'll hook you up or something?" Steven stares through the windshield, fingers wrapped stiffly around the wheel.

"No," I say.

"I don't care if I fall off a stupid roof. You should have let me."

"I'll keep it in mind for the next time." I don't reach for the door handle.

"This is your last chance to start walking," he warns as he slides the gear shifter into first.

"Let's take a drive," I suggest, keeping my voice neutral.

He drops his gaze, eyes shifting below lowered lids. His eyes meet mine and I see the quick flash of his resolve, a decision made, and something unreadable and distrustful in our momentary connection. He pulls the car onto the road.

Steven Kroller is, I'm guessing, a twenty-year-old maniac. Definitely young and out of control. Driving ninety miles an hour down the wrong side of the highway is apparently fun and games to this kid. When an oncoming car approaches, he plays chicken, and only swerves to get out of the way after the other car pulled onto the berm.

"What would you have done if they crashed?" I ask.

"They're fine," he says, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Would you have gone back?"

"I don't know. I think I would crash my own car to see what it feels like."

"What's the death wish about?"

"Why? Are you ready to get out now?"

"No."

"So, you're screwed up, too."

"Probably in a different way than you are," I say.

He chews on my answer while watching the road, then asks, "Want to go pick up some beers?"

Before I answer, his cell phone rings.

He adjusts the volume of the music before answering. "Hello.” There’s a short pause. "Yeah, I can fill in," Steven says. "Thanks, Yvette. Tell Lance his timing couldn't have been better."

Steven grabs a pen and an envelope out of the glove box and scribbles an address while driving. "Got it," he says. "I'll come in tonight."

He returns the phone to the cubby hole built into the dash. "Where do you want let out? I have to go to work."

"For Lance De'Lao?" I ask, remembering the record producer and his assistant, Yvette. My curiosity is piqued. When the world throws a coincidence this big in your face, it's best to pay extra attention.

"Yeah. You know him?"

"He's producing a friend of mine’s first album."

"Mostly Mayhem?"

"That’s right. Do you know Jared and the band?" I ask.

"I've seen them play a few times, but never talked to them. Lance needs me to help on a tour. I'll be contracted to The Shy Lights, but I heard Mostly Mayhem is their opener."

"What do you do?" I ask.

"Stage hand. I’ll take any gig that gets me out of the house and away from the step-monster."

"If you've got a job to go to, does that mean you'll stop trying to kill people, including yourself?"

My question warrants one of his detached looks, but no answer.

The city lights of Durango lie ahead of us. Over the past few days, Jared and his band have been recording in Lance's new studio. After all the problems with ghosts and a girl dying at Lance's main residence, Castle Hill, the studio and the equipment had been moved to the new city location.

"I know where the studio is if you don’t. I can direct you there and then I'll take off for a friend’s house."

I knew about the new recording studio because Juliana and I had stopped by the night before to watch Jared and the band work on their album. It was great to be with Juliana, but stressful with Marcus nearby. I ended up leaving early so Juliana could hang out with her brother — without my ex-mentor and Angel of Death, Marcus, threatening to banish me or cause some other ridiculous and unwanted scene. I wonder how Marcus is going to handle the fact that my new client is going to be on tour with the bands. He can't stop me now and he's going to be chafed about it, I'm sure.

"I guess that’ll be all right." Steven reaches for the volume knob as he drives into the city.

The way he reacts to me makes my extra sensory nerves prickle. There's something different about him, and unlike the other suicidal cases I've dealt with. It's as if he doesn't give two cents about his life. Living or dying seems to make no difference either way. Once again, his actions confirm my theories as we round the last stretch of highway before entering the main part of town.

"Is your belt on?" he asks.

I glance over at this non-descript twenty-ish male in time to see him yank the wheel and suddenly cut across the highway for the drainage ditch on the other side. He doesn't look at me or say anything else as he veers the car onto a concrete drainage shoot leading down a steep bank to the water below. His car doesn't fit and he has two wheels on the grass and two in the ditch. The bumpy ride is enough to rattle the teeth out of his head as we head down the slope at breakneck speed. When we reach the bottom, the front spoiler of the car scrapes the concrete with a sickening grind of plastic and metal against the ground. The city’s runoff water is shallow, but I still don't think he should be driving a car through it. Steven kills the headlights, and rips the wheel to the right, sending the back end of the car whipping out and careening across the slick algae covered concrete. Using quick hands on the spinning steering wheel, he recovers, straightens out, and nails the gas pedal. The tires screech as they regain their grip and peel out. The streetlights give us just enough light to see the barrier of the right and left walls of the drainage ditch. Ahead, I notice a black void of a shadowed overpass. The culverts running under the road can't be large enough for the car and I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

He guns the engine through the runoff and to the left side of the ditch. He hits a similar shoot like the one we came down, going even faster uphill. For me, there are no consequences if he crashes the car. I'm already dead. I won't feel pain or loss, but that doesn't mean I want to be part of this mania, either. Besides, mangled bodies are never pleasant for me or the soul who has just left their corporeal body behind.

The headlights remain off and there are no convenient streetlamps guiding the way. It's as dark as any moonless night can be, and I don't understand how he’s able to keep the car moving in the right direction. The driver’s side is on the concrete and I’m on the rough side. I can’t help but imagine the car’s suspension being battered and abused to the breaking point. I suspect the top of the ditch is near and the car levels out a few yards later. Steven flips the lights on and we see a deer standing in the weeds, eyes glowing unnaturally iridescent in the halogen beams. He swerves to miss the deer, but the car is moving too fast and lifts onto the two left wheels.

So this is it, I think. He's going to roll the car and kill himself. I was able to ride along and even talk with him before he died. Escorting him to the afterlife will be the easy part. I've done it hundreds of times, but I was getting used to the idea of my client living and finding a better life. Steven reacts, and I'm unsure if he does it on purpose or by sheer coincidence and luck. He works the brake and gas pedal in a combination that places the car back on all four tires.

We careen over a sidewalk and onto the street. Fortunately, there are no cars or people around. The car skids to a halt and he climbs out, leaving the door open. I follow my client to make sure he isn't doing something else I wouldn't want to miss.

He runs away from the vehicle and then stops just as suddenly.

"Shit. I almost hit a deer," he says, panting.

The flash of white tails bounce away through the weeds — apparently, there was more than one deer — and they bound off toward the cover of some nearby trees.

"You care about the deer, but not yourself," I say.

"They're innocent. I'm not."

"What are you guilty of?" I’m trying to find out why this seemingly healthy guy wants to throw his life away.

"I was born," he says bitterly. "Born a sinner. That's what I've been told since the day I came into this world."

His anger rises and I'm glad to see it. I want to know what makes him tick. Anger, irritation, resentment, frustration. Anything is better than the dull emptiness he expresses with such effortlessness.

"Whoever told you that was an ignorant git," I say.

"My stepmother’s family has been threatening me with hellfire and damnation since I could walk."

"You know it's not true, right?"

His contempt and lifetime of being misunderstood are clear to me in his stiff shoulders and clenched fists even though he shows no emotion on his face. He walks to the lip of the drainage shed, keeping his back to me. "I don't know shit. I don't feel anything and I don't care about anything."

"That's why you’re doing this, isn't it?" I say softly, unsure if he can hear me. "Why you risk your life for a thrill. To feel something."

"You don't know shit, either." With head lowered, Steven returns to the car.

He drives away and I don't follow.