A Veil of Mist

CHAPTER 8 PLAYERS BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Even though he shouldn't have followed her that night, Aylward did. Against his better judgement, which hadn't failed him in his many years, he did. With some God-given patience he waited outside the abandoned building for her. He checked for his glamour in the reflecting windows, not wanting a repeat of earlier. He pulled out his phone for a quick search trying to find any information on Daria. Even if he hated phones on most days, there was an undeniable usability to them.

He tried social media first. Humans lately seemed to be utterly obsessed with it, but a single name could only get him so far. He would have given up, but just as he was about to exit the application, he saw a picture of her. Daria's face was gleaming back at him from the screen; the arm of a ruggedly handsome older looking man around her. A sting of jealousy pierced his chest. He tried zooming into it, but his touch opened a link to an article which spoke about Daria and the man. The man, who Aylward learned, was her father, Avery Saltzwick. The article described him as quite the business tycoon. Aylward typed in his name and a list of news reports, articles, interviews, awards and recognitions popped up. The most recent was about a cruise liner that was set to leave the next day and had been funded and designed by him. Daria, as the article mentioned, was going to accompany him on this introductory cruise. He scrolled to find more articles, but the front door swung wide open and Daria walked out, looking flustered.

Aylward was tempted to go to her; even lifted his foot halfway, but instead stood in the shadows and waited until she got in the car and drove off. Now that he knew she was safe, Aylward went his own way. He had to head home for the night. A home which was nothing more than a modest studio above a trashy pizza place that sold greasy cardboard in the name of pizza.

As he walked, he made a list in his head. A list of all the reasons why it was a bad idea to pursue Daria. He had felt the connection he used to when he was on the job. But a few centuries had passed since then and he hadn't been assigned anyone until fifty years ago. But even that he had botched so spectacularly, that he had been stripped of his honour, title, and privileges. He was made an example of—something you should not do as a guardian angel.

But no one ever listened when he gave his reasons, or tried to explain his side of the story. Humans were reckless; even with their short lifespans, limited time and energies, they did incredibly stupid things. Why should their stupidity be his responsibility? So he had accepted his punishment, happy to not have to be a guardian angel ever again. But he had not forgotten what that pull felt like. That compulsion to protect assignments from any and every harm. It was the fine print that weighed heavily on him. He hadn't known guardians were still receiving assignments. In the past few decades, it was getting risky and inconvenient to assign, so a simple method had been devised. Only the most important humans were to be given guardians, humans capable of causing a ripple effect in timelines. Or so he had heard through his back alley contacts.

By the time Aylward reached his place, he had convinced himself he had misread the connection between him and Daria. It could be that his sixth sense was right, but until he received some sort of confirmation, he would think no more of it. Besides, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

Tracking that soul would be no easy job, especially as more and more escaped reaping with each passing day. And so, even though angels needed sleep only in dire situations, Aylward decided a few hours of rest couldn't hurt. He shed his jacket and ripped the sheets off his bed before slipping into delicious unconsciousness.

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He was in a stone hallway. It was dark and smelled of mold. From somewhere in front of him, he could hear water drip down in a steady pattern. It was dark enough to dampen even his heightened sight. He could use his angel glory, but something whispered against it. Instead, he held out his right hand and touched the stone wall, dragging it along to guide himself forward. For a second he felt as though he had been transported back in the ages, where such hallways were a matter of status and seen only in the estates of the wealthy.