Terminal (Terminal trilogy #1)

13: Constant confinement

 I had been taking a lot of elevator rides recently. I didn't have time to reflect on that though, because the elevator was fast as fuck. I was first unsettled by the speed, and before I could really catch myself the doors opened.

A good secret nightclub would have a little lobby area to fully ready the fancy folks who'd were entering, a little place with maybe a classy bar and a polite doorman.

The Blues just opened to the heart of the club, a short stage with a section of tables and chairs. On most nights, you'd walk right out of here into some sort of deafening noise, a mildly good singer determined to pierce your eardrums or a dreadfully loud band.

The place was a long line of misaligned ideas. To the left of the performance area was a series of couches put together like a maze. Beyond that was a series of nice, wooden chairs and booths by the window, as well as a proper kitchen.

It was midday- three fifty exactly- and the place was rightly deserted. A couple of scroungy looking people were scattered throughout. Some sort of music was playing, but it wasn't what you'd expect from this sort of place. Likely it was some security personnel playing their favorite tracks before the place actually opened later tonight.

Rhamiel and the other angel sat at a booth. Rhamiel's gaze was fixed out the window, and he didn't even look as we slide in.

"Pepper," said the man who was evidently Salt, "You're here." He had pure white hair that was growing out, his darker roots clearly exposed.

"Doing some escorting. This is Mannie, a friend of Blake's and a courier of sorts who just brought me the wondrous news that Sydney Westman is dead."

"Yes." Everyone's attention slowly panned to Rhamiel.

Rhamiel had a young face. I don't normally like to talk about people's appearances, nor do I like to dwell on them. He had those nasty scars all over, of course, but I always thought he had one of those really childish faces if you could somehow remove them. Large eyes, soft skin and a bad bone structure.

Salt and Pepper both looked young- most angels did- maybe even in that same youthful period that divides the young from the children. Rhamiel had just barely slipped below that border, dangling right on the edge with a single finger holding on.

He still had blood on his face, a smearing around his mouth and chin had left a dark hue, one that was purer still on the spots he had missed below his chin. He looked overwhelmingly guilty too, which was a nice thing for him to do. I'd hate to have to argue with him about the whole 'ripping people's throats out unexpectedly is weird and not good' thing.

I had left to find him, I had found him, and I was wholly unprepared. He had simply been a bad plan to impress a near stranger. Now he was blood-stained my responsibility.

"Hello," He said in a soft voice, like he had recently forgotten to cough, "I want you to look at this ring," he pulled the angelsword out of his pocket and dropped it into my palm.

"Hey," I said. I turned the ring over in my hands. It made of a dark metal, thick and heavy, with a large and uneven white quartz as the centerpiece. The leather lining was soft to touch, and I ran my fingers along it as I spoke, "I liked Sydney, you know."

Like saying that helped.

"You hated her."

"It's frightening how people's opinions change when someone dies." I was satisfied with the thought, but after a few seconds it felt cheesy. "You shouldn't have done that."