Ascension

Chapter 7

Mick walked up the stairs of his apartment building, his feet heavy as he dragged them up. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket and had slid his feet into flip-flops instead of his shoes. At that moment, he could see no point in anything.

After Gabe had walked out and slammed the door behind him, Mick had spent a fair few more minutes in a fit of fury spitting out streams of profanity, kicking at furniture and hurling empty cans against the wall. Finally, he had ended up exhausting himself, had pulled out the bottle of vodka from the freezer, and turned on the TV. He had stared dumbly, his eyes half-glazed as he flipped the channels until the last rounds of the news came up. He watched the video footage with an almost entranced attention. The news presenter narrated the incident in a droning, dispassionate voice, her second head filling in the silent pauses with high-pitched chatter about the details of the arrest and subsequent killing.

Mick had downed three shots of vodka by the time he turned the TV off. He had sat there in stunned silence, tipsy from the drink, but not smashed enough to pass out. When he closed his eyes, he could see the five Watchers converging in on the lone man, eyes wide open and wings outspread in an attacking stance. They had crackled with a strange dark energy, not too unlike the skies during an Ascension, and in the centre of their circle, Mad Barty - poor stupid Mad Barty - had continued to scream.

“You’re not real!” he had shrieked, swinging his fists wildly at the creatures gripping him under the arms. “None of you are real! None of you exist! You can’t hurt me!”

The image was seared into his mind: Barty shrieking in unholy terror and pain as he struggled in their hold, and one Watcher curling its obscenely long fingers around his face. His entire body had flashed purple and electric green and his screams had torn at Mick’s ears before he exploded in a flare of blinding golden light. Later, Sheriff Clint Dawson had announced in a bored tone that the man was declared dead, cause of death: struggle during apprehension.

Mick had felt like the worst son of a bitch to ever walk the earth. Seeing it on TV had been disturbing enough. Gabe had seen it as something happening to a friend. No wonder he had been so livid.

He threw open the door to the apartment roof and closed his eyes as the cool night breeze blew over his face. He padded out in his striped socks and sandals, tucking his hands into his armpits and quietly grateful for the long sleeves of his henley. The alcohol had left him warm and loose-limbed, but the night’s cold still made goose prickles stand up on his skin. He strolled over to the parapet edge, looking down at the street ten floors below. His eyes scanned the lines of asphalt; he could see a few bikers with bad taste in vehicles, a couple of Watchers, a couple huddled together, but no Gabe.

“Better not lean out too far, Hardy. You don’t want to fall.”

He turned around to look at the woman sitting on the lone bench propped up on the terrace. She was bundled up with a comforter around her shoulders and her cat sitting next to her, its three eyes glowing in the dark to match the embers on the end of her cigarette.

“Lenore.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and approached her. “What brings you up here?”

“The same as you, I suppose,” she sniffed, taking a long drag of the lit stick in her mouth. “Broken hearts seem to be the order of the day.”

Mick bristled. “I don’t have a broken heart, thank you very much.”

“No?” She arched a red brow at him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m not heartbroken.”

“Well, then,” she mused, tapping the cigarette to let the ash fall to the ground. “Guess it’s only one of us with the heartbreak problems.”