“The big deal? Come take a look, Detective. I’ll show you the big deal.”
The sergeant knelt down and Sylvester followed. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvester realized the other officers on the scene were staring in their direction. Either watching him or curious as to what was under the sheet. Or both.
Garcia took the edge of the sheet in his hand and raised it.
The gory mess on the sidewalk was perfectly reflected in Sylvester’s glasses. Two severed Angel Wings had been neatly placed over the Angel Star, crossed one on top of the other. Their ragged stumps glistened with thick, glittering Angel blood. Steam rose faintly from the wings in the cold night air. Whatever had happened, it had been very recent.
A jolt ran through the detective’s body. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Is this for real?” Sylvester asked.
“Yes, sir,” Garcia said, “This is for real. And read the name on the star.”
Sylvester pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and used it to lift one of the wings, just enough to look under. The gold lettering, though spattered in blood, was still readable.
“Theodore Godson,” he read aloud.
Garcia nodded. “Theodore Godson was reported missing earlier today.”
He pulled the sheet over the wings again, and the two men stood up. Sylvester looked down the length of the deserted boulevard. All of a sudden he seemed to have a terrible headache. He pulled his glasses off his face and began to polish them with the end of his shirt.
“What do you think, Detective?” Garcia asked.
“If someone cut off his wings, then he was probably mortalized.”
“Yes,” Sylvester said. “He was made mortal.” Sylvester was surprised to realize he was out of breath. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Excuse me, sir, aren’t Angels
“Yes, well. .” He paused again and had to lean against a wall. The ground had begun to move under him.
Garcia looked at him, concerned.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Just give me a second,” said Sylvester, clutching the wall. A sudden wave of nausea had risen in his stomach.
“Sir, are you. .” The sergeant trailed off, peering back toward the other police.
Sylvester steadied himself and after a few moments turned back to Garcia. The sergeant was looking at him with concern. So were the other officers, the forensics team, everyone. He gazed back into their disbelieving eyes.
Sylvester peered down the street. A few straggling tourists had seen the light and were coming over to investigate what was going on. Sylvester straightened and put his glasses back on.
“Get that chopper out of the sky,” he suddenly barked.
Then he turned to Garcia. “We’re going to keep a low profile starting right now. Absolutely no press. You keep your men buttoned up, okay?” Garcia nodded. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just a few of the responding officers,” Garcia said, surprised by the sudden confidence in the detective’s voice.
“Okay, let’s keep it that way,” Sylvester said. “Document the crime scene and then clean everything up like it never happened at all. Have those wings taken to forensics and find out who they belong to.”
Garcia had begun taking notes.
“Contact the Angels and get them involved. I want someone I can interface with on this, preferably someone close to the Council. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sylvester looked back at the other officers. They had all gone back to their work.
“So, what am I writing in the report then? Homicide?”
“Maybe,” Sylvester said as he walked briskly back to his car. “We won’t know for sure until we can find Theodore Godson. But if those really are his wings. . it’s not good.”
“We’ve been getting reports of HDF activity in the run-up to the Commissioning. Do you think. .?” Garcia kept trailing Sylvester. “I mean, um, when was the last time something”—Garcia stumbled on his words—“well, something like this happened? In this way.”
“Something on your mind, Garcia?” Detective Sylvester paused. The sergeant shook his head and dropped his head. Sylvester looked off into the distance as he continued, his expression hard: “It’s been. . a while.”
Garcia crossed himself.
“I didn’t even know it could.”
“Walk with me,” Sylvester said gruffly. They rounded the corner, and Sylvester stopped in front of a darkened souvenir shop. It was Sylvester’s turn to question the sergeant.
“Garcia, are you going to be able to handle this?” Garcia considered, then nodded weakly.
“Okay, then I’m only going to explain this once. There are two kinds of Angels in the world. True Immortals and Born Immortals. True Immortals are, as the name suggests, truly immortal. Born Immortals can become mortal if their wings are removed and their supernatural powers are stripped. This is normally done for disciplinary purposes, by the Archangels, at the order of the Council.” Sylvester looked into Garcia’s eyes. “But last time I heard, Theodore Godson hadn’t missed a save. He’s not even in the Guardian ranks anymore; he stepped down from that a couple years after he was promoted to Archangel. Although judging by his recent behavior with women and drinking, he’s been a bit of an embarrassment to the Archangels. Anyway, it wouldn’t be like this.” He motioned toward the boulevard.
“Not this brutal. The Council is much more. . civilized.
This would be impossible to do, except for the most powerful Angels.”
“Another Angel?”
“Only an Angel can kill another Angel,” Sylvester said.
“We’re looking for an exceptionally strong, exceptionally powerful Immortal. Get on the horn with the Archangels and start taking statements from their people. Try to find out if Godson has any enemies among the bigwigs.”
“There’s an ex-wife. It’s all over the gossip shows,”
Garcia said.
“Bring her in. Find out if she has a new man,”
Sylvester said. “And we need immediate saturation patrols for Angels in the area tonight. We need to talk to everybody.”
“They won’t like that,” Garcia scoffed. “I know you haven’t been on the front lines in a while, so let me just tell you, the Angels pretty much pretend we don’t exist. I mean, they think they’re above the law.”
“Well, tonight they’re not,” Sylvester said flatly.
Garcia nodded and walked back to his cruiser to radio in the request. Sylvester stepped back to the darkened Walk of Angels and looked down the long, empty boulevard.
The whole thing felt unreal. Garcia was right to be afraid. Sylvester struggled to remember the last time an Angel had been mortalized. It had been a long, long time ago.
And if it was happening again. .
Garcia walked back over, his radio crackling. It echoed in the night air.
“Detective, lucky for you they’re all in one place tonight. There’s a big party down the street.”
“Party?” said Sylvester. “What for?”
Garcia grinned. “You don’t have a daughter, do you, sir? It’s a Pre-Commissioning party for Jackson Godspeed.”
At the name, a moment of recognition flickered across Sylvester’s face.
Garcia’s radio squawked again, and he held the speaker close to his ear. “Okay. Everyone’s accounted for. Actually, wait, everyone except one. He was spotted leaving in a hurry without talking to anyone. No one knows
