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“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 distan
ce 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 where he went.”
Sylvester’s eyebrow raised. “Okay, let’s find him, and let’s begin questioning those other Angels at the party. And start knocking on Angel doors up in the Hills, too,” Sylvester said. “As for the one who left the party in a hurry, consider him a person—well, Angel—of particular interest. And before we hear otherwise, let’s consider him potentially dangerous.”
Garcia paused and looked at Sylvester. “You’re not going to believe who it is,” he said. Sylvester looked at the sergeant.
“Who?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jacks’s Ferrari spun through the crisp Los Angeles night, the city twinkling all around him. He headed east on Sunset, just driving. He felt himself becoming more real, more free, with every mile he put between himself and the party. Was this disconnected sensation going to chase him all his life? He needed to get over it. He was Jackson Godspeed. It wasn’t like he could just move somewhere and be anonymous. And, he reminded himself, he didn’t want to. He’d been looking forward to saving people since he was a little boy.
After ten minutes his phone rang over the car’s Bluetooth. Jacks checked the caller ID. It was Mark.
“That didn’t take long,” he murmured before picking up. “Hey Mark, I’ll be home in a bit. I wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to—”
