six
For the rest of my workday, I search through more footage for any sight of the bladed angel or his victim. I find nothing more than some unwanted footage of people feeling lustful in alleyways and daemons lingering on the city borders. If he took Angela anywhere, it definitely wasn’t in the city.
We have cameras on every corner. The blind spots are few, but they do exist. However, the outskirts of the city were destroyed at the beginning of the war. No one goes out there, not even us. It’s angel territory now.
My wrist vibrates, and I nearly jump out of my seat. “Shit,”
I mutter at my five o’clock alarm. One hour until curfew, and I still need to get groceries on the way home. I pack my things quickly and put a pin in my Angela surveillance till tomorrow.
I walk home alone as usual, though the sunset this evening is particularly taunting. The shadows mock me, as if they know that I’m running late. I already know that Jeremy will be freaking out. I’m surprised he hasn’t called me a hundred times already.
On my way, I make sure to pick up some wine to have with dinner. There’s a conversation that we need to finish when I get home.
The stairs up to our apartment feel longer today, as if someone added an extra flight. I wonder if it’s a lingering effect of what happened in the simulator, or if it’s because of this nagging feeling in the back of my head. This small voice that tells me something’s not right.
Why hasn’t Jeremy called to check where I am? He can’t be that mad at me. He did still walk me to work this morning, after all.
I fiddle with the lock on our door, an icy tingle crawling up my spine, raising hairs with each inch that it travels.
I push the door open with my shoulder and call out to the empty room, as I would every evening.
“Honey, I’m home.”
It’s become my typical greeting, walking through the front door with grocery bags in hand and a smile of contentment on my face. Our nightly routine involves Jeremy cleaning the dishes from breakfast as I eat snacks and watch him, acting as if my job of polishing off a bag of chips is just as hard.
I kick the door closed behind me, reaching over to drop my keys in the bowl. “Sorry I’m late. I had to fight someone for the last packet of spaghetti.”
The joke falls flat as my hand hovers above the empty crystal bowl. The small apartment is quiet. Dishes coated in this morning’s breakfast are still stacked on the small oak dining table.
It starts with a chill down my spine, awakening small bumps over my skin and raising each hair from head to toe. Then each breath that comes requires more effort.
My keys fall from my hand as I call out his name, landing on the wooden floorboards with a thump that echoes through the otherwise oddly silent apartment. There’s no sound of running water or clanging of dishes, no sound of footsteps coming from the bedroom, no sound of him.
The kitchen shares the same eerie quiet as the living room. I place the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. It’s as we left it this morning, with the addition of two or three flies buzzing around the unwashed dishes.
My wrist vibrates, my alarm jarring enough to cause a sudden ache in my chest.
Five-forty.
I try to rationalise, to tell myself that he’s just running late and any minute now, he will come prancing in with that golden-retriever smile on his face.
He’s never late. Ever.
A battle forms in my mind between logic and pessimism, panic overriding both of them.
People who don’t make it home before dark don’t make it home at all. It’s a fact that’s engraved into each and every one of our minds. It’s a fact that’s proven every single morning when I go to work and spend hours searching for those lost after dark.
I scan the bedroom, bathroom, and living room with vigour, checking twice to see if Jeremy is just messing with me, hiding in a closet and waiting to jump out and scare me. Which is entirely possible.
But I find nothing. No indication that he’s stepped foot in this apartment since we left together for work.
Shit.
I pull out my phone and call him incessantly as I pace around the room.
Five forty-five.
He has fifteen minutes. He could make it home in fifteen minutes. Right?
Wrong.
“Oh, shut up,”
I groan at my own relentless negativity. For all I know, he could be just around the corner.
He’s never late.
The voice in my head grows louder as the clock mocks me.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out as a whisper as I head for the bedroom and pull open the wardrobe.
My AIA uniform has been gathering dust for years. I almost sneeze as I rip it from its hanger. I admit, swapping my heels for combat boots is a feeling that, even in this moment, is euphoric.
Every detail of our uniforms was designed to ensure maximum protection in an immortal battle that we are not equipped to fight. They’re designed to give us a fighting chance against the creatures of the other worlds. Black stretch pants, with a matching black long-sleeved shirt, made to blend into the shadows. I strap on the AIA-branded vest, my combat boots, and an armament belt. The pants are probably a bit more snug than they were when we were given the uniforms, but they’re stretchy enough that I still have effortless movement in them.
I’ve wanted to wear this uniform for years, but I never wanted to be dusting it off like this.
I rummage through discarded shoe boxes at the back of the wardrobe to open the safe that hides beneath them. I take the handgun, ammo, and two daggers, tucking one into my belt and the other in the band at my thigh before grabbing the shotgun from under the bed and slinging it over my shoulder.
As I stand at the front door and stare into the hall, the world around me spins until nausea settles in. The only thing I manage to focus on is the sound of ticking as the clock strikes five fifty-five.
Xavier’s phone only rings once before he answers, his voice lacking its usual warmth, instead laced with concern. I never call him between five and . Usually everyone is too busy.
“What’s wrong?”
“He didn’t come home. Jeremy didn’t come home.”
A few muffled curses through the line. “Amara, don’t do what I know you’re thinking of doing.”
In any other circumstance, it would warm my heart, how well he knows me. “Amara Jones, you know better than anyone what happens out there after dark. We will look for him tomorrow. I will help you find him. I promise. Please. I don’t want your file turning up on my desk. I can’t…”
He pauses for a long moment, hoping for the unlikely. For me to say he’s right. “Please.”
Xavier knows his pleas are useless. I’m as stubborn as I am reckless, and once I’ve decided something, there is no changing my mind.
“I’m sorry, X. You know that I have to. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t go after him. I just wanted you to know. Just in case…”
All I can hear is more muffled swearing, followed by a loud sigh.
“I’ll update you when I can.”
I end the call before he can protest and tuck my phone in my pocket.
Come on, Jeremy, where are you?
Five fifty-eight.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Xavier’s right. I’ve studied enough of these cases now to know that if he doesn’t make it home in the next five minutes, he’s not making it home at all. I won’t let that happen.
This moment haunts the nightmares of every person in the new world. Walking into your home this close to curfew, expecting to see your loved one and instead finding nothing but silence.
Every day I sort through missing persons cases just like this. Cases of widows and widowers whose partners never made it home. They spend that entire night sitting in silence, feeling useless, wondering if they will ever see their loved one again. Wondering if they’re still alive. Some never find out.
Guilt overwhelms me for the conversation we had this morning. Fear tugs at my nerves at the thought of stepping out into the field alone, but stubbornness controls me.
My heart races in my chest as the impending lockdown looms. It feels as if an invisible rope tightens around my stomach, squeezing more with each second that passes.
Five fifty-nine.
I will not let this happen to Jeremy. I will not let his file show up on my desk tomorrow. I won’t become Lucy Adair. I won’t grieve in silence, begging someone to find the man she loves.
The moment before my watch clicks over, I jump outside into the hallway and turn around to watch the large mechanical steel door close behind me. Every apartment and house had one installed after the lockdown was announced, for extra protection from the creatures of the other worlds. Not to stop them from getting in, but to stop us from getting out. To stop us from doing exactly what I’m about to do.
Ahhh, irony, my old friend.
I can hear the mechanisms ticking as all the doors in the building lock definitively for the next twelve hours. Six o’clock sharp, never a second later.
My eyes bore into the steel and I wonder if I just made a mistake. Regardless, there’s no turning back now. I won’t be able to return until sunrise.
My hand clutches the barrel of my shotgun tightly as the reality sets in, the weapon providing little comfort. It’s worth nothing in a fight against an angel, but I still clutch it tightly, as if it’s a shield between me and the creatures of the other worlds.
“Twelve hours. It’s only twelve hours.”
The words come out like a cruel joke.
I can survive twelve hours in the dark. I have to, for him.
I will find him. As I know he would do the same for me.