Forgotten Faces

Chapter 1 The language of life and death is an art form. A whisper here, a bloodcurdling scream there…these are the instruments that form the orchestra of my existence. Macabre? Perhaps. It depends on your perspective. I take pride in the burden I’ve been condemned to bear. It is the sole purpose of my continued existence. Why would I want the fruits of my labor derided or mocked when that is all I really have? Some call me the Angel of Death, but that’s not accurate. I don’t kill. I erase life. There’s a singular difference between the two. I don’t expect most people to understand. It’s about precision—of language, of semantics, of what I do. A dozen centuries ago, I might not have been so particular. The job was new then. So was I. Relatively speaking. I’m not so much anymore. That doesn’t mean I don’t do everything I can to fit into this ever-changing world. I have a two-bedroom condo in Palo Alto, I have a visiting professor status at Stanford University, I even have a cat named Kuro that throws up in my favorite shoes every time I’m gone too long. None of it will last, of course, but still, for now it’s the semblance of normalcy. Sometimes, I even believe it. Until another assignment comes. I was home, reading essays on Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago. Note I say reading, not grading. That would come later, after I’d inured myself to pedantic analyses, pathetic spelling, and appalling grammar. Such a dulling process often required wine, which also delayed the grading process. Once, the first year I’d been at Stanford, I tried skipping the anesthetic phase and going straight to grading with wine. I nearly lost my job over it, because I gave a D to a prominent alumnus’s daughter. Frankly, she should have had an F, but my drunk self is more lenient than my sober one. Anywhere, that’s where I was. Kuro had claimed the windowsill, his ginger body stretched along its length, and Jon Stewart was on in the background. I was buckled in for the night, dressed in my favorite T-shirt—a faded blue number from an REM concert in 1991—and cut-off sweats, with papers in two stacks on the coffee table in front of me. Read and unread. The one resting against my knees had been written by a cute basketball player with a penchant for referring to the work as the Stalag Archipelago. It was a good thing he was athletic and attractive. He was going to need both to get ahead. I had been trying to get through his third-grade writing for the last half hour. When the doorbell rang, I bolted from my seat, too ready—and needy—for an interruption. It didn’t occur to me until I was almost at the door that people didn’t visit me in the evenings, especially on a Friday night. But Lemuel had never once been human. So he was excused. To most of the world, he looked human enough. They would see a skinny, buck-toothed blond somewhere in his thirties in dire need of a haircut and shower. Closer examination revealed him as near skeletal, not just too thin, with sunken black eyes that never blinked, and crooked fangs instead of regular teeth. His mottled complexion wasn’t pock marks from teenaged acne run amok, but fresh sores that occasionally pulsed in time with his languid heartbeat. But like I said. Few would ever truly see him. That requires a careful attention most people lack. You humans can be the most fascinating creatures sometimes, but observant you are not. I saw him just fine. And I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. “Well, at least you knocked this time.” I held the door wider. Invitations were a waste of breath. “I am the very model of civility.” He ambled past. A whiff of sour sweat drifted behind him. I made a mental note to air out the condo the next day. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He sounded too hopeful. I slapped the back of his head as I headed back to my seat on the couch. “I wouldn’t have answered if you were.” “Shame.” He flopped down in the chair and propped his Converse heels on the coffee table. The papers scattered. “You’re no fun anymore, Caleb. Remember when you had those twins you kept in cages in your basement? How come you don’t have anything like that going on now?” “Because I live in California, and basements are death traps.” “Only if you can die. Which takes us back to my question.” Leaning over, I began picking up the papers he’d knocked over. “What’s the assignment, Lem?” His face screwed up, and he stuck his tongue out at me. Such an old demon should not be such a petulant child. “One of these days, you’re going to sprout a big white beard and start using a cane, just like the old fart you’re turning into.” He waved a hand toward Kuro, and sparks danced from his fingertips in her direction. She didn’t move, bless her heart, though she did glare at him and curl her upper lip. “I mean, you have a cat, for f**k’s sake. And I’ll bet there’s slippers under the couch.” I refused to look up. “Hardwood floors get cold.” “See what I mean? All that’s missing are the bifocals.” “What I see…” I straightened and returned the stack of papers back to the table, folding my arms over my chest to stare down at him. He wasn’t intimidated by my size, but it made me feel better to tower over the little twerp. “…is a messenger who seems more concerned about the lack of entertainment in his mundane little job and not nearly worried enough that I’ll say something to the right person about how he wastes time with small talk when there’s clearly a job that needs to be done. Now. Do I get my assignment, or do I get the privilege of throwing you out?” With a grimace, Lem reached into his tattered jeans pocket and pulled out a tiny folded piece of paper. He tossed it onto the coffee table, where it twirled in place, around and around and around like an origami top. We waited together for the image to appear in the small translucent cloud that energy created, though I didn’t fail to notice how Lem kept glancing up at me through his wispy lashes. “His name’s Leandro Warnell.” It almost sounded like Lem paused between the two names, like the first was significant enough on its own. “You’ll have to travel for this one. He’s in Alaska.” I frowned. “I’m in the middle of the term here.” “You want to be the one to tell the bosses that?” Lem failed to understand the significance it was for me to try and maintain a foothold in the modern world, but he had a point. Failing to show up for a couple classes wouldn’t leave me on a pyre like making excuses to the Higher Powers would. I sighed and crouched down to get a better look at the guy. “Is this personal or punishment?” Those were the only two reasons I erased people from the physical world. There were those who struck deals with the Higher Powers to disappear, and there were those who pissed off the wrong demon and got eliminated as a result. Surprisingly, the numbers for each remained relatively even over the centuries. Though the image had a grainy projected quality to it, I could still tell he was a beautiful specimen of humanity. His skin was dark, the shade of old, weathered walnut, and his eyes so brown they appeared black. Five-o’clock shadow outlined his generous mouth, but his scalp was shorn nearly bald, the hair so short it looked like it was just starting to grow in after a shave. He wasn’t old, thirty on the outside, and though he wore faded jeans and a long-sleeved, red and black flannel shirt, his body was clearly lean and hard. He sat on the wooden floor of a cabin, his back against the narrow couch, his gaze fixed on something beyond the image’s reach. In his lap was a guitar that he strummed aimlessly. I stifled the shiver that ran down my spine. No matter how often I saw it, I always found it eerie when people were clearly making some kind of noise and the image was utterly silent. I stared at him for several minutes before I realized Lem hadn’t actually answered my question. When I looked up, I caught him watching me instead of this Leandro Warnell, though he quickly looked away before I could comment on it. “The usual for this one,” Lem said. He started to reach for the paper, but I caught his wrist and stopped him. He immediately scowled. “What?” “Personal or punishment?” I repeated, making sure to over-enunciate both words so he could see how annoyed I was. It wouldn’t make a difference in the end. The result was always the same. But sometimes, depending on the circumstances, I chose to make it easier for those about to be erased. Sometimes. His nostrils flared, and he sucked air in between his teeth. He really didn’t want to answer my question. I squeezed harder, the bones grinding within my grasp. Lem didn’t make a sound of protest or pain, but I knew it hurt. Pain was one of my specialties. “Both.” That stopped me. “What do you mean, both?” “You heard me.” “That’s impossible.” Lem shrugged. “Since when has that ever stopped us?” “Who’s punishing him?” A shake of the head this time. “Can’t say.” “Can’t or won’t?” He leaned forward, his obsidian gaze locked on mine. “Can’t.” Though it didn’t happen very often, Lem’s declaration meant one of my superiors wanted his or her involvement in this assignment secret. Usually, it was to save strife from within the ranks. Erasing a favored minion was bad form. Wars had been started more than once over their inane infighting. I was just glad I was never held accountable for my actions. I was the sword, not the master. The Higher Powers understood that, though it had taken me a very long time to believe myself. But the odds of someone both punishing this Leandro and his striking a deal at the same time were astronomical enough to be ludicrous. I don’t care what Lem said. There was something wrong about this assignment. Whether there was something I could do about it, however, was almost as impossible. I let Lem go and turned back to the image, paying more attention to the house surrounding him. Rustic. Lots of wood. The legs of the couch had scratch marks on them. The man owned a cat. The guitar, on the other hand, was lovingly polished. I’m not a music aficionado, but I memorized its sleek lines to research later. A fool could see it was important to the man. “What about family?” I asked. “He lives alone up there. Should be easy to get to.” “Timeline?” “All I got is fast. Probably not enough time for you to finesse this one.” I scowled. Without the so-called finesse, mistakes were made. A detail I might have missed could unravel all my work, and instead of someone simply dissolving from the annals of history, they ended up becoming a missing persons case. It had been several decades since it had last happened to me, but that last oversight had turned into a nationwide search, as the country started looking for a minor Hollywood actress who should have simply vanished from the world. The detail I missed? Her first-term pregnancy. I’d worked diligently to destroy the threads of her life—hers was a punishment from a jealous b***h above me—and yet, I’d failed to take into account her sudden decision to get an abortion. In 1949, they were still illegal, and her desires to terminate and salvage her career had proven my downfall. “When are you going to move?” Lem asked. “Tomorrow.” “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” “I need to get as much information ahead of time as I can.” “Still…” This cagey attitude was going to wear thin very quickly. I swept my hand through the image to send it scattering into nothingness, then scooped up the paper before Lem could get to it. “Hey! Give that back!” Straightening, I retreated to the other side of the coffee table, keeping my fist curled tightly around the missive. “My assignment. I’m keeping it.” Lem bared his fangs and finally stood. I tried not to sigh. His posturing really did get old after a while. “They’ll have my hide for letting you have that.” “Then I suggest you figure out a way to hold onto it.” “Your next courier might not be as generous as I am.” “I should be so lucky. Are we done here?” His response was a roll of his hand and a bend of his waist as he affected a mock bow. His spine continued to curl, however, and the skinny body folded in on itself, limb merging to limb. The sour smell grew stronger for a second, but then he was gone, melted into the cesspool of his magic. I’d seen him come and go like that too many times to count. To this day, I had no idea what happened to him when he did. The edges of the paper dug into my palm. I opened my hand to look at it, and there, in the fleshy pad at the base of my thumb, was a single drop of blood. It looked like any other blood I’d ever seen, rich red, fat and viscous. The only difference was…I don’t bleed. One of the benefits of being immortal. Only the Higher Powers had the ability to hurt me, or take away my existence. As I watched, the bead welled and then burst from the force of gravity, rolling across my skin toward the paper. It hit the sharp corner that had broken the skin, but rather than act as a barrier, the paper soaked it up, staining brownish red until nothing was left on my hand. No more blood oozed from the cut, either. In fact, when I examined it more closely, I couldn’t even see where it had come from. Even more impossibilities. All in one night. I would say I’d got lucky, but nothing about this felt right. As fascinating as all of it was, however, none of it changed the task I’d been given. Fast, Lemuel had said. He’d seemed unhappy with my decision to get to Alaska tomorrow, too. That couldn’t be helped. Arrangements had to be made, research had to be started, all of it required time Lem didn’t think I had. If this Leandro Warnell was as much of a loner as his appearances made him out to be, it should be a simple erase, the lines to blur few and far between before they were snuffed out entirely. The sudden urge to look upon the man again nearly had me on my knees, but I summoned the necessary resolve to face my work head on and crossed the room to where my phone rested on a side table. Five minutes later, my classes were covered for the next week, and excuses made to humans who had no clue what kind of power I wielded, who had no idea how easy it would be for me to obliterate anything and everything they knew. Hesitation returned. Lemuel’s accusations echoed in my ears. I’m not stodgy. I’m careful. Except I could remember the times he described, the carefree screams that had made my body sing. I’d still had my work, but I’d had a life beyond it, one of hot, pure pleasure found in the nubile flesh of beautiful young men. In my head, Leandro Warnell smiled at something unseen. His blunt fingers caressed the guitar strings as only a lover could. Were it not for the instruction fast, I could find it simple to indulge in the man’s allure before eradicating him from the terrestrial plane. His was a body that wouldn’t break easily. I knew that without even having seen it in all its glory. But time was not a flexible mistress. I lacked it and would lack even more if I didn’t start moving. The paper went into my pocket, unnecessary for now, but not forgotten.