He watched her spring from the urine-soaked subway depths like wildflowers from concrete. Her compact and colorful body grazed quickly over stone steps as a swift winter's updraft nudged her from the subterranean throng. She tucked a short tuft of pale curls behind her ear and wrapped a white leather blazer tightly around her frame to defend herself from the intrusive gale. Coarse cotton thread edged the jacket in a decorative fashion. He could see that. From two blocks away. He hadn't remembered having such clear vision before tonight.

She waited impatiently at the curbside. Her dainty frame bent askew as a soft rounded hip cocked to one side. A tangle of brass keys and platinum rings reflected patterns of light from above as she snapped her fingers in time to a song sung faintly beneath her breath. The lyrics escaped from bow-shaped lips on wisps of clouded vapor to gyrate before her face. He wondered if the air from her mouth was sweet.

Lights changed. Dense breasts grazed against ivory silk as she jogged quickly past a stream of approaching pedestrians and vehicles. Her keys scraped against the hood of a gleaming taxi making a desperate attempt to turn onto 7^th under an admonishing glare of yellow light. She dodged from its path, placing a Prada-encased heel into a shallow pool of opaque slush. Bending over to wipe droplets of dark water from the length of her boot, she cursed heartily, extending the vowel in 'fuck' to sound more as if a woman in the throes of passion than one who had been given an additional annoyance to add to her day. Her blazer swung open, exposing warm brown cleavage to faded winter's light. He felt himself stiffen in response. A small silver cross slipped from between her breasts and dangled before the soft orbs as if a warning. He heeded it, shifting his gaze to her heart-shaped face.

As she rose, she pulled a faded bill from beneath the lace of her camisole. Champagne locks spilled from the perch of her ear to fall against round cheeks. She made no move to recapture the wayward waves. Her song resumed as she approached a nearby newsstand. She shook her keys in time to an unknown rhythm. Was there music only he could not hear? She plucked an armful of fashion magazines from the colorful display and smiled as she pressed her weathered tender into the gnarled hand of an old cashier. He wondered if the paper was warm. He wondered if it smelled fragrant.

He watched her sashay from the cover of the newsstand's canopy; his breathing gauged her graceful movements. He noted that she hadn't stopped to collect any change, nor had the cashier motioned to give her any. The elderly man had placed the bill into his pocket and now pressed it firmly against the flesh of his inner thigh. Perhaps the cashier had gotten an erection from her as well. He smiled at the thought of it. His first smile in days.

Only one block now. As she strolled down 7^th, he could see that her face had been painted with heavy layers of cosmetics. It was a clear sign of an aging woman frantically clinging to notions of youth, or a young girl clamoring for a mark of independence and maturity. To which group this woman belonged, he could not be certain. Perhaps if she moved closer…

Unwittingly, she obliged, jostled by the disjointed movements of the surrounding throng. She seemed pleased by the constant stream of noise and pressure provided by impatient natives and dawdling tourists. The woman placed one foot directly before the other, swaying slightly from such delicate steps. Her clothes rustled softly as a satin-cloaked thigh stroked its counterpart with each stride. Her heels, concealed in high fashion contraptions of leather and steel, clicked fiercely against asphalt to accompany the rhythmic whispers. Music heralded her imminent arrival; words she alternately whispered and sung he recognized as an old gospel refrain. His hearing had improved as well.

A slight pout usurped thick bow-shaped lips. Pulling her blazer ever tighter around her tiny waist, she furrowed her brow and scanned the crowd impatiently, perhaps sensing his excrescent attention. Her eyes met his. Mere feet existed between them. Painted lids drew slowly together as she studied his form.

He was dirty. Sour sweat leaked from the crevices of his limbs like the toxic syrup of fetid fruit. The threadbare tweed blazer and weather-beaten sandals he wore marked him as poverty-stricken. The flattened cardboard box and tattered comforter he clutched confirmed his homelessness.

He had been dead for two days.

The soul fought desperately to animate the decaying form, unaware of its passing. Not the slightest trace of a guardian's aura lingered near the deceased; the sentinel had long since broken ties with its charge to assume a new post in the mortal realm.

Palisade offered him a sad and quizzical smile as she dropped to her haunches. The silver cross she bore jangled with the sudden movement. Blanched eyes focused on the slim intersecting blades.

He tensed as small brown fingers burrowed beneath dirt-streaked wads of pink afghan to massage his pale and flaccid limbs. Short blasts of cold air followed in their wake. He coughed violently from the sudden exposure.

"Shhhh." Her whisper carried the heat of summer breezes. "Where the hell is Muerte?" Her eyes scanned the skies above as she uttered the rhetorical question. The streets, filled with the energy of a thousand guardians, had no answer.

Her watched her slip manicured fingers beneath her lapel. The rustling of plastic followed. She winked. A clear wrapper fluttered to the ground as caramel popped between painted lips. She suckled the candy languidly. His gaze fell in order to study the motion of her throat as she swallowed.

"I…I love you." The words gurgled from a rotted mouth infested with sores. Wheezing accompanied the declaration.

She nodded in agreement. Pastel curls danced before her eyes. "I know you do, baby. I…" She pushed swathes of urine-soaked cloth aside to lean in close against his frame. Her fingers dipped into a dry and unkempt beard to stroke his cheek. Straw locks caught upon her nails. "Let me help you."

He could see snowflakes trapped within the web of her white lashes as she brushed against him. The scent of chocolate and cream wafted from her skin. Crystals of water mingled with the tears in her eyes. He lowered his own heavy lids.

********

"Shut that music off! I believe your job description is to chauffeur this limousine, not put on a concert performance."

"Yes, ma'am."

The music halted as Justice rolled the black divider back into view. Her thoughts raced along with the vehicle as she acknowledged the ensuing silence. Good. People seem less willing to perform their duties properly nowadays; it seems a well-timed chastising must take the place of self-motivation. She leaned back in her seat; a brief sigh provided the only clue to her enjoyment of the hushed isolation within the automobile. Justice preferred the anti-melody of human civilization--the soft purr of the engine as the limousine usurped the asphalt of city streets. Music reminded her of heaven; heaven reminded her of failure; failure reminded her of music.

It had been music that she'd initially heard after her banishment from heaven, when her feet had first graced mortal soil. The swell of the lyre had flooded her ears; the ancient lyrics informed her of the news of the day as her holy feet dragged against baked earth. They had teased her at first, those melodies that in odd ways could parallel the beauty of the Seraphim songs; they had almost made her believe that her fall had not yet taken place. Almost. Yet upon closer scrutiny, Justice could hear the tainted lyrics of the humans--couplets too concerned with the tale of mortal sins and squabbles than the adulation of the Creator. And when she had opened her eyes, she had seen that the music was not all that had been tainted. Indeed, not all.

There had been music in hell too. Thousands of years later when she and Palisade had been captured by the demonic hordes, the loud clanging of cymbals met their arrival and championed their imprisonment as they crawled through dank streets. Untamed rhythms pounded throughout passageways; a deluge of savage drums flooded the realm. The demons writhed before them in a mockery of the frenzy--an ancient holy dance set to the wild pulsing rhythm of angelic life forces. Justice had seen Palisade lead countless frenzy rituals in Elysium’s temples. It had been a dance of beauty to her constant companion.

Closing her eyes as she leaned back against the plush interior of the car, Justice quietly concentrated on the memories of her confinement, once again hearing Palisade scream and wail at the damned crowd as they blasphemed the music and movements that had meant so much to her. Yes, there had been the voice of Palisade throughout her captivity, at first screaming for the release of death, and later singing its way through their incarceration the way an ostrich sticks its head in the sand to avoid its approaching doom. Palisade had been too busy trying to cope with the status quo instead of planning a way to escape it.

And when they had escaped, the songs fled with them. Palisade opened that infernal lounge to tempt the children with mortal ways. The melodies poured from her companion’s domicile, dropped from the mouths of the children, and bled from Justice’s own memories. Music, once identified with heaven, had been twisted and warped by those who would never comprehend the glory of the Creator's light in order to taunt Justice. Each lyric that had graced the angel's ears since the time of her fall was nothing but a caustic reflection of Elysium’s melodies. Until she could get back to heaven, she would merely stop listening.

Justice was deaf as well as blind.

 Brethren and all related characters © Cheryl Lynn Eaton