The Teratologist by Wrath James White & Edward Lee

Author:Wrath James White & Edward Lee [White, Wrath James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Edward Lee
Published: 2011-07-10T16:52:03+00:00

Westmore slumped further. Great. Have another drink, Westmore.

“You don’t believe me?” The cigarette tip brightened momentarily, then more smoke floated. “How else would I know those things? Remember the guy you wanted to kill in the Army, behind the Bravo Company barracks? He called you a pussy, so you fought him. You wanted to kill him, Westmore. And you were gonna kill him, too, weren’t you? Remember?”

Westmore felt sick. He did remember.

“But you didn’t do it. Why didn’t you?”

Westmore stared as much at the shadow as he did into the past. “I changed my mind.”

“Wrong. Wanna know why you didn’t?”

“Why?”

“Because of me. I was the whisper in your ear. I was your good judgment.”

“Really?” Westmore chuckled under his breath. I’m hallucinating, fine. I understand now. I can understand that. Yet he challenged the mirage. “Why would you do that? Why would you whisper that in my ear?”

“Because you don’t need murder on your track-record of sin. You’re in deep enough shit already, I can tell you that, asshole.”

“Great language for an angel,” the photographer retorted.

“Hey, God doesn’t give a shit about that. It’s all about what’s here”—the angel touched his head—“and here”—the angel touched his heart—“and how you use that out there.” The angel pointed to the window.

Another drag on the cigarette. Westmore squinted more details; his eyes were acclimating. The “angel” wore dark jeans and a black t-shirt that read, in white block letters: ZZLSEN. He had long straight hair, like someone in a metal band, a handsome, rugged face.

“You’re not an angel, you’re just some fuckin’ guy.”

The figure nodded, and then sipped Westmore’s scotch.

“And, besides,” the photographer added, “angels don’t drink scotch or smoke Marlboros.”

“Why not? I indulge every hundred years or so—I think I’ve earned it.”

”But I thought the body is a temple of the lord.”

“It is, asshole—to you. But I’m immune. I’m a higher being.” Another sip, and he put the glass down. “Johnny Blue’s no big deal. Next one, pour some Macallan.” The angel took a step closer, face out of the moonlight. “Listen, and listen good. This is how we do things. You don’t understand, but listen anyway. I’m from an offshoot order of the Seraphim—I’m called a Caliginaut. Angels from my order willingly descend from the rapture. We’re, like, God’s recon crew, his commandos. We condition ourselves to darkness. We’re…special angels.”

“Where are your wings? Angels have wings.”

“We cut them off ourselves, by the decree of our order. It’s a sacrifice, Westmore. We have to do it ourselves, it’s gnarly.” The angel stepped closer to the French doors, turned, and peeled his t-shirt up. “My attentor joints. See?”

Westmore saw, almost wincing. Two flesh-covered stumps protruded from a y-shaped ridge on his back. “You amputate your own wings is what you’re telling me?”

“Yeah. We use a tool called a Skttaz, like a giant pair of bolt cutters, man. It’s hardcore.”

Westmore felt winded; he dabbed at the gash on his head with a handkerchief. He pushed past the pain, though, and played along with the illusion.

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