Den of Dark Angels

Chapter OneAstria Brin's greatest fear was abandonment, yet she arranged it herself. Her favorite uncle, a fireman, had taught her never to show fear, as he had not, although the flames she set burned him black and shriveled. Even the death of her beloved maternal grandmother in the same fire, and her nanny (dear Nanny!) didn't deter the younger Astria from braving the whispered gossip at school and in the papers, and smiling in the face of loss. Close by the mansion whose white face was grey with soot, her wealthy parents buried the victims in haste and money exchanged hands in an effort to veil the horrendous day. They knew who could have set the fire, but like many a parent of a criminal, hid the crime and pretended all was well. Astria, ten years later, remained haunted, and when the rigid lions from the Centre Street Bridge followed her home and slavered greedily in the dark corners of her closet, she thought they must be remnants of revenge from the crooked charred bones of the past. Patrick helped her to rationalize those grave monsters, and she thought he was well deserved as a lover and confidante in their mutual complicity to commit forgetfulness. She was stuck in the possibility of major guilt and a future crawling with regret, and he – he was a nihilistic presence. So Astria sat up now and faced the danger. Next to her in the bed made of wooden slats, the smooth white sheets over his chest, her partner Patrick Ferguson snored softly; the blond tendrils of his beard rose and fell with each breath. Astria knew that Patrick would be as little physical help to her in the bowels of night as he was during the day, though his body under the sores was lean and strong, and his s****l prowess admirable. She shuddered and glanced at the glowing numerals 3:42 on her bedside clock, the polished floor gleaming blue beneath it. The young woman braced herself on both hands. A muffled roar snaked from across the room. The blue light illuminated her face – slim, tense, watchful. Their closet door creaked open, revealing broad yellow orbs which glowed and blinked out. Astria's bare feet struck the tiled floor and she closed the door. “You know,” Patrick said the next morning on their walk to the C-train, “some hallucinogens might put lions in anyone's closet. It could explain the nightmares.” “They're not nightmares and I don't take hallucinogens. I see their eyes. I hear them roar. It's like Stephen King designed our bedroom closets,” Astria said. A match flared in his cupped hands. Patrick inhaled, cloying sweet smoke. “I never noticed them.” They passed beneath the concrete lions guarding Centre Street Bridge. They would tread below the lions again coming back. Astria pulled on her bulky anorak and shivered. “People don't look up. Even when they're walking. The lions have been here since before Moses came down from the mountain. Nobody sees them, and they follow us home.” Patrick took Astria's hand and swung it, running his free hand over his long blond hair and dirty beard. “You've been reading too much Edgar Allan Poe, a*s-girl. Poe took opium or something. You my woman, girl. You don't take no drugs, hear me? I'm the only pothead here and even so, we can't afford w**d half the time – we're poor students, and if you're going to be a lawyer someday like your daddy, you sure don't want to get busted.” The sidewalk curved upward toward the C-train station. A fine fog covered the pillars of the bridge, silvering the granite and reflecting the sheets of pink and grey in the east, and a sun which struggled to rise. “I love Edgar Poe,” Astria said. “Heck, my nanny taught me to read and I bet my first word was 'nevermore'.” “Only rich kids have nannies. Great, we're over the bridge.” Mist dripped from Patrick's long nose, past his wide expressive mouth to his beard. Astria strode along beside him. “I never asked to be born rich,” she said. Patrick grinned. “I never asked to be born.” “We sure don't live rich.” Astria shrugged. He pulled at his beard and made a face, the money a barrier yet a bond between them. “Thanks to your parents who hate me. They think I'm a bum living on their money, some kind of boozing professional student who'll never finish anything – and they're right.” He laughed. “You can prove them wrong,” she said. The river hissed. They caught the C-train to the campus where they were students. Whistling, Patrick departed for his economics class. As well as enjoying evening classes in photography, her true avocation, Astria's pre-law studies were not difficult for her, and she spent her spares researching old cases in the library in preparation for next year. Her friend Ingrid studied in the cubicle next to her, untidy texts strewn on the floor and beneath her chair, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys in search of German historical research. Ingrid was a sturdy Valkyrie, afraid of nothing, and would face down the hounds of hell by herself if needed. She was a good friend to have, Astria thought, and the blonde Viking's dog, as well. Nothing like Patrick and their dachshund Goliath, no one at home to protect Astria, although, of course. She. Was. Not. Afraid. Past the balustrades encircling the library to the dripping quad and the bulwarked city to the river, the stone lions crouched on the plinths of the bridge, hidden behind a curtain of rain and sleet and… waited.