Den of Dark Angels

Chapter Three

Chapter Three“Poe's protagonist was guilty,” Astria's friends insisted. The five of them: Shannon and her boyfriend Ross, Ingrid, Astria, and Patrick, talked and drank beer and tea in the Electric Toby Lounge in downtown Calgary. It was the weekly meeting of their Poe Society. They talked about 'The Imp of the Perverse', a short tale of a man who felt forced by a devilish sprite to confess to murder.

“Too bad he got caught,” Astria said. Shannon's curls shimmered like carrots pulled fresh from the paper bag, and she held Ross's hand. He slipped his fingers along her thigh and patted a handy buttock.

“I think so, too,” Shannon said. She squirmed in her seat. “Ingrid, what do you think? You have the most sense of all of us. What would you have done? Would you have admitted to something nobody else knew about, just because of a guilty conscience?”

“Just because?” Ingrid said. “I think guilt is a great motivator.”

“Would you have told, if it meant death? Or live with a guilty conscience?”

“I don't know.” Ingrid drew doodles on her paper napkin with a wet finger. Her beer left a puddle of moisture on the Formica top of the table. Ross drank his beer to the bottom of the glass and burped. Shannon let go of his hand. Astria opened her laptop and googled The Imp of the Perverse to help them with comments.

“Where will Poe's protagonist be tomorrow? With the Imp?” she asked.

“In Hell.” Patrick ordered another Red Stock and lined them up. The server, a fellow student, grinned and wiped the table.

“Say it isn't so,” the server said. “I like the guy.”

“It isn't so,” Patrick said.

“Where was Edgar's hero the next day?” Ross asked again.

“Heaven or Hell,” Patrick answered. “It's all the same. One's a loft; one's a basement. I don't believe in either one.”

Ingrid spoke again and the subject changed. Astria's tea steamed even in the warmth of the room. The four mugs of beer frothed with cold white bitterness. The students huddled in their booth while Astria picked at a hole in the leather seat. Patrick threw his arm around her and winked at Ross. He stroked his beard. “Ingrid's seeing things, too,” he said. “Maybe the lions are trying to tell you something, Astria. Like you're both crazy.”

Astria dunked another biscuit in her tea. “You might be right about me but not about Ingrid the brave,” she said. “What could those lions tell me, anyhow? Couple of rock heads. My father was right. They belong on the bridge and in history. A bit like my father, actually…” Her voice trailed off. “You know it's the middle of October by the way they turn the heat up in here.” She pulled her anorak over her head, revealing a tie dyed sweatshirt. Patrick frowned.

“You can read the tea leaves like your dead granny did, or a deck of cards, you little…witch,” Patrick said. “Or you can practice talking to the dead like Edgar Cayce. But don't insist your visions are real, a*s-head.”

“If a famous American psychic talked to the dead, why can't I?”

“ 'The knowledge of life is the knowledge of death',” Shannon interrupted. “Classic Cayce. I believe Ingrid's vision was real and I believe we can talk to the dead.”

Astria's laptop screen glowed blue.

“Shut that damn thing off,” Patrick said. “Maybe the devil's in it. Or a lion.” He gulped another Red Stock and wiped his beard. “Let's go, pumpkin. It's getting late.”

The server smiled and gave a high five to Astria as they left. Ross winked at Patrick and the three women waved.

Patrick's yellow-grey eyes matched the rain. He wasn't going to get into wheels with a bunch of drunks and a bad driver. He scratched his face on the way home. There was a faint red rash on his face which appeared only when he was stressed.