Holidays are Hell

When Warren Clarke wasn't fighting crime and leading the agents of Light in a century-long battle against supernatural crime, he spent his down time kneeling in a pew at the Guardian Angel Cathedral. It wasn't that he was particularly religious; like all the star signs in the zodiac he believed in astrology, preordained fate, and that every life and death was written in the sky. So his regular attendance at the cathedral had nothing to do with penance, forgiveness, or an overabundance of piety. In truth, whenever he lit a candle or knelt before the altar, all he was really praying for was a fight.

Zoe wasn't going to be the one to give it to him. So she lit a cigarette and propped a foot up against the towering white obelisk in front of the cathedral, directly beneath the neon cross flaring at its apex. Staring south down the length of flash and glitter of Las Vegas Boulevard through faux horn-runned glasses, she thought, as she always had, that it was an odd place for a cathedral. But it'd been here since 63, outliving most of the casinos, the mobsters, the Howard Hughess and Wynns… remaining a solid and memorable fixture even though it was unremarkable compared to that long stretch of neon just outside its doors.

A statue of the holy family blessing the cathedral's visitors was cradled in the center of the hollowed-out obelisk, and Zoe glanced at it now. The promise of welcome was a strong lure for both the humans buffeted by the surrounding chaos, and especially for the recent influx of immigrant agents from south of the border. After NAFTA's implementation and the subsequent devaluation of the peso, not only had Mexico experienced martial strife, but the paranormal war between good and evil in that country had taken a decidedly ominous turn. One had only to watch the soaring crime rate, the corruption of government officials, and staggering poverty to realize the balance between the two opposing sides had been toppled, and that any agents of Light still alive in the larger cities would have to flee.

So watch was exactly what Warren did. Because something about Vegas drew the transient and displaced.

Mass would be an unnecessary ritual to those fleeing agents, but it'd also be familiar, comforting. And if one of them were looking for an ally—someone to perhaps rebuild a troop in this gambler's paradise—then the most visible cathedral in the city was an obvious place to meet.

But troop 175 was already staked out in this glittering valley, and Warren was their leader, so in his eyes, once these displaced agents left their city of origin they became independents… or rogues, as he called them. How they got that way, and the fact that they'd once been agents of Light, was of no interest to him. He'd eradicate the valley of the rogues, and the threat they posed to his troop, even if he had to do it one by one.

Zoe glanced at the steel and concrete sign to the right of the holy family. The Guardian Angel had mass scheduled for midnight, which meant it had just ended. There were a few stragglers around the pyramid-shaped building, mostly couples, but they were all exiting. Of the two men she saw entering, one was clergy and the other was with a woman who obviously had the place confused with the all-night wedding chapel. Zoe waited.

Finally her gaze locked on a lone man, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans, the open shirttails of his embroidered Guayabera flapping in the wind. He was young, with smooth olive skin, his heritage decidedly Latin. Zoe straightened and called out to him, smiling brightly, waving him closer. He hesitated, but redirected after a moment. "Hey, buddy. Got a light?"

He tilted his head, and if he was an agent he'd have scented her out by now—a human, a lone female, no threat. "No ingles," he said, turning his pockets inside out. "No money."

Zoe sighed and rolled her eyes. Damned newcomers.

They all thought hooking was legal in Vegas. "Dame fuego," she said to him, and mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips.

His expression cleared, and he colored even under the kiss of his golden complexion, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he dug into his shirt pocket and withdrew a lighter. It was one of the millions sold on the Boulevard, the infamous WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS sign stamped on one side. She flicked him a mildly flirtatious glance from beneath her glasses and bent forward as he flicked the lighter's wheel. It flared on the second try and Zoe caught the smooth gleam of his fingertips, unmarred in the wavering light. Like hers. Like all agents.

Her voice was a throaty purr as she blew smoke up and out. "Gracias, señor…?"

"Solamente Carlos," He said almost shyly, and Zoe felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing what awaited him on the other side of those doors.