Chapter Text
Chas glanced at Zed, but she was having just as hard of a time keeping her face blank as he was.
“You don’t believe me,” Mrs. Windesar said. She seemed to sink into herself, folding her hands into her lap and dropping her gaze to the pumpkin in the middle of her living room floor. “I know how ridiculous I sound.”
“It’s not that,” Zed said, doing a decent job of recovering. “And it’s not the first thing we’ve heard that’s unusual.”
Detective Corrigan wouldn’t have tipped them off about anything that wasn’t—although he’d neglected to mention she believed her husband had been turned into a squash.
“Well, I see no alternative.” Mrs. Windesar’s focus shifted to Chas. “You’re going to have to pick him up.”
Chas frowned. “You want me to take the pumpk—your husband—with us?”
“No, just try to lift him up.” She leaned forward, as if to get a better view. “But be careful. I don’t want him injured.”
Zed caught his eye and gave him a slight shrug.
Years of knowing John had made him leery of innocent seeming requests, at least where magic was concerned, but if anyone was going to do it, he was the safest candidate. He stooped to pick up the pumpkin, only to jerk back upright when his fingers lost their grip. It was heavier than it appeared.
Mrs. Windesar’s expression became almost satisfied for an instant before it returned to one of grief.
Prepared this time, Chas widened his stance and got a better hold before lifting, but he only managed to get it a few inches off the ground.
“Henry was never a small man. Nearly three hundred pounds last he was measured.”
Chas moved out of the way as Zed squatted down beside the pumpkin. She placed her hand beside the stem, her forehead wrinkling in concentration.
“Was Henry eating something before he changed?” Zed asked after a moment.
Mrs. Windesar's eyes narrowed, looking almost offended. “No, he was busy bringing his pumpkins inside.”
“Some type of hard candy maybe? In a black wrapper with stars and—”
“Oh, yes. Zadster’s. He got those from some shop downtown.”
Zed stood up, sharing a glance with Chas. “Did anyone else eat any?”
“No. I don’t care for hard candies.” Mrs. Windesar’s frown deepened. “You think those were responsible for this?”
“We can’t know for certain,” Zed said. “But I promise you we’re going to check into it and do everything we can to help Henry.”
It was similar to the assurances John tended to make, except that Zed seemed to genuinely believe them. John only wanted to.
“We’re going to need the rest of the candy.” Chas moved to stand by Zed. “And the address of the shop where your husband got them.”
Mrs. Windesar shook her head. “The candy would have been in his pocket." She paused to look forlornly at the pumpkin. "But I’ll write down the address for you.”
Zed took the piece of paper as soon as Mrs. Windesar finished writing.
As they left, Chas gave her one John’s cards, promising to contact her if they found a solution.
“I think I’ve heard this fairy tale before,” Zed said as she slid into the seat of the truck. “Stay up past midnight and get turned into a—”
“The coach got turned into a pumpkin, not Cinderella.”
Zed raised an eyebrow at him. “And you would know this because…?”
“Because I have a daughter who loves that story.” Chas turned the key in the ignition. “So where are we going?”
He heard Zed unfold the paper, but no sound followed other than the hum of the engine. He glanced over to see a deep furrow in her brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mr. Wheeler’s—the lead John was following.”
Chas shrugged. “Then he’s on the right track.”
For a moment Zed appeared disturbed by his lack of concern, but then she shook it off, as if she was learning to stuff her feelings down as well as the rest of them.
"Let's just hope he doesn't have a sweet tooth."
“He’s on the job,” Chas said, shifting the truck into drive. “He’s not going to get caught in something like that.”
“Let's hope not, because if we show up and he’s been turned into a frog…” Zed glanced over at him, one corner of her mouth turning upward. “I’m not going to be the one that has to kiss him.”
Chas snorted. “He’d have to be a prince first.”
Zed returned his grin. “Acts enough like one.”
Chas’ laughter startled him as he pulled out onto the highway. Of all the psychics John could have taken in, he’d done alright with Zed.
#
The sign for the shop read: Mr. Wheeler’s Hot Jam and Wonders, and through the window Chas could see rows and rows of a kitschy mix of hot sauce, jams, and souvenirs. He couldn’t see the front counter, but he could vaguely make out voices arguing and hoped one of them wasn’t John’s.
Chas had called him twice on drive over, and once more on the walk—it was impossible to park anywhere in the French Quarter, so they’d left the truck in the parking lot by the hotel—but John still wasn’t answering. It didn’t make a lot of sense to revisit somewhere John had already covered, but since Chas couldn’t get ahold of him, he’d rather check it out. Just to be safe.
Chas pushed the door open and rounded the corner of the display shelf, only to come to a halt.
“If you don’t leave,” the shopkeeper was saying to John, “I’m going to be forced to call the police.”
Zed crashed into Chas from behind, and he was absently aware of her pushing her way around him, and of the way she froze too once she had a clear view.
John was standing in front of the counter. His jacket, shoes, and socks were strewn across the floor. His tie was dangling loosely, the top buttons on his shirt undone, and this state of public dishevelment would have been cause enough for alarm if it wasn’t entirely overshadowed by his wings.
They were huge. Golden-white feathers arched high over his shoulders, catching stray sun rays and bouncing them back with shimmering light.
“Is that a costume?” Zed asked, her voice tight.
“I hope so.” But even as Chas said it, he watched the wings twitch in time with John’s movements, and he didn’t think John could afford something that good, at least not on short notice.
Maybe it was an illusion. Something John had cast to help with the case.
John turned at the sound of their voices, and his face broke into a wide smile that looked out of place. It was too bright, too easy, as if he’d never experienced a moment of doubt or disappointment.
John strode toward them and one wing clipped the top of the display shelf, clearing it of bottles and jars, and splattering Chas’ hope for an illusion down with the shattered glass and the dozen shades of red goo.
The shopkeeper swore, reaching for something Chas hoped wasn’t a phone or a shotgun. But he didn’t get a chance to see what it was because John was cupping both sides of his face, pulling him down to kiss one cheek and then the other with the kind of sloppy enthusiasm he usually only managed when drunk.
“Happy to see you, Francis,” John said, and the brilliance of his smile didn't diminish even once Chas had pried himself free.
“Francis?” Zed glanced at Chas, but he didn't respond. He had bigger things to worry about than his birth name, such as who this was—because, angel or not, he certainly wasn’t John.
Chas twisted his fist in the front of the impostor’s shirt, yanking him up so he could stare directly into his face and watch for any signs of lying.
The impostor’s eyes lit up in a way that was startlingly familiar and a soft sound escaped his lips. He made no move to fight back.
Chas refused to be swayed by his apparent docility. “What the hell is going on?”
“A bit of business.” His eyes lingered on Chas’ mouth and he licked his lips. “Always happy to play later though, when it’s through.”
Chas hesitated. That had sounded like something John would’ve said.
One side of the impostor’s face had been lifted in a smile that was almost indecent, but then, as if sensing Chas’ indecision, his expression became more serious.
“This wanker”—he jerked his head toward the shopkeeper—“has been handing out bedeviled candy as door prizes. Turns the poor sods into the last thing they spoke to.”
Chas opened his mouth, but then he closed it again, a new theory starting to form.
“Did you eat any of it, John?” Zed asked.
“Had me a bite, yeah. But don’t worry, love.” He twisted around in Chas’ grasp so he could wink at her. “Angels are immune to such potions.”
“Did Manny tell you that?” Chas asked, his grip on the shirt slackening.
“Nah, he was going on about that whole rising darkness and choosing sides—all a lot of hot air when he’s talking to one of his own, you know?”
Chas released John and closed his eyes. He wished he could shut out his thoughts.
“I’m calling the police,” the shopkeeper announced.
Chas’ eyes snapped open, darting to where the man was brandishing the phone at them like it was some form of repellant.
“Wait,” Chas said. “We’ll pay for the damages.” The last thing he wanted was to have to try to explain John’s wings to the police. Corrigan was only able to cover up so much.
Confusion had crossed John’s face at the word damages, and he turned, glancing around until he spotted the broken jars and debris on the carpet. He frowned down at it as if he couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened, but was beginning to have some suspicions.
John started to walk toward the mess, but Chas grabbed him—gentler this time—to keep him in place.
“We need cash.” When Chas got no response he added, “John?”
John transferred his frown to Chas.
“Cash?” Chas prompted.
“What would I be doing with cash? Bloody human problem.”
Chas found himself returning the frown. Everything on Mrs. Windesar’s husband had disappeared when he’d become a pumpkin. Chas hoped that wasn’t a universal trait of the curse, and that John's money hadn't vanished when his wings appeared. The last thing Chas needed was to end up paying for this out of his own resources.
Well, there was only one way to find out.
“Just look in your pockets,” Chas said.
John looked down at himself, but beyond that he made no move to comply. Chas was beginning to notice that he didn’t look disagreeable so much as simply…lost.
Chas heard the shopkeeper shift in impatience. They didn't have time for this.
“You keep it hidden.” Chas forced his tone to sound as calm as he could. “Let me show you.”
Chas went slowly, expecting at any moment that John would flinch away, but he only looked at Chas curiously as he was patted down, even lifting his arms and widening his stance to allow better access. John’s breath hitched when Chas got to his inner thigh, but no wisecrack or innuendo followed.
Chas found the hidden pocket sewn into the seam and slid his fingers inside, retrieving the wad of bills, and as he brushed against the thin fabric John grunted, pressing into Chas’ touch.
Chas straightened, doing his best to ignore John’s reaction—or the increase it brought in his own heart rate—as he turned toward the counter. It was one of John’s larger stashes, and he peeled off several hundreds and handed them to the shopkeeper.
To the man’s credit, he didn’t ask for more, but his expression stayed unwelcoming and he thrust an accusing finger toward John.
“I want him out. Now.”
“He will be, we just need to ask—”
Zed interrupted Chas with a touch to his chest. “Take him back to the hotel. I’ll stay and handle this.”
There was determination on her face, and it was true there was no reason for all three of them needed to be here. At the very least, the man would be more likely to talk if John wasn’t there.
Chas divided the cash in half and handed her a stack. “Try to bring some of it back. We’ll be in..." Chas’ eyes drifted to John’s wings, to the unfamiliar way he just watched Chas make arrangements without trying to take over—there were bound to be more unknowns from the curse he’d yet to discover. The last thing Chas wanted was to bring all that back to his own room, where his name was the one on the bill.
"John’s room,” Chas finished.
“Meet you there.” Zed gave him a stiff nod as she switched her attention to the shopkeeper.
“C’mon.” Chas motioned John toward him. “You’re coming with me.”
He expected John to argue, to tell him that this was official angel business, but instead he just gave Chas a pleased smile and a slight incline of his head before he moved past him. John’s new compliancy must have come from the spell, but rather than being a relief, it made Chas uneasy.
John had almost made it all the way to the door before Chas realized he still wasn’t wearing his coat or shoes.
“Hold on.” Chas quickly snatched up John’s things. He folded the coat over his arm—as much as he wished he could use it to cover the wings, it wasn’t nearly big enough—and offered the shoes and socks to John. “Here.”
John made no move to take them. “Don’t need those.”
Chas stopped, momentarily at a loss for words, and John turned to leave as if the matter was settled.
Chas shook off his surprise, seizing John’s arm before he made it to the door. “We’ve got to walk at least six blocks. On pavement. So yes, you do.”
John squinted at him the way he did whenever faced with something he found incomprehensible or unpleasant. Or both.
It was probably some weird angel rule—shoes were unclean or some other such nonsense. Chas had never actually seen Manny, so for all he knew maybe all of them appeared barefoot. But Chas didn’t have time to play twenty questions and figure it out.
“Oh hell.” He dropped into a crouch and seized one of John’s ankles. As with before, John was oddly pliant, scowling slightly but allowing Chas to lift one of his feet and roll on a sock.
Behind Chas, Zed and the shopkeeper had gone completely silent, and he could feel their eyes boring into him as he worked, making his fingers rubbery as he pushed a shoe over John’s heel.
“This is just like dressing Geraldine when she was four,” Chas grumbled, trying to brush away his embarrassment as he started on the laces.
He felt a touch on his head and looked up to see that John’s scowl had vanished, and he was looking down at Chas with something that bordered on affection.
“Wouldn’t say being compared to the one you love most,” John said, his voice low and rich, “is much of a hardship.”
Chas stared at him for a long moment before he remembered that wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. He jerked his head back down, but it was too late, he could feel the heat spreading across his face and neck, and damn it, John always did manage to say the worst things at the worst times.
Chas concentrated on finishing the task, and even though his color had mostly returned to normal by the time he stood up, he took John’s arm and dragged him out of the shop without making eye contact with anyone.
John went willingly through the door, but as soon as they were outside, he pulled away and took out a cigarette.
Chas watched while John lit it and took a slow drag, uncomfortably aware of the people passing as they turned to stare. The smoke curled upward, breaking apart against his wings, and Chas absently wondered if it would stain them yellow the way it did upholstery.
When John was finally ready, they started to walk.
“Try to keep your wings tucked in,” Chas said, moving slightly ahead so they wouldn’t take up the entire sidewalk. “You don’t want to hit anyone.”
John gave him a lopsided smile, as if he thought Chas was being ridiculous, but he folded them in more tightly anyway.
They were getting a steady supply of odd looks, but no one actually seemed alarmed by John’s appearance. If anything, they seemed to approve, and John even receiving a few cheers and catcalls. Chas suspected it would have been different if this had happened anywhere but New Orleans.
They made it almost all the entire way through the six block walk to the hotel before they were stopped.
“Oh wow,” a girl said. She looked to be in her mid-teens and was wearing a shirt with the words: Gabriel is my wingman. She stepped close to John, as if she intended to divine the mystery of his existence from his pores. “You’re perfect.”
John had been backing away from her toward the shop windows, but his face twisted into a lopsided smile at her words.
He shrugged. “I do me best.”
“This is exactly what an angel would look like. Gritty, dirty clothes, sloppy hair—it just wouldn’t be possible to remain untouched when you’re down in the trenches, doing God’s work where it’s most needed.” She motioned at another teen who was lurking behind her, a boy whose forearms were covered with neon crucifix bracelets almost up to his elbows and a shirt that read: bible squad. “Get your camera.”
“If you don’t mind,” she said to John, “I’d like to get a picture with you.”
“Sorry,” Chas said, “but we’re in a hurry to—”
“Don’t mind a bit.” John gave Chas a brief smirk before moving closer to the shop window and out of the way of the foot traffic. He flared his wings as the girl came to stand beside him.
She slung an arm around his waist and John looked forward proudly as her friend snapped the photo.
Chas rolled his eyes.
“I can’t wait to see your act tomorrow. You’ve done a great job with these,” she said, reaching out to touch one of the feathers. “How do you make them move?”
Chas stepped forward, ready to get between John and the girl if necessary, but John caught his eye and shook his head, no.
“Trade secret.” John winked at her.
“Of course.” The girl smiled, apparently accepting that as an answer.
She switched places with the boy so she could take his photo next.
“What about your friend?” the boy asked when they were finished, glancing at Chas. “Is he supposed to be dressed up as the lost soul you’re trying to save?”
“Something like that,” John said and the glee on his face made Chas want to smack it off.
“We should get a picture with both of you.” She looked up at Chas and then back at John. “But it won’t look right if the angel’s the shorter one.”
“We could have him kneel in prayer,” the boy suggested.
But before Chas could say exactly what he thought of that idea, John stepped in front of him, his feathers covering Chas’ face and making him cough.
“Francis isn’t exactly the kneeling type. Now me on the other hand…” The look he shot Chas was absolutely filthy, but luckily no one else was able to see it. “I understand the importance of humility.”
Chas laughed, despite himself, but his amusement quickly faded because something wasn’t adding up. John’s behavior was different, obviously, but he was still acting a lot more like…well, like John, than Chas would have expected from an angel.
“Amen,” the girl said and both she and the boy smiled. She turned to point at some concrete steps just past them. “What if he sat on the stairs?”
This was taking too long. They needed to get back to the hotel so they could figure out exactly what was wrong with John and what needed to be done to make it right.
Chas shook his head. “No, just…” He gestured for John to go in front of him. “If you stand on the first step, that’ll even us out.”
“That’s the spirit, mate.” John grinned at him as he took his place in front of Chas. “Now, just look at me like I’m the light of your life and we’ll be all set.”
Chas was scowling when the camera flashed, but it was the best they were going to get because he was done.
“Great,” the boy said, putting the camera back in his bag.
Chas stepped back, giving John room to exit the stairs.
“What’s your email address?” the girl asked John. “I’ll send you copies.”
“Don’t have an email, love,” John said, which wasn’t true but Chas suspected he thought it was. “Angels don’t need that kind of thing.”
The girl laughed, but Chas could see she was disappointed.
“I have one,” Chas offered. “I’ll share them with him later.” He gave her an address that wasn’t connected to anything personal. Who knew, if they could get this curse reversed, maybe he could blackmail John with them later.
“Can’t wait to see you both at the revival!” the girl said as she and the boy waved goodbye.
Confusion flickered across John’s face, but he masked it quickly, waving back at them.
It was, without a doubt, the most peaceful encounter Chas had ever seen John have with religious types.
“C’mon,” Chas said, patting John’s arm. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”
John nodded, looking oddly content as they resumed their walk.
Chas was just grateful that they only one block left to go.