ANGELS IN STRANGE PLACES

How Dexter McWeary and St. John Edward Until Sunday III try to save more than themselves.

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Chapter One:

Angels, Snobs, and A Little Bit of Magic.

"Well, I heard that St. John is the most beautiful man in the whole wide world!"

This, declared by a rotund little blond girl of twelve years. Yes, I thought. She would certainly know.

"Missy, shhh!" A timid brunette cried, spittle and all. Her eyes grew wide and watery. She looked around the store, and satisfied that the nefarious St. John was not, in fact, in the vicinity, preceded with her admonishments. "Missy, you mustn't say his name! Gran told me that if you say that name three times he'll appear and peel off your skin!"

"I've heard that too! Do be quiet, Missy!" Whimpered a girl with short black hair, who looked as though she needed a change of undergarments.

The gaggle of grade-school girls continued to wander about the store, swishing their petticoats and squealing about the legendary St. John, his rumored beauty, as well as his numerous acts of depravity and sin. I watched from the counter, wrench in hand as I tried to fix the damned register. I had a paper and pencil at hand, but since Father was so excited when the register descended from the heavens, I thought I might hold off on giving up on his expensive, completely unnecessary, purchase. At least until my patience ran out and I threw it out the door.

"Oh," I heard the blond--Missy--begin. She picked up a yellow ribbon and put it down dismissively, little nose upturned. She faced her tiny troopers and took a breath. "Mamma says that the Queen's Emissary is to arrive today!"

A collective gasp rose from the group, and me. Luckily, they were much too intent on their bossy leader to pay much mind to the shopkeep's daughter.

Missy was smugly satisfied. Apparently she'd let out a secret.

"Oh yes!" she said in a breathy shout. "I heard Mamma speaking of it to Gervais, you know, the butler. She said to buy a side of beef, as she intends to invite him to sup at our mansion."

The little girls began squealing and clamoring, while Missy basked in the glory of their pleas to be invited over that night. Some asked it he was handsome, others asked how much money he had.

Missy had grabbed a small, delicately crafted set of imported combs--one of two sets that made the trip from New Tempest-- as well as a box of chocolates and a lowly bag of licorice, presumably for her posse. All of these she set down on the counter. She didn't spare me a glance as she turned to quiet her congregation.

She paused for a breath, letting the anticipation build. I raised a brow, setting down the wrench and tallying the total on the sheet of paper.

"Mamma says that the Queen's emissary has come to spread the good word of our Queen. And," pause, " to kill Rektus Crane!"

I couldn't help it, I groaned. The last thing this town needed was a stuck-up aristocrat who fancied himself a gunslinger, intent on banishing the big bad Rektus Crane; bank robber, womanizer, and cold blooded killer. Quite a few people were going to lose blood before the week was out, but I supposed that wasn't really my problem. Many men had lost their lives in the pursuit of Crane and his gang of rapists, thieves, and death dealers. This Emissary would have better luck summoning the mystical St. John for tea.

I wordlessly presented the esteemed Missy with her total. Without reading it, she slapped a handful of shiny silvers on the counter, waited for her change, and left with her clamoring parakeets. I sighed. It had been a long day of thankless work.

The General Store of Iverwilde had been in my family since the town was born...which really wasn't so long. Iverwilde was settled less than thirty years ago, and my mother and father had been there from the beginning. Me, their only child, born some ten years later. I'd grown up in this store, with the dust and the spiders and the smell of old leather. We usually sold hardware, tools, harness, candies, and so forth. But sometimes, a book or jewel or some sort of foreign delight would end up in a shipment. And they would sit, locked in a desk drawer, until someone with too much money looked for a place to spend it. Cue Missy, her mother, and the other upstart families who'd blown into Iverwilde in the last five or so years.

With a bored sigh I slipped the wrench underneath the counter, glancing at the register before slipping from behind the counter. With the exception of a few novels and the delicate sets of combs we sometimes received, I never saw much that was beautiful in Iverwilde. I glanced at the evening glare of sunlight outside, at the puffs of dust that swirled in the air.

As I locked up the shop behind me, I thought that perhaps life was so dull and dusty in Iverwilde that people made up stories to keep from going crazy. Like St. John, the golden haired boy, rumored to have not only been raised by lions, but also had the misfortune of being kidnapped from his father, the King, at the ripe old age of two.

I looked down at my boots, at the columns of rust-colored dust that rose with each footfall. Yes, and he could probably speak to the dead and turn coal to diamonds and sing like a canary.

"Why not?" I mumbled, pushing through the doors of the tavern. It took a moment for my sight to adjust to the dim, smoky interior of the The Trampling Goldfish. Being one of the founding families of Iverwilde had it's perks; all of my relatives had a stake in this town. My parents, the General Store. My eccentric uncle, the Inn and ale house. Being me had it advantages sometimes. Like when it got me free food.

"Hey Dex!" Someone called. I squinted toward the bar where a portly, slightly balding man in his forties waved. I returned the greeting and watched as he hastily shuffled some papers into a pile.

"In a hurry?" I asked, hopping onto a stool. He didn't spare me a glance as he shoved the papers into the crook of an elbow.

"Gotta run Dex, have to get these to Widow Reed before she turns me in to the Sheriff!"

Yes, I will admit that what my uncle said just then sounded shady. The truth was, he took a loan from the Widow Reed about six year ago, when drought hit the area and no one seemed to have money but her. He was damn near paid off, but Reed had a nasty habit of bending the sheriff's ear if she didn't get what she wanted when she wanted it. I wondered often how much of this town she owned, just by doling out loans.

"D'ya mind if I make a bite to eat? I'm starved!" I called to him as he rushed past me.

"No!" He called over his shoulder. "Leave some for the guests though!"

I was about to say, what guests? but he was gone. I swiveled around on the stool and did a slow look across the room. Truth be told, this was the better of Iverwilde's two Inns, despite the fact that it was completely empty at the moment.

The tavern portion of the inn was dark, with six tables set precisely around the room, four chairs evenly spaced in a circle around each. A great fireplace sat across from me; it would be roaring with fire as soon as the sun set, but for now was empty, not a speck of ash to be seen. Uncle Mic employed three men and six women to keep the the Trampling Goldfish running. That included sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing obsessively until Mic was satisfied that there were no mice or bugs in his Inn. He was terrified of mice.

Watching Uncle Mic's little tuft of brown hair glide by the window on his way to assuage the Widow Reed, I was struck by the fact that I resembled none of my family members. Standing, I looked into the polished surface of the liqueur cabinet. A pale girl with short, curly black hair and wide blue eyes glanced back at me. I wasn't terribly beautiful, I knew. I would describe myself as okay looking, and would roll my eyes at anyone who said different. The last thing I needed was smoke blown up...well, you know.

I had a mind for a cold glass of milk and a turkey sandwich. I wandered around the bar, bumped my hip accidentally on the corner, swore, then preceded into the back. Squatting on my haunches, I peered into the old ice box and studied the neatly stacked and labeled packages.

Turkey, lettuce, and mayo in hand, I shuffled back to the bar counter trying not to trip.

"Hello."

"WAH!" I dropped everything I was carrying on my feet and yelped. Alright, it didn't really hurt, but I was startled.

A hooded man sat at the bar, looking at me curiously. I only say curiously based on the way his head was cocked to the side; I couldn't see his face at all.

He suppressed a chuckle.

I glared at him, and with heat rising in my face tried to pick up the ruined lettuce head without swearing. It was my resolution to stop swearing so much, as Father said it scared the customers.

Straightening up, I shoved all of the food onto the counter and glared at the stranger.

"Um. Sorry," he said simply.

"You're lucky I didn't have the milk," I said to him, as if that made perfect sense. He didn't respond, merely looking around the tavern.

"Ahem," I declared.

"Yes?" His hood turned back to me.

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" There was a hint of wonder in his voice, as he carefully considered the question. "Well," he began. His voice was deep, but somehow light at the same time. "I want many things, very few of which you could help me with I suppose."

I huffed. Quickly losing patience here. "Well, I was about to make a sandwich before a creepy man in a hood scared me into destroying all I hold dear, which includes that tattered head of lettuce right there. However, since I am such a kind and magnanimous person," I took a breathe. "then I would be happy, neigh, honored to make someone so esteemed as yourself a sandwich as well."

Silence, and then. "You talk a lot. But I would like a sandwich."

I raised a brow--one of my habits-- and shook my head before disappearing into the back and then reappearing with not only lettuce but a jug of freezing cold cow's milk. I grabbed two tall glasses from beneath the counter, set them on the table, then carefully tipped the mammoth glass jug. I handed mystery man one of the glasses, sipped from my own, and got to work sawing off hunks of turkey. He watched me, taking little nips at his milk intermittently. I felt surprisingly comfortable as I worked, despite the fact that a strange...stranger was staring at me quite openly.

"What's your name, fair maiden?" He asked suddenly.

I snorted, thereby negating all hope of ever being mistaken as a 'fair maiden' again.

"Dexter," I said, peering into that hood. "Dexter McWeary. People just call me Dex." I looked back down at the four slices of bread and laid misshapen hunks of turkey on them.

"I'm Edward."

"Pleasure," I mumbled.

I cut a sandwich down the middle, assembled it onto a plate, and slid it toward 'Edward', if that was even his real name. I did the same for the second sandwich and stood about five feet from the man, silently taking a bite. He dug in, gallantly commending my sandwich making skills.

Halfway through the sandwich I said, "So, where are you from?"

His hood shifted upward, and I caught a flash of blond hair. My heart skipped a beat, but I shoved the excitement down. A lot of people had blond hair. Not that shade, my mind countered.

He quickly grabbed the hood and pulled it back down. For all I knew, he could be horribly disfigured under there. Or a bandit. Or both.

"I live not far from here."

"New Tempest?"

"No, not quite. In between."

My eyes narrowed. "...okay."

"Looks like there's a storm coming in the next couple days." He said abruptly.

I peered out the window, where the sun, bald as a newborn, glared in the cloudless sky. Not a wisp of white in sight.

"Why do you say that?"

His shoulders shrugged underneath his cloak. "Just know."

"...okay."

I gulped a mouthful of milk to wash down the sandwich and, much to my dismay, burped.

"S'cuse me," I said.

He let out a tiny burp to echo mine. Then he laughed. I couldn't help it, I joined in.

"We make a charming pair," I remarked, setting my glass down. It was then that I really wanted to see his face. But how rude would it be to ask him to take down his hood? About as rude as keeping it up when talking to someone, I thought.

Our laughter petered out and I mentally flailed around, trying to think of something to talk about. Edward seemed entirely comfortable in his silence, but I felt a pestering need to keep up the conversation.

"So, I hear an Emissary is due in town today." I snorted, to show my appreciation of all things royal and decreed.

The hooded man's reaction was not one that I expected. He slid off of the stool fluidly and practically flew to the door. Carefully, he poked his head out and looked up and down the street. Perhaps satisfied that the Emissary and his entourage had not arrived yet, or simply needing another way to expend energy, the man spun back around and strode quickly up to me.

By this point I was openly staring at him, mouth slightly agape. He walked purposefully around the bar and stood before me.

He was a good three inches taller then me, which was no easy feat, being 5'11 myself.

"Yes?" I whispered.

"When?" His tone was urgent. He grasped my shoulders, forcefully but not in a painful way.

"I-I don' know. Sometime this evening. Soon." My voice was strained and low.

As if sensing my fear, the man relaxed his grip and let his hands fall.

"Thank you, you've been very kind to me. But I have one more request."

I nodded slowly.

"Is there a way out of here," he jerked his head back towards the door. "besides that way?" There was a panicked undercurrent to his words.

Eventually the cogs of my mind started turning again. I felt like there was not enough air in the room. My heart thudded painfully in my chest. "In the back," I head myself say. " Turn right, second door on the left."

He leaned closer to me, and right next to my ear said, "Thank you, Dexter McWeary. I won't forget."

As he pulled away I felt my hands rise of their own accord. Fingers clasped around the edge of his hood, and I was terrified as I pushed it back. He didn't stop me, maybe too startled to.

My throat tightened. Slate gray eyes, long dark lashes; he stared back at me, really looking at me. A small, straight nose, smooth brow, graceful yet strong jawline. I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

His hair was a startling shade of gold. It was slightly long, falling down in perfect little waves around his face.

"An angel," I breathed.

His lips curved into a kind, warm little smile. "No," he said simply.

And then he was gone.

It was then that I realized he hadn't paid me.

"Dammit!"

I was still fuming behind the bar, viciously scrubbing the counter top when the door banged open. For a moment I thought it might be Edward--for whom I had a few choice words-- but it ended up being my uncle. He was breathing harshly, hands on his chest as he tried to slow his heart from racing away.

"Everything okay?" I asked, alarmed.

"He's coming here Dexter! Here! Holy Hell!"

I winced at his usage of my choice swear word--how I hated my resolution--and then said,

"Who? Whose coming here?"

"The Queen's Emissary! That's who. Oh, don't you start groaning--yes, I heard you." He broke away from the door, brown eyes flashing dangerously. Uh oh, Mic was on a mission. Better get out while I could.

"Alright, well I'm sure you have a ton of important upper management tasks to accomplish, so I'll jus-"

"Oh no, you're going to stay right here and help me! Clean! We must clean!"

Uncle Mic clamped onto my arm and dragged me with him.

Ten minutes later I was sullenly scrubbing the stone inlay around the fireplace, despite the fact that it was, and had been, spotless. Uncle Mic was running around the tavern, screaming at Jenna, one of the maids, to find him a dustpan. All I could do was shake my head and appear to be doing something.

Unfortunately, all of this cleaning gave me time to fume about what had just happened. Edward. Was he just some rogue who played me with an elaborate ruse into getting free food? Or was he really as earnest as he seemed. And could he possibly have been, well, him?

I shook my head, doubling my efforts at scouring the stones. St. John was just a myth. St. John was made-up, a fairy tale. He was just a hazy figure used to scare little kids. Not a lost prince raised by lions. Not a warlock, and certainly not a robed man who hoodwinked young girls into a free meal.

Right?

Eventually my back began screaming loud enough where I had to straighten up or fall over. Despite my efforts, the stone looked exactly the same; pristine.

"Oh well," I muttered, hobbling back over to the bar where I deposited the rag. I pushed hair out of my face and took a breath. Outside, the sun was beginning to wane in the sky. There was a distant rumble, like a storm. I thought about what the hooded man had said, about there being a storm on the horizon.

The rumbling grew louder, deeper, more pronounced. Men were shouting, and I felt my chest freeze. I ran to the door, grabbed the frame to keep from toppling out, and swung my head around.

Thank God. A multitude of green and yellow banners flew above the throng of travelers making their way down main street. The Queen's Emissary had arrived, and brought with him tens of twenties of men on horseback, grooms for the horses, and grooms for the men at arms. My brow wrinkled and teeth clenched as I withdrew.

"You need to be polite, darling Dexter." I turn and saw Uncle Mic looking crazed and anxious, rubbing a glass obsessively. Plying the glass from his hands, I gave him a narrow look.

"Fat luck, that happening. I'd rather drown than-"

"You will mind you manners." His voice was stern; a tone I only heard when he was angry or extremely stressed. Or both.

I scoffed, but ducked my head and nodded. Who knew how much Mic would be raking in while the Emissary stayed at the Trampling Goldfish. Hundreds, maybe thousands of silver. My stomach turned cold just thinking about it.

"Can I leave?" I whined. "I'm not sure if I can keep from spitting or swearing in His Eminence's presence."

Uncle Mic shook his head. "I need help lighting the candles and lanterns. I'm even calling in some of the backups to help."

Now I knew things were crazy. Uncle Mic had at least twenty people on standby, in case he even needed more hands. They hadn't been called in since the Sildarian Ambassador stayed for two days while he recovered from a headache.

"Oh dear."

Uncle Mic shoved a box of long, thin matches into my hands and sent me to work. I shuffled from table to table, lighting the fat white candles in the center of each. Afterward, I attacked the candelabras with fire until the whole room twinkled with white light. I surveyed the room, and my eyes stuck to the fireplace. Oh crap, no one had lit it!

"Mic!" I screeched. "The fireplace!"

He knew better than to trust me with heavy logs and lighter fluid. In his frenzy he must have forgotten about the fireplace, though how he could do that I didn't know.

I started to panic. Royal types threw hissy fits over the smallest things, and though I'd only ever seen a few, I was fairly certain they were all like that. Spoiled, sniveling, with a chip on their shoulder.

I did the only thing I could, which was to rush around swearing, trying to gather enough wood from the box beside the fireplace to get a fire going. I piled the the wood in haphazardly, going for speed rather than quality.

Struck a match, and watched it dim and sputter before going out. I lit another, to much the same result.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden porch. Oh no oh no oh no oh no...

"Light!" I cried, forcing all of my anxiety into that word. For a scary moment I thought I had popped a blood vessel in my head, but the pressure immediately fizzled out. I blinked.

Heat basted my hands. I recoiled, staring as a small fire started licking the air, then the dry wood around it. Ten seconds later the fireplace was roaring, and I had to stumble back a few steps, shielding my face. The heat lessened, and I saw the fire resume normal proportions, crackling and popping innocently.

"Holy Hell."

"Excuse me?"

I turned to my left and saw a man festooned in elaborate robes staring at me. He was stocky, with a ridiculous mustache curling beneath his nostrils. I took in his dwindling patch of brown hair, pudgy hands, and strange pointy little shoes.

"Holy Mell," I declared, folding into a deep bow.

"My name is not Mell, it is David Corland, the Queen's Emissary to the Western Realms."

I stayed in my bow, nodding slightly. Rising a little, I pressed three fingers to my lips and stared at his shoes.

"Rise."

I rose, gave another quick little bob, and started to back away. Corland eyed me suspiciously as I did so, the room silent except for the shuffle of feet and neighing of horses from outside.

Uncle Mic returned, saw the Emissary staring at me, and quickly had a stroke. Being a pliable and resilient man, Mic was quickly able to put on a calm face and graciously show His Grace in. I quickly faded to the background and scurried off to the kitchens to see if Peter and his group of cook boys needed help.

Forty minutes later we were serving Corland and a handful of what I assumed were his closer men at arms their evening meal. This consisted of a salad with walnuts and imported goat cheese, then a basted lamb with sprigs of rosemary and potatoes, rounded out by Peter's signature orange and creme sorbet. All of this served with wine. Lots of wine.

I helped serve the lamb, then went back for a new bottle of wine. I had no idea what the best wine was for the main course, and as I had always done I waited for Peter to stick a selection into my arms and shove me back into the fray. He did just that, and I found myself trudging back to the dining room and trying hard not to drag my feet.

I peered around the corner, taking in the dining scene. All of the tables were full of hairy, hulking men; I assumed these were Corland's sentinels and personal body guards. The grooms for the horses and the guard's aids were probably filed away in room upstairs, to be served a slightly less grandiose meal.

I honed in on Corland, who was currently stabbing his lamb with a sharp knife. My eyes followed the rise and fall of the knife, and I heard him grunt every time the blade sunk into the tender meat.

Yikes.

Someone nudged me impatiently from behind, causing me to stumble into the room. A fan of hired help streamed out from the doorway, each bearing fresh napkins and baskets of rolls. I gulped, setting my sights once again on the Emissary. I took a step forward, and each one after that became harder and heavier.

I neared the table and stifled a gasp when I saw the slimy, slippery carnage on the floor. One of Corland's body guards jammed a finger into his mouth, routed around, then hooked a piece of gristle out of his maw and promptly tossed it onto the floor.

"Sir, would you like a refill of wine?" My voice came out more tenuous and crackly then I had hoped, but Corland hardly looked up before waving me over. I approached timidly, which made me hate myself, and gingerly wrapped my fingers around his greasy glass. I poured the heavy jug forward, praying and subsequently thanking the gods that I didn't spill any.

As I pulled my hand back, Corland's shot out and he latched onto my wrist. I froze, feeling blood pounding in my temples. None of his cronies looked up from their meals.

He wrenched my arm over, looking at the underside of my fingers, bringing them closer to his face.

"Such pretty hands," he said. I fought down the panic, the desire to yank my arm back and scrub the skin raw where he touched me. Yet I stood, frozen, unable to move a muscle.

"A pretty girl like you must have a boyfriend, yes?"

I mutely shook my head. Where was Uncle Mic? I kept my eyes trained on a piece of lettuce on the table, too afraid to scan the room for help. He could cut my hand off, if he wanted to. He had the Queen's power vested in him.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. For what, I had no idea. It just seemed like a good time to say sorry. My fingers were turning to ice.

"Now now," his tone became mockingly warm. "No need to apologize. You're a good girl. I just have a question for you."

"Sir?"

He yanked me closer to him, and I could smell his perfumed silks and aftershave.

I looked at his smoothly shaven, fleshy cheeks before averting my eyes. I could tell he was staring at me.

"Do you know of a fugitive named St. John Edward Until Sunday III?"

Waves crashed in my head. The wine bottle slipped out of my right hand and thudded onto the floor.

Corland's eyes burned a hole into me. He was deadly serious.

Didn't he know that St. John wasn't real? Would he kill me for telling him so?

"N-no sir, I do not."

His grip tightened, but I couldn't feel my fingers anymore.

"Are you certain?"

I nodded weakly. His grip relaxed, and then I was free. I stumbled backward a step and then snatched up the jug of wine.

"He is wanted for seven crimes against the crown." With a shrug he added, "You are his age and not entirely unattractive. It is my duty to investigate all avenues.

Then he took a gulp of wine and continued eating. I was, apparently, dismissed.

I walked back to the kitchen in a daze, shucked off my apron, and slid out the back door. Should I feel flattered, angry, terrified, or a combination of all three?

The evening was still warm, but much cooler than a few hours ago. Bright stars began materializing in the sky as I felt tears welling in my eyes. I started walking, gazing into the muddy river running to my left. It had begun to shrink, over the years. I felt a pang of sadness and anxiety.

What a day, huh? I looked down at my hands, dim shapes in the thickening darkness. Had I really called fire? Not only was that highly illegal, it was also really cool. I resolved to try it again, in private. Excitement welled inside of me, and I began to feel nauseous. Way too much had happened to me this day, too many emotions trying to worm their way into my mind and take up roost there.

I trudged back to the General Store, let myself in with my key, and went upstairs.

My home was the second story of the store; I shared it with my father--who was, it appeared, already asleep. I could hear him snoring lightly in his room. I took the lantern from the desk on my right and walked down the hallway. I drug myself to my room, which consisted of a bed and a chest of clothes, and fell into a pile of blankets. I burrowed deep inside, sighed, and after a few minutes of tossing fell asleep.

A/N: Yay! I'm having a grand old time writing this story. I consider this my re-entry into FP Society, as I haven't updated my stories in months. Tehe?

This is a planned short story. I've outlined the whole thing, so this should have fairly regular updates. Yeah, cause I JUST GRADUATED HIGHSCHOOL! So I'll have a wee bit more time on my hands until college.

Expect romance, adventure, magic, you know, all that happy crap. :D

Reviews will be responded to at the end of each chapter, as well as returned! So don't be shy, tell me what you think? If there is a specific story you would like reviewed, please let me know. I will be happy to oblige.

Have fun!