“Shopping,” she said.

Without any luggage to delay her, Heaven was among the first people to step out of Departure. Smiling to herself, dressed in a tight tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, she joined the crowd that filled the airport, depositing her notebook in a locker before beginning her search – for affluent couples with their luggage in tow. After half an hour, she found what she was looking for – a luggage-tag denoting an apartment in a rich neighbourhood.

“Can I help you?” a masculine voice asked. The bag’s owner had turned around, was addressing her.

“Oh yes, please,” she purred, “where did you get such a charming bag? It looks like just the thing to fulfil my needs.”

“This?” he said, sucking in his gut and standing up straight, “nice, isn’t it? Even comes with the tag, matching colours.”

“Tags are important,” she said, all appreciation.

“Don’t want my stuff to get stolen, you know?”

“I bet your whole house is colour co-ordinated…” she prompted him.

“Well, it’s not, really. It’s nice enough, though.”

“I think you’re just being humble. Maybe I could come over some time, see for myself.”

“Anytime,” he said, then his smile wavered, “except I’m leaving town.”

She saw his wife coming toward them, carrying a soft drink in one hand, staring daggers. “Oh, I thought you had just came back,” she said, “see you around, then,” she leaned in and gave him a kiss on his lips, pressing her body tightly against him, walking away as his wife grabbed his arm and spun him around to face her. He had a nice aftershave on, she thought, pity about the rest of him.

Later, as she sat in the cab on her way to their apartment, she would smile to herself, enjoying her reflection within the window and the passing city without, “luggage-tags are meant to prevent loss, not theft. Silly boy.”

“She’s out of town, will be back in a week–”

“Exactly a week?”

“I’m not sure, he–”

“Go back in and ask.”

He hesitated. Heaven could tell he took offence at her tone, she held up the hundred dollar bill in both hands, causing it to snap with a flick of a wrist. He nodded, opened the door again, and left.

From the waiting cab, she looked at his retreating form, shaking her head slightly, so few people knew their place. When he returned, he spoke to her through her window, perhaps expecting another trip, “Yes, exactly a week. I left the card as you asked, he confirmed the name and address on the envelope.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Thank you,” she passed him the note and told him to drive to an address a few blocks away.

Into the building, up the stairwell to the roof, jump down to the semicircular balcony, over the banister, hang, swing, land onto the balcony below.

Another balcony, and then another.

Blood. A brief hint of a scent, blown away by the changing winds. The balcony she was on was empty, a pair of stone angels upon each end of the parapet, the doors leaning into the apartment shut. She patted the nearest angel on the head, then closed her eyes, trying to catch the scent over the wind. Someone’s caught unprepared by her period, she almost laughed. Two more floors to go.

Hang, swing, land.

Standing up, she found the girl turning to look at her. She stood upon the parapet, one hand holding onto the angel’s wing to support herself. A pretty girl, in a pretty green dress. Her tears had ruined her makeup, and her face was twisted into a mask of agony. Rising from her, the scent of blood.

Heaven walked over next to the girl and leaned over the banister, looking down for a moment. The girl was watching her with pained eyes as Heaven turn to face her. “It’ll take maybe, what, a minute or two of falling before you splat?”

A shutter went through the girl’s body as she sobbed anew. Heaven nodded to herself; well, I’ve got time, I suppose. She climbed up onto the parapet, sitting next to the standing girl, noting that the banister was barely wide enough for both of her bare feet, small as they were. She looked down at the silent street below; I’m pretty sure I won’t die if I fell from this height. Looks painful though. She tilted her head to the side as she considered. Mostly sure.

A sob from the girl made her look up again, “so,” she said, by way of starting a conversation, “you going to jump, or you want to tell me about it?”

The reply, when it came, was hesitant, broken, and a little bit incredulous, “Who are you?”

Noticing the girl’s hands clenched tightly around the angel’s wing, “I’m from up there,” she said, pointing a finger to the balcony above them, “Heaven.” She beamed, proud of her little lie.

“You’re an angel,” the girl said.

Heaven nodded, I guess I’ve been called that enough times to qualify, angel of the throes of passion, “that’s me.”

The girl slowly climbed down. Heaven made no move to help her, instead studying the girl – pretty, great legs, nice scent, though mostly faded, the make-up is a bit much, even without her tears to ruin it. “Big date, tonight?” she asked, and watched with horrified fascination as the girl’s face crumbled again, before releasing a fresh supply of sobs.

Nice breasts, too, though that’s possibly the bra. She left her to her weeping, turning back toward the view, swinging her legs. There were a few drops of blood on the parapet, and she dapped a finger to one and licked it. Again, she almost laughed, someone got lucky tonight; I’d hate to be that guy, imagine that, I sleep with her and she goes home and kills herself, wow, talk about a blow to the ego.

The girl was saying something behind her, the sob story, Heaven figured. She considered the situation between appreciating the wind and the view. Maybe I should drink her and throw her off. Still, a suicide on the night of a robbery, a floor apart, wee bit suspicious, that. Best not to let her die, then.

Interrupting the girl, she swung her legs over and landed beside her, opening her arms and giving her a hug. She held her tightly until the girl moved away, “Thanks. I needed that.”

She does look good without the scrunched-up face. “Can I come in?” she asked, her head tilting to indicate the balcony doors.

The girl nodded, “sorry, please do.”

Heaven wondered if she had mentioned her name, “come on,” she said, taking hold of the girl’s shoulders, turning her around and pushing her inside, “you’ll feel a lot better after a bath.”

The room within was lavish, the furniture a mix of antiques with more modern pieces. Entirely carpeted, it was lit by low lights in each corner. Tasteful, but the place seemed too neat, too clean to have a tenant. It looked like a feature piece from out of a decor magazine. Heaven wondered if her hostess had a rich father, boyfriend, sponsor or combination-of. She almost opened her mouth to ask, then realised it had possibly been mentioned during the sob story part of their encounter. It was impolite, certainly, not to listen, but it’s just so maudlin; centuries may pass, but the stories remain the same.

She followed the girl through to the bedroom, appreciating the bed; a queen, with a wooden platform raised upon aluminium legs, lavender sheets. There was a glass end table with a book beneath its lamp, “The Air We Breathe,” poetry; eww.

They entered the bathroom, lit, unlike the rest of the home, by a harsh white light. The girl bent over the bath, letting it fill, turned as she begun to lift her dress up. “Oh,” she said, noticing Heaven, who was squinting her eyes in the brightness, “I thought you had left.”

“Hush,” Heaven said softly, putting a finger to her lips to emphasise her point, “everything will be fine.” I amaze myself every time I do this, it’s like following a script, easy.

The girl looked uncomfortable, Heaven broke their gaze and went over to examine the bottles near the bath. Salt, bubbles, cremes, the works. She choose the emptiest bottle – most likely the favourite – and poured its remaining contents into the gushing water, enjoying the scent – lavender – as it filled the room with the rising steam.

“Hop in,” she said, and left, switching the light off behind her, leaving the door open, to let in the softer light from the bedroom.

Candles. She’s got to have them, anyone who reads poetry has candles. She walked through the bedroom, seeking the scent, starting without each drawer. And there they were; lavender again. I need to learn that trick with the finger flame, she thought, as she lit it with a match.

Carrying her fire, she entered the bathroom. The girl had shut off the water, and was lying with her eyes closed. She had washed her face, removed most of the makeup. Heaven placed the candle upon the glass counter by the side of the sink, moved toward the girl, and softly took hold of her shoulders.

“You’re really tense,” she whispered, “lean forwards.”

The girl obeyed, with less hesitation than Heaven had expected. She kneaded the soft flesh, expertly using her fingers, moving down her back, sinking her arms into the warm water.

“I– I could use a drink,” the girl said, “there’s some champagne in the–”

“I’ll get it,” Heaven said.

Out.

She found the bottle. “Oh my god, Pink champagne. I didn’t know they actually had this, I thought they just needed to put in another syllable.

“…blah blah something something… Pink champagne on ice. And she said ‘We are all just prisoners here, of our own device’.”

In.

The girl took the proffered glass, gulped it down. Replacing it with her own, Heaven filled up the glass again, leaving it by the candle.

“Here,” Heaven said, as she returned her hands to the girl’s shoulders, “a lot better now, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded, slightly, taking a long sip from her glass. She doesn’t need the drink, she just needs an excuse because she knows we’ll end up in bed together. I could kiss her right now and it’ll be over, but what’s the fun in that? Heaven shivered, a slight shudder running through her hands.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked, turning half-around to look at her.

Heaven nodded, “I’m fine, the night’s just a little cold…”

The girl kept silent, and Heaven could see the scales tipping slowly in her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, “I–” tip tip tip “the water’s still warm, I mean–” she bit her lower lip.

tip tip tip “Join me” or “I’m almost done anyway?” Heaven raised an eyebrow.

“I’m– there’s space in here for two,” the girl whispered, blushing deeply, and yet, Heaven noted, without looking away.

Heaven savoured the moment; the heart proves heavier than the feather. Then she leaned forward, hands moving across her skin as their lips met.

The kiss lingered, shimmered moisture in the air between them, then broke. “Let’s go to your bed.”

The girl nodded, lifted herself out of the tub as Heaven found a towel, stood still as Heaven moved to dry her with it.

Heaven brought the towel across her arms, her back, her breasts, taking her time, enjoying the blush of the girl’s skin. The scent of blood mixed with lavender in the cooling air, streaks running down the girl’s long legs. Heaven bent down, using her tongue in place of the towel, travelling slowly upward.

“I’ve never done this before,” the girl whispered, a moment before Heaven would reach her destination.

And a heartbeat ago you were going to jump. Sometimes when we think we’re going to fall, instead we fly. “Hush,” she replied, before her tongue passed between the girl’s wet lips.

The girl lay sleeping, beautiful now in her repose, almost radiant. She would be unconscious for a few hours yet; Heaven had drank.

Heaven entered the bathroom and picked up one of the pair of glasses, drained its contents, went to the kitchen, washed the glass and replaced it exactly where she had found it.

She returned to the room, flipped through the book of poetry, searching for something appropriate. Settling on Poe’s Israfel, she moved the bookmark to that page.

Satisfied, she returned to the balcony, patted the nearest angel on the head, gave it a smile of farewell, and continued to her destination.

She landed on the balcony.

“Maybe I could come over some time?” she said, nodding towards an angel.

“Anytime,” she mocked, “except I’m leaving town.”

“I’ll just see myself in, then,” she continued, and then the early bird chirped.

Without time for further pleasantries, the lock on the door gave way beneath a swift punch, she entered the apartment. The juxtaposition between the floors flattered her previous hostess and shamed her current ones. She shook her head in dismay. “Nouveau riche,” she said, dripping disdain, “if there’s anything worse than being tasteless, it’s being expensively so.”

The scent of leather hung in the air, the furniture was new, in a modern style, but while each piece had a class of its own, the totality raked across her senses, almost physically repulsive. She sighed, interior decorators are so underappreciated. A quick search, each room seemingly more offensive than the last, she was alone, and this was to be her shelter.

She didn’t like being out in the open, anything could go wrong. She trusted a good hotel, where none of the staff met your gaze, they looked beyond you or through you, never at you, privacy meant something. She had no choice, however, and took some comfort from the mess that implied that they did not retain a maid.

She moved a display cabinet, containing little crystal trinkets, across the front door. She would rest in the study, the only closed room without any windows. Selecting some items from the bedroom for her comfort, she moved the desk over the door, sealing it.

Undressing for the second time that night, she lay down and shut her eyes.

Wake. Safe. Good.

Heaven smiled, anticipating the nights to come.

She started in the bedroom, throwing the wardrobe wide open. “A kid in a candy store,” she said, with palpable glee, “what to wear, what to wear?”

After the wardrobe, the drawers, emptying them all from the bottom upward, as she had learned.

In an hour, the clothes lay in two piles, those that simply would not do, the majority, upon the floor, and those that offended her least upon the bed. A further half-hour, looking for a close enough fit, left her with an ensemble for each night of the remainder of the week.

Perfumes, then jewellery, she never wore makeup, and that left her hostess’ lingerie. As a matter of course, she did not wear underwear, but great schemes demand exceptions. She chose and discarded as she had the contents of the wardrobe.

She finished by dumping all of her host’s clothes upon a pile in the corner, then stood at the room’s entrance, surveying the fruits of her labour. No gun, some hidden cash, and, ridiculously foolish, but opportune, their gold credit cards, “Must be afraid of thieves, wherever it is they went.”

She nodded to herself, satisfied, “A bull in a china shop.”

By phone, she ordered five dozen roses, charging it to the gold card.

She went through the bathroom, flushing down the toilet paper, using the toiletries, creating the impression that a human had lived here for the week past. For the finishing touch, she choose the pink toothbrush, as opposed to the blue, and placed it conspicuously upon the sink, the toothpaste, a modest amount already squeezed out and washed away, beside it.

She was going through the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” she yelled.

“Delivery for Miss Israfel.”

“Wrong address,” she replied, “it’s one floor up.”

Finishing with the kitchen, she returned to the study, where she found everything that she needed. The blessed pair would now be in Hawaii, would be there for, as security had kindly informed her, via cab-driver, the coming week. She placed a call to her agent there, gave him the numbers to the cell phone and the gold cards, gave instructions.

With half an hour to her appointment at midnight, she took her time getting dressed.

Leaning backward over the parapet of the balcony, with a hand holding on to the angel, Heaven looked upward. “Yoohoo!” she chirped, “anybody up there?”

The girl’s face appeared on the floor above her, her eyes wide and incredulous.

“Hey,” she called, “tie a sheet or something to your angel so I can get up there.”

“My angel?”

Heaven pointed, and the girl turned to her side, then smiled down, embarrassed, “Oh, okay.”

The cloth came down, and Heaven climbed up, using her arms, as the dress she wore, along with her shoes, prohibited her from using her legs to climb. “Hey,” she greeted, when she had seated herself upon the banister, facing the girl.

“I thought you had disappeared. And then the flowers came. You’re not really an angel, are you?”

“What do you think?”

“Last night I thought you were. This afternoon when I woke up and you were gone without a trace, I thought I had imagined you. Mostly without a trace; the bookmark. And then the flowers came, with the message, and now this. I don’t know. I don’t think angels need sheets.”

“Well, coming down is easy, going up is a little harder. See,” she gestured at the floor, “lots of space to land,” her hand moved to indicate the edge, “but very little place to get a grip. It’s a long drop,” she smiled.

“Can’t angels fly?”

“Ask this guy,” Heaven smiled, patting the angel, now with a sheet around its neck, “come on, let’s go.” She hopped off her seat, entering the apartment.

“Wait,” the girl said, behind her, “you didn’t tell me your name.”

“Call me Heaven, and I’ll call you Israfel. Like a code.” She smiled, that solves the name problem.

“Where are we going?”

“To the store, we’ll get us some wine, come back here and talk, how’s that?”

The girl, Israfel, nodded.

And so, they did.

The night passed, and as it did, Heaven was reminded many times of another girl, whom she had named Angel, a long time ago, but she shied her mind away from the memories as soon as they arose. Israfel told her story again, and this time Heaven listened, as quietly and attentively as she could manage.

She left an hour before the dawn, this time leaving a note stating that she will return an hour after sunset.

It was the last night of her sojourn.

She had called her Hawaiian agent and confirmed that the couple would be checking out of their hotel upon the morrow. It had been a pleasant stay, and she was a little sorry to see it end. Hanging up the phone, she brought forth a blank sheet of paper, picked up a pen, and considered the card currently awaiting delivery in the lobby down below. It occurred to her, then, that it was truly marvellous, that she was, in effect, hanging in mid-air. Sitting on a chair at a desk hundreds of metres UP. Up, where the gods lived. She smiled, enjoying the thought, before returning her attention to the card. While it would be delivered to the wife, the contents were directed to the husband. Some diatribe about his “taking some time to think things over” only to go on holiday with the same wife he proclaimed “held him back”, and about how things were over between them. The card was one of those “I love you so” cards, with a trio of Anne Geddes angels oh so sickeningly cute upon the front.

Mostly certain whose handwriting she had used on the card – Thomas Jefferson’s – she started on her goodbye note. His schedule providing her with enough ammunition to craft a credible tale of their sordid affair together, she wrote with all the fury of a woman scorned. She took pleasure in the jealous “will she ever do this for you” bits, recalling her more exotic affairs with the residents of Memory Lane. She was quite pleased with herself when she was done, in particular the bit about her and her sister on the night of an anniversary he had missed. She folded the letter in two, left the room, and leaned it against the base of a lamp on the dining table, beneath the hanging pairs of underwear she had worn – and soaked – over the past nights.

Dressed again in her tee-shirt and jeans, wearing a selection of the best jewellery, she went through the house again, sorry for the lack of objets d’art, or, at least, objects of moderately tasteful art, once again creating the symptoms of the motions of human living. She briefly considered breaking all the mirrors in the house, a little gift for the police, but she decided that there was only a small chance that they would call the police at all. Walking toward the balcony, she imagined their return to the marital home–

They would be tired from their trip, glad to be back, the wife would find the card in the lobby, maybe even smile at the angels as she opened it. She would read it, throw a fit, maybe, or control herself till there were in private. The ride up the escalator would be cold or heated, and they would arrive to find the door jammed. He would struggle with it, finally the display cabinet will come crashing down, shattering its crystal contents. Shocked, exhausted and angry, they would enter to find the apartment a far cry from what they had left. She would find the letter, or he would be reading it only to have her snatch it out of his hands. They would fight, and he would protest his innocence, all the more inciting his wife, maybe he will hit her, or she will slap him. Then someone will leave the home, divorce papers will be served, and no one will think to bring the law into it.

Sitting on the parapet, she smiled happily. The wife had offended her, though she couldn’t quite remember why, it wasn’t important. She cast her eyes across the view, enjoy the feel of the wind as it caressed her. Finally, she brought out the cell phone, smiling when she heard the tone of the ringing phone come from the floor above. When the sheet came down, between her and the angel, she tossed the phone out into the night air, patted the angel on the head, and climbed up.

“Pack your things. One bag. Things with sentiment. We won’t be coming back.”

“What?!”

“Time to start a new life.”

“But…” she flailed her hands, unable to find words.

“The police may be coming. Probably not, but they may. You leave with me tonight.”

Sitting on the bed, Heaven watched the girl’s indecision with a trace of impatience. Maybe I should help her finish what I interrupted when we first met. I could use a drink. She’ll only slow me down, anyway. And there’s still the question of what I will do with her. And she asks too many silly questions. And the lavender fetish is getting rather trying. “Well?” she said.

“Alright,” the girl nodded, “okay.”

“Good,” Heaven smiled, “I knew you wouldn’t be difficult about it.”

He was seating in a booth, near the back of the ill-lit restaurant, when they arrived. Nodding once in greeting, Heaven moved into the seat opposite, gesturing for Israfel to do the same.

She looked him over as he reached into the bag beside him, he was dressed casually, nondescript, as he always had been. There was the touch of grey in his hair, which wasn’t there before, and his eyes looked weary. He brought out an instant camera, was aiming it at her when she brought up her hand, stop. She removed the necklace she was wearing, handing it to him; it disappeared into the bag. Again, he aimed the camera, and she let him take the picture, pulling out a pen and writing on a napkin as he snapped another of Israfel.

She handed him the napkin, and it entered the bag along with the camera and its pictures. The man stood up. “Ask a waitress for some menus, will you?” she said. He nodded, then left.

“What was that about?” Israfel asked.

“Passports, ID. I need new ones anyway, I’ve just changed my hair. He’ll be back soon, order something to eat, I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“To kill someone.”

“This plane is yours?” Israfel asked, when she returned from speaking with the pilot.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t have any windows.”

“Yes,” Heaven repeated, as she sat down next to her.

“There’s a bottle in the fridge, I think there’s ehrm…” her voice trailed off.

“Blood. I use it for some of the mixers.”

She looked uneasy, and Heaven patted her leg, “don’t worry about it.”

“What are you?” she asked, “I think, having just removed me from my life, that telling me is the least you can do.”

She’s getting more assertive, Heaven noted. “What do you think?” she replied.

“You’re an assassin or something, aren’t you?”

Heaven smiled, “most astute. Yes, I’m an assassin.”

She kept silent, deep in thought.

Heaven stood up, pulled her tee-shirt over her head, tossed it in a corner, “I’m going to sleep, we’ll be taking off soon.”

Israfel looked up at Heaven as she continued to undress. Her contemplative expression easing into a smile, she reached for a breast, “you’re not so tired you have to sleep right now, are you?”

Heaven almost laughed, pleased by the fast acceptance, amused at being pleased. She leaned in for a kiss, reaching down to help the girl remove her blouse.

“Israfel Poe,” she said, as her blouse fell behind her, “what’s your name?”

“In the passport? Elly Fields,” and ten points if you catch the reference.

“Elysium,” she smiled, “maybe that’s where we’re going.”

Heaven smiled in reply, knelt down before the girl, noticed the luggage against the wall, and asked, “What’s that, the blue thing, on your bag?”. Her hands ran up the girl’s legs, beneath her skirt, pulling down her panties.

“It’s a luggage-tag. In case your stuff gets lost,” Israfel softly replied. She leaned back, closing her eyes and opening her legs, heading for Elysium.