Free Immortal City by Scott Speer Page A

young still,” he said encouragingly. “You should, you know, see what else is out there.”
    Vivian stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest, stopping him. Her flawless brow knitted together.
    “I know what’s going on, Jacks.”
    Jacks paused. “What do you mean?”
    “I know this whole breakup thing is just for the press, a little publicity stunt before Commissioning, right? I get it.”
    Jacks blinked. He could feel the shock on his face.
    “Vivian, I told you I needed time to focus before my Commissioning, and that’s the truth,” he said.
    “Jacks, I
get it
.” She smiled coyly. “I’ll play along, even though, seriously, like you need any more publicity! With your wings and early Commissioning, you’re going to be the biggest Guardian ever. I just want to hear you say we’re getting back together after you get your Divine Ring.”
    He said nothing, too startled to be diplomatic. Vivian took a step forward and moved her body against his. “We’ll surprise everyone. They’ll discover our secret romance on some beach somewhere. Do you have any idea how much
press
that will get? The media will eat it up. And it will totally help sales for my fashion line.”
    “Vivian,” Jacks began, but she put a finger against his lips. Her emerald eyes had becoming piercing and seductive. “You’re Jackson Godspeed. I’m Vivian Holycross,” she said. “It’s just . . .
right
. Right?”
    Jacks’s gaze drifted desperately to a restroom sign with an arrow hanging on the wall. “Viv?” Jacks said. “Will you excuse me? I’m just going to use the restroom.”
    “Okay,” she said, her eyes dancing, “But don’t be too long.”
    He turned quickly and left. Her coy smile was still in place, but she watched him go, dissatisfied.
    Jacks made his way down the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom. But he passed the door labeled Gentlemen and went instead through a back door leading to the parking lot. One of the valets was standing by the Dumpsters, smoking.
    “Hey man,” Jacks whispered. The valet’s eyes grew wide when he saw Jacks. “Would you mind pulling my car around?” He held out his valet ticket and a hundred-dollar bill. “And would you mind being discreet about it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    T he sanctuary of the Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church on Sunset Boulevard was nearly empty. Detective David Sylvester, who, at forty, looked ancient already, sat alone in a sea of empty pews. He wore unremarkable clothes, wire-framed glasses, and a near-constant scowl. He sat hunched, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. His hands were clasped, fingers laced together as if he were immersed in prayer, but the detective’s eyes remained open. They drifted up past the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary, to the vaulted ceiling, and beyond. They were intent, the eyes of a man more in conversation than prayer.
    The classic cathedral glowed with beauty, lit only by soft candlelight from the altar. In the grotto, votive candles danced and flickered, illuminating the gentle and ever-smiling face of the Virgin Mary. It all suited Sylvester fine. He preferred an old, imposing church where you could feel the presence of God Himself whispering to you through the walls. He believed in the things of yesterday. He still listened to records, and his home phone still had a cord. Sylvester believed in the Angel City of yesterday, and, if truth be told, he believed in the Angels of yesterday too.
    The silence was interrupted by the chime of the detective’s cell phone, an unfortunate necessity for police work. His fished the thing out of his pocket and looked at the number.
    “This is Sylvester,” he said into the phone tersely.
    “Sorry to disturb, Detective,” an officer from headquarters said. “But we need you on a scene. Right now.” Sylvester frowned. He hadn’t been on a real case in years. He looked around the empty church.
    “I’m a little busy,” he said, “Are you sure