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.
"Gracias, Carlos," she said, and let him go anyway, watching him disappear beneath the giant blue mosaic depicting a guardian angel, and God's eye. She had her own problems. And after two full minutes she stubbed her cigarette out beneath her heel and followed Carlos inside to face one of them.
The Mexican agent was nowhere in sight when Zoe entered the Cathedral. She glanced at the spot Warren generally favored, closest to the bishop's chair at the front of the sanctuary, but the pews were empty so he either wasn't in the building, or he was already trailing the rogue agent. Tiptoing across the white marble floor, she ducked into the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. While there, she lit a prayer candle. It couldn't hurt.
Thirty seconds later she grinned grimly as a yell ricocheted through the cavernous building, followed by a startled yelp. She stopped grinning at the report of running footfalls down the sanctuary's center aisle… four pair, she determined, not two. A Spanish curse spiraled to the building's apex, and if this had been a Baptist church the agent would probably already be burning in hell. But that wasn't what bothered Zoe. Getting to Warren had just gotten as tough.
Mortals often witnessed paranormal conflict, though the victorious agents made sure none ever remembered it. Sometimes the humans would wake the next morning swearing it'd all been a dream, or that their dinner the night before hadn't quite agreed with them. Problem was, the memory of the entire twenty-four-hour period prior to the conflict was often erased along with the incident, and Zoe needed to remember. Her family's lineage depended on it.