1A/N: It's short, but here's the second part. The end of the prologue, I'd say.
ANGELS OF GLASS AND STONE
Arc One:
Freeze Frame
"Come little children
From the depths of your fears,
Your nightmares lure the Demons out tonight.
And all He says is
His love is never ending
When all They wanted
Was His love from the beginning."
IX.
There used top be dreams. Of a brilliant yellow sun and icy blue water that rushed to blend with the horizon in every direction.
There used to be nightmares. Of a man, gliding surely on the surface of the water. Dark and ominous against the crystal blues.
There used to be the Silence. Of the booming sound of fluttering wings.
And then she would wake up screaming.
X.
The murders started at 9 am on Friday, January 17, 2003. It was a brilliant, if not chilly morning, on the streets of San Francisco.
In her posh, sun-filled downtown San Francisco apartment, 51-year old Sandra Bullek was pulling her graying hair back into a messy bun and trying to push her cat, Chubs, off the bathroom counter so she wouldn't eat any of her over abundance of makeup.
Somewhere outside her windows, an ambulance was racing down Market Street on another false alarm. Her neighbors upstairs were arguing about the water bill. Her next door neighbor was slicing his wrist over and over with a razor blade he'd stolen from the Walgreen's just down the street.
51-year old Sandra Bullek put small golden hoops into her ears and snapped her jewelry case shut.
Chubs looked on at her with quite an unpleasant expression.
And then the morning was destroyed, in a silent, sweeping movement that no one took note of.
The false alarm in the Tenderloin turned into the beginning of a Serial Killer in SOMA.
XI.
The court filed her papers at 8:57 am. By 9:03, January 17th, 2003, Tazza Rosso was no longer a ward of the state of California. Finally eighteen and on her own, the first thing she did in her freedom was buy a pack of cigarettes from a run-down convenience store on McAllister and enjoy the harsh poison of nicotine, racing through her veins.
Life was beautiful.
Clouds rolled in over the Pacific sun.
XII.
It wasn't that Paul Tormo didn't like working for the SFPD. Really. But he hated patrolling, especially the Tenderloin District. He particularly hated it when there were disturbances in his patrol area.
He was young, four years fresh from the Academy, with buzzed brown hair and bright blue eyes. Life had been good to him so far, good home and education, a new apartment and old car waiting for him at the end of his shift.
Life has a terrible sense of humor.
In a common occurrence in rare silences on the patrol unit's radio, static rolled across the channel, followed by a hiss and pop. Outside, Mr. Aaron Tyler Berns, 37, homeless, jobless, and feeling the harshness of the world had just signed his contract with the devil and approached the parked patrol unit with casual caution.
Paul spared Aaron two glances in his conversation with his partner, Terry, a pretty blonde with a tendency to drink after patrols. Aaron's fingers slipped to the pocket of his over-sized jacket, sliding deliberately and cautiously over his cargo.
And froze as a shadow the size of a 747 swept upon him, plunging the entire street into a dark shade. The darkness hovered, and Paul Tormo finally lifted his eyes.
The shadow moved on.
A man on the corner two blocks down was watching him. Sunglasses and dark hair, pale skin. Nothing remarkable for the neighborhood. Designer suit. Now, that was a different thing.
Instinct screamed at him. And he was afraid. Instinct howled and he was seconds away from throwing the car into Drive and getting the hell out.
And then the figure looked away.
Paul felt his heart rate drop. He loosed his fingers from their death grip on the steering wheel.
Two minutes later, Terry was the first to spot Mr. Aaron Tyler Berns, homeless, jobless, and hopeless.
Quite thoroughly dead, the man was on his back, arms spread a perfectly equal distance from his body. His blood spilled red and ran in careful, precise lines over dirty sidewalk.
The man in the expensive suit was nowhere to be seen.
Paul Tormo was suddenly glad he wasn't in homicide.
XIII.
They called an emergency meeting in the downtown homicide department on Saturday. Fourteen dead in a single day. Maybe it wouldn't have been much on any other day, but this was different.
Captain James Konner threw photographs on the central table. Fourteen victims stared blankly skyward, arms sprawled at perfect 36 degree angles. Blood from wounds on their necks and unseen injuries on their backs flared out in wide arches, like wings with tattered feathers. Fourteen dead in one day.
The city was in an uproar.
The Captain had one thing to say to the officers at his table.
"Find him."
And they understood.
XIV.
But things are never that easy. The police tried, you can credit them that, but on top of all their other cases, they could do nothing as the m ass murders continued.
There were no suspects, no evidence. There was no connection between any of the victims. No job or bar or neighborhood.
Fourteen people, every Friday, for three months.
And then it stopped.
The first Friday of April was tense, solemn. People waited and feared. And nothing happened. No one died like all the others. No bodies found with arms at 36 degrees or feathered blood.
One year later, Anna-Lucia Rosso was born.
XV.
To Tazza, Anna-Lucia was the most beautiful human she had ever seen. And to know he child had come from her own womb, the thought sent thrills up her spine.
All chubby cheeks and dark tufts of hair, Anna was, Tazza knew, her own small miracle. A chance to make up for the way she herself had grown up.
This time, there would be no mistakes.
This time, Tazza would be happy.
And she would murmur softly to her sleeping girl, curled safe in her arms, "All God's children are loved."
When the Angels returned, Tazza didn't notice the closet door moving gently open.