Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 07

[So...I had this section written two days ago. Yeah, I just forgot to post it. Really sorry.]
    In a suite on the fifth floor of the Hilton, Damastes sat and waited. His companions had something playing on the television in the other room, but that was not a technology that Damastes had ever taken to. He used it, certainly--it was unavoidable--but it was not his choice for entertainment. Books were much more calming. At his age, he found that mattered to him.
    There was a polite knock on the door.
    "Come," he said.
    Ninny poked her head in. At more than a thousand years old she was long lived for a demon, but she didn't look a day over two-hundred, her hair still black like a raven. Beautiful. Damastes had always found her beautiful. Not for the first time, he was struck by how much she reminded him of his daughter, and, not for the first time, he couldn't decide whether that caused him more pain or joy. Whatever the case, he wouldn't resolve the debate today.
    "She hasn't come," he said.
    Ninny shook her head. "Is there a chance that intriguing Mr. Tombs got her?"
    "Possible. But not likely. I chose Veronica for her competence. Even if the psychopath figured out our intentions, I have no doubt that she was more than a match for him."
Ninny walked in and sat down on one of the overstuffed leather chairs, crossing her legs. "I suppose we have to consider the possibility that she lost her nerve."
    "Also not likely."
    "But possible?"
    "When it comes to facing death, I have seen great disparity in the reactions of men. I watched while one man ran for three hours before he was finally caught and killed--ran the entire time. I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Another time a woman was perfectly calm facing her own death, but for some reason had a craving for muffins."
    "What kind of muffins?"
    "Does it matter?"
    "I'm curious."
    "Chocolate."
    Ninny wrinkled her nose. "Those don't count as muffins. I can't find any meaningful distinction between those and cupcakes."
    "One is cake, one is muffin."
    "Both are chocolate."
    "This is beside the point. Veronica was prepared for death. She knew it was necessary."
    "A true believer," said Ninny, smiling, mockery in her voice.
    "Yes," said Damastes, his words clipped. "They do exist."
    "Oh, don't get short with me," said the demon, smiling. "You know that Hugh and I believe in what you're doing."
    "I do. And I appreciate it." Damastes adjusted his hands in his lap. "I'm afraid I've been slightly on edge."
    Ninny stood. "A significant day. Meaningful. Important."
    Damastes shook his head. "No. Zed is a god, just like any other."
    "No he's not."
    The angel realized his jaw was clenched. He consciously relaxed it. "You're right. He's not."
    "And now he's dead."
    "Is he?" His eyebrows raised.
    "That's what I came in to tell you."
    "You could have started with that."
    "I know." Ninny's face was serious. "I should have. I always feel strange when we do this--almost giddy, you know. I thought I would tease you a bit, make you wait for the news. I'm sorry."
    "So it's definite that he's dead?"
    "We just saw it on the television. The police and the TCD aren't talking, but someone tipped off the press. Forgotten Zed is gone. What he deserved, I suppose."
    Damastes closed his eyes. "Not what he deserved. But what was best."
    He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. He sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do.

    Bradley hurried back out of the kitchen when he heard someone shout. There was a general hubbub--he didn't know why the word 'hubbub' came to mind, but it did--and it all surrounded table twelve. The woman. He pushed forward, sliding past a couple in sweater vests to get a view.
    She was on the floor.
    An older man was kneeling next to her, searching through her pockets,  while his wife spoke quickly into a phone.
    "What's the matter?" asked Bradley, also kneeling.
    "Looks like anaphylactic shock," said the man, pulling back the coat and sliding his hands into one of the hip pockets of the woman's jeans. "Confound it! Why doesn't she have an EpiPen?"
    "A what?"
    "Helps with allergic reactions."
    "Should we do CPR?" Bradley felt like he should be doing SOMETHING, but he realized his rescue breathing training was eight years old from Boy Scouts, and he'd heard that things had changed. How had they changed?
    "CPR won't do much good with an airway swolen shut." The man finished checking her other pocket, pulled out her wallet, opened it up quickly, then slammed it on the floor. "She should know better! With a reaction this severe, she should have something with her."
    "They're on their way," said his wife. "Three minutes."
    "Isn't there something we can do?" asked Bradley. She wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. She was too still. It reminded him uncomfortably of his grandmother's funeral. He'd watched the body in the coffin, overly still, and had expected any moment that Grandma would sit up, twitch, sneeze, something, anything. That was the kind of stillness that held this woman's body. Bradley realized he didn't even know her name.
    "Nothing that I know of," said the man. "I'm not idiot enough to try that tracheotomy with a hollow tube that you see on TV."
    "Oh," said Bradley. "Could we do that? No, you just said not to."
    The older man's mouth twisted, and they sat. Doing nothing. Part of Bradley's mind knew that there was chatter in the restaurant. The manager was saying something, possibly to him, but he couldn't track it. He was looking at the woman's face, and it looked strangely calm. When she'd come into the restaurant she had looked so anxious. Strained, almost like she was in shock.     Now she was napping. Just without breathing.
    The front door of the restaurant swung open to swallow a rush of medics and equipment. Bradley was pushed back as the EMT's did their work, and he sat down at an empty table. There was a plate in front of him. C-three, his brain informed him, but the Thai escaped him. How had it happened? He'd been very specific. He HAD.
    The EMT's moved out and people started sitting down again. Bradley apologized and stood, giving the table back to the three women eating together. He started back to the kitchen and nearly collided with the round chef and the less-round manager.
    "Why didn't you tell the chef she had a peanut allergy?"
    Bradley blinked at him. "What?"
    "Why didn't you mention her allergy? She must have told you."
    "She did."
    "So why didn't you tell the chef?"
    "I did."
    The chef was red in the face. "I would have remembered that, and I heard nothing."
    Bradley blinked again. This was ridiculous. It was like a bad dream, except he wasn't holding a miniature banana palm. (For some reason, those kept showing up in his dreams.) Should he argue? His word against the chef, and the chef had worked here longer. Also, he realized with a bit of cynicism, it's easier to replace a waiter than a chef.
    "I see where this is going," he said.
    "Hang on, Bradley," said the manager. "This isn't going anywhere. I just need to know what happened."
    Bradley shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I've loved working here. I'll go."
"Hang on, Bradley!"
    The chef snorted. "Go. Good riddance."
    Bradley ignored the manager as he slipped into the back and grabbed his things, walking out into the alley. He hadn't loved working at Thai For First. He'd thought he would, since he liked the food and he liked being funny, and he'd assumed the two would combine in waiting tables almost as well as they would with dinner theater. He'd been partially right. The two had combined, but more like a weak soup of humor and curry. It hadn't tasted THAT great.
The door closed behind him, shutting off the chatter and sizzle, leaving him in the muted city sounds of the back streets. Never quiet in the city, but quieter, like Northern Lights had forgotten about Bradley. It had. That was fine. He put in his earbuds and started walking.