Color of Angels' Souls (2 page)

“You sure are. We can do all sorts of things—even cry.”

“Tears?” Jeremy asked, still incredulous.

For some reason, he never would have thought that dead people could cry. Even though they certainly had a good reason to!

Flint held out a tissue.

“Here,” he sighed. “I can make myself another one.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy said, still running on autopilot.

He blew his nose, took several deep breaths, and his brain finally kicked in.

“How is it possible?” he asked, looking incredulously at the tissue in his hand.

“We're Angels!”

Jeremy closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the fear and dizziness welling up inside him, then summoned up the strength to fight it off. His question had been much more metaphysical than Flint had imagined, and the answer was way too vague.

“So we're Angels, who can cry. And blow our noses with Kleenexes. And … ?”

“And we also have a few special powers. Our more senior members have the ability to create a few useful objects. The only problem is they don't last very long. I've already had that tissue for a few days. If I were you, I would set it down now.”

Jeremy obeyed. The tissue curled up into a ball and disappeared. It left a slight trace behind, which eventually disappeared as well.

Jeremy was soon lost in his thoughts again. Flint sighed. Even he still didn't completely understand all the rules that governed this strange world he had inhabited for centuries.

“Only the living can pass … er, only people who die, I mean, can pass over to this dimension. Which is why you're naked, actually.”

“What?”

Jeremy had been so shocked by what had happened that he hadn't even realized he wasn't wearing anything. He immediately bent over and covered up his nudity.

“Don't move, I'll be right back,” Flint told him. “And whatever you do, don't let anyone come near you. It could be dangerous.”

Jeremy couldn't bear the thought of being left alone, but before he had time to protest Flint had hurried off to the shimmering mists that were emanating from the houses and apartment buildings.

As Jeremy remained in place, still crouching over awkwardly to cover himself, Flint's final word suddenly hit home: “Dangerous?” What did he mean by
dangerous
? What could possibly be more dangerous than already being dead?

With a shiver, he turned his eyes away from Flint and began observing the Angels that were dancing along the street and above him in the sky. One was so bright red that he looked like a little sun about to go supernova. He roughly pushed aside the others and began devouring the thick, ruby-red smoke that was pouring out of one of the buildings. At first he snarled with satisfaction, but his smile soon tensed up in a horrible grimace. The other Angels quickly scattered as the bright red Angel raised his head and began howling in agony. Then there was a loud “POP!”, as if someone had uncorked a giant bottle of champagne, and he disappeared! Jeremy was stunned. He looked closely at the spot where the Angel had been just a few seconds before … no, he hadn't been dreaming; the Angel had disappeared into thin air. And judging by the pain he'd been in, it didn't look as if he'd popped off by choice.

Flint walked back over carrying a nice suit, underclothes, and even a pair of shoes.

“I had to use the
Mist
to make them. They'll disappear pretty quickly though, so you'll have to find another old Angel to make some more for you. Or you'll just have to go
al fresco
.”

Now that he mentioned it, Jeremy noticed that many of the Angels were naked—and hardly seemed bothered by the fact. He couldn't help making a face as he took the clothes from Flint and quickly got dressed, grateful to the man. The clothes had a strange texture, and felt warm to the touch. He felt uneasy for some reason, but quickly forgot about it as Flint began talking to him.

“I didn't have enough Mist with me, so I had to go get some more to make your suit. I noticed that you were wearing a suit before you passed over. You can ask other people to help you, or to make all sorts of clothes for you. And in a few years you'll be able to make them by yourself. A lot of us just wear a loincloth or a toga. It makes things a lot easier. Plus the temperature never changes here. Between you and me, I think you'll probably be more comfortable if you dress a little bit lighter, but I know that a set of clothes is always reassuring for the Cherubs.”

“The Cherubs?”

How weird. Jeremy had always thought a Cherub was a chubby little Angel with pink little butt cheeks and a mischievous smile.

“Yes, that's what we call the Newbies.”

Jeremy sized up Flint as he made a few adjustments to his jacket, which was a bit large in the shoulders.

He was tall and dark, with a gleam in his gray eyes so incredibly intense that it almost seemed unnatural. He looked to be about the same age as Jeremy. Well, he'd certainly held up well for a guy about to celebrate his 1,460th birthday! There was a natural, unassuming elegance about him, and apparently he had cheerfully accepted the task of helping out one of the “Newbies.” There was also something charismatic and powerful about him, an energy he gave off that seemed almost palpable and made you want to trust him and do what he said.

A shiver passed through Jeremy and he fought off the urge, slowly coming to his senses. From his experience in the business world, a world without pity, he knew that no one did anything if they didn't expect something in return. But he didn't want Flint to get the feeling he mistrusted him. Jeremy's face was expressionless when he finally looked him in the eyes.

“Thanks for your help, Flint. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“I've seen quite a few Angels lose their heads in my time—I mean, not literally, not like you, but after their disembodiment—and believe me, it's not a pretty sight,” Flint winced. “So now whenever a new dead person arrives and I happen to be nearby, I give them a hand. It's the least I can do. Most of us do the same thing. It's like a rebirth. You're a newborn who awakens in a whole new world, afraid and lost. It's only normal to help out. You'll do the same one day.”

Seeing that Jeremy looked unconvinced, he quickly added: “I mean, you will once you finally get over what's happened to you.”

Jeremy smiled. So Angels could have a sense of humor as well? They could lament about their death, but also rejoice in their newfound life. He could feel the fog start to lift, almost hear the clicking in his head as the gears slowly began turning again.

“I feel a lot better now. Thanks, thanks a lot, Flint. Could I ask you a question or two about—”

Flint lifted a finger, halting him in his tracks:

“First, you'd like to know why your skin is that color, and why the others are colored as well. Second, you'd like to know why you ended up here, and third, what the heck you're supposed to do now. OK. First of all, the colors reflect who you are. If you have more of a positive outlook and tend toward more positive feelings, like happiness and bliss, your soul is blue. Those traces of pink would suggest that you have a bit of a mean streak, and orange reveals a desire to destroy your opponents. Nothing to worry about. Those of us who are red are usually violent, and may even be murderers. You'd do well to stay away from them. As for your second question, the answer is: I haven't the slightest idea. We've all checked in at the same hotel. We're all here and that's all there is to it. And as for your last question, what you're supposed to do now, the answer is: survive. If you don't feed yourself, you'll do the same thing that billions of people before you have done: You'll disappear.”

“I'll
what
?”

“We disappear: the oldest Angels, the ones that get tired, the ones that give up hope and let themselves go. They become more and more transparent, and eventually they just disappear. Don't ask me where they go, because I haven't the slightest idea.”

“You said I have to … to feed myself? But ghosts don't eat!”

“First of all, you're an Angel, not a ghost. And second of all, all creatures must seek out sustenance, and we are no exception to the rule.”

“Well, what are we supposed to eat?”

“Oh, that's easy,” Flint reassured him with a toothy grin. “We feed off the humans!”

Jeremy recoiled in horror.

“What? You're cannibals?”

Flint only laughed. It was always the same with the Cherubs.

“No, of course not! We feed off of their emotions. Your color indicates that you're attracted by human emotions such as joy, pleasure, love, happiness, and creation. Red Angels are more inclined toward sorrow, sadness, depression, and destruction. This is what we eat. Emotions have colors, and they emanate from the living in the form of vapors. We Angels call it “Mist”: White is for satisfaction, a feeling of fulfillment, and it can feed anybody—both blue Angels and red Angels. It's hard to find though, and is quite a delicacy. Blue is joy, green is jealousy, yellow is envy, red is anger, violet is happiness, orange is revenge. … and then there is black, which means murder or perverse lust. Go toward the emotions that seem the most tasty to you and breathe in the vapor.”

“The blacks and reds don't tempt me much,” Jeremy frowned, before adding: “Even if I were dying of hunger, if you get my drift.” He could feel his sense of humor returning.

Flint only shrugged.

“Whichever one you breathe in, it'll taste delicious. And no matter which emotion you choose, it will feed you. Besides that, it's entirely up to you: Eat whatever you want; no one will judge you here. If you want to turn red, that's your own problem. The Mist does more than just feed us. You can also use it to make things. Like clothes. But it's a hard technique to master. The things we make may last anywhere from a few minutes to …” He hesitated a moment, then added vaguely: “A little while longer, depending on the strength of the Angel who creates it. Well, I better get going—afraid I'm running a bit late for a poker game with some friends. If I don't hurry, the new cards we made might disappear before I get there! As my buddy Imhotep said in
The Mummy
: ‘Death is only the beginning!' He actually never said that, you know, and he's been steamed about that movie ever since. Dunno … the quote always seemed appropriate to me. Well, be seeing you!”

“Hey, wait! I need—”

“Trust me, you don't need anything. You'll pick things up very quickly. Oh, and don't forget: Whatever you do, don't let the Reds get too close to you—it can be dangerous!”

“What? What?”

But it was too late. With a wave of his hand, Flint was already disappearing amidst the trees. He left Jeremy all alone on the sidewalk next to his quickly stiffening cadaver.

Depressed by it all, he slumped down to a sitting position on the sidewalk and contemplated his decapitated head. For a second he felt just like Hamlet: furious, disoriented, lost, unhappy, anxious, terrified even.

“ ‘To be, or not to be, that is the question,' “ he whispered. “I always thought that that scene was weird, but now I think I know what Shakespeare was trying to say.”

His own face stared back at him with a blank expression. For once he didn't need a mirror to look at himself. He had thick brown hair and steely gray eyes—although they were slightly glazed over now—and a firm, square jaw. He actually wasn't that bad looking. If he'd had more time, he could've been a real heartbreaker. But he had worked sixteen or eighteen hours a day and had almost forgotten that the opposite sex existed. What now? What was he supposed to do with his life … or
death
, he should say? He could think of nothing, except to sit there beside his lifeless body like a lost soul.

The police car that had scared away the murderer came back up the street. When its headlights illuminated the growing puddle of blood, it screeched to a halt and the two officers jumped out of the car. One of them gasped loudly when his flashlight lit up the corpse's glassy eyes and their hypnotizing stare.

“Aw shit,” Harry uttered in a choked voice. “The poor guy got his head chopped off!”

His partner looked around warily, and noticed the broken street lamps.

“That makes two tonight! I hope we don't have a serial killer on our hands.”

Jeremy perked up at these words. Two? What did he mean,
two
? He turned toward the police officer, desperate for more information.

“Go on,” he said to the officer. “Go on, tell me some more. Was the other murder just like this one? Where did it happen? Why? How?”

To Jeremy's great surprise, the man answered as if he'd heard him.

“Hey, you know what?” he said to his partner. “The coroner who examined the girl's body said that she'd had her head cut off with a katana.”

“A
what
?”

“A katana, it's a Japanese sword! And it looks like this guy got the same treatment. Look at the wound—a perfectly clean cut. The blade went right through the bones. He must have died instantly. At least he didn't have time to suffer.”

“What do you know about it?” Jeremy yelled. “It hurt like hell; it was unbearable! And there was nothing
instant
about it. The whole thing lasted an eternity!”

The officer seemed to react again to his words.

“The poor guy. What a terrible way to go. And so young!”

Jeremy suddenly realized that a brown and silvery gray Mist was emanating from the upset police officer, but there was none coming from the other guy. He was even more amazed when he realized that the Mist had an appealing fragrance. It smelled … good. He was about to move closer to it when a voice behind him made him jump.

“I wouldn't if I were you,” it said calmly.

He turned around. A woman in her fifties with long, dark hair and completely blue skin was leaning nonchalantly against the wall. All she was wearing was a skimpy loincloth and a band around her chest. Her attire made Jeremy uncomfortable. He wasn't used to all this exhibitionism.