Jovah's Angel (24 page)

She grew statue-still, statue-silent. It was as if the hollows and planes of her face were instantly recarved, recast into lines of suffering and grief. He imagined that even her heartbeat, for a moment, squeezed to a stop.

“Maybe I can't do anything to help you,” he went on, when it was clear she would say nothing. “But I've built a lot of electrical systems—and the body is, in its way, an electrical circuit, with energy running along the muscles and the nerves. Maybe I can—”

“No,” she said, and the word was said in the ugliest tone he had ever heard her use.

“I know it is difficult to contemplate hope again,” he went on. “I know you have been looked at by almost every doctor and surgeon in Samaria. But I'm not—”

“No,” she said again, and her voice was a little stronger.

“But I'm not a doctor. I'm an engineer,” he finished. “And I would be approaching the problem from a whole different angle.”

“No,” she said. “How many times do I have to say it? No, no, no. I have been through that too often to endure it again.”

“If I can help you,” he said, “how can you refuse me?”

“Because you can't help me! No one can help me! I am broken beyond repair, don't you see that? Jovah realized it instantly! He cast me aside because I could no longer serve him. He knew long before the doctors and the surgeons and the other angels were willing to give up hope. He knew, and he abandoned me—”

She stopped abruptly, made a visible effort to control her unsteady voice. She shook her head and put her hands up before her as if to fend off accusations. “I know it is not your intention,” she said clearly, “to be cruel. But it is cruel to ask me to try again. I cannot do it.”

“I hope you don't expect me to travel all the way to Breven with you, eyeing you and wondering.”

“If you must. Add it to the tribulations of the trip.”

Caleb shook his head and played his trump card. He had figured the conversation would go roughly this way. It was why he had, earlier, allowed her to rhapsodize about his value to Noah. “I won't make the trip unless you'll agree to the examination.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry. It means that much to me. If you won't let me examine your wing, I won't go to Breven with you and Noah.”

“That's ridiculous,” she snapped. “One thing has nothing to do with the other. Besides, you have to go. Noah needs you.”

“He'll find somebody else.”

“You know that's not true. You're the only one he trusts. You're the only one who can actually help him.”

“I won't go unless you consent to the examination.”

She rose to her feet. Even with her wings folded tightly back, she was an impressive sight, all flashing dark eyes and divine indignation. “Then we will go without you,” she said. “And may Jovah forget your name.”

She swept from the restaurant, nearly trampling a few unwary souls who happened to be in her way. Caleb calmly watched her go; he had more or less expected their meeting to end this way. He liked the curse, though; it was not one he had heard before. He rubbed the shattered black Kiss on his arm, and murmured, “But he already has.”

Noah was distressed to learn that his two closest friends had quarreled “and at such a time! Couldn't you have waited till we got back from Breven?”

“You told me weeks ago you wanted me to look at her wing. And now you're saying that I brought it up?”

“Well, no, but—well, yes, right at this time. What if she decides not to come with us? Because of what you said?”

“The trip will be easier, then,” Caleb said callously. “But she'll come. She's too desperate to get away. And she'll let us look at her wing, too.”

“Because you've put her in a dreadful position—”

“She'll survive the examination. And maybe we'll do her some good.”

Noah muttered but stopped arguing, although he still seemed unhappy with Caleb's timing and his methods. But three days before they were scheduled to leave for Breven, the two men were admitted to Delilah's opulent apartment (paid for, Caleb surmised, by the oily Joseph) to see if they had the skills to repair the broken wing of the fallen Archangel. Noah had negotiated the permission; Caleb didn't ask what he bargained with.

Caleb brought every tool, wire and recharger he possessed, so he was loaded down with baggage. Noah carried almost as much. Delilah herself admitted them at the door, cool and wordless, and gestured for them to follow her down a gilded hallway. There appeared to be no servants in the place, though Caleb supposed that was just for this occasion; he pictured Delilah surrounded by maids, hairstylists, footmen and cooks. Today, however, she would want privacy.

The room they were shown to seemed to be a music salon, for it was furnished with a few delicate chairs, a long wooden bench covered with a quilted cushion, a harp, a dulcimer and a painted metal stand holding a variety of flutes. Caleb wondered which of these instruments, if any, Delilah played. Except for its luxurious appointments, which seemed very much in character, the apartment held no traces of Delilah at all. It looked like a lovingly designed cage built to hold an exotic butterfly—crafted with her in mind, but taking into account none of her true desires.

Three huge gauze-draped windows provided abundant sunlight, one of Noah's requirements. All the furniture except the quilted bench had been pushed flush against the walls; the bench had
been placed squarely in the middle of the open space. Another requirement, room to work.

“Is this the way you wanted it?” Delilah asked in a neutral voice.

“Yes, it's perfect,” Noah said quickly. “Thank you.”

She gave him a heavy, unreadable look which made his face tighten, then looked away. She perched on the bench as lightly as that butterfly, as if she might, when startled, burst instantly into flight. Her face was turned toward the nearest window and her eyes were half-closed, as if she were, for the last time in her life, enjoying the caress of sunlight upon her cheek.

Well, enough of this. “Everything's fine,” Caleb said briskly. “Noah, could you draw those curtains back all the way? Delilah, we need you to lie facedown on the bench and spread your wings as far as they will go.”

Now she gave Caleb the look, weighty and unfathomable, but he merely nodded to confirm his instructions. Without another word, she rolled gracefully into position, pillowing her chin on her clasped hands and unfurling her wings. Her left wing unfolded like a cloud teased open by the wind, but her right wing fell awkwardly from her shoulder to the floor, and lay there, bent and motionless.

Caleb moved to her left side and Noah joined him. The broad wing appeared to spring from a narrow band of cartilage set just in from the shoulder blade. Inches from the joint, the cartilage branched into a wide, springy web of tissue and sinew, the framework of the entire wing. Feathers were overlaid in a careful, interlaced pattern on both sides of this network, hiding the complex weave of muscle, tendon and vein.

“Can you operate your wings independently?” Caleb asked.

“Yes,” was the terse reply.

“Flex your left wing for me. Slowly. Just a little bit.”

The great wing lifted a few inches, settled, lifted again. Caleb watched the faint ripple run along the length of the framework. He placed his fingers lightly along the thickest cords at her shoulder blade. She shivered but did not protest.

“Again,” he said. “More slowly.”

This time he felt it as the muscle bunched and responded, sending its signals through three main branches that led to the upper edge of the wing's framework, the lower edge, and a middle line. He carefully pushed away the feathers along this central pathway, tracing the route by feel, by eye, as it arched and straightened
and tapered out only at the ragged edge of the feathered wingtip.

“See it?” he said to Noah. “I think that's the main operative muscle. It carries the most weight and the bulk of the energy.”

“What about the top and bottom muscles?” Noah asked. “Peripheral wing control? Auxiliary power?”

“A little of both. Maybe the wing's too heavy to be moved by one muscle alone.”

Caleb slowly traced the route of the main muscle again with his index finger. The extended wing was so long he could not stand in one place and reach from end to end, but had to walk a few paces as he followed his path. “You can feel that, can't you?” he asked Delilah.

“Of course I can.”

“All the way? Everywhere my finger touches?”

“Yes.”

“How about this?” And he traced a similar path along the top edge of her wing.

“Yes. Not as distinctly.”

“And this?” The bottom edge.

“Yes.”

Caleb glanced at Noah and nodded. The men repositioned themselves on the right side of Delilah's body, over the broken wing. The downy mass was just as broad, just as delicate as the left wing, but there was a curious, lifeless quality to the spill of feathers on this side of the angel's body. There was no jagged rip in the muscles or the tissue, no improper joint where the wing appeared to have been folded roughly back, no way to tell by looking just where the problem lay. But clearly no will of the angel's animated the wing; it lay there like something apart from her, responsive to no touch and no instruction.

“You still have some control over this wing, don't you?” Caleb asked. “For instance, you can fold it back, move it out of your way.”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

As she lifted the wing slowly, twice, and let it fall, Caleb laid his hand gently on the cartilage and muscle mass at the edge of the shoulder blade. As with the left wing, he could feel the energy surge and pulse through the covered nerves; the problem did not lie here.

“Can you feel my hand?”

“Yes.”

“I'm going to move my fingers down the middle of your wing. Tell me when you can no longer feel my touch.”

Slowly, once again pushing the sleek feathers aside as he progressed, he ran his fingertips along the main line of muscle and nerve. He had traveled maybe eight inches from the base at her shoulder when she said, “There.”

He paused, his fingers searching out any infinitesimal knot under the central cord. There was nothing. “Here? You feel nothing from this point on?”

“That's right.”

He backed his fingers up half an inch. “But here you still feel me?”

“Yes.”

He slid his fingertips forward again, seeking a break, a mass, something to account for the loss of feeling. All was smooth, even, untroubled. The break was undetectable to the touch. He nodded to Noah, standing at the top edge of Delilah's wing while he stood at the bottom edge.

“Test the upper perimeter,” he said. Noah ran his hand with loving delicacy along the entire ridge of the upper framework, from base to wingtip. “What about that?” Caleb asked Delilah. “Could you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“The whole way?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now I'm going to test the bottom edge. Tell me when you can no longer feel my fingers.”

But he traced the web from backbone to feather's edge and she never once stopped him. “So those nerves are in place, top and bottom,” Caleb murmured to himself. “It's just that central line—”

“The one that carries all the weight,” Noah interjected.

“That broke. One line to fix.”

Noah looked at him. Caleb nodded. One line to fix, but how?

“All right, now I'm going to do a couple of tests,” Caleb said. Every time he spoke, he was addressing the back of Delilah's head. She never once looked at him or appeared to be anything but barely tolerating the proceedings. “Let me know if this hurts—or if you feel anything.”

She nodded her dark head. Caleb went to his bags and dug out a small device consisting of a wheel, a pump, a jumble of wires and a set of small metal pincers. He handed the bulk of the device
to Noah, then carefully attached the pincers to the angel's wing, along the central muscle past the point where she had any feeling.

“Does that hurt? Can you feel that?”

“No.”

“All right. What we're going to do now is give you a little jolt of electricity. It could be a little painful, but it's not dangerous. It will feel—oh, no worse than running your finger through a candle flame. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Caleb nodded to Noah, who had settled the base of the device on the floor. Caleb positioned himself over the spread wing, one palm flat on either side of the pincers, to check by feel the level of current in the angel's wing. Noah pumped the plunger rapidly about a dozen times, causing the wheel to fly into a silver blur.

“Ready?” the Edori asked.

“Ready.”

Noah pumped one more time, then flipped a switch which opened a line of electricity through the short wires. Caleb saw the faint spark as the fire flicked against the angel's feathers—and the whole wing shuddered once, violently, lifting three inches into the air and falling back to the floor.

Caleb looked sharply at Delilah's head. “Did you feel that?” he demanded.

She was looking away. She had not even seen her wing's response. “No. Was that what was supposed to hurt so much?”

Now Caleb's eyes locked onto Noah's shocked gaze. “Again,” he said. “I want to replicate.”

“But you saw—”

“Do it again.”

So Noah, his face set and strained, again pumped the wheel into a frenzy and released a quick charge into the wires. Again, the great wing spasmed and lifted, then fell to the floor, unable to sustain its weight. Again, there was no reaction from Delilah. Again, Caleb felt the power leap across his hands as they lay spread along that broken central nerve. He knew what the problem was, all right. He just didn't know how to fix it.

They stayed at Delilah's for another hour, probing the complex web of her wing structure with their array of tools. They learned nothing they had not known with the conclusion of the first test. When they declared themselves finished and began repacking
their equipment, Delilah calmly came to her feet and smoothed her hair and clothes back into place.