On Unfaithful Wings (16 page)

“It’s an old picture. Doesn’t do me justice, do you think?”

I looked up into Gabriel’s face, unsurprised she’d found me. Her smile made a butterfly in my stomach flutter. “Hey, Gabe.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Please.” I gestured toward the chair and she settled in. “You didn’t really look like this, did you?”

She shrugged. “A long time ago, when humans wanted angels to look that way. We aim to attract less attention now. You should have seen Michael in a toga.” She put her fingers to her lips and tittered.

“No thanks.” I closed the book to give her my full attention--not a difficult task. “What are you doing here?”

“Like the book says, I’m the messenger.”

“I know that.”

“Did you learn anything else about us?”

“Not really. You’re a bunch of goody-two-shoes.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.” She spun the book around to face her and flipped through the pages, her smile widening. “Humans write what suits them, what makes them feel better about things, especially themselves.”

“So what’s the truth, then?”

“You’ll find out. Everyone does.” She tipped me a wink, pushed the book away, and took the next one off the top of the pile:
A Field Guide to Demons
. I tried to grab it, but she proved too quick. “What’s this?”

“Research. I ran into a couple baddies.”

“Hmm.”

“You should have told me about them.”

The wind created as she rifled the pages stirred her short hair. She didn’t smile while she looked through the book.

“This one isn’t very accurate, either.”

“No. I can’t find mention of Azrael switching teams anywhere.”

Her expression showed no surprise. Poe probably told her already.

“Poe didn’t say anything.” I’d begun to get used to them reading my thoughts, but hoped she didn’t know all of them, which might be embarrassing when it came to Gabe. “I have my own ways of knowing what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?” I leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Azrael was there the other night, and two guys Poe called ‘Carrions.’ I’m not the most religious guy in the world--”

“That’s an understatement.”

“--but I know the angel of death--the real angel, not the Nazi guy--is sent to comfort the dying, help them to Heaven.”

Gabe laughed and the woman at the table beside us glared at her. “You humans are so dramatic. Things aren’t so black and white, not even in Heaven.”

I felt my forehead furrow and wanted to ask “what the hell are you talking about”? but didn’t. She could read my thoughts, after all.

“You might say Azrael and his employer didn’t see eye-to-eye on a couple of matters, so he took a job elsewhere.”

The furrow deepened. “So you’re saying he works for the devil?”

“If that’s what you’d like to call it.”

“When did that happen?”

“Umm.” She looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “More than three decades ago, but less than four.”

“Why?”

“You humans need a reason for everything, don’t you?”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No. It doesn’t change anything if you know.”

I hesitated before speaking again. “Mikey says he’s responsible for my death.”

“I’m not surprised Michael thinks that.” She took the next book off the pile, one about summoning the ascended masters, whatever that meant.

“What do you mean? That maybe he didn’t?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug and she put the book down. “I guess only Azrael knows for sure. Maybe you should ask him.”

I settled back in the blue plastic chair, sighed through my nose. “Is he dangerous?”

She nodded.

“And the Carrions?”

“You know the answer.”

I pictured an exploding brick wall, a car flipping, and shuddered.

“How am I supposed to defend myself?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“C’mon, Gabe. Give me some help here.” I leaned forward, hands extended in a pleading gesture. I felt like a kid sinking in the deep end of the pool, tossed in to learn how to swim as my parent watched, dry and safe.

“You’re resourceful, Icarus. You’ll be fine.”

“Ric,” I mumbled as she stood, pulled a scroll out of her back pocket and tossed it on the table. It clattered and rolled toward me drawing another look from the lady at the other table. I grabbed it and gave her an apologetic smile.

“Your next assignment. Good luck,” she said in a theatrical tone like the recording set to self-destruct in a scene from
Mission: Impossible
. She went to leave and my eyes fell on her tattoo.

“Wait.”

She looked at me, gingerbread eyes twinkling. I gestured toward the chair and she humored me by sitting again. The smile on her lips spread to her eyes, revealing nothing.

“Did you guys have anything to do with Sondra’s death?”

“We have something to do with everyone’s death.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I framed my words before asking the question again. “Did you stage her death to convince me to keep this job?”

“Michael showed you what happens to a soul left to its own devices,” she said and touched my hand. A charge more substantial than when Poe contacted me surged through my flesh, straight to my groin. “I didn’t imagine you’d need any more convincing.”

I couldn’t argue her logic. Mind you, with her hand touching mine, my brain struggled to remember my name. I hoped she wasn’t reading my thoughts right then.

“How many, Gabe?”

She fixed me with an inquisitive look. “How many what?”

“Souls,” I said, lowering my voice. “How many souls before I can have my life back?”

“As many as it takes.”

The temptation to curse out of frustration struggled to get through my lips, but I held it at bay. I didn’t feel like playing angel games.

“Hey, Gabe, want to grab some lunch?”

“I don’t eat, Icarus. I’m an angel.”

“But Poe does.”

“Poe likes to pretend. I’ll see you soon.”

Gabe stood and walked away, waggling her fingers good-bye and disappearing behind the shelves. I stared after her, hoping she’d come back. Was it wrong to gaze upon an angel and feel lustful, or the unavoidable outcome of a rapturous experience? I didn’t know anyone else who’d met one, so had no one with whom to compare.

I opened another book about demons, browsed it unenthusiastically. Images of Hell and fire, torture and blood abounded in its pages, doing nothing to alleviate my trepidation. I slammed the book closed, ignoring the dirty look my friend at the other table cast my way, and pondered the scroll Gabe left behind instead. The paper wrapped around the doweling felt rough, more likely onion skin or papyrus than modern paper. How quaint. I considered unrolling it but decided the public library wasn’t the place to reveal a document bestowed by an angel.

The weight of the scroll in my hand made my stomach queasy with excitement. So far, two souls had gained their salvation because of me--this was number three.

Or do I get a minus one for the one I slept through?

I didn’t know how many needed to be saved until I got my life back--until I could have my son again--but every one got me closer.

My chair squeaked on the floor as I pushed away from the table and gathered the scroll and books. I couldn’t check them out--dead guys don’t get library cards any easier than driver’s licenses--so I photocopied a few pages relevant to my unique situation then headed out, determined to find a way to defend myself.

***

I don’t know why I bothered buying the shotgun; I guess it gave me some measure of security, even if it turned out to be useless.

Which it probably would.

I found a guy who knew a guy. It cost me a lot more than it would if I could have walked into the Walmart and picked one up, but that’s the price you pay for being a dead guy with no ID and no time to wait, I guess. It turned out to be easier than I expected. No wonder the country is circling the drain.

The guy told me it was a Weatherby; I went with the black finish. It almost fit under my coat as I did my best to smuggle it out of the car along with the hacksaw purchased at a nearby hardware store and the vodka from under the passenger seat. Once in the room, I tossed the bottle on the bed, put the shotgun on the desk and then took the hacksaw to its barrel--all the baddest dudes in the movies do it.

Sawing through the steel took more time and effort than expected; my eye strayed more than once to the bottle lying enticingly on the bed but I managed to resist--the clear liquid would be my reward for completion. By the time I finished, sweat dampened my face, my mouth was a desert, and I’d developed a blister on my hand. My sleeve served to dry my forehead and cheeks, the bottle to wet my lips and dull the pain. I’d never fired a shotgun before, didn’t really have any intention of using the thing. I lopped off both ends to make it smaller, inconspicuous, without knowing how doing so would change its effectiveness. It might not do much damage, but maybe it would scare off a Carrion, or slow them, at least.

Doubt it.

I spent some time aiming the unloaded gun at myself in the mirror, practicing my best threatening look.

Are you talkin’ to me?

I laughed. No DeNiro, me.

Bored, I tossed the gun on the bed and retrieved the scroll Gabe gave me. I regarded it for a minute without opening it, my hand stayed by a strange feeling. This page held someone’s death sentence with no appeals to overturn the decision, no last minute governor’s call to stop the proceedings. The enormity of the thought made my head pound.

I held someone’s fate in my hands. Literally.

A pull from the bottle relieved some of the pain in my head. I unrolled the scroll. The same majestic lines looped across the page as the last one, the kind of letters you might expect drawn by the hand of an angel--beautiful, but practically illegible to an unpracticed eye like mine. I went over it four times to make sure I’d read it right, then finished the rest of the bottle in one long chug.

Father Dominic.

Chapter Twelve

Ivy crawled up the side of the rectory, clinging to the rough gray stone as it twisted and wound upon itself. I stared at the building, feeling like I could stare through those walls and back in time at the five-year-old me standing in the pose of the cross.

My arms quivered but I fought back the urge to cry. Crying wouldn’t make it any easier.

But what did I do?

Had the Father seen me touch my thing again? Did I forget to put a toy away? He didn’t tell me, only dragged me out of my room and brought me here, made me stand like this with no explanation.

“Hold your arms steady,” he said, the sound of his voice startling me. “If you love God, you won’t let them shake.”

I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating on my arms to show God my love through not moving. They stopped quaking for a second, but then the devil returned to my limbs.

“Steady, I said,” he snapped and my resolve sagged; my arms did the same. Breath whooshed out of my lungs in a sob.

“Please, Father.” My voice quivered the way my arms had as I tried to lift them again. They wouldn’t go. “Please.”

I heard him shift on the bed. Without thinking, I peeked over my shoulder and saw him pull his hand out from beneath his robe. His face went red and angry when he caught me looking. I snapped my eyes back to the front and lifted my arms. They flapped like the wings of a lame duck and fell back to my side.

“You little...”

I felt his presence close behind me and my whole body tensed as I awaited the bite of his switch on my bum.

Please don’t hurt me.

I wanted to say the words but I’d tried that before.

“God sees all you do,” he hissed into my ear. His breath spilled across my face--it smelled stale, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth today. “He disapproves.”

“But what--?”

“Did I tell you to speak?”

He didn’t raise his voice, but threat dripped from his words. I shook my head.

“I didn’t think so.”

He stepped closer, close enough that part of him pressed against my back. Something hard.

“God sends an angel to talk to me, you know. Sometimes we talk about you.”

A chill ran up my spine.
God thinks about me?

“He says you are unworthy of his love. You can’t even hold your arms up to show him you love him.”

“I can!”

I raised my arms but Father Dominic pushed them down, pinned them to my sides. I struggled against the pressure of his hands on my forearms, desperate to show God I was worthy, but the priest wouldn’t let go. A tear slipped free against my will.