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He had to smile. “Yeah, really. They’re not just in the movies, you know. ”
Willow shook her head. “It’s so strange. I grew up hearing robins and blue jays, and you grew up hearing coyotes. ” She touched her hair, making a face as she plucked out a piece of glass and tossed it onto the sand. “Oh, honestly. I thought I’d gotten all of these out before, but there seems to be an endless supply. ” She ran her hands through her hair again, searching.
Alex said the words before he could stop himself. “Do you want some help with that?”
Willow’s head snapped toward him, her expression startled. He shrugged, trying to ignore the sudden pounding in his chest. “It’s just that I can still see some of them, right at the back. They’re sort of . . . shining in the moonlight. ”
“OK,” she said after a pause.
He moved over to sit beside her; she turned her back to him. His breath felt tight as he gently ran his fingers through her hair, finding bits of glass and pulling them free. Her hair was soft against his searching fingers, and the desert lay vast and empty around them as he worked, neither of them speaking. There was the faint almost-noise of glass on sand as he tossed pieces aside, and the sound of their breathing. Willow sat very still, hardly moving.
Finally Alex stroked her hair slowly, all the way down its length. He dropped his hands and swallowed. “I . . . think that’s all. ”
“Thanks. ” Willow’s voice came out in a whisper. It was all Alex could do not to encircle her in his arms and pull her back against his chest. Don’t, he told himself harshly. If you get close to someone again, you’ll regret it. He scrambled to his feet.
Willow got up, too, hugging her elbows and not looking at him. “I — I guess we should get some sleep. ”
“Yeah,” said Alex. It felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He took a step back. “I’ll just . . . ” He motioned into the desert.
“Yeah, me too,” said Willow with a quick, embarrassed smile.
She went behind the car while Alex went off in the other direction a few dozen paces. By the time he heard Willow emerge again, he was looking up at the stars, his hands shoved in his back pockets.
He turned and saw her face, etched in the moonlight. He managed a smile. “OK, well — we’re probably better off in the car. It gets pretty cold out here at night. ”
Willow nodded, and a few minutes later they were in the Chevy, lying back on their separate seats. Willow covered herself with her jean jacket.
“Are you going to be warm enough?” asked Alex.
“I think so,” she said.
“Here. ” He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over her. The gesture was much more intimate than he’d meant it to be, with her lying there gazing up at him. He banished the thought and leaned back in his own seat.
“But you’ll be cold,” said Willow, touching the jacket’s sleeve.
“I’m fine. ”
“Here, you take this, then. ” She stretched to hand him her jean jacket but stopped. “I mean — it’ll be too small for you, but —”
“That’s OK. Thanks. ” He took the jacket, his fingers closing over the softness of its worn fabric. As he spread it over his chest, he caught a faded whiff of her perfume.
Willow wrapped the leather jacket around herself and closed her eyes. “Well . . . good night,” she said finally.
“Good night,” echoed Alex.
He didn’t go to sleep for a long time.
EVER SINCE HE’D BEEN GIVEN the responsibility for organizing the celebration, Jonah had been so busy he could hardly think. He’d put together a team of devotees to be his assistants and had them measure the available space inside the cathedral, estimating how many flowers were going to be needed. More than fifty Denver florists had to be hired to fulfill the order for long garlands of calla lilies and violets to wrap around the cathedral’s pillars, not to mention the massive standing displays that were to go on either side of the space where the gate would open. He worked with the cathedral’s musical director, who was ecstatic over the coming celebration; together, they planned a choral program truly fit for the angels. New robes of a shimmering silvery blue were ordered for the soprano choir, with dozens of seamstresses put to work to rush the order through. There was to be a procession of acolytes from churches all over the country; just coordinating their details was a nightmare in itself. Thousands of flyers were ordered; tickets for available spaces in the cathedral were arranged, with extra crowd accommodation planned.
It had been decided not to directly involve non-Church media, but word was already spreading like wildfire, with Jonah receiving hundreds of e-mails a day begging for tickets. Soon he had to assign another few devotees solely to the task of selling tickets, or he wouldn’t have time to get anything else done. And there was so much else he needed to think about: lighting, programs, refreshments. He wanted to consider every possible detail so the celebration would, rightly, be the most spectacular event the young cathedral had ever seen.
But meanwhile, even through the daze of details that surrounded him, he had begun to notice things. . . .
Just little things at first, such as how often Raziel vanished from his office and how satisfied with himself the angel often seemed on his return. And the residential devotees: often now he seemed to spot one or another gazing up at nothing, smiling. Jonah knew that they were communing with the angels at these times, and before the vague feeling of unease had come over him, he’d never even questioned this. But it was happening so often. And the devotees usually seemed so tired afterward. Once, passing a woman staring up at nothing in a corridor, Jonah spoke to her and received no answer. Gazing at her radiant, unseeing eyes, an uncomfortable feeling came over him; he ducked his head down and continued on his way. When he glanced back, he saw her standing slumped against the wall, her face pale.
Jonah wavered and then went over to her, his footsteps hardly making a sound on the thick carpet. “Are you all right?” he asked.
The devotee’s eyelids came open. Her expression was shining, joyful. “Oh, yes! One of the angels has just been with me. Praise the angels!”
“Praise the angels,” echoed Jonah.
But the woman staggered slightly as she started down the corridor again; he saw her touch the wall for support. She looked so drained. So weak.
In fact, so did many of the devotees.
How had he never noticed before? It seemed incredible to Jonah, as if he were now viewing cathedral life with a new pair of eyes. Thousands of resident devotees lived in nearby accommodation; they took care of every need that the flagship Church of Angels center had, from cleaning to cooking to paperwork. They had a gym, a movie theater, a hair salon . . . but their most popular amenity seemed to be the doctor’s office. Glancing through some of the personnel files on his screen, Jonah felt a chill. Not a single resident seemed to be healthy.
Yet surely it was just a coincidence. Or not a coincidence, exactly, but simple cause and effect: if you were having health problems in your life, then wouldn’t that be the natural time to turn to the angels for help? Of course so many of the devotees didn’t seem to be well; it was why they’d needed the angels in the first place. Jonah felt a rush of relief at this theory, but it was short-lived: delving further into the records, he saw that many of the devotees had been just fine when they arrived. It was only after they’d been at the cathedral for a while that things took a turn for the worse.
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