Angel in Crisis

by C. L. Coffey

  Another ability angels have is that most (again, I’m an exception) don’t need to sleep or eat. They eat, because like me, they like food; and the food in New Orleans is especially delicious. Sleep is a luxury. Angels can go several days without it and be fine. I can go without sleep; I just look dead without it – as Cupid was kind enough to point out. The same goes for the food. There’s a reason for that though. I killed someone, albeit protecting my charge, and now I have to live with the guilt of that every day. The guilt isn’t just an emotion. It’s this dull pain that sits in my chest constantly. I don’t like it, and I can’t say I don’t deserve it, but that’s why I need to eat and sleep. The sleep is a temporary reprieve and the only time I don’t hurt.

  According to Michael, angels draw their strength from prayer and faith. So long as people believe, (and it doesn’t matter who their god is), an angel will have a constant supply of energy, and strength. It works for me too, but not for the guilt – that’s my burden, not that of the faithful.

  But that’s how I knew I was dreaming. That pain had gone. It was my own - why would Joshua, or anyone else for that matter, be dreaming of this place - and I was in the middle of a snow storm.

  The other clue was that the Archangel Michael was standing in front of me.

  Okay, being an angel, that shouldn’t be too much of a stretch, but the reality; he was dead. Actually dead, not undead; which is kind of what I was. I’d been murdered and then Michael had offered me a second chance at life, or the afterlife, and I had to earn my wings to become an angel. Currently, I was working hard to pass some unknown criteria and become an archangel, because the Archangel Angel sounds marginally better than the Angel Angel. Yep, an angel called Angel… Someone had an interesting sense of humor.

  “You look different,” Michael said, bringing my focus back on him.

  “You don’t,” I retorted. Michael was… well, he was perfection. Flawless. Don’t get me wrong, every other angel I had ever seen was beautiful, but Michael – I couldn’t think of anything or anyone who came close to being as handsome as he was.

  It had only been a month since he had died, but I could still recall him with perfect precision. Golden hair, warm brown eyes, and under the designer suit I knew there was an incredible body. Just looking at him made me sad though. This was the archangel – he shouldn’t be living only in my dreams and memories – he should be walking the earth. Or Heaven! I’d take that option too.

  I turned my attention to something else, anything else rather than look at him. My eyes dropped to my outfit: my new uniform consisted of black biker jeans – they looked good, they had plenty of pockets to hide things like my sword, but they also had Kevlar in them which kept my skin unbroken for a little while longer – and a dark vest top. My hand reached up to the platinum pendant Joshua had given me and I pulled it back and forth along the chain it hung on. “I made some minor adjustments to my uniform,” I told him. “This is more practical and offers me more protection. Maybe if I’d have had it before you…” My hand tightened around the necklace. I missed Michael. When Michael tilted his head at me, my smile faded. This wasn’t Michael. Michael was dead. This was my memory… It seemed I wanted to torture myself today. I turned my back on him and looked out to the water, frowning.

  “It is not just your clothing,” he said, reaching out and lifting a lock of my hair. As he let it tumble back to my shoulder, I realized it was different to how it normally was when I was asleep. When I had been killed, I’d been out celebrating my birthday. I’d been dressed as a devil (okay, my sense of humor is as warped as His), and part of that outfit meant I was going to have bright, cherry red hair for the rest of eternity (or for an undetermined length of time until my vessel needed changing). No matter how much I washed it, it remained the same vibrant color. Short of sticking it in a ponytail, I couldn’t even put it in a different style. When I was in a dream, it reverted to its natural scruffy blonde, about four inches longer than the shoulder length cut I’d opted for the day before I’d died.

  Or rather, it normally reverted to that style. Today, apparently, I was keeping the red. Huh.

  “There is something on your mind?” Michael asked me, joining me at my side.

  I shrugged, folding my arms. “Trying to work out where I am.” It seemed familiar, but I must have pulled this one from the deep recesses of my mind.

  “Canada,” Michael responded.

  I glanced at him, finding him staring out across the water with such a morose look in his eyes, that I knew in an instant where we were. The islands in front of us were the site of Lucifer’s death: where he had plummeted to earth from Heaven by Michael’s sword. No wonder the air seemed weighted with a feeling of melancholy.

  However, it did beg the question: why would I bring us here?

  I was too weary to think about it for long. Although sleep took away the physical presence of constant pain I was growing accustomed to, it didn’t seem to affect the emotional exhaustion I was currently under. I was that worn out with everything, that imagining Michael was bringing me comfort. Weird, considering that wasn’t the emotion I had associated with Michael when he had been alive. Maybe this was my brain trying to conjure a way of working out what I needed to do next.

  “That is not what is troubling you,” Michael said.

  I looked up, catching my reflection in his eyes. “You left me running a House with Cupid,” I informed him. “You try not being troubled by that amount of responsibility.”

  “I always thought you capable of one day taking that burden,” Michael acknowledged. “I apologize for that burden being placed on you so soon.”

  I sighed and looked away. “We’re coping. The angels are cooperating – some of them even like being on the chore roster. Plus, we managed to defeat Asmodeus, so that’s a major plus.”

  Michael stared at me like I’d managed to part the sea, or performed some other miracle. To be fair, defeating Asmodeus was no small feat. The guy was one of the Fallen – a Prince of Darkness if you want to get into specifics – but it was Cupid who deserved the look of pride Michael was giving me. “Asmodeus is gone?”

  I nodded proudly. “Thanks to Cupid,” I added, the sadness returning. “I attempted to kick his ass for you.”

  “For me?” Michael repeated.

  “He’s the reason you’re…” I trailed off. “He was busy trying to help Lucifer in his rise to power,” I said instead. “The reason we were at the Port…” I frowned. Michael may have only been a figment of my tired imagination at that point, but there was no need to tell him the ridiculous reason he was dead.

  “You truly are impressive,” Michael said, there was respect in his tone, but his attention was now on the waters in front of us.

  I studied the profile of his face. It hadn’t changed. Michael was quite possibly the most handsome thing I had ever seen – quite literally, perfection. I was still impressed at how my memory could recall him that perfectly. “I’m not that impressive. I couldn’t stop the convent from burning down,” I admitted, quietly. Things like this were much easier to admit to my imagination than they ever would have been to tell him to his face.

  Or, at least, I thought it was until Michael turned very slowly on the spot, folding his arms. A vein pulsed in his forehead… my memory recall was excellent. “The convent… burned down?” he repeated slowly.

  “Well, not all of it,” I hastily tried to explain. “And it wasn’t our fault, although maybe we should have expected it after defeating Asmodeus.” Michael’s eyes widened as mine did. “We should have expected it. I mean, why wouldn’t the Fallen retaliate; of course Lucifer is going to be pissed – we killed one of his Prince’s.” I frowned. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this – why I’m telling me this.”

  “I am happy you are,” Michael assured me, although his expression remained grim. “Though I am not sure what Lucifer has to do with this.” I rolled my eyes. I was remembering him too well. I held my hand out in front of me, screwing my
face up in concentration as I focused on my palm. “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

  “Showing you something,” I told him, through gritted teeth.

  “You look… like you’re going to give yourself an aneurism,” Michael announced.

  “Yes, well, remembering your face is a lot easier than trying to remember Luke Goddard’s,” I grunted as a CD case appeared in my hand. With an elated cry of satisfaction, I brandished it at Michael.

  He reached for it, frowning. “What is this?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

  “It’s Luke Goddard’s debut album,” I told him. “Which, while I appreciate most people download their music these days, my imagination is not good enough to come up with an iPhone, and I bet even in my dreams, Apple would hunt me down for a trademark infringement.” I reached over and turned so the cover was facing Michael. “That there is Luke Goddard, and I’m certain that’s the vessel Lucifer is using.”

  Michael, who had been studying the CD, lowered it, and gave me a look of pity. “Angel,” he sighed.

  I held my hand up. “I know it’s crazy, but I’ve done my research and he signed a record deal the day after I killed Lilah – like he was literally released from Hell and used his powers for evil. Then there’s the fact that his first single, from the album with the same name, is called ‘Abandoned by the Angels’, and,” I added, drawing out the word. “The lyrics of said single describe how God turned his back on him.”

  “Angel,” Michael repeated, wearily. “Lucifer is not alive.”

  I glowered at him.

  He tilted his head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” I asked, through gritted teeth.

  “Like you’re going to give yourself another aneurism?”

  I grunted again, and blew out a breath. “Because this is my memory… or dream… whatever – it’s mine, and this is not helping me. I might as well go have this conversation with Zachary. Oh God, I’m just as annoying as Zachary,” I muttered. I shook my head and looked to Michael. “Clearly there’s another reason I’m choosing to have this memory of you appear here, even though you were pretty intimidating when you were alive, I knew you would give me good advice… or something like that. So, brain, what is it that I should do? WWMD?”

  “WWMD?” Michael repeated slowly.

  “What Would Michael Do?” I explained, the frown back on my face. “What would Michael do?” I asked, looking up at him. “You would think with your brain and not with your heart!” I exclaimed, leaping up and kissing his cheek. “Thank you!” I added, walking into the woods, my feet not leaving any footprints in the snow. I got a few paces away and glanced back. Michael was rubbing his cheek. “Did I just kiss my own subconscious?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  163?!

  I woke up hungry. I woke up feeling a little less achy – a few more nights in my own bed would help. I also woke up with a sense of clarity. Talking with Michael – with myself – weird as it was, had been helpful. We needed to know what the Fallen were planning next before I dove head first into an offensive move. I showered, dried off with the smoky towels, and then dressed in smoky clothing.

  It was early and the convent was deserted. Cupid hadn’t said what time they would return, but I figured it would be after breakfast before any of the angels returned to the convent. That gave me a couple of hours to see what Ty wanted, and some time to come up with a plan as I walked to Qube, the bar he worked in.

  We had managed what had seemed impossible, and defeated Asmodeus, but there was still Beelzebub. And Lucifer… Both needed defeating. The last I had checked, Luke Goddard, the ridiculously popular pop star being possessed by Lucifer was currently miles away from New Orleans, making his way to the west coast leg of his tour. Unfortunately, as he had shown by orchestrating the arson attack on the convent, he was proving to be just as annoying when he was several thousand miles away. The current focus in the House was fixing the mess he’d made, and not working out how to defeat him. When I got back later, I was going to make sure that only a few of us were focused on the cleanup.

  Although a lot of the bars on Bourbon Street would stay open all night, towards the end furthest away from Canal Street, many chose to close in the late hours of the morning. Some would reopen for the breakfast crowd. Qube, which served amazing chocolate crêpes, was one of these bars. I paused outside of it before entering, staring over at one of the bars that was located opposite, just off a side street: Bee’s. The cute name and the bright yellow and black paintwork was a deceptive cover for its owner, Beelzebub.

  “Have you developed super powers?”

  “No,” I refused to take my eyes off the building as I responded to Ty’s question. Half of me wished I had developed super powers – they'd be useful about now. Then again, the added responsibilities would probably make life (death?) even more complicated than it was, and I was hitting the limit on complicated. I finally turned to face Ty. His gray eyes had lost their shine, and were almost hidden beneath the dark bags under his eyes. It looked like he had been getting as much sleep as me.

  “We should probably talk inside,” he suggested, pulling back the door with a nervous glance over at Bee’s.

  I peered into the dim bar, and shook my head. “Not going to happen,” I muttered.

  “You still don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust,” I returned, giving him a pointed look.

  Ty rubbed a hand over the stubble which had grown over his chin, before shrugging his resignation. “I guess I could do with a coffee.” He pushed the door shut with his elbow, and then indicated that I should lead the way.

  We walked in silence as I took us to a nearby coffee shop. It was busy, early morning workers getting their caffeine fix before starting the day, but most people were getting their coffee to go. It wasn’t until we both had our lattes in front of us that Ty spoke. “You managed to kill Asmodeus,” he said definitively, his voice low as he made sure no one was in earshot.

  “Cupid gets that credit,” I sighed. “Asmodeus very nearly killed me.” I took a sip of the coffee, watching Ty. He was fidgeting with the mug, turning it around as though trying to find the best part of the foam to start with. “I take it your dad is pissed?”

  “Understatement,” he muttered. “He took a golf club to his Diablo, and then disappeared as soon as he heard the news.”

  The mug, which had been halfway to my lips, was set down on the table, coffee streaking down the side of the china and pooling around the bottom. I let out a low whistle. “I thought that car was his prized possession?” I’d been to Ty’s house, once. I’d seen the sports car. I’d given it a wide berth because I'd been terrified of damaging it. If that was what Beelzebub was willing to do to something that he liked, I had to tread carefully.

  “I don’t want to talk about my dad,” Ty continued, though he refused to meet my eyes.

  I mopped up the spilt coffee with a napkin, waiting for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, I scrunched the napkin up in my fist. “I’m not playing Twenty Questions.” It took another long moment for Ty to speak, and when he did, his voice was so quiet that I couldn’t hear him over the din of the coffee shop. “FYI, the super-hearing doesn’t kick in until I become an archangel,” I said, dryly.

  “I need your help,” he repeated, his eyes still looking at anything but me. I said nothing, waiting for him. Finally, he looked at me, and for the first time I saw something in his eyes which had me worried: fear. “In the last three weeks seven nephilim have been killed. I need you to make them stop.”

  “Me?” I repeated, confused. I’d had one lucky break with Joshua and that had been tracking my own murderer down. I wasn’t a detective. “I could talk to Joshua,” I suggested. “I don’t know what power he has to choose his own cases, but I’m-”

  “No,” Ty cut me off. “I need you to make them stop.”

  I shook my head at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 
“Them,” he repeated. “Whichever of the angels is behind the killings… You need to stop them.”

  “Angels don’t kill!” I exclaimed, before quickly lowering my voice as the table next to us looked over. “I can’t even get them to learn basic self-defense.”

  “Angel? Archangel? Whichever. Just, make them stop, please. These are my friends being murdered,” Ty begged. He reached over, grabbing my hands. “Please.”

  “What makes you sure it’s an angel?” I asked. “Our home has been half-destroyed. We’re too busy clearing the soot out to think about killing nephilim. More to the point, we’re not killing anyone. We don’t do that.”

  “We’re not immortal like angels are, and while we don’t heal anywhere near as quickly as you, we don’t get ill often. If we don’t die of old age, it’s because someone has killed us.” Ty pulled his hands back.

  “But what makes you think it’s an angel? You can’t tell me that nephilim and the Fallen don’t choose to hang around with unsavory characters,” I pointed out. “What’s to say they didn’t upset someone? Someone human?”

  “We’re not all like that,” Ty said. “I don’t ‘hang around with unsavory characters’.”

  I shot him a look. “Your dad is Beelzebub.”

  “Yeah, and I choose to work in a bar that isn’t owned by him,” Ty shot back. “The nephilim are in danger – someone is hunting us.”

  I slumped back into my chair and rubbed at my temples. “I’m certain we’re not actively hunting nephilim, but I will ask. I’ll also ask Joshua and see if we can maybe look at the case files and see if there’s anything linking them. It could be a complete coincidence that they’re being killed.” I lowered my hands and reached for my coffee. “How many nephilim are we talking about?”