Angel in Training (The Louisiangel Series, Book One)

by C. L. Coffey

  When hurricane Tabitha, a storm strengthened by the Fallen, had made landfall, I had been in position to the west of the city. I was part of a circle of angels trying to protect New Orleans. Joshua had been kidnapped and I had abandoned my post to save him. Michael has assured me I did the right thing – that protecting my charge was the single most important thing that I could do, the only thing I had to do – but breaking the protective circle had left it weakened. The unnatural hurricane that had hit New Orleans should have passed with little more than minor storm damage. Instead, there were far too many homes that had been ruined and I couldn’t help but feel guilty about that too.

  Damaged buildings were only a part of the guilt I was feeling. A larger chunk was directed towards Joshua himself. He had been targeted because of me. My predecessor, Lilah, had earned her wings and become an archangel. Then, she’d fallen. Or at least, according to Michael she’d fallen. She was adamant she hadn’t. Leaving Michael’s House had been her choice.

  Agony flashed through me, and I squeezed my body as tightly around the pillow as I could. That was the main source of my guilt: Lilah. She’d had this crazy idea that Lucifer wasn’t dead – only trapped. She had been convinced that if an angel were to kill an angel and a human, then the act would release Lucifer. Lilah had possessed a human girl and attacked Joshua. So I had attacked her. Only I didn’t know she had possessed someone until it was too late. I had saved Joshua, but at the end of the day I had killed an innocent girl to do so.

  The pain shot through me again. Every time I allowed myself to be distracted for even a moment, as soon as I remembered what I had done, it felt like someone was injecting ice into every single cell in my body. Carefully, I concentrated on my breathing. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale.

  “She killed an innocent.” Conversation from outside of my door broke through my thoughts. “She needs time to come to terms with this.” The voice belonged to Cupid. Cupid was another archangel and Michael’s second in command. He was not, contrary to popular belief, a Roman God; just an archangel who had gone out of his way to set a Caesar up on a date and been remembered for his matchmaking skills, rather than his insane archery prowess.

  “She’s been in there for weeks,” a second, more melodic voice, agreed. This one belonged to Michael.

  “Far too long,” Veronica, Cupid’s best friend, and one of the cherubim who lived in the House, agreed.

  I sighed and turned over so my back was to the door. This wasn’t the first time they’d had a conversation like this. It would last a few minutes, and then they would walk away. Every once in a while, Cupid or Veronica would come in and try to tell me everything was going to be alright, but how could it be? They hadn’t killed anyone.

  The sharp stabbing sensation returned, just as strong as it always was. With all my attention on trying to focus on my breathing, I didn’t hear the door open. “Angel?”

  I could hear Michael, vaguely registering the mattress dip as he perched on the bed beside me, but I ignored him, pulling the blankets closer to me. It takes some time, but that pain eventually becomes a more manageable dull throb. Allowing myself to become distracted by Michael wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “Angel?” he repeated, this time using the psychic connection I had with him. Being an angel came with a few gifts and abilities, one of which was a psychic connection with the archangel of the House you belonged to. Thankfully, it was just the ability to communicate telepathically with Michael and he didn’t have the ability to read my mind. No one needed to see what was constantly being replayed in there.

  I chose to ignore him, trying to breathe through the added discomfort his presence was causing to flare up: inhale and exhale.

  “Angel,” he tried once more, returning to the verbal method. He got up, the mattress once again shifting, and for a brief moment, I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he jerked the covers away from me.

  My eyes flew open, then I quickly shut them again as I discovered he had opened the curtains, allowing what little light there was outside, to illuminate my room. “Leave me alone,” I grunted, only just refraining from launching my pillow at him.

  “Enough is enough,” he said firmly. “It is time you left this bed.”

  “It is time you stayed out of my room,” I snapped at him. “Or I swear to God, I will go to the police, or the papers, or whoever will darn well listen to me, and tell them exactly what I am!” I regretted saying the words even before I saw Michael’s reaction. His rich brown eyes widened, and a muscle at his jaw twitched in anger. Then as quickly as I could blink, he vanished. Oaths to God, it turns out, are a very serious thing for angels. If Michael had stayed, I would have been obliged to follow through on my actions, regardless of whether or not I ever intended on doing so.

  In what felt like the same speed as Michael’s disappearing act, the air seemed to be sucked from the room and suddenly I was struggling to breathe. Without thinking about what I was doing, I darted over to the window, pushed it open and tried to take in deep breaths. It should have been easier than it was. It was night-time and raining. Two things that brought the temperature and humidity of the Louisianan air down, but I still couldn’t catch my breath.

  I was feeling more claustrophobic than anything else, feeling suddenly trapped in my room, my self-imposed cell. I pushed the window open further and jumped, landing clumsily on my knees. If I was still human, that fall would have, at the very least, hurt. As an angel, it felt more like I had taken a larger step down than usual.

  The relief at being outside was instant. The rain and the breeze started to have a calming effect on me, but it wasn’t enough. Bare foot, and wearing only my night clothes, a long since faded England football shirt and shorts, I took off at a run.

  Before I had earned my wings, Michael had spent hours with me in the gym, trying to get me to run at the supernatural speed I was supposed to, but had never been able to. All that had seemed to have changed now, and I tore across the grounds of the convent at a speed that would have made Usain Bolt look like he was running at a casual jog.

  Thankfully the streets surrounding the convent were deserted as it took me a moment to realize that nobody should see me moving at these speeds. I slowed to a walk, pleasantly surprised to discover that finally, running didn’t leave me feeling like I was going to keel over and die. Though that, of course, led me back to thinking about the girl I had killed. I stumbled to the side of one of the buildings, clutching at my stomach as I waited for the ability to stand straight again.

  It took several deep breaths and a lot of effort, but I managed to push the pain back to the dull throb. Getting out of the room, and the convent, had helped a little, but I was at a loss of what to do next. I knew I didn’t want to go back. Another option was going to my aunt’s – the place which had once been my home.

  No, that wasn’t really an option either.

  Even without looking at my reflection I knew I was a mess. Turning up on Sarah’s doorstep would do nothing more than make her worry.

  I regretted not taking the time to get dressed, or at least put on some footwear, even if I didn’t really need any. Despite the fact I was completely drenched, and the wind and rain continued to swirl around me, I didn’t feel the temperature. I could tell that the concrete sidewalks below my feet were cold, but I couldn’t really feel it. The footwear was more for the benefit of the few people out braving the weather, who were looking at me like I was homeless.

  I dropped my head and wrapped my arms around myself, hoping I looked appropriately cold for the weather. With no real destination, I just walked. One foot in front of the other, I walked for about an hour – twelve minutes short of one.

  I came to a stop as another memory took over me. It took several moments to once again work through the feeling of my insides being ripped out. When it had ebbed away, I straightened, trying to work out where my feet had taken me. I was in a cemetery, that much was obvious, but it was a cemetery which was very much acti
ve.

  New Orleans sits below sea level and because of the many (true) horror stories of caskets rising during flooding, there is a common misconception that bodies can only be cremated or buried in a tomb above ground – in a mausoleum. In actual fact, there are still traditional in-ground cemeteries in use.

  I gazed across the rows of new headstones and the gnawing feeling in my stomach started up again. I didn’t know where in the city I was exactly, but I knew whose grave I had walked to: Paige Kenworth’s.

  My feet left the main path, taking one of the gravel routes that stretched out at the bottom of each row. Even without much light, I knew when I’d found the right tombstone. It was a simple oblong feature, with Sleeping with the Angels, engraved into the stone front, under the name and dates. At the same time my stomach turned to lead, my legs turned to jelly, and I crashed down on the sodden dirt.

  I’d like to say I lost track of time and didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there, but I’d be lying. Time and time again, I replayed those last minutes of Paige’s life. How Lilah, the one who had earned her wings before me, the supposed archangel, had her hands wrapped around Joshua’s throat, choking the life from him. How I had taken her sword and thrust it so hard through her back it had stuck out of the centre of her chest. How, finally, she’d laughed at me, explaining that she would never have been able to kill Joshua otherwise her crazy plan would never have worked.

  My troubled thoughts distracted me long enough that the internal LoJack I have on Joshua didn’t flare into life until a sensation I hadn’t felt in weeks shot through me. It took me a moment to work out it wasn’t me hurting. I sat bolt upright, blinking in the rain. Not so long ago, I had to rely on my gut instinct to locate Joshua. Now, I could narrow him down like he was on Google Maps, only it was like the roads hadn’t been downloaded to my brain. Currently, he was just over three miles east of my current location, and more importantly, he was in pain.

  I didn’t hesitate any longer, getting to my feet and running. I was by no means as fast as The Flash, but just over six minutes later, I was outside the house I knew he was in, and I didn’t care if anybody had seen me. Thankfully, it was just after ten and though I’d barely registered the fact I had probably passed a dozen people, my priority was Joshua.

  I paused outside, staring up at my destination, certain that the LoJack was on the fritz. I was in the middle of the Lower Ninth Ward. Although Joshua was a detective with NOPD, his district didn’t cover this far out. As he was on his probationary period, he was mainly restricted to the French Quarter, unless of course, the case he was working required him to visit other areas. This location left me mystified. There were some areas in New Orleans that had been decimated when Katrina hit. The section of the street behind me had already had the houses cleared, leaving vacant plots behind. I was in front of a house which had long since been abandoned. “What are you doing here?” I muttered to the deserted street.

  The front door was hammered shut and I had to go around the side, following a path which had been cut into the overgrown garden by many pairs of feet. Inside, although sheltered from the rain, the room was wet. The far side of the room, which had once been a kitchen, was missing a chunk of the ceiling and water was pouring in. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. There was, of course, no electricity in the house. The little light that was available was coming from the streetlights outside.

  I moved into the hallway, and nearly ran back out onto the street. I’d just walked the streets of New Orleans without shoes on, yet walking across a carpet which not only smelt moldy, but also squelched under my feet, turned my stomach. It was only Joshua’s strained voice that pushed me forward. “You’re about two minutes away from making a mistake you can’t come back from.”

  I hurried down the hall, finally bursting into what turned out to be the bathroom. It was a little brighter in here, thanks to the streetlight which seemed to be placed outside the small, broken bathroom window. The first thing I spotted was the hideously filthy bathtub, followed by Joshua sitting on the floor between the tub and an equally disgusting toilet bowl.

  My eyes fell on the blood on his forehead, dropping lower to the dark blue eyes staring up at me. He didn’t look please to see me. In fact he looked scared. “Angel, get out of here,” he barked at me.

  I took too long to process the words. Behind me, the bathroom door slammed shut. I whirled around to find a gun pointing at my chest. “Oh, this isn’t good,” I muttered.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is easily the hardest section to write, but only because there are so many people I need to thank and I don’t want to miss anyone out.

  I must start with Jana, for without you, I don’t think this book would have been written. You let me into your home, fed me dirty rice (amongst other things) and introduced me to your Louisiana. You’ve answered countless questions and continued to do so even when we’ve had a difference of opinion, and I love you for that. It was these conversations which helped this story take shape.

  Eternal thanks will always go to Amalia for a cover more fabulous than I could ever imagine, and also for putting up with me as the image of Angel began to take form.

  Without Tina there would be a plot hole that still needed filling. There would also be dozens of typos and far too many sentences starting with the word ‘and’.

  A writer also cannot function without a group of beta-readers she trusts to read and find the faults all while being gentle. Kris and Donna, I thank you for being sounding boards from the What The Eyes Can’t See days, and for sticking around all these years later. Chrissi and Victoria, I also thank you for putting up with my car journey ramblings about plots and characters, and importantly, giving me the much needed support.

  Patrick, you have no idea how much I needed your final check over this – for the story’s sake, and for my own! Thank you for your keen eye and your baking. I’m (impatiently) waiting for the beignets now.

  My colleagues also need a shout out. I’m sure you’re all sick of me harping on about this book, or your ears hurt from the frequent excited shrieks when another ‘milestone’ is hit. The bad news is that there are another four books to come in this story, so you might want to invest in some earplugs!

  To all my family and friends to have helped and supported me, you’ve been truly wonderful. Your support has made this whole experience much less terrifying. I would list you all individually, but I would be horrified if I missed anyone off.

  Last, but certainly not least, my thanks go to you: the reader. You picked this book and took a chance. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the Angel’s story.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debut author C. L. Coffey works in an office by day. By night she leads a (not-so) secret life DJing, and throughout it all, is constantly scribbling away as the plot bunnies demand constant attention.

  Her first novel was written when she should have been revising for her exams. While it is unlikely to ever see the light of day, it was the start of long relationship with the evil plot bunnies of doom.

  A need to do more than just one subject led her to the University of Hull, where she graduated with an honours degree in American Studies. For the third year of the four year degree, she was able to call Baton Rouge home. Since then, Louisiana has claimed a large chunk of her heart, and remains a place she will always consider home.

  When not transcribing the stories of the angels and archangels, working, or DJing, she is at the beck and call of three cats – all of whom rank higher in the household than she does.

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