“Yeah, they supposedly take care of humans.”
“There are hundreds of them, and, yes, they’re in charge of human affairs. They have other angels who do the actual work for them, though. They kind of act like CEOs, I guess you could say, telling other lesser angels what to do.”
“What’s a lesser angel?”
“Like a guardian angel or a messenger.”
“Okay.”
Father Peter leaned across the aisle toward me. “But, Riley, there are seven that are considered the most powerful.”
“Seven Archangels.”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit.”
“Riley.”
“Sorry.”
“But they don’t own angels. I think that’s what threw me. Angels aren’t owned.”
“That’s okay,” I said standing.
Seven powerful Archangels. Seven that told other angels what to do. Maybe the belonging thing had to do with more of a chain of command than actual ownership. That would make me feel a bit better. I didn’t like the idea of anyone owning anyone, especially not Gabe.
“Thank you, Father Peter,” I said as he walked me to the door.
“Any time,” he replied.
That evening after dinner I spent some more time on the computer. Now that I knew what I was looking for I wanted to know way more about Archangels. It turned out there was a lot to learn. Like Father Peter had said, there were hundreds of them and they had specific responsibilities. And, yes, there totally were seven of them that evidently first appeared in the Book of Enoch, which, it turned out, wasn’t always considered a reliable source. Well, whatever, I didn’t need a book telling me that all this was true. I had a ghost thingy telling me.
I was also curious about the Nephilim, just because I’d never even heard of them before. And, okay, also maybe because I was curious about the humans having relationships with angels thing. Though the more I researched it, the more I realized that maybe the angel and human hookup wasn’t as likely as I thought. It turned out that that was only one theory as to what the Nephilim were. Other scholars speculated that the Nephilim were giants and that men’s hearts would fall, as in fail, when they saw one of them. And yet others thought that their height was a metaphor for their warrior abilities. There was a lot of mystery surrounding them and not that many references to them.
I figured I should probably just focus on the Circle of Seven. I’d already made a good start. And then Gabe and I would go to Commune, and maybe that would shed some more light on who he was, and then maybe, just maybe, I’d be that much closer to figuring out where they had taken Chris.
20.
Anyone is welcome at Commune. At least that’s what all the pamphlets said. And the sign outside the church. The Church of the Angels is a place that wants everyone to experience the Glory. Commune is an intimate experience. Commune brings you closer to the angels than anything else. Old, young, rich, poor. Everyone should want to go to Commune. Everyone is welcome at Commune.
If they don’t mind being stared at.
If they don’t mind being questioned as to their intentions.
If they don’t mind feeling like even more of a freak than usual.
We were lucky that Amber had agreed to meet us out front, otherwise I think Gabe might have decided to just turn around and go home. I’d learned over the last several weeks that he wasn’t the kind of guy who liked being questioned. I think, actually, it was the fact that he didn’t like answering questions that was the bigger problem.
So when Amber’s folks decided to make him do just that, they were pretty lucky that their daughter had the sense to roll her eyes and say, “Jeez, Mom, just leave them alone, okay? I was the one who invited them.”
Of course, Amber had technically invited me, not Gabe, but she wasn’t about to send Gabe away. That would be insane. He was too hot for any girl to want him to leave places.
“This is bullshit, Riley,” Gabe whispered in my ear. I placed a hand on his arm.
“You promised. It’s one night.”
“One night where I could be necking with Charlotte.”
“No one says necking. Stop saying necking, please.”
“What should I call it?”
“Making out, hooking up…” It was kind of ridiculous that I was giving a lesson on what to call something that I’d never actually done to someone who apparently had done it all.
We stopped talking because we were now in the great hall. It’d been a few years since I’d been inside. It was pretty impressive. Bright white, one large room. That’s it. But one large room can be pretty extraordinary when you think about it. No pillars holding it up, just emptiness and light from the setting sun shining in from a wall of glass behind the altar. Suspended from the ceiling there were these giant wings, made out of copper. I remembered them being blindingly bright that time I’d gone with my parents and Chris. He and I had concluded it was probably best to go to church on a cloudy morning.
I realized that the last time I’d been here had been that first time, when Chris and I had collected all the fallen sins outside. The memory hit me hard. I could feel my throat tighten and tears well in my eyes. I forced myself to calm down. I hadn’t had that missing Chris feeling for ages.
And then I felt even worse. All this time with Gabe, even though I’d told myself it was to find out what happened to Chris, had still been a distraction from really missing him. Chris had become some idea, and he wasn’t that. He was a person. My best friend. Possibly the love of my life. I felt so guilty that I couldn’t contain myself. The tears managed to find their way up, out and down my cheeks.
Gabe noticed.
“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?”
I nodded but couldn’t say anything. At that moment Pastor Warren came to greet us, in that usual combo of white shirt and beige trousers he wore, with that brown and yellow bowtie of his. The pits of his shirt were stained yellow from sweat. He saw the tears right away and without any warning suddenly pulled me to him.
“There there,” he said in that melodic voice of his. “First time’s always a powerful thing.”
He held me tight and rubbed my back slowly. It felt super uncomfortable. I could also smell the sweat through his shirt, and a sweetness, either his deodorant or aftershave. Whatever it was, it mixed badly with his body odor. It didn’t seem like he was going to let go of me any time soon, so eventually I pushed my body away from his, and he finally released me.
I looked at Gabe who didn’t seem happy with what had just happened, and he moved protectively toward me.
“Uh…thanks,” I said to Pastor Warren. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“Of course you are, Miss Carver. You’ve come here against the will of your parents, and this hall alone provokes awe. I can understand your reaction.”
Okay, so evidently Pastor Warren had an opinion about my family.
“And you’re the new boy, Gabe. I was hoping you’d join us, though I didn’t think you’d come to Commune right away.”
“Yeah?”
“Many newcomers who haven’t experienced a Taking can be skeptical. Coming to a sermon puts them at ease. Commune is a deeply profound emotional experience, even true followers can find it frightening.”
“I don’t scare easy.” Gabe’s voice was hard. I’d never heard the particular quality before. Heard him angry sure, frustrated, but not…mean.
“You are both welcome, of course, of course.” It seemed like he felt his welcoming duties were now taken care of because he floated past us to greet George Smith Sr. and his son without skipping a beat. “The Smiths! Welcome again, gentlemen, welcome…”
“I don’t like that guy,” said Gabe.
“Me neither,” I replied. “Come on.”
I grabbed him by the hand and took him over to a pew a little further down the aisle. I didn’t really feel like sitting with anyone, especially Amber and her parents
who seemed a little too excited to be there. I thought that was kind of odd considering they came once a week, and it wasn’t like it was anything new to them anymore. I guess they really liked Commune.
That’s when I noticed Mirabel Jennings standing up near the altar surrounded by half a dozen people or so. She was smiling in that soft way of hers, playing nervously with her long mousey brown hair but saying nothing. Mirabel Jennings always seemed to be living on a different plane than the rest of the world, seemed to float her way through life. Made sense she’d float her way through Commune too, I guess.
Still. I wanted to see it for myself.
Another ten minutes passed before we got started. No one else showed up, but it seemed like Commune was not just a spiritual event but a social one as well. Took a bit of time for Pastor Warren to finally gather everyone up. In the end there were about fourteen of us. It was kind of how many I’d expected. The lights were dimmed, and we all gathered at the altar and stood in a circle holding hands.
I’d kind of expected that too. Fortunately I was between Gabe and Amber, so I didn’t feel too uncomfortable. Gabe, on the other hand, had been personally requested by Pastor Warren to be his right hand. Yeah, he was not happy about that.
“Welcome, everyone,” began Pastor Warren. His voice filled the entire hall, even though there was just us. “We have some newcomers with us. Why don’t we welcome them all into the fold?”
“Welcome,” said the others in this soft intense unison.
“Uh…thanks,” I said back. I didn’t feel that welcome. Especially not when I looked into their eyes and saw the deep suspicion there. Maybe it would have been different if I’d come to the church on Sundays. Maybe they could tell I wasn’t here for the same reason they were. But I was still here because of angels. Sure I was skeptical…but I had come. Just in case.
Stupid fold, I thought, and pouted inwardly.
Gabe squeezed my hand. It was nice to know I wasn’t alone.
“We begin as always by thanking the angels for choosing us. Amber, will you lead us in thanks?”
“Yes, Pastor.” I glanced over at her as she lowered her eyes. She seemed so demure here, so pious. Hard to think this was the same girl I’d seen sucking face with Brett Warren, who was holding his dad’s left hand at the moment looking equally virtuous. Eh, I guess you’re allowed to suck face and also revere the angels, unless of course you’re not. I didn’t really know the rules, actually.
“Thank you for choosing us, and in your Glory we ask that you continue this gift. We thank you for sending us guidance to steer us into your love, and we thank Pastor Warren for taking this burden unto himself. Thank the Angels.”
“Thank the Angels,” repeated the fold.
I wondered if Pastor Warren ever said the thanks, and if he did, if he had to thank himself: “We thank me for taking this burden unto myself. . .”
“Thank you, Amber. Now it is time for tellings. Has anyone a story to share?”
“I do, Pastor Warren,” said Anna Brown looking sickly as usual.
“Anna.”
“Last week I mailed a letter to my mother. I’m ashamed to say I’d written some things in it that just weren’t nice. I’d sent it off in anger. When I calmed down, I realized what I’d done, and I felt rightly shamed. I asked for forgiveness. Three days later the letter came back to me. There was a note saying I hadn’t put proper postage on it, but I’d been mailing these letters to her once a week for three years. Same postage as ever. I knew I’d been forgiven and given my second chance.”
“You were,” said Pastor Warren. “Praise be you asked them.”
“Praise be,” said the fold.
“What about our newcomers, do either of you have any stories to share?”
I looked at Pastor Warren. Did I have any stories to share about encounters with angels? Let me think. Not really. Well, okay, I did have that one time when I shot one in the face. Did that count?
“No, Pastor Warren.”
“Don’t despair. Now that you have come to Commune, the Angels will see your reverence, and they will reward you.”
“Oh good.”
There were a few more tellings, similar to Annie’s mundane everyday coincidences that reflected the truth about their faith. And maybe they were being rewarded. It just didn’t seem like it. Anyway, I didn’t care about the stories. I wanted to get to the bit when Mirabel floated. Or anyone floated for that matter.
And then we started to breathe. Well, it was what Pastor Warren called meditation, but I wasn’t convinced.
I knew that meditation was supposed to be really great, and sometimes I wondered if I should take it up considering how my brain always seemed to be going at a crazy pace. But if meditation was anything like this, I wasn’t interested.
We were told to close our eyes, and, under the instruction of Pastor Warren, to take in three deep breaths. Everyone made a big show of taking in these breaths. They were loud, and each exhalation came out as a heavy sigh. Then Pastor Warren left the circle—I knew this because we had to shuffle around a bit to close it up again—and told us to continue breathing in unison. The pace the group had chosen was faster than I normally breathed, and I started to find myself feeling a little light-headed.
“When I touch you on the back, let your feelings, your thoughts, your worries from the week out. Let it out into the breath, and let the breath carry it up and the Angels carry it away.”
I don’t know who he touched first. It was probably one of the George Smiths. A guttural male cry flew into the circle, and the breathing of the fold grew faster. This didn’t feel healthy. Another cry, female, and then another. They all sounded in great pain. Had none of them had a pleasant week at all? Amber’s cry was a little different, a little…well, let’s just say I felt a bit embarrassed to be holding her hand. Though I did hear Pastor Warren say, “Well done, Amber,” and that totally icked me out.
I noticed other sounds too now but not coming from us. They were those same sounds I’d remembered hearing that one time I’d gone to the Church. Strange, kind of frightening sounds. It’s just the wind, I told myself, it’s just the wind. But it didn’t sound just like the wind…it sounded…like voices. Then Pastor Warren touched my back. I didn’t know what to do. The unison breathing was at a pant now. If I really put out that much energy I thought I might faint. Ah, screw this. I dropped Amber and Gabe’s hands and just stopped. Stopped breathing with everyone else, stopped playing the game. And opened my eyes and turned out away from the circle.
Pastor Warren was floating seven feet up in the air before me. His eyes rolled back so I could only see the whites.
“Holy shit!” I said, unable to control myself.
The rest opened their eyes to my reaction. They stared up at Pastor Warren in awe. I wasn’t the only one who was visibly terrified. I glanced at Gabe who looked upset, worried. He looked at me. Then we both watched as Pastor Warren fell heavily onto the floor.
21.
News of Pastor Warren’s Glory traveled fast. Sure, when Mirabel had floated it had been all hush-hush, but not with Pastor Warren. With Pastor Warren it was the talk of the town. He’d even been front-page news of our meager little excuse for a newspaper. Then again when a front-page news story could be about a coat being stolen from one of the high school lockers, that wasn’t saying much.
You would have thought his floating would have led me and Gabe to investigate further. To go back to Commune. After all, apparently he really did have a connection with the angels, and he probably could have helped us. And at first I wondered if he could. I had made plans to visit him after school the next week. I’d have to go on my own because Gabe had told me in no uncertain terms after the Commune that he was never going back.
But as the week went by I felt something in my gut. Something that told me it just wasn’t right. Maybe it was the way Pastor Warren reveled in the attention a bit too much. Maybe it was because he really didn�
��t seem surprised or at least in awe of what happened. Maybe it was because, in reality, he looked just plain smug.
Also maybe ’cause magicians had been doing floating tricks for forever, and I didn’t believe that it wasn’t all just smoke and mirrors.
Still, I decided it would be stupid not to try talking to him about it, at least once. So when the week was over, I made my way out to the Church after school. As I approached the church and that big white square building with the tall tower on the side gleaming a little too perfectly in the foreground, I started to wonder if this was such a good idea.
I met him as he was locking up and heading over to his truck. He seemed startled to see me and gave me a strange look.
“Miss Carver,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk at the moment.”
“No, that’s cool, Pastor Warren. I just wondered if I could ask you something about, you know…that night?” I followed him to the driver’s side door and tried to smile sweetly.
“I explained everything for the newspaper, darling. Why don’t you give that a read?” He took out his handkerchief and patted his upper lip. It wasn’t particularly warm out, but come to think of it, I’d never seen a time when he didn’t sweat.
“I did. It’s just a quick question.” The more I spoke, the more stupid I felt coming to talk to him.
“Okay then, darling. If it’s quick.”
“When you were floating, did you hear anything? Did anything speak to you, like in your head or anything?”
Pastor Warren looked at me carefully. Then he smiled. “I heard the chorus of angels,” he said softly.
“What did they say?”
He smiled softly and shook his head. “Darling, angels don’t speak to you like I’m speaking to you now. They speak to your soul.”
“Oh.” But see, Pastor, when Gabe was an angel he just totally talked to me, left my soul out of it. “Why did they lift you? Why you in the first place? And why Mirabel before that? What does it mean?”
Outcast Page 12
