Angel Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  I blew out a breath, wondering why I’d even told Nina. “Look, I have to go,” I said, uncurling myself and grabbing my bag.

  “Willow, wait! You can’t just —”

  I was already out of her car by then, heading for my own. But I should have known that Nina wouldn’t let it go.

  The next morning, Saturday, she turned up at my house early. “OK, here’s the plan,” she said briskly, flipping her bangs out of her eyes. “I checked the Church of Angels’ website, and the nearest church is in Schenectady. That must be where Beth has gone. There’s an afternoon service today at two o’clock — you’ve got to go there and talk to her.”

  We were sitting on the ancient glider on my front porch, drinking coffee. With a sigh, I tucked a knee under myself and dropped back against the faded striped cushions. “Nina, I’ve already told you . . . it’s pointless.”

  She shoved my leg sharply. “Willow, you have to. Come on, do you think your psychic powers are so infallible that it’s impossible for you to be wrong?”

  Put like that, I didn’t really have an answer. I stared out at our street. A few doors down, a car engine started up, breaking the hushed early-morning silence. I sat cradling my coffee, listening to it fade away.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Resting her coffee on her knee, Nina leaned forward to look me in the eyes. “Please go,” she said softly. “You seriously might be the only person she’ll listen to.”

  I could feel myself caving in. I gazed down at the glider’s rusting metal arm, picking at a flake of white paint. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me or not, though. She was pretty angry after her reading.”

  “You still have to try,” insisted Nina. “If you’re right and she won’t leave, then fine. But you have to try.”

  I let out a breath. I couldn’t argue; she was right. Even though I knew I wasn’t mistaken about what I’d seen, she was still right. I started to tell her so but stopped as a thought chilled my hands, even as I cradled the warm coffee mug. Of course I was going to go to the church. There had never been any doubt. I can’t psychically read myself — whenever I’ve tried, I’ve only seen a sort of grayness. The same sort of grayness that I’d seen in Beth’s reading, though without that terrible graveside coldness.

  That was why I couldn’t see more of Beth’s future at the Church of Angels. Because I was going to play a part in it.

  “What is it?” asked Nina, peering into my face.

  I shook my head, draining the last gulp of my coffee and trying to ignore the dread that was suddenly pulsing through me. The last thing I wanted was to even go near the church now, but it didn’t feel like I had a choice. Grayness or not, Nina was right: I had to at least try.

  “Nothing,” I said. I tried to smile. “OK, I’ll go.”

  The dread had faded a little by that afternoon, though the worry hadn’t. I stood in front of the oval mirror that sat over my dresser, studying my reflection. I was wearing a tight white top and a long purple skirt with lots of sparklysilver threads running through it. I touched the skirt worriedly. Was it OK? People dressed up for church, didn’t they? Not that it mattered, really, but I wanted to blend in if I could.

  It’ll do, I decided. Quickly, I brushed my hair, then twisted two long locks on each side, pulled them back, and caught them with a small barrette. I pulled on my jean jacket and sneakers, grabbed my drawstring bag, and went downstairs. I could hear the clatter and splash of Aunt Jo doing the dishes in the kitchen; in the living room, Mom was asleep in her favorite chair. Not a surprise: sometimes I think her sleeping dreams must be as seductive as her waking ones. Asleep, she looks just like anyone else — as if her eyes might light up with recognition if she were to open them and see me.

  Gazing at her now, something tightened in my stomach.

  I’m never going to see her again, I thought.

  What kind of stupid random thought was that? I shook it away, ignoring the fear that had suddenly spiked through me. Leaning over the chair, I kissed my mother’s sleeping cheek.

  “Bye, Mom,” I whispered. I smoothed her pale hair back. “I won’t be gone long. I love you.”

  She murmured slightly and fell still again, her breathing soft and even. I sighed. At least she seemed peaceful. I kissed my fingers and touched them to her lips before I slipped from the room. Poking my head into the kitchen, I told Aunt Jo I was going out, and five minutes later, I was in my car, heading toward Schenectady. There wasn’t much traffic, even when I got onto I-90. Once or twice I noticed a black Porsche behind me. I glanced at it in the rearview mirror. I’d seen it back in Pawtucket, too, lagging a block or so behind me when I left town. Someone else going to the church, maybe?

  If they were, then they didn’t need to follow me to find the way. Miles before I even got to Schenectady, huge signs started appearing on the side of the interstate: billboards with sparkling silver letters proclaiming, THE ANGELS CAN SAVE YOU! CHURCH OF ANGELS, SCHENECTADY, EXIT 8 WEST. My hands tightened on the wheel. There it was, that generic image so familiar from all the commercials, of the huge white church on a hill.

  When I finally pulled into the mammoth parking lot, all I could do was sit in my car and stare for a minute. I’d been to New York City; I’d seen big buildings before — but nothing quite like this. Maybe it was the way the church sat by itself, rising up from a vast landscaped lawn, but the sheer impact of it was just breathtaking. I took in the high vaulted roof; the stained-glass windows glittering in the sun. On the other side of the parking lot, I could see a complex that looked like a huge shopping mall. There was a mall in there, I remembered — plus apartments, a gym, a hair salon — anything you might ever need.

  It was almost two o’clock; crowds of people were drifting into the church. I steeled myself as I got out of my car and started heading toward it. With luck, I’d find Beth . . . but her angel could be in there, too. My hands turned cold at the thought. I didn’t want to see that thing ever again if I could help it.

  I’d only gone a few dozen steps when a nagging “turn around” feeling tickled at the back of my neck. I looked over my shoulder. There was the black Porsche again, a few rows down; a guy about my own age with dark hair had just gotten out of it. He wore faded jeans and a leather jacket hanging open over a blue T-shirt. I let out a breath, glad for the distraction . . . because the closer I got to that church, the more I seriously didn’t want to go inside it.

  Half turning, I dawdled so that the dark-haired guy would catch up. He hesitated; then we made eye contact, and he walked slowly toward me. He had a medium build — slim, but with firm-looking shoulders — and moved like an athlete, confident in his own body. Something fluttered in my chest as I realized how attractive he was.

  “Um — hi,” I said, looking up at him as we fell into step together. He was a good head or so taller than me. “Did you just come from Pawtucket?” He glanced down at me, his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown, and I shrugged. “I noticed your car.”

  “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m staying with some friends.”

  Taking in the strong lines of his face, I suddenly wondered whether he was my age, after all. He seemed older somehow. Not his muscles — half the guys at school worked out. But something about his eyes maybe. They were a sort of bluish gray, like a storm at sea.

  I could hardly look away from them.

  I realized I was staring and looked quickly forward, my cheeks warm. I’d wanted a distraction, but not this much of one. What was wrong with me, anyway? There were at least half a dozen boys at Pawtucket High who were almost as good-looking as this guy, and I didn’t gape at them like an idiot.

  Ahead, the church loomed over us, practically blocking out the sky. We walked without speaking for a few minutes. Once, our arms brushed together; I jerked mine away hastily.

  The silence felt stifling. “Are you a member here?” I asked him.

  The boy gave a soft snort that I realized was actually a laugh. “No,” he
said flatly. His dark brown hair was slightly tousled, growing down past the tips of his ears. Gazing at his lips, I found myself wondering what it would be like to trace my finger over them.

  Shoving the thought away, I cleared my throat. “So . . . what are you doing here?”

  “Just thought I’d take a look.” His eyes flicked over my face. “What about you? Are you a member?”

  We had reached the broad white steps by then, merging into a crowd of people all climbing upward, like ants streaming up an anthill. At the top, three sets of tall silver doors stood open, waiting. I shook my head as we climbed. “No, there’s this friend of mine. Or no, not really a friend, but . . . ” I sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  Watching me, he nodded without answering, as if this actually made sense. I winced, knowing how completely incoherent I must sound. Then as the two of us went into the church, we somehow got separated in the crowd, and I found myself on my own in the middle of a vast expanse of snowy marble. Long pews curved in concentric semicircles, spreading outward from a white pulpit at the front. I blinked as I got a better look at the pulpit: it was shaped like a pair of angel wings, its carved feathery tips arcing upward. Behind it, a giant stained-glass figure of an angel stood with its arms out, smiling down at us.

  Finding a seat at the end of one of the shiny white pews, I sat down gingerly, holding my cloth bag on my lap. I bit my lip as I took in the solid mass of humanity around me. The website was right; there had to be thousands of people here. Nina had made it sound so easy, but how was I ever going to find Beth in all of this?

  I looked up as a sudden rippling of harp music sounded through the church, its celestial chords echoing. “Praise the angels,” murmured the woman sitting next to me. Her eyes were shining, ardent. No, not just her eyes — her whole face, her whole being, was lit up with love for the angels. Feeling uneasy, I turned back toward the front as a man in a white robe climbed the short, curving stairs that led up to the pulpit. A preacher, maybe, or whatever you called them here.

  “Welcome!” he said, lifting his arms. His voice rang out all around us, amplified by speakers. As he spoke, a large screen flickered into life above him, magnifying his image ten times over. He had thinning hair and round, ruddy cheeks.

  “Welcome,” responded the crowd in a deep, rumbling murmur.

  First the preacher led everyone in a prayer to the angels, asking to be worthy of their love. Then tall, white velvet curtains glided open to either side of the stained-glass window, revealing a hundred-strong female choir. “Hymn Forty-three, ‘The Angels Have Shown Me My True Path,’” said the preacher into the microphone. The congregation rose. With a crescendo of harp music, the soprano choir began to sing, and then everyone else joined in as well, voices resonating like thunder. I fumbled on the shelf in front of me for a white leather book entitled Angelic Hymns and flipped it open. Half singing, I glanced at the pews around me, hoping to catch sight of Beth. I couldn’t see her anywhere, but I did see that I was almost the only person who was actually using the book. Everyone else was singing the words by heart, some swaying with their eyes closed.

  Suddenly I noticed the dark-haired guy again: he was across the aisle from me a couple of rows back, also at the end of a pew. He wasn’t singing at all, just sort of frowning down at his book. I gave a small smile, glad that someone else found this weird, too.

  The music ended and the congregation sat down, the notes of the song still vibrating through the church. The preacher gazed silently out at us. When he spoke again, his voice was throaty with emotion. “My fellow devotees, we are here today for many things, but first . . . first, we must give thanks to the angels. For today we have three new residential members of our Church: three blessed devotees all joined together in love of the angels, who have pledged their lives to serving them.”

  Beth. I caught my breath as thousands of voices intoned, “Thanks be to angels!” The woman next to me looked close to tears of joy. “Oh, praise the angels,” she said again, shaking her head slightly and gripping the pew in front of her. “More souls to do their holy work.”

  My heart beat faster as I shifted on the pew, craning to see. As the harp music quivered around us again, the choir began to sing in pure, silvery notes, their voices lifting up to the high vaulted ceiling. Slowly, three people in sky-blue robes filed out and stood facing the congregation: two women and one man. I spotted Beth immediately. She was on the left, her honey-colored hair falling loose on her shoulders. Even without the huge TV screen, I could see that she was smiling — a radiant smile that stretched across her face like a beacon.

  Leaving the pulpit, the preacher moved down the short line and greeted them one by one, clasping their hands. Finally he turned back to the congregation. On the screen behind him, tears were glistening on his round cheeks as he spoke into a handheld mic: “And now, as our beloved angel blesses our new members, let us all reflect on the angels and give thanks for their eternal love.”

  Our beloved angel. I tensed, wondering what was about to happen. There was a rustling noise as people seemed to get settled, some bowing their heads, some closing their eyes. Only barely lowering my own head, I peered up through my hair, keeping an anxious eye on Beth. What if she was whisked away again after this, and I wasn’t allowed to speak to her?

  A deep, waiting stillness fell over the church. Several endless minutes crept past; I fiddled with the drawstring of my bag, twisting it around my finger until it hurt. At the front, Beth was looking upward expectantly.

  And then I saw it.

  An angel had appeared; a glorious haloed creature of radiant white light and stretching wings. My breath wilted in my chest. It was like the being I’d seen in Beth’s memory, but here, real, right in front of me, shining so brightly that it dazzled my eyes. Its wings moved slowly as it hovered over the new members. From the sheer delight on Beth’s face, she had seen it, too. She smiled at the angel above her like a child experiencing all of her Christmases at once. Drifting to the floor, the angel landed beside her.

  I stared up at the big screen and stiffened as I saw the features of its proud, beautiful face. Oh, my God, it was the same angel that I’d seen in Beth’s memory, the same being that had turned up on my doorstep. The angel said something in her ear; she nodded eagerly. And then it reached out to her with hands of light and —

  I went rigid. What was it doing? As I watched, Beth’s energy field came into my view. The angel had its hands buried deeply in it, and it was . . . draining her. Beth’s energy looked sort of grayish already, with a dim violet light streaking through it; now, at the angel’s touch, the violet faded and died. Her energy field shrank in on itself, like a deflating balloon. And Beth just stood there, smiling.

  “No,” I whispered. I had meant to scream the word. My fingernails dug into my bag as I looked wildly around me. Wasn’t anyone going to stop this?

  “Please come,” murmured the woman next to me, gazing toward the front. “Please, blessed angel, come and greet our new members.”

  She didn’t see it. Abruptly, I realized that no one else did, either. The congregation all sat there smiling, the same beatific look on each of their faces. I started to shake. I wanted so badly to go racing up the aisle and yank Beth away from that thing, but what would the angel do to me if I did? For that matter, what would everyone else do? Terror at my own powerlessness swept over me.

  Swallowing hard, I peered back at the dark-haired guy. A jolt went through me as our eyes met; he was watching me. Immediately, he turned his gaze to the front of the church, his expression grim. An odd relief filled me as I stared at him — he could see what was happening, I could tell. Suddenly my eyes were pricking; I looked away again, swiping at them with the heel of my hand. Neither of us could do anything. I knew that.

  But at least he had noticed. At least he saw.

  When the angel finished with Beth, it moved on to the next new member. And then the next. Once all three had been touched by it, there was a great movement of
shining wings and it departed, vanishing upward into the brightness of the vaulted ceiling until I lost sight of it. The preacher said something to the three in a murmur; they smiled and nodded. He grabbed up his mic, his words booming around us: “Our angel has been here! It has blessed our new members!”

  Electricity leaped through the building as the congregation burst into cheers and applause. “Thank the angels!” “Praise be to angels!” The church member beside me was clapping so hard that it must have been hurting her palms. Beth and the others were all beaming; she and the woman next to her hugged, their blue robes wafting together.

  “Let us greet our new members!” The preacher’s voice rang through the speakers as he lifted an arm. “Beloved brother and sisters, walk among us now, so that we can feel our angel’s love through your touch!” Smiling broadly, the three of them each took a different aisle, slowly making their way down it. People leaned toward them, shaking their hands, patting them on the back, jumping up to embrace them. Joy crackled through the vast room like wildfire.

  Beth was in my aisle. I sat up straight as I watched her approach, my pulse pounding in my ears. She looked more beautiful than ever — her face was alight with such a deep, pure happiness. But I could sense her exhaustion, could see the slight stagger in her step. Oh, please, God, I know it’s hopeless, I thought. But, please, please, let me be able to get through to her.

  It took almost ten minutes for her to reach me, and then she didn’t even see me at first — the woman to my left was craning past me over the pew, reaching out to Beth. “Bless you. Bless you,” she said fervently, clasping Beth’s hand in both her own.

  “Thank you,” said Beth. Still smiling, her gaze fell on me . . . and she froze.

  “You,” she breathed. Her eyes widened, and she took a step backward. “What are you doing here?”