Angel Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  I nodded and got out of the Mustang, shaking bits of glass off me. Going over to the Chevy, I saw that the windows were open a few inches to let in the air. “Do we have a coat hanger or something?” I asked, peering in the driver’s side. In the back, I could see a blue-and-white plastic ice chest. Alex found some wire in the trunk of the Mustang and brought it to me; I made a loop in one end and managed to get the old-fashioned push-button lock on almost the first try.

  I slid in behind the wheel, terrified that someone was going to drive past. “OK, I’ve just got to see whether . . . ” I peered under the steering column and unclipped a plastic lid. “Ha, we’re in luck. The wires we need are right here. Do you have a knife? I need to strip some of this insulation off.”

  Digging in his jeans pocket, Alex handed me a metal pocketknife with YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK on its handle. I pulled open the blade and trimmed off about an inch of insulation on two of the wires, then twisted their exposed ends together.

  Alex was keeping an eye on the road, leaning against the car as if we’d just stopped to take in the view. Glancing over at me, he shook his head. “Have you considered a life of crime?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “So, now I just need the ignition wire. . . .” Finding a wire wrapped in brown insulation, I stripped it like the others. Stroking it against them, I heard the engine begin to spark and took it away again. “There, that’s it.” I got out and brushed my hands off on my jeans. “All you have to do is touch this wire to those two, and rev the engine enough so you don’t stall.”

  He didn’t move; he just stood there for a moment, gazing down at me. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”

  I felt my cheeks turn red at the warmth in his voice. “Yeah, well . . . a misspent youth, I guess.”

  We glanced back at the Mustang. It looked even worse at a distance, like a demolition car at a fairground. “Come on, we’ve got to push this thing off the road,” said Alex.

  “No way!” I protested in alarm. “Alex, come on. Whoever owns this car is hiking down there. We could kill them.”

  “No, look,” said Alex. He pointed down a hundred yards or so to where a dense line of trees and brush rose up from the scrabble. “See, that’ll stop it. It won’t hurt anyone. And meanwhile it might buy us a little bit of time; no one will know we’ve been here until it’s found.”

  I pursed my lips, gazing down at the tree line. “Yeah, OK,” I said finally.

  We grabbed our things from the Mustang. Alex put it into neutral, and we started to push. A few minutes later, the car was rolling down the steep slope with an almost eerie grace, gathering speed as it went, tires crunching against the loose rocks. When it hit the tree line, it jolted and came to a stop, with much less noise than I would have expected. Silence wrapped around us again, with the car nestled down among the trees like a strange piece of art.

  A pang went through me at such a great old car being treated this way. I stared down at its olive-green body. “I’m waiting for it to burst into flames, like in the movies.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t,” said Alex. He tossed his bag onto the backseat of the Chevy. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  The car’s engine roared to life as he touched the wires together. “Nice one,” he said, revving it. He did a quick three-corner turn, then pulled away from the shoulder and headed west. I found a map in the side of the door and unfolded it, trying to locate us. “Good. Let’s try to take back roads all the way now,” said Alex, craning his neck to study it. “We’ll be in New Mexico soon, and then I’ll know where we are.”

  I nodded. Remembering the ice chest, I turned in my seat and pulled off the cooler lid. Cokes, sandwiches, a few cans of beer. My mouth twisted. It was stupid, but I felt almost as bad about stealing these people’s lunch as I did their car. They were going to have a really terrible day now, because of us. “I hope one of those hikers has a cell phone,” I said, gazing at their picnic. If they didn’t, then they had even more of a hike ahead of them now, to get back to the main road.

  Alex was watching me. “We didn’t have a choice, Willow,” he said softly. “I know that doesn’t make it right, but it really was life-or-death.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I hesitated but decided that wasting the cooler’s contents wouldn’t help anything. I pulled out a couple of Cokes and put the lid back on. “Here, do you want one? Since your coffee just went over the rim with the Mustang.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.” Our fingers brushed as he took it. His hand felt warm, and fleetingly, I imagined just leaning against his shoulder; him putting his arm around me. It would be so nice. It would be so really, really nice.

  I shoved the thought away but found my gaze resting on the dark scab on Alex’s cheek where the glass had hit him.

  Life-or-death. And I had thought that I was calm, but I wasn’t — suddenly I was shaking. I put a hand to my hair; I could feel that there was still glass caught in it. Trying to control my trembling fingers, I propped my Coke between my legs and slowly picked out a few pieces: bright, hard shards that caught the sunlight.

  Just like an angel’s wings.

  Even in the moonlight, the ground looked dry, dusty, as though it hadn’t rained in a thousand years. They’d crossed over into New Mexico a few hours earlier, crisscrossing their way on remote back roads — which, once they’d gotten out of Texas, had abruptly turned to dust. The Chevy groaned along at about thirty miles an hour, with the wheels spitting up a steady stream of dirt and pebbles as they rumbled over the uneven ground. Occasionally one would ping against the windshield, nicking it. Alex had frowned as he drove, concentrating on steering them around the ruts and dips. Finally it had gotten so dark that driving had become too risky in the Chevy, so he’d pulled off the road and they’d stopped for the night.

  They hadn’t seen another living soul in hours.

  Now Alex sat leaning against the car, drinking one of the Coors they’d found in the cooler, with Willow a few feet away, her knees pulled to her chest, staring out at the desert. It had always reminded Alex of the ocean in a weird way — so endless and utterly silent. And cold, now that the sun was down. He had his leather jacket on, and Willow her denim one. Alex drained the beer, then crushed the can between his hands and played with the crumpled aluminum. Ever since they’d pulled off the road, his mind had been replaying over and over again, like a bad dream, the moment when he’d seen the rifle pointed at Willow — the split second when he thought she might die.

  His heart had almost stopped.

  Alex turned the can over in his hands, watching it glint in the moonlight. In that moment he hadn’t cared whether she was a threat to the angels or about anything at all apart from saving her. The thought of her being hurt . . . He swallowed hard. When had the fact that Willow was half angel stopped mattering to him? He didn’t know. Maybe it was the reading she gave the waitress in the diner, or their time in the motel room, or just being on the road with her. But at some point over the last few days, its importance had melted away. The idea that Willow was in any real way like the invading parasites was laughable to him now. Her angel aspects were simply a part of who she was, and though Alex didn’t like what had happened to bring Willow into being, he was still very glad that it had. He didn’t really care what she was, so long as she existed.

  In fact, he could hardly imagine being without her anymore.

  The thought stunned him; he felt his hands grow cold. What the hell was going on? Being attracted to Willow was one thing, but this was . . . Alex’s thoughts trailed off, lost in confusion. It wasn’t just how she looked; it was Willow herself, everything about her. He hadn’t had this depth of feeling toward anyone since Jake had died. And he didn’t want to be having it, not ever again. It wasn’t worth it; being close to people just meant pain, eventually. For the second time that day, an image of his brother’s death flashed through his mind, and Alex’s jaw tightened.

  “Is everything OK?” asked Willow.

  Glan
cing up, he saw that she was watching him, her blond hair almost silver in the moonlight.

  “Yeah,” said Alex shortly. “Just kind of tired.”

  She looked doubtful, her eyes scanning his face, but she didn’t pursue it. “How long will it take us to get to the camp from here?”

  Alex scuffed his shoe across the sandy soil. “Four or five hours, probably. We should be there by noon or so tomorrow, if we don’t run into any trouble.”

  Silence fell. In the distance, a long, wavering howl sounded, and Willow jumped. “What’s that?”

  “Coyote.”

  She stared at him, her face alight with amazement. “What, really?”

  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.

  Pulling up the Church home page, Jonah gazed at the photo of the half angel, Willow, with her long blond hair and elfin face. And for the first time, he wondered exactly what sort of danger she constituted to the angels.

  It was late afternoon. Raziel had disappeared to his living quarters; Jonah was alone in his office. He sat looking at his phone. It would be a simple enough call to make, and surely once he’d done so, these terrible doubts would go away. Suddenly he felt that he’d give anything to return to the time when he’d had no reservations at all.

  Flipping through his Filofax, he found the number he needed and dialed. It was after business hours in New York, but he knew someone would pick up in the residents’ quarters.

  “Hello . . . Church of Angels Schenectady,” said a man’s voice.

  Jonah sat up. “Yes, hi — this is Jonah Fisk, from the main office, in Denver. Could I speak to Beth Hartley?”

  “Beth? I think she’s still on cleaning duty.”

  “Would you mind getting her, please? It’s important.”

  Jonah sat tensely in his chair as he waited. His office was very still, very quiet. The small painting of the angel hung across from him, softly illuminated by a dimmed light. He took in the fluid lines of the angel’s wings, its gentle, loving face. Its very beauty seemed to taunt his suspicions, tingeing him with guilt.

  “Hello?” said a girl’s voice.

  Jonah explained who he was. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I just need to ask you about Willow Fields.”

  Beth sounded cautious. “What about her?”

  Jonah cleared his throat. “Well . . . what happened, exactly?” Beth went silent. Hating himself, he added, “Please, I need to know. It’s important — the angels have asked. Was she a friend of yours before all this happened?”

  “No!” said Beth, her voice startled. “We — we were mostly in different classes; she was a junior. She was always pretty strange, but seemed nice enough. And she was supposed to be psychic, so . . . I went to her for a reading.”