Angel Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  “OK. The plan is that you’ll enter with the other acolytes, right before six o’clock,” said Nate. He sat on the back of the sofa, one foot still resting on the ground. “There’s a dress rehearsal tonight, but you won’t be going to it; we can’t risk someone recognizing you. But what’s going to happen is simple: the acolytes will enter single file, face the wall, and kneel.”

  Sophie nodded. “At that point, the giant TV screen is going to be turned off. The official reason is that no one would be able to view the screen with the angels flying past, but really it’s just to give you some added security while you make the attempt, so that no one in the audience will notice your face.”

  I felt dazed; they seemed to have thought of every detail. “And . . . what happens then?”

  Sophie’s voice was businesslike, almost brisk. “When you kneel with the others, you’re going to be front and center: right in front of where the gate will start to open. The acolytes will all have their hands in the prayer position, so as you kneel, slip the angelica out of the pouch and hold it between your palms.” She demonstrated with her hands.

  “Then keep watching the air in front of you,” said Nate. “The moment you see a faint ripple begin, that’s your signal. Materialize your angel, contact the angelica, and run forward. The gate will be twenty feet away; you’ll only have a few seconds to get to it in time.”

  Dizziness washed over me. This was real; it was actually going to happen. “Maybe — maybe I’d better practice contacting the stone,” I said weakly, fingering the pouch inside my sleeve.

  “Yes, we were going to suggest that,” said Sophie. “Try getting it out of the pocket, too, and hiding it between your palms.”

  Palming the rock was harder than I’d thought it would be. I had to do it over and over, my fingers fumbling with the elastic, before I finally got the hang of twisting my left hand upward into the sleeve and snagging the angelica in a single motion. At last I had done it smoothly a few times in a row.

  “Good. Now pretend that you’ve seen the ripple,” said Nate. He was sitting on the sofa, watching with his forearms propped on his knees. “Ready to try contacting the stone?”

  I nodded. Closing my eyes, I found my angel. She was there immediately this time, waiting for me; in a matter of seconds, I’d merged with her and lifted up out of myself, hovering with wings spread. In the same instant, I was aware of the stone between my human hands: it gave off a silvery aura, throbbing with life. I reached toward it with my angel hand, stroking its energy with my own and sending it a wordless greeting.

  As our two energies made contact, the angelica began to pulse. I could actually feel it beating between my palms, like a living heart.

  “Perfect — when you do it tomorrow, you should activate the angelica just as you start running forward,” said Nate. “Good work, Willow.”

  In my angel form, I drifted downward, folding my wings and merging with my human one. Alone again, I stared at the stone that lay cupped in my hand. It looked so ordinary, almost like a piece of granite.

  But it could destroy a wall between worlds.

  Feeling cold, I tucked it back into its elastic pouch. “I think I’ll go practice on my own for a while and then go to bed,” I said. It was almost six o’clock by then. “Is the bedroom mine?”

  Nate nodded. “I’ll be sleeping on the sofa bed tonight; Sophie’s got another apartment down the hall.”

  “Don’t you want anything to eat?” asked Sophie. “We could order in some food.”

  I shook my head. Suddenly I was desperate to be alone. “No, thanks.”

  “Willow, you’ve hardly had anything all day.”

  “I’m really not hungry.”

  “Well, will you at least take a sandwich in with you?” she pressed. Going into the kitchenette, she got the plate from the fridge and put a roast-beef sandwich onto a saucer for me. “Please?” she said, holding it out.

  I sighed as I took it, wondering what possible difference it made if I ate anything or not. “OK. Good night.”

  The bedroom was small, functional. I did practice for a while, until I could snag the stone smoothly in just seconds. Then, with relief, I pulled the robe off and draped it over a chair. When I got dressed in my sweatpants and T-shirt again, I could feel the detachment that I’d somehow managed to find begin to falter as I thought, The last time I put these on, it was to sleep beside Alex.

  I curled up in bed, hugging the pillow tightly, the sandwich untouched on the bedside table. Was he still at the cabin, now that there was no reason to run anymore? Or had he started for Mexico on his own? I stared into the darkness, my eyes prickling with tears. Not knowing where Alex was felt so wrong, so unnatural. I wanted him there beside me so badly that it felt like some vital part of me had been ripped away. Oh, God, the look in his eyes when he told me to leave. . . .

  Holding my pendant, I lay on my side without moving, noiseless tears streaming down my face until the pillow grew damp beneath my cheek. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live, to be with Alex, to experience so much more than I had so far. But just then, it was Alex I was crying for. All that he’d gone through, all those deaths of people he loved — and now he was having to experience it again, with me. Thinking of what he was going through was like being beaten up inside; it was even worse than imagining whatever might happen the next day. Part of me hoped that he really did hate me now — maybe it would help; maybe it would make it not hurt so much.

  And more than that, I guess I was crying for both of us . . . that it hadn’t turned out to be always, after all.

  The next day seemed endless. I practiced some more. We watched some TV, none of us really talking much. Had lunch. All three of us were watching the clock, I think. The plan was for us to leave for the private airfield at a quarter to five, and then take the helicopter to the Church of Angels’ cathedral. Their contact was going to let me in by a back door and add me to the lineup of acolytes just before they went on. Everyone had already been told that the Wisconsin acolyte was delayed, so hopefully no one would think anything of it.

  Now that the time was actually approaching, I just wanted to get it over with; I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen. I sat pressed against the sofa with my arms tight around my knees, staring unseeingly at the TV. I had on the same jeans, T-shirt, and sweater as the day before; they were all I had brought. Sophie was sitting tensely in the armchair, smoking a cigarette and looking like she wasn’t paying any more attention to the show than I was. In the kitchenette, Nate stood making more coffee.

  The Church of Angels cathedral with its soaring domed roof came onto the screen. I sat up slowly, my heart thumping. A reporter was standing in the parking lot in front of it, his brown hair looking stiff and hair-sprayed. “In Denver, Colorado, the angels are coming! Hundreds of thousands of devotees are currently flocking to Colorado’s capital city to be present for what they believe will be a second coming of the angels to our world. . . .”

  All three of us had gone still, watching; in the kitchen, Nate’s hands slowed, the coffee forgotten. The camera panned back, showing a solid sea of people in front of the cathedral. I stared at the image, dumbfounded. There were thousands of them. Some were wearing angel’s wings; others were waving signs: PRAISE BE TO ANGELS! And ANGELS, WE LOVE YOU!

  The reporter went on, gazing right at the camera: “Though no one really understands it, in the past two years the angel phenomenon has swept the nation, with the Church of Angels the fastest-growing religion in history. Devotees strongly denounce accusations of a cult. They say that the answer’s simple: to know true love, you must know the angels.”

  A shining-eyed woman came onto the screen. “I paid two hundred dollars for a ticket to be here today, and that was cheap as far as I’m concerned! The angels saved my life. To have more of them here, helping others, is just a dream come true.”

  Another shot appeared: long lines of traffic sitting unmoving on the highway, like gleaming metallic snakes. The reporter�
�s voice said, “Heartless scam or divine intervention? Whatever the truth is, with so many people arriving, roads around Denver are currently experiencing severe gridlock — so if you can’t fly like an angel, consider staying home this Halloween!”

  As the news changed to a different story, Sophie glanced at me. “That’s why we’re taking the helicopter,” she said. “It’s going to be pretty insane.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, still staring at the screen. I licked my lips. “Will the two of you be there, too?” I asked suddenly. “When — when I do it, I mean.”

  There was a pause. “I will be,” said Nate. “You won’t see me, but I’ll be hidden in the audience, close to the gate. If things don’t go as planned, I might be able to do something to help.”

  The thought made me feel slightly better. I glanced at Sophie. Without meeting my eyes, she leaned forward and tapped her cigarette ash off in a saucer. She cleared her throat. “And I’ll be leaving in the helicopter for a safe location after we drop you off.”

  “Oh,” I said faintly.

  She gave me a quick, apologetic grimace. “Look, Willow, I know you understand. Nate and I are the only two agents left from Project Angel; we can’t take a chance on something happening to both of us.”

  I nodded, feeling more alone than ever. Of course, it made sense. It made perfect, logical sense. I opened my mouth to ask how Nate and I were supposed to get away in that case, if she was taking the helicopter . . . and then I closed it again as I realized. Alex had been right. We wouldn’t be getting away, and they both knew it. If the gate didn’t kill me, then the Church of Angels people would. Nate would die, anyway, if the gate closed, so he was staying on to help — but it wasn’t very likely that he’d live out the day either, once the two angels in the cathedral got hold of him. Neither of us was expected to survive for longer than a few more hours.

  I had known it already; I don’t know why this made it seem so much more real. I sat hugging myself, not speaking. Nate sat down again, putting coffees in front of me and Sophie. Mine grew cold in its cup. On the TV, the game show turned to a soap opera and then the afternoon news.

  Finally Nate looked at his watch. “I guess we’d better start getting ready,” he said.

  Sophie and I went into the bathroom, where she coiled my hair into a firm bun. “You’ve got such beautiful hair,” she said, pinning it back at the sides.

  No, I love it; it’s so soft. I stared at myself in the mirror, hearing Alex’s voice, feeling his hand as he stroked my hair across his chest. I couldn’t speak.

  When Sophie had finished, my head felt tight and strange. Back in the living room, she brought out a few pairs of black wedge-heeled shoes that she’d gone out to get for me that morning. One pair fit perfectly.

  “All right?” she said, peering down at them.

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Do you need a pair of hose?”

  I shook my head. I was starting to feel detached, almost dreamy, like a ghost of myself. And at the same time, my heart was beating so hard that I wasn’t sure how it was managing to stay in my chest. I kept noticing the strangest little details: the painting on the wall was crooked; Sophie’s coffee cup on the table had lipstick on it; Nate’s bulky gray sweater had a small hole near the cuff.

  “OK, then I think we’re ready,” said Nate.

  I picked up my bag. “All right.” How was it that I sounded so normal?

  Sophie took the robe and folded it over her arm; it fell in shining silvery-blue folds. “We’ll get this on you in the helicopter,” she said. With her other hand, she picked up her briefcase with the angelica in it.

  Nate put his hand on my back as we left the apartment. We walked down the hallway. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else, propelling me around with no input from me. Closing my eyes, I briefly went within myself and found my angel, sensing her bright, loving presence, seeing the pure white flash of her wings. My arms tightened around my bag as sadness rushed through me. I had barely gotten to know this part of myself, and now it was too late.

  As we climbed into the car, it was exactly four forty-five. In just over an hour, I’d be kneeling in front of the gate. I touched my sweater, stroking the slight shape of the crystal pendant nestled beneath, against my skin. I love you, Alex, I thought. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  I didn’t cry as we drove away.

  I felt as if I’d never cry again.

  IT TOOK HOURS to get out of the Sierra Nevada, with its winding mountain roads and hairpin turns. Each minute that passed felt like an hour too long, beating at Alex’s temples. Even so, he grimly resisted the urge to gun the accelerator and take the sharp turns at a hundred miles an hour. He had to actually get there, not go hurtling off the side of a mountain. He drove with his hands tight on the wheel, taking it as fast as he dared. Finally he reached the highway and floored it, relieved to be moving quickly at last.

  For the next twenty hours, he just drove, stopping twice for gas. Catching sight of himself in a men’s room mirror, he hardly recognized his own image — his eyes looked dark, haunted. The thought barely registered before he was out the door again, heading back for the truck. Evening turned to night and then day again as he crossed Nevada and Utah, finally heading into Colorado. He was making good time, and very, very marginally Alex felt the sick tension in his gut recede a notch. He still had to cross the Rockies, but it should be all right; he should make it with time to spare.

  Half an hour into the Rockies, the truck got a flat.

  Pulling over to the shoulder, Alex got out and stared in dull disbelief at the left front tire. He checked the trunk; the space that should have contained a spare was empty. No. He slammed the trunk shut; the temptation to just keep driving on the rim was nearly overwhelming. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. OK. Don’t panic. He’d still get there. He had time for this.

  Soon a truck appeared. Alex lunged to the side of the road and waved him down. He thought at first the guy wasn’t going to stop, but then he slowed, pulling over to the shoulder a few hundred yards down the highway. Alex jogged up to the cab. The trucker had rolled his window down and had his elbow propped on the door, gazing out at him.

  The words came in a rush. “Hi, I’ve got a flat, and my cell’s not working — do you think you could call a garage for me?”

  The man was heavyset, with bright blue eyes that reminded Alex of Cully. He glanced back at the truck. “You might have a hard time finding one open on a Sunday, up here. But I’ll give you a lift, if you want — there’s a restaurant about ten miles away; you can make some calls.”

  Sunday. Shit, he’d forgotten it was Sunday. Alex looked back at the truck himself. It sat leaning to one side with the Rockies framed behind it, obviously undrivable. “Yeah — yeah, thanks,” he said hurriedly, climbing into the cab.

  The restaurant was brightly lit, with piped-in music that throbbed at his skull. It took Alex almost an hour on the pay phone to find someone who could come out, and then almost two hours more of waiting, his muscles stiff with tension, until they arrived. By the time the tire was finally changed and he was behind the wheel again, the digital clock read 2:46. The Church of Angels’ service would begin in just over an hour; Willow would be attempting to disrupt the gate in just over three. The thought clutched at Alex’s stomach; he still had to get over the rest of the Rockies. I’ll make it, he told himself, pulling back onto the road and accelerating hard. I’ll make it or die trying.

  Soon he was deep in the mountains, on a twisting highway. The route was familiar to him; he’d been to Colorado many times. Alex blew out a breath. He should be in Denver by around four thirty — he’d have time to spare.

  But then the traffic stopped.

  He was about twenty miles outside of Denver when it happened. For the last hour or so, the stream of cars on the highway had been steadily increasing, slowing him down. His hands tight on the wheel, Alex kept glancing at the clock, trying to reassure himself that he still had time, eve
n with the traffic.

  The flow of movement became slower and slower, until finally he was hemmed in on all sides by cars creeping along in fits and starts, no faster than about five miles an hour. Finally they just ground to a halt altogether. Alex sat staring at the unmoving cars, his heart thudding wildly as the minutes passed. Ten minutes. Then fifteen, with no movement at all. Christ, what the hell was going on? And then it hit him, like a drench of arctic water.

  Everyone was going to the Church of Angels. Tens of thousands of them, all heading in the exact same direction he was.

  Alex got out of the truck and jumped up onto the hood. His blood froze. He was on a slight rise; he could see miles of unmoving cars stretched out before him, glinting in the sun. Far ahead, people were standing outside their vehicles with the doors open, looking as if they’d already been there for hours. He was still more than fifteen miles away; it was a quarter past four now.

  He wasn’t going to make it. Willow would die alone, thinking that he hated her.

  No. No.

  Alex leaped off the truck and flung open the passenger-side door. His gun was in the glove compartment; he grabbed it and shoved it under his T-shirt. Then he started to run.

  Dimly, he was aware of cars and people moving past his vision. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, feet thudding rhythmically on the shoulder. At the gym, he could run almost eight miles in an hour. This was harder — he was on a hilly road; the mountain air was thin. It didn’t matter. Setting his jaw, Alex ran faster, pushing himself. After a few miles, he abandoned his jacket, throwing it to the side of the road.

  He lost track of the time. There was only the endless concrete and running and the frantic beating of his heart. Finally he came up over a rise and saw two motorcycles parked on the grass to the side of the shoulder. A man and a woman were standing beside them, looking like they’d stopped to rest; they were pulling on their helmets. On the highway, the line of cars stretched out, as unmoving as ever.