Dark Avenging Angel

by Catherine Cavendish

  A whirlwind started up from nowhere. It flung me out of the room and slammed the door. I crashed to the floor, twisting and banging my right knee. I stayed where I was for a minute, willing the pain to go away. I concentrated on steadying my breathing.

  From behind the closed door, the wind whistled, then died down. When it stopped, I struggled to my feet and tried the door handle.

  I pushed the door open. It creaked. I opened it wider.

  Inside, the tidy, neat room bore no trace of the hurricane. Carlo, or what remained of him, had gone. Another illusion?

  A movement to my right startled me.

  My angel stood next to me. She laid her hand on my shoulder. Its coldness scythed through me and I slipped to the floor, which seemed to melt away.

  I fell screaming through blackness. I closed my eyes.

  I woke to a dull throb in my right knee. A huge purplish bruise covered the joint and when I tried to put weight on it, pain shot through me.

  John came in from the bathroom, a towel around his waist. He saw me trying to stand.

  Finally I made it.

  “What on earth happened to your knee? Did you fall out of bed? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I had one of those dreams, or whatever they are. I fell.”

  John carried on getting dressed. “Let’s just hope I’m wrong and this guy of yours can sort it all out. Whatever’s causing those dreams certainly isn’t doing you any good. By the way, I’ll be home late tonight. That meeting I was preparing for yesterday is scheduled to end with dinner with the client, so I reckon it’ll be ten or even eleven before I get back.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a bottle of wine open and ready for you when you get back.”

  He glanced at his watch as he grabbed has jacket. “Got to dash or I’ll be late for my first meeting.”

  A quick peck on the cheek and he’d gone.

  Neville Jenkins peered at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. His soft Welsh accent soothed my frayed nerves.

  He heard me out, despite all my stumbling and deviations. I only saw him react once. That was when I told him about the extraordinary resemblance of the man in the tuxedo to a dead rock singer.

  Finally, I finished. Everything I had just said sounded crazy. Maybe I really was the freak my schoolfriends had called me. I couldn’t look him in the eye, so I stared at my clasped hands in my lap.

  Neville cleared his throat. “First of all, Jane, I want you to know that you are not the only person to have experienced such phenomena. Nor are you the first person to sit there and tell me about it.”

  I looked up. “Seriously? What happened to them?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now. We’re here to talk about you. Every case has its own…individual features, shall we say. Let’s take this one step at a time. Firstly, what is the link between you and Carlo Castiglione?”

  “There isn’t one. At least, not one I know of. But I have always felt as if I’ve known him all my life. I haven’t a clue how, though.”

  “I think you’ll probably find there is some kind of link. Maybe your mother might know of some family connection?”

  “I could ask her. I’m going to stay with her for a few days, starting tomorrow. She’s not been well. This flu bug that’s been going around.”

  “It’s important to establish the reason why the spirit has taken on his form. The fact that he tells you to run with him, away from the predator, would indicate that he is there to protect you in some way. If so, then you need to listen to him.”

  “What about the words he always uses? Telling me I can have anything I want. Everything I want? And the coincidence that those same words are in the lyrics of that song of his—“Everything”?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that yet. You’ll need to ask him again.”

  “I have, but he never answers. I’m not even sure I’ll see him again. The last time I saw him, he was…” I shuddered at the memory, “…dead.”

  Now that I’d said it, a desperate longing hit me. Grief. As if I’d lost someone close to me. How could I care so much about someone who didn’t exist?

  Neville put his hand over mine. He spoke gently, “Don’t believe everything you saw then. Your angel may have tricked you.”

  “But whatever it is that chases us can’t be her. There has to be a hoard of them. The noise is like thunder. Like a herd of animals charging.”

  Neville steepled his fingers and sighed. “You need to suspend your innate beliefs, Jane. You are dealing here with a very powerful spirit who is not just one entity but an amalgamation of many. What you see is what she—it—allows you to see. It creates an illusion and projects it into your mind.”

  “But what about what happened to John? He’s denying it now, but I know what I saw.”

  “However real it seemed doesn’t preclude it from being exactly what I’ve said—an illusion perpetrated by this entity. Believe me, she may have seemed benevolent in the past, but unless you obey her, you will witness a very different side to this avenging angel.”

  I shivered. “I already know what she’s capable of. Who is she?”

  He shook his head. “There are many who are charged with collecting the souls of the living to feed the evil ones. Far too many to name them individually. Her name doesn’t matter. Her mission does. And she won’t stop until you have settled the account with her. The more you tell me, the more I’m certain. Someone else is involved in this. The dreams you have of this Carlo Castiglione don’t quite gel. I can’t be certain, of course, but if I’m right, someone else has entered into a pact with this demon angel of yours, maybe through some misguided belief that they were protecting you. But the price of this kind of protection is high. Way too high.”

  “But who would do that? And what will happen to me if I give her what she wants?”

  “In all honesty, Jane, I don’t know. When that has happened to previous clients of mine, I have never seen them again, nor have I been able to contact them. They have simply disappeared. But that could be for many reasons.”

  “Do you think she takes their souls as well?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I think, perhaps, they get whatever they want as payment for services rendered.”

  “So when Carlo says I can have everything, is that what he means? But didn’t you say he was protecting me from the angel? If so, why would he say that?”

  “That is what you will have to find out.”

  “If I see him again.”

  “Oh, I think you will.”

  “I was scared she’d attack you today.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry, Jane. I carry a lot of protection.”

  I just hoped it would be enough.

  Mum looked pale and tired when I arrived. She broke into a coughing fit almost immediately and the effort left her gasping for breath. I sat her down in her usual chair, with a hot cup of tea, and perched on the sofa opposite her.

  “John couldn’t come with you?”

  “No, he has a lot of work at the moment. New clients and so on. He’s going to be working all weekend.”

  “Oh.” She sipped her tea. “Things all right between the two of you?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Good.” She set her empty cup down. “I think I’ll have a little sleep now. I’m worn out with this wretched flu.”

  She stayed in bed for the rest of the day. I brought her soup at teatime, which was all she could eat. When I went to bed, she was sleeping soundly.

  I couldn’t see him at first, but then I spotted the familiar tuxedo and flashing smile. Relief mixed with a wave of longing flowed through me as I approached him across the crowded hotel lobby.

  I took the proffered glass of champagne and sipped it. Crisp, dry and refreshing. “I was so worried. I didn’t know whether I would see you again after the last time.” />
  He frowned. “Last time? What happened last time?”

  “You told me you were Death and showed me yourself as you really are. A decaying body. It was horrible.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “I have told you before. Do not believe everything you see here. Sometimes tricks are played.” He wiped a stray tear that had trickled down my cheek.

  “I have to ask you again. Who are you and why do you insist I can have anything I want? There’s a big price for that if I accept. I know it.”

  I expected him to laugh. He usually did when I asked him a question.

  This time his expression became stern. His eyes bore into mine. “You have one more debt to her. One more soul to send to hell.”

  “Yes.”

  “Choose wisely, cara. When it is done, it cannot be undone. Then you will have anything you want. Everything. But if you choose wrongly, you will have nothing. All will be taken from you. Even your soul.”

  “And what if I don’t choose anyone? What if I refuse?”

  “Then you will have nothing.”

  “She’ll take me instead?”

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

  “When you tell me to run and then to jump but to keep my eyes closed—”

  “You disobeyed me.”

  “I know. I had to see.”

  “And now that you have, you will understand why I told you to keep your eyes closed. You do not need to see the horrors of the abyss. If you disobey her, you will see them soon enough. As it is, you fall, but you escape into wakefulness.”

  In the distance behind me, the rumbling began.

  I felt him tense. His fingers dug into my shoulders for an instant before he released me and took my hand. “Come, we must go. This time, do as I say. Keep your eyes closed.”

  The rumble sounded much closer now. In the lobby people were scattering in all directions.

  We ran out of the hotel and across the damp grassland The wind whipped through my hair. My bare feet raced over the sodden grass.

  “Now! Close your eyes.”

  I did so.

  “Jump!”

  The rumbling stopped. Nothing lay beneath my feet, even though the grass had stretched before us as far as the eye could see. All an illusion. Now I was falling and, yet again, my hand held on to no one.

  I heard a woman’s scream. Felt myself being shaken like a rag doll.

  I woke up. My mother cradled me to her as we both sat on my bedroom floor.

  “What happened?” I looked around, saw my duvet bunched up on the floor a few feet away. My feet were grass-stained and muddy.

  My mother released me. Her voice cracked as she spoke, “I came in to see if you were still awake. I wanted a cup of tea so I thought if you were, I’d make us both one. I felt quite a lot better, you see, after my sleep. When you weren’t here, I thought you must still be up, even though your bed looked as if it had been slept in.”

  “I wasn’t here? I was asleep. I’ve been having these crazy dreams. Or I may have started sleepwalking.”

  “I wish that was the answer.” Tears coursed down Mum’s face, but she paid them no attention. “I was just about to go downstairs when a shimmering light started to swirl over there.” She pointed to a shadowy corner of the room. The only light now came from the early rays of dawn poking through the drapes.

  “The light started to glow and flash like a pulse. Then he appeared.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. After all these years. He looked just the same.”

  My heart pounded. “Who appeared? What did he look like?”

  “Mario. I’ve never told you about him. He was wearing his dinner jacket and bow tie. Just as he always did when we went dancing, or out for dinner. He only stayed for a few seconds. Then he smiled at me and waved. He blew me a kiss and vanished back into the light. Then you appeared. At first you looked ghostly and as if you were falling from some great height. I tried to grab hold of you, but something pushed me back. Then you were here. On the floor. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life. Has this happened to you before? What is it? And how did you get so dirty?” She pointed to my feet.

  I shook my head, trying to take in everything she’d just told me.

  “I don’t know how it happens, or really why. I’ve been trying to find out how this man you saw looks so much like an Italian rock star who died in a fire, and now you tell me he’s actually an old boyfriend of yours?”

  “I’ll show you.” She scrambled to her feet. “I have a photo of him.”

  She fetched the photograph album I’d forgotten all about over the years.

  “You first fished it out of the drawer one day when you were about five years old. After that I would often find you going through it. You seemed to particularly like one photo.” She flipped over the pages until she found what she was looking for. She handed the album to me.

  The years fell away and I remembered my childish self captivated by the handsome man in the suit. Now I knew why Carlo had always seemed so familiar. His smiling face stared out at me from a black-and-white photograph. He was dressed in a black tuxedo. Next to him stood a beautiful woman. My mother. She was wearing an elegant, floor-length, white evening dress. I stroked the picture and my fingers could almost sense the soft fabric I knew so well. I had worn it in so many dreams. But how…?

  I shook my head and pointed at the man. “That’s him. That’s Carlo Castiglione.”

  “No. That’s Mario Castiglione.”

  I stared closer. They could have been twins. “Carlo’s father? He’s the image of him.”

  “He did have a son called Carlo so, yes, I imagine so. You say he died in a fire?”

  I was still staring at the photograph. “At his home in Rome. He had a posthumous bestselling hit a few months ago. Didn’t you see him on TV at all?”

  “I don’t follow pop music.”

  I continued to stare at the photograph. “He looks so much like him. When did you meet?”

  Mum’s face lit up. “We met in Switzerland in 1947. A friend and I had gone on holiday there and he was staying at the hotel. Something clicked between us and we fell in love. Within days we realized we wanted to be together for the rest of our lives.” Her face fell. “But when I got back, your grandparents were horrified. He was Italian, so as far as they were concerned, I was consorting with the enemy. They forbade me to see Mario again or to have any contact with him. But we did keep writing to each other. My friend let me use her address. I was still living at home, of course, so any letters there would have been intercepted and destroyed.”

  “I never thought Grandma and Granddad would do a thing like that. They always seemed so gentle and kind.”

  “They were. Most of the time. They never spoke of Mario again and I was forbidden from mentioning his name.”

  “And then you met my father. Why on earth did you marry him? You could surely have run away to Italy and been with Mario.”

  “That wouldn’t have worked. Firstly, the world was a very different place then. Girls obeyed their parents. Up to a point, at least. Secondly, Mario had much the same reaction from his parents. I wasn’t a nice Italian, Catholic girl, you see. He ended up marrying the girl next door and I married your father. Neither Mario nor I were in love with our new partners. Both of us knew that if we couldn’t be with each other, we might just as well marry the next person that came along. In his case, his parents pretty much arranged the marriage for him.”

  “So you lost touch then? After you both married?”

  Mum shook her head. “We carried on writing to each other. I still used my friend’s address until she married and moved away. Then, I took a risk and had him send his letters here. The mail never arrived until after your father had gone to work, and at weekends, I always made sure I was the first up. Mario used his sister’s address so his
wife wouldn’t get suspicious. I told him about you. He always said he wished you were his child so that he could protect you. Our love just refused to die and we were determined that, one day, we would be together. He told me about Carlo’s birth. He even sent me a photo.”

  She took the album from me and slid her fingers behind the photo. She drew out a small, black-and-white studio portrait of a laughing, dark-haired baby playing on a rug, with his teddy bear in his hands.

  I felt a shiver shoot up my spine as I touched it.

  I handed it back to her and she replaced it behind the picture of Mario.

  “You know, you don’t need to do that anymore. Father’s dead.”

  “Force of habit.” She smiled, but left the photo concealed.

  Now that she had told me, I needed to know everything. “Mario died?”

  Mum sighed. “His sister wrote to me. You were six years old. I can remember it all so vividly. The envelope. The unfamiliar writing. His sister spoke reasonable English, and she told me Mario had died in a car accident. She also told me there were some suspicious circumstances. She said Mario had become interested in what she called the dark arts. I took that to mean communing with the devil. A few weeks before he died, he had told her that he suspected agents of the Roman Catholic Church were out to destroy him and others who regularly met to try and contact the spirit world. He said if he should die, his sister was to tell me that he would find a way to contact me from the next world…”

  Mum’s voice trailed off and we stared at each other.

  “It looks like he did,” I said.

  Mum let me borrow the photograph album so I could take it home to show John. By Sunday, she was almost her old self again, although both of us felt shell-shocked over what happened on Friday night and I had plenty more questions for Neville. I kept looking at that photograph—Mario and Mum together. They looked so happy and in love. How could I have forgotten that picture? It explained so much.

  She could tell I was eager to get back and show John Mario’s picture. I didn’t want to try and explain it all over the phone. So I decided to surprise him by going home a day early. Maybe I could persuade him to leave his work alone long enough to take me out to Sunday lunch.