by C. L. Coffey
“You will where we’re going,” he told me.
“Where are we going?” I asked him. “And also, the best I can do is a jacket.”
Instead of answering my question, Michael walked over to one of his couches and pulled something off it, holding it up by a coat hanger. I walked over to it, reaching out to run my fingers over a sleeve. It was a mid-length, black military style coat, and judging from the softness of the fabric, brand new. As I looked up at Michael, he undid the buttons and took it off the coat hanger, holding it up for me to slip on.
I eyed the thick material suspiciously. Sure I had a winter coat at my aunt’s. Louisiana did get cold – in winter. “Michael, what is this for?” I spluttered.
“Where we are going you need a coat. Cupid informed me that you did not have one, so I have rectified this. Consider it part of your uniform,” Michael informed me, gently.
I stared at him some more, and then shrugged. I honestly did not think that a coat was necessary, but it was beautiful. “Thank you,” I told him, allowing him to help me put it on. “Now are you going to tell me where we’re going, and what this lesson is?” Michael held out his hand, again without answering my question, but I took it.
One minute we were standing in the middle of Michael’s study, bathed in warm sunlight. The next, I was in a room I did not recognize, but I knew was not in New Orleans. The lighting indicated we were in a completely different time zone. I turned to Michael to question him, but was instantly distracted by the giant bell hanging behind him.
The bell stood about three feet bigger than Michael. The bottom of it looked almost as wide as it was tall. In the dimming sunlight its silvery body glowed as if heated. I moved to the side slightly, out of the glare of the sun, and realized that it was engraved. I picked out some of the words, “was offered as a gift, as a testimonial of piety towards the divine heart…” I moved to see if I could read more, but something behind it, way out in the distance, made me do a double take. Everything was forgotten about as I darted over, once again my mouth hanging open, and stared at the Eiffel Tower.
“Welcome to Paris,” Michael muttered in my ear.
I half turned, unwilling to completely take my attention away from the Eiffel Tower, and found myself speechless as I stared at Michael. “We’re… We are in… Why?”
“I’ll explain shortly,” Michael told me, gently. “But not yet. I want you to see something first.” He held out his hand and I took it, allowing him to lead me out of the bell tower, and to a small viewing area. From here I had a clear view of Paris stretched out in front of me. The whole thing was so surreal; I could have been looking at a model version of the city.
There was a slight breeze where we were, its crisp edge blowing the smells of Paris at me, and I inhaled deeply trying to memorize it all in one breath. The view was phenomenal and I wished I had a camera. Especially, when I realized the sun was starting to set just to the side of the Eiffel Tower.
I’d never spent much time considering my future. Before I had died I knew I was going to graduate college, though I was still undecided as to what to do after. I knew I eventually wanted to get married and have kids, but short of returning to the United Kingdom to check in on my parent’s graves, that had been the extent of my plans. When I had died, my scope had become a little more defined: I had to earn my wings, become an angel, keep Joshua safe at all costs, and hope that I could also earn my place as an archangel. There had been a passing thought that this might be achievable, and I would one day have my own House, like Michael, but I didn’t think anything else would be possible. Certainly not popping over to the other side of the world to watch the sun set over Paris.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the cold white stone of the balcony’s edge, no real clue where in Paris I was, and certainly with no care as to where I was either. I was in Paris. That was all I needed to know.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Éclairs
I was aware of Michael moving closer to me, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. For twelve minutes we stood in silence until the sun had completely sunk beneath the horizon, and the sky had turned a deep inky blue. I finally turned, my eyes wide, and found Michael right behind me with barely a gap between us. His hands were tucked in his pockets, but his gaze was locked firmly on me. I blinked and stepped back a couple of inches that the balcony would allow for. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” I admitted.
“This is the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris,” Michael told me. The Sacré-Cœur? “As an archangel, should you ever need to transport yourself to a different city, or a different country, then you may do so with ease by using any type of church.” Michael took a step back and indicated that I should follow him. I did as requested, following him off the roof and into the building. He led me along a series of narrow hallways, the floors, walls, and ceiling the same white stone, until he came to an enormous set of stairs spiraling downwards.
The stairs were steep and smooth underfoot, worn smooth by years of use, leaving me feeling unsure as we went. One hand continually reached out for the wall, using it to steady myself, occasionally the other shot forward seeking Michael’s shoulder for the same kind of support. Every time I did, he glanced back, his eyes asking the unspoken words of if I was alright, and every time he did, I found myself giving him a small smile.
It took a while to climb down, and thankfully we didn’t meet a single person going the other the way, as the stairway was narrow and dark. When we finally emerged at the bottom, instead of leading us out through what looked like a public entrance and exit, Michael led me through a couple more hallways and into a small room. There was a priest waiting for us and he gave Michael a respectful bow. “Thank you for closing off the dome,” Michael told him. “We are done here now.”
“It is an honor to have you here, and I look forward to our next meeting,” the priest told him. He reached down lifting a large picnic basket from the floor beside him, and offered it to Michael.
“Again, thank you. We have taken enough of the Basilica’s time,” Michael said, taking the offered picnic basket. He turned and left the room using a different door. When the priest bowed to me, I hurried after him.
“Why do we need a picnic…” I trailed off, my question lost in my throat as soon as my eyes fell on the church’s interior. It was incredible. We had emerged from a room midway down the church, and I followed Michael through one of the pews and into the center aisle. Here, the room was full, but the attention of most was on the altar. I spared a glance at the altar, and then turned completely towards it. Above it, the ceiling of the dome was taken up almost in its entirety by a mosaic of Jesus. There were a few figures either side of him, but one in particular had me taking a few steps in that direction.
I glanced up at Michael who had stayed by my side. “Is that you?” I asked slowly. Michael just looked at me, pointedly. I looked around and realized I may have asked that question a little too loudly. There were a large number of tourists looking at me with curiosity, and a greater number looking at Michael. “Well obviously it’s not you,” I added, flustered. “Because obviously that’s not possible,” I tried again, looking helplessly at Michael.
Michael seemed to take pity on me. He took a step closer and wrapped his arm around my waist, drawing me to him. The action startled me, but I didn’t fight it. He leaned down towards my ear. “They’re not staring because of your question,” he told me softly. “They’re staring because of the volume of it. We are in a church, Angel. We use our inside voices here.” I could feel my face heat up some more, and nodded. “Come, there are things to do before I must return you to Raphael this afternoon.”
His hand slipped from around my waist, and he stood back, waiting for me. I took one last look around and then I allowed him to lead me outside where tourists were still milling around, waiting for entry. At just after seven o’clock it seemed a little late, but then again I was there too. I frowned. It seemed that it didn’t matter what
time zone I was in, I still knew what the local time was.
Michael began leading me down the steps. There were a lot of them. About a quarter of the way down, I stopped and glanced back up at the basilica. The sky was nearly black now, but the building had been lit up with warm yellow lights, making it glow. “Wow,” I muttered.
I turned to Michael, ready to start questioning him again, but he shook his head. “I know you have questions, and I am happy to answer them, but let us move away from this area, to one a little quieter.”
I nodded, and we continued down the steps. We walked for a while in silence until finally, the streets grew emptier. “What about the cities which don’t have churches?” I finally asked.
Michael glanced down at me. “Every city has a church, Angel. They may not necessarily be as famous as the Sacré-Cœur but they are there,” he informed me. “That being said, any religious building will do. What I would advise is that until you learn which room is safe in each, you come to me or Cupid first, where possible, so that we might go there together and you do not make the mistake of appearing in a populated room.”
“Would people not get suspicious if I just appeared out of nowhere?” I asked.
Michael shook his head. “The officials of these buildings have an idea of what we are, although they may not know exactly who we are. We have our roles to play and they have theirs.”
He grew quiet while we passed a bus stop. A group of girls not much older than me were waiting for a bus, and every single one of them turned their heads to stare at Michael as we walked by. He didn’t seem to notice at all. When we were clear he continued. “Churches, and in fact all religious buildings, are a safe haven for angels. They are also the conduits for our power.”
“What does that mean? What power?” I asked.
“In our true form an angel does not have a shape, or mass. We are,” he frowned, thoughtfully, “For lack of a better term, energy; much like humans with their souls. We gain some strength from food, but for the most part food is not a necessity. Our true strength, our sustenance, comes from prayer; faith.”
I blinked a few times processing that, and then frowned. “Surely by that logic, I should never get tired? Every religion prays.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Angel,” Michael sighed. “As I first told you, angels do not need anywhere near as much sleep as humans do. That hasn’t changed. The vessel an angel inhabits was indeed once human and that is why sleep is required. The human body recovers differently and there are some things that our power cannot heal. One of these things, as simple as it seems is the appearance of tiredness. As for you and I, sleep now has an additional purpose. Guilt cannot be cured. It can however be managed. But whether it can or cannot, it is the burden of the guilty to bear, and not of the faithful.”
We turned a corner and the street opened up to a busy junction with another six roads besides ours spiraling off. I’d always thought New Orleans was a chaotic city but looking at Paris and the cars which went sailing past, I realized I had been wrong. To my right a group of pedestrians were trying to cross the road and a large car shot past them, narrowly missing them, with absolutely no regard of the crossing they were walking on. Michael really needed to work on his recruitment drive because the entirety of the Parisian population needed a guardian angel.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked him. I spotted something further down the road we were crossing and suddenly I didn’t care if we had a destination, nor if Michael knew how to get there. The Arc de Triomphe was in walking distance. Michael’s hand pulled me forward just as a bus with a pop star plastered on its side shot past, blaring its horn angrily at me.
“Angel, I appreciate you have never been to Paris before, and we’re not going to be able to fit all the sights in today. However, you cannot stop and stare in the middle of the street; especially not in Paris. Getting hit by a car will not kill you, but I do not need that sight in a tourist’s holiday snapshot,” Michael declared. I nodded and hurried after him.
We turned another corner and when the road opened in front of me this time I found myself staring at the Seine. Like everything else the bridges had been illuminated with warm lighting. Underneath, the inky water looked so peaceful and tranquil that it did not look like it was flowing. We crossed the river at the bridge and continued walking alongside it.
For a time my attention was held by the buildings on the opposite side of the bank. “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Michael, finally repeating my previously unanswered question.
“Yes,” he responded, simply.
I cocked my head. “How do you know your way around Paris?”
“I have spent some time here,” Michael replied. “Although the last time I was here for a significant period of time was during the French Revolution. Some areas of the city have changed little since then.”
We turned another corner, away from the river, and I stopped dead. Thankfully, this time, it wasn’t while crossing the street. Towering in front of me, illuminated against the dark sky was the Eiffel Tower. I’d only ever seen pictures or glimpses in the movies. In reality, it was much bigger and more impressive looking than anything I had ever expected.
I could barely take my eyes off it as Michael led me to a grassy area in front of it. When I finally looked down I discovered that Michael had laid out a blanket on the grass. He was seated on it, waiting patiently, so I sat down beside him. I gave the iron structure one last look and focused my attention on the archangel in front of me. From within the picnic basket he produced two cylindrical items wrapped in brown paper, and handed one of them over to me.
I took the package and unwrapped it. Inside was a crusty baguette filled with brie and ham. It smelled delicious and I started to devour it. Michael was only half way through eating his when I had finished mine and I gave him a sheepish smile. “Not to sound ungrateful, because I’m really, really happy to be here, but why am I here?” I asked him. “Could you not have told me about the churches from the convent?”
Michael set what was left of his sandwich back down in its brown paper. “The more time I spend with you, the more I realize there is so much you do not know.”
I scowled at him. “I am not stupid,” I informed him, somewhat put out by his comment.
“I’m not saying that you are,” Michael agreed. “But you are young, and it is impossible for you to return to college. It isn’t, however, impossible for you to continue with your education. Your fighting skills must take priority, followed closely by increasing your knowledge of angels, but that does not mean other things cannot be incorporated into your lessons.”
I was never going to be valedictorian and a great deal of my time at school and college had been spent gossiping with my friends, but there was something about this which made me happy. I had no doubt I would be complaining if he gave me homework and essays to write, and I would certainly argue with him if he tried to convince me angels needed to know algebra or geometry. “Why Paris then?”
“Because you said you had never been,” he told me simply. He indicated to the Eiffel Tower. “Do you know why it was built?” I shook my head. “It was built as an entrance to the World Fair of 1889. For nearly half a century it was the tallest man-made structure in the world.”
Once again I turned my attention to the iron structure towering above us. I knew we would have to leave soon and as I didn’t know when I would be back, I want to make sure I had a good, clear mental picture imprinted in my mind. The next thing to capture my attention was a wonderful, sweet smell. I turned back to find an enormous chocolate éclair being offered to me.
“You mentioned that you had never had a real French éclair. Now, I do not by any means wish to diminish your aunt’s baking, however I felt this needed to be rectified,” Michael informed me.
Instead of taking the éclair, which really did smell delicious, I just gaped at Michael in astonishment. “You brought me all the way to Paris just so I could have an éclair?” I fi
nally asked. Michael’s hand, still holding out the éclair, wavered.
Something inside me twinged. There was something about Michael which intimidated me. He was the guy who had killed Lucifer. He was as old as time. He was stubborn, serious, and had a presence which demanded obedience. And yet, this gesture was incredibly thoughtful. Slowly, I shifted my body weight so that I was kneeling. With the same careful movement, Michael’s eyes on me the entire time, I took the éclair being offered and set it on the ground next to me, and then crawled over to him on my knees. He remained in the same position, his legs stretched out in front of him, watching me warily, stoic.
When my knees were millimeters from his thighs, I stopped. His eyebrow quirked questioningly, and I could feel my cheeks begin to heat. “Thank you,” I told him softly. Before I could change my mind, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, embracing him gently. His arms, which had been slightly behind him propping him up, remained there. I started to pull back, trying to make this less awkward than it was. I should have known better. I’d hugged him once before and received a very similar reaction.
Before I could pull away completely he jerked slightly, and then his arms were pulling me to him again. “You’re most welcome,” he responded, his breath warm against my ear.
I pushed back, my hands remaining on his shoulders so I could keep my balance as his hands held my hips, and frowned. “Not just for the éclair, Michael,” I told him. “For everything. For bringing me to Paris when you didn’t have to do. For giving me a second chance at life. I should have said thank you sooner. I’m sorry.”
Michael frowned back at me. “Angel, you have nothing to be sorry about.” He stared at me and I found myself unable to break his gaze. Unable or unwilling I wasn’t entirely certain. His eyes, like deep pools of ink in the dim light were unreadable, but I could sense they were trying to tell me something.
