Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 5

 

  The black AK tattoo on his left bicep didn’t stand for “Alex Kylar” – it stood for Angel Killer.

  Alex was the only AK left. The only person in the world who knew how to fight them. The thought of anything happening to him was like razors slicing my heart – and our plan to recruit and train new AKs wouldn’t exactly keep us out of the line of fire. Part of me really did want us to go live in a cave – or up on a Tibetan mountaintop, or out in the middle of a swamp somewhere – anyplace that was remote and safe, so we could just be together without worrying, for ever.

  But we didn’t have a choice, and we both knew it. No matter how we felt about each other, we had to do something about what was happening.

  I leaned against Alex; he put his arm around me and drew me close. His jaw had tensed – the special number to call if you’d seen me was flashing on the screen again. “God, I’m tempted to just stay here for a few more days,” he muttered. “No one would expect you to be holed up so close to Denver. We should wait until things have calmed down a little, so that—”

  “Alex, wait,” I broke in. Urgency had swept through me; suddenly I felt sick with tension. The front desk, I thought.

  I could see it in my mind: the slightly battered counter where Alex and I had checked in the night before, both of us so tired we were reeling. It had been covered by a sheet of glass, with a motel map on display underneath it. There’d been an old-fashioned bell too, the kind with a little button on top for guests to ring for attention. The inane details beat through my head, feeling dark and ominous. I had to go there. Now.

  Concern came over Alex’s face. “Willow? What is it?”

  “I’m fine, I just. . . need to go check something,” I got out.

  I could see him start to protest at the thought of me leaving the motel room; then he realized what I meant. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Be careful. ”

  I nodded. And taking a deep breath, I went within, reaching for my angel.

  She was there, waiting – a radiant winged version of myself; the halo-less angel who was part of me. Her wings were folded gracefully behind her back, and I saw that her hair was short too now, framing her serene face. My shoulders relaxed a little. Just being near her was a caress.

  With a mental flick, I shifted my consciousness to hers and lifted out of my human form. My angel wings stretched wide; I passed through the motel roof with a shimmer, soaring up into the Colorado late afternoon. Flying. Even at a time like this, it gave me a stir of pleasure. I was still getting to know my angel self; for most of my life, I hadn’t even known she was there.

  The chill of November stroked my wings as I flew to the reception building. Another brief ripple as I glided through the wall – and then I saw the clerk from the night before, talking on the phone with one elbow propped on the front desk. He was staring at a TV that was on in the corner of the lobby.

  On the screen, my school photo smiled back at him.

  “Well, I couldn’t say for certain, but. . . yeah, I’m pretty damn sure,” he said. “They got in about ten last night, looking dead to the world; then this morning they asked the manager to have the room for another night. They’re still in there now. Been there all day, as far as I know. ”

  Fear clutched my throat. At least he didn’t realize Alex had left for a while, to go buy the hair dye and scissors. I swooped down and landed; under my ethereal feet the carpet felt strange, insubstantial. Back in the motel room my human form still sat on the bed, with Alex’s fingers linked tightly through mine.

  “They’re supposed to come down and pay for the extra night soon; you want I should hold them for you? Oh, okay. . . yeah, I see. . . ”

  Behind the desk, another clerk stood waiting with wide eyes. When the man hung up the phone, she said, “Well?”

  “She said not to go near them; they’re sending someone right out. There’s a squad car coming now – it’s just a few blocks away. ” He shook his head. “Man, wouldn’t it be wild if it was them? Dangerous fugitives, holed up in a sleepy little place like Trinidad—”

  I didn’t hear the rest; I was already speeding back to our room in a flurry of wings. I found my human self again; merged. My eyes flew open. “The desk clerk from last night – he’s recognized us,” I burst out. “The police are on their way. ”

  Alex swore as he lunged off the bed. “Okay, forget staying – we’ve got to get out of here, now. ” He undid his jeans to strap on his holster and pistol under his waistband; when they were securely hidden, he ducked into the bathroom and grabbed up the eye pencil and hair dye stuff, shoving it all in the shopping bag it had come in, along with the long strands of my hair that had fallen to the floor. He swiped a motel washcloth over all the surfaces, removing any sign of the dye, and stuffed that in the bag too.

  Trying to stay calm, I fumbled for the black pumps that were the only shoes I had now. Then I heard what was being said on TV, and glanced up. My hands slowed and stilled.

  “. . . a dramatic new development which has just been released from law enforcement officials in Pawntucket, New York. This was the scene last night on Nesbit Street, at the former home of suspected terrorist Willow Fields. . . ”

  Aunt Jo’s house appeared on the screen. I heard a ragged gasp; realized from someplace far away it had come from me. I sat frozen, my mind unable to process what I was seeing.

  The house where I had lived since I was nine years old was in flames.

  There was no doubt, even with the trembling footage that looked like someone had taken it on their cellphone – it was Aunt Jo’s run-down Victorian home, crackling and crumbling to the ground. Even the garden ornaments in the front yard were ablaze. I could just make out one of the gnomes, standing enveloped in flames like a weird fire spirit.

  The picture changed to blackened ruins, with firemen picking through them. The entire second storey of the house was gone, with only dark, skeletal fingers sticking up here and there. I stared at a smudged piece of lavender wall. My bedroom.

  “. . . cause unknown, though local police suspect vigilantes from the Church of Angels might be behind the blaze. Early reports indicate there were no survivors. The bodies of two women have been found in the ruins, thought to be Miranda and Joanna Fields, the mother and aunt of Willow Fields. . . ”

  On the TV screen were two body bags on stretchers, being carried out from the house’s charred remains.

  I STARTED TO SHAKE AS the world thudded in my ears. On the screen one of the firemen slipped on the rubble; I stared wordlessly as the too-human-shaped bag shifted on the stretcher.

  “Willow!” Alex was crouching in front of me, his voice almost harsh as he gripped my shoulders. “I’m sorry, but if we don’t get the hell out of here, it’ll be us next. Come on!”

  Somehow I managed to nod. I couldn’t breathe; my entire body felt crushed by the weight of what I’d just seen. Mom. Mom. I got up and took the small photo of myself with the willow tree from where I’d placed it on the bedside table, shoving it numbly in my jeans pocket. It was all I had left from my old life now. Alex kept the TV on as he edged the door open, peering out. “It’s clear,” he whispered, half-turning and holding out his hand to me. “Don’t look like we’re in a hurry. But be ready to run. ”