by L. A. Banks
“May I have permission to touch the site of the injury?”
She looked at his hands. “Yeah, I guess so, but go easy, all right? That sucker hurts like the devil.”
“Do not mention the Unnamed One,” Azrael said, glancing over his shoulder as he walked toward her. “It would be better to be inside on hallowed ground.”
“No dice. I want to be outside if you put your hands on me.”
“Very well,” he said in a patient tone, then placed one hand on her forehead and the other gently at the back of her head, cupping it.
She stared at him, watching his dark eyes as he held her head. They seemed so sad, so filled with empathy that she wanted to weep and wasn’t sure why. Soon a slight tingle radiated along her scalp, making it itch as a low, buzzing sound filled her ears. Fatigue suddenly made her legs wobbly as the warmth that covered her scalp slowly spilled down her arms and along her back and breastbone, flowing down her limbs until the tips of her fingers and toes tingled.
Out of nowhere a bitter sob broke free. She couldn’t breathe as wave after wave of emotional pain roiled inside her, followed by acute nausea. All of the suppressed memories came back with a vengeance. She could remember each body blow, actually feel each viperous word that was ever shouted at her as though she’d been stabbed. Suddenly, just seeing herself smoke or knock back straight vodka made her want to hurl. It was all coming back, coming up, coming out. She wanted to scream and cry at the same time. But more than anything, she wanted this ugly review of her life to stop.
“Get off me!” she shrieked, twisting to get away, but he held her fast and kept his voice steady.
“Give me all the pain, Celeste—everything they did to you, give it all to me.”
Crying and pulling against a hold that she could not break, finally she just held on to his shoulders and wept. “I’m just so damned tired.”
“I know,” he whispered, then suddenly hugged her to him hard, resting his cheek against the crown of her head. “I promise you I will not harm you or forsake you. I will be your Light until your inner light is repaired. Lean on me, ask of me, I am here to serve you.”
She yanked away and hurled on the pavement, heaving up only bile and vodka.
“Let the poison come out,” he said calmly, rubbing her back. “We will go get more water, after you bathe. The addictions are gone. Throw away the smoke poison, too. The cigarettes.”
She stood slowly and slapped his face. Then she quickly backed up, expecting him to punch her. “Who the fuck gave you the right to do whatever you just did to me!”
“You gave me permission to heal you, so I did. It all had to come out, not just the physical wounds but all the harm done to you emotionally and mentally . . . and spiritually. I pulled the sickness out of your emotional, mental, physical, and etheric bodies. The cut on your scalp was the least of what was wrong.”
“I’m out. Don’t follow me. Get away from me,” she said, flinging the clothes on the ground.
“Many times mortals are so used to the pain that it frightens them when it is gone. Feel your head. The cut is sealed. All that remains is the dried blood. It is the same with the wounds on your spirit.”
“That is bull...” Celeste’s words trailed off as her fingers slowly tested her scalp.
Carefully removing the blood-soaked scrunchie, she allowed her hair to fall to her shoulders, then parted back sections of it, sure that she would find a deep gash. After several minutes of thoroughly separating crusted clumps of hair only to find unbroken skin, her hands fell to her sides.
“There’s no cut.”
“No . . . it’s been sealed.”
Again she stared at him for several long moments. “Why did I get sick?”
“The poisons had to come out.”
“The alcohol and nicotine . . . meds and food toxins?”
He nodded. “The more poisons that are in the body, the harder it is for the higher vibrations and messages from the divine to reach you or for you to reach them.” He paused for a moment, appearing to struggle for the right words to make her understand.
“The human spirit is pure ether, Celeste. But the human mind and body function on billions of nonstop electrical currents and chemical reactions . . . and everything on the planet that is living has an electromagnetic pulse or life signature. Even the earth and every planet and heavenly body has a signature pulse—a sound that we can pick up on. That’s how we also know that this bountiful planet is sick and dying. When that pulse is muted or weighed down by corrosive toxins, it takes much longer for the signal to reach the upper realms of light. It also makes it difficult for the human mind to interpret angels’ voices trying to give you guidance and assistance. This is why the dark side wants humans to weigh themselves down with toxic waste.”
“So . . . a prayer is sort of like a satellite signal? And if we’re polluted with toxins, any messages we receive will be like the static on an off channel on the radio or digital dropout on cable TV?”
He paused. “I am not sure of this satellite you speak of . . . or about a radio and TV device you mention? But your prayers and wishes and thoughts are an electromagnetic signal, yes. A pulse of energy. So, when someone with a very strong signal sends up a request or a group sends it up in unison, then it gets to us faster. When two or more—”
“‘Are gathered in His name . . . ,’ ” Celeste murmured, staring at the strange man before her.
He nodded. “Correct. Conversely, when someone with less biological, mental, spiritual, or emotional interference becomes still in meditation, they can hear us more clearly.”
“Yeah, well, your so-called healing hurt like hell,” she whispered. “Not my body, but...”
“Your spirit had been so damaged, Celeste,” he said quietly. “What they did was so wrong. The only thing they weren’t allowed to commit outright was your direct murder, but there are a thousand ways to kill a human spirit and to make that person either slowly or quickly destroy themselves.”
“You keep saying they. Who—Brandon, the men before him, the doctors, the—”
“The demons. Dark-consciousness entities and elementals, dark principalities, those whom we have waged war against since time immemorial. You are a key that fits a lock that they seek to open.” His voice was low and serious and his eyes never left hers. “We should go onto hallowed ground for this conversation. You should shampoo your hair and completely change clothes to feel renewed. I will go into a nearby store and get the appropriate clothes and shoes, which I will leave money for on the counter. We will not steal. Then we will catch a cab to the place to eat without poisons . . . and then we will go to your aunt Niecey’s home to allow her mind to be at peace and to put an additional protective barrier around the good fortress of spirit she’s already erected. We shall sleep there for the night. A veil of protection will keep the human authorities from her door. Then we shall seek Bath Kol.”
“Your voice sounds different . . . you’re speaking like you know the city now—I don’t understand. How do you know my aunt! Who are you really?” Celeste bit her lip and held her head with her hands, feeling both confused and terrified.
Azrael stepped closer to her and cupped her cheek with a warm, gentle palm. “There is no need to fear me. I am only different now that I’ve been given permission to touch your aura as well as your body temple by the laying on of hands . . . and now that you’ve invited my spirit to help yours. Healing always helps both the giver and the receiver. We are both stronger now for it. Your knowledge is my knowledge, just as down inside the deepest core of who you are . . . you now know who I am. And there’s no turning back from that truth.”
Chapter 5
Street-survival instinct warred with the gutlevel trust she now oddly possessed. The two internal compasses had violently dueled since the stranger named Azrael had crossed her path. Now another variable entered the fray—the incredibly weird sensation of being crystal clear in thought.
Powerful emotions roiled within
her as she walked next to the man who called himself an angel. Fury was the first thing to surface; if demons had actually plagued her life, had been the slithering monster within her father . . . enough to drive the man into an abyss of addiction . . . if they had killed her mother and entered Brandon . . . if these beasts had invaded her life and plagued her aunt Niecey with illness and arthritis, then she wanted every single last one of them blown to smithereens!
Guilt quickly followed when she thought back on all the things she’d done that she wasn’t proud of. But it seemed so much easier, then, to numb the pain with whatever inebriant she could get her hands on. But knowing that she’d been played by the dark side made her get angry all over again, angry enough to cry.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, not looking at her and keeping his eyes fastened on the church ahead. “This I promise you, Celeste.”
She wiped at her tears in angry, jerky motions but said nothing. Something in the tone of his voice, the sureness with which he’d made the comment, made her want to sob. But she refused to allow him to see her do that again, even though she’d never in her life had a guy tell her it was going to be all right—and made her feel that it was anything but a sweet lie told just to get into her panties. This was something different . . . something strange and way out of her field of comprehension. She hadn’t been clean since she was a kid, and the newness of that alone was making her hands shake. Being numb was a shield, had always been her trusty crutch. Now she felt vulnerable and exposed, a state much more terrifying than walking through life in her previous half-zombie state.
Celeste wrapped her arms around herself as she walked down the street. When she was a kid, not having anything in her system such as drugs and alcohol meant she could see what others couldn’t see. She wanted to be blind to the demons, didn’t want to see dead people or any other crazy shit that normal people didn’t see. How was that some fucking gift?
Plus, it didn’t make sense to rely so heavily on what she felt, given the many mistakes she’d made in her life, trusting her so-called gut. Yet she found the lure to follow Azrael back into the church too great to resist. Somehow she wound up down in the basement again, this time hunting and pecking through the clean women’s clothes in the donation bins for something more her taste, as though she were at a Saturday flea market.
He was also right about one thing: A level of clarity within her told her he wasn’t violent or sick, even if she still wasn’t sure about the whole angel bit. For certain, he was a healer...maybe a crazy psychic dude or an empath that saw himself as an angel, she wasn’t sure. But she was sure that he wouldn’t harm her, and from some deep reservoir of survival instinct within, she knew that as solidly as she knew her name, even though she wasn’t sure why.
Celeste glimpsed him from the corner of her eye as she picked through the donations bins. It felt so odd not to be slightly buzzed. The jaded part of her wanted to laugh at the irony that being straight felt as if she were high, and being high felt as if she were straight. This was some backward, script-flipped Alice in Wonderland crap if she ever felt it.
Clean jeans in her arms along with a light gray sweater, a pair of socks, and an unopened pack of new panties from the underwear bin, she stared at Azrael, who had thankfully kept his distance.
“I will be in the sanctuary in meditation,” he said quietly. “Seek me there once you have bathed.”
“Okay,” she said in an unsure tone, and kept her eyes on him as she crossed the room, then turned and ran up the steps.
Flattening herself to the wall in the dark, she listened hard for Azrael’s footfalls, but relaxed somewhat when she didn’t hear him come after her. With a bit of effort, she was able to enter the dimly lit sanctuary and follow the emergency exit lights back behind the side pews to the minister’s private office.
The moment she entered the room, she clicked the lock behind her and pressed her back to the door with her eyes closed.
“Please, God, don’t let me be a fool,” she whispered. “Protect me from all harm. If nobody else in the world believes me, you know I didn’t kill Brandon . . . and that I’m not trying to steal from the church or from a minister.” She dug in her pocket and placed a crumpled ten and a few singles onto the minister’s desk, then clicked on the desk lamp. “I don’t know who this guy Azrael is or if he’s some kind of freak or killer and if my internal radar is off, but if he is, please let me escape through a window again or something. Thank you, Amen.”
Looking around nervously and listening hard, Celeste entered the private pastoral bathroom and turned on the light. For a moment she just gaped at the white-on-white tiles and full glass shower encased in white Italian marble. Every possible amenity greeted her, down to fluffy, white towels to shower gels and soaps. Gold-toned fixtures made her feel as if she were inside a five-star hotel. Even the toilet was pristine.
As she placed her loot down on the floor in a neat pile and shed her filthy clothes, she couldn’t help but wonder why the office and bathroom were so well-appointed, while the rec room where children learned was ill equipped with old folding chairs and ancient blackboards, a piecemeal offering of dusty books on the shelves, and linoleum square tiles that were cracked and peeling.
Celeste turned on the water and shut off her mind, listening for potential danger, which didn’t come barging in. The hard pelt of warm water felt so good, the fragrant lather almost brought tears to her eyes as she washed dried blood out of her hair. It had been years since she had a shower where the pressure was so perfect, only once really, where the bathroom was so clean, where just the soap alone smelled so good.
The sad memory made her turn her face into the spray to wash the tears away. It had been in the hotel with her mom . . . the only time she’d ever experienced luxury like this. They’d gone to Atlantic City and hung out for the day doing the boardwalk rides. Her mom had hit on the quarter slots for $500 while Celeste was enjoying Skee-Ball. They had a meeting place at a specific time so they wouldn’t miss the return bus to Philly. But instead of saying it was time to cash in all her red Skee-Ball tickets, her mom came with a big surprise—they were going to stay overnight at the Tropicana and were going to eat at the seafood buffet.
Celeste stepped out of the shower and cut off the spray, then saw the lotion and mouthwash and tiny Dixie cups on the sink. She couldn’t dwell in the past, had to keep it moving, had to go forward. Drying off quickly, she pumped lotion into her palm and slathered it on her body, then hastily dressed. As soon as her sneakers were laced, she poured a cup of mouthwash into a fresh bathroom cup and knocked it back as if it were a shot of strong liquor, gargling and spitting it out, still avoiding a glance in the mirror. Finally towel-drying her hair, she finger-combed it as best she could and made one fat plait, knowing that she could find a rubber band in the minister’s desk.
But staring down at the filthy clothes on the floor with the bloody hair scrunchie, something within her took pause. The clothes seemed grayer, dirtier, than she’d remembered, as though everything sick and old and toxic within her had absorbed into the fabric. Slowly she removed the cigarettes from her back pocket and dropped them into the pile on the floor. Tonight her life had to change, and she wouldn’t leave that filth for the pastor to encounter as a violation of his space.
Hunting under the sink, she found a small plastic bag and gathered up everything old and worn, then used the towel she’d dried her body with to wipe up any water that she’d inadvertently left on the floor and on the sink. Folding the towel neatly along with her used washcloth, she placed it on the radiator top, hoping to minimize her offense.
“Thank you,” she murmured, then backed out of the bathroom and cut off the light. The low-watt desk lamp was still on. The door to the office was still locked. Azrael hadn’t barged in to attack her. The money was still on the minister’s desk where she’d left it.
She found a rubber band in a small tray with paper clips near where she’d dropped the bills. Borrowing one for h
er hair, she then smoothed out the bills, found a pen and a Post-it note, and scrawled a brief message.
Thank you for saving my life. An angel came to your church tonight with me. May God bless you and all who worship here.
Celeste stood back from her note. “You have totally lost your mind, Celeste Jackson,” she murmured to herself, then turned out the light and left.
Azrael was where he said he would be, in a pew in the sanctuary—but he had changed his clothes.
She approached him warily and slid into the far end of the second-row pew next to him, then stared at him. His head was bowed, his wide, thick hands spread against the wooden pew before him, hands so graceful they almost blended into the dark-walnut hue of the polished wood like an ornately carved flourish. Somewhere, somehow, he’d found a brand-new red-blue-and-yellow-striped collared shirt, jeans that fit, and sneakers that covered his feet. But the tags were still on them. Soap scent wafted toward her as though he’d also showered. He even had a new navy blue Windbreaker lying beside him, instead of the old combat fatigue jacket that he’d been wearing, which had been way too small.
However, she would not interrupt anyone in mid-prayer. So she waited until he finally looked up. Initially he stared at the ceiling, then he brought his attention toward her.
“What’s it like to be perfect,” she asked, no sarcasm in her tone. “Like . . . to know everything?”
“There is only One Source that is perfect, only the One knows all. That is why we can fall.”
“Even angels . . . supposing for a second that I believe in them?”
Azrael nodded.
“Where’d you get the clothes and the shower so fast?” She studied him hard now, needing to know that she wasn’t coming unglued again.
“I learned many things tonight,” he said in a far-off tone. “I learned that if my brother Gavreel of Peace could walk through the folds of human time and space, then I could, too, if I settled down. The Source of All That Is does not play favorites, is not capricious. The Source loves all the children it has created. My fear of being here and my anger at my perceived loss blocked my ability to know that. Coming to understand that, and experiencing loss just as any human would, was my lesson. Being here in this sanctuary gave me enough stillness to mediate on the essence of this truth.”