“Friend first, angel second. That’s how we roll.” I heard the answering grin in her voice. “It’s little enough to be able to do. Besides, what are you going to do? Smite us for trying to help?”
How could I resist?
“Fine. I’ll go. And tell Reid I said thanks.”
“Good. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” With that being both a promise and a thread, the cell phone signaled the ending of the call.
“Yes, I’m sure we will,” I said to no one before heading back the way I had come. Canal Street was fairly close to the park entrance. A coincidence you say. Really? Don’t you know who I work for?
Chapter Seven
“Your friends seem nice.” The voice in my ear startled me hard enough to shoot my pulse up to ear pounding levels. I whirled to see the spirit of the girl from the alley who, as Leith had warned me, had clearly not crossed over like I thought.
“You’re not…you didn’t…”
“Nope, still here.” The lilt in her voice sounded downright cheerful. “Sylvie Price.” She held out a hand then pulled it back in dismay when she remembered I wouldn’t be able to shake it.
“Adriel.” I offered no last name because I don’t actually have one. “You know you are…”
“Dead? Sure. I was there, remember?” Sylvie tossed her head to free caramel-colored eyes from a swing of mousy hair. Her reaction to finding herself suddenly among the existentially challenged defied the norm. Most ghosts upon learning of their demise tend to be considerably less tickled by the prospect.
People were beginning to notice me, and why wouldn’t they? For all they knew, I was talking to thin air.
“Walk and talk,” I commanded and turned toward Canal Street. “What can you tell me about your…about how it happened?” A sideways glance at her face told me most of what I needed to know. Her next sentence came as no surprise.
“Well, there was this guy named Dante—except I don’t think that was his real name—he was in my ethics class.” Her lips twisted as the irony struck home. “He could talk about anything, you know? Like with passion and fire. Well, anyway, he was arguing with the professor about something and our eyes met. It was like, right out of a movie or something.”
The rest of her story told itself. Good girl meets bad boy and falls hopelessly in love while bad boy uses her for his own sordid reasons. This story ended with cold death in a dirty alley. Only there was more.
“Dante’s in with a bunch of pretty dark people. I think it might be like a cult or something. You know, the kind that worship the devil.” Sylvie’s voice dropped to a whisper just as we turned down Canal Street. “They call themselves Knights of the Fulcrum.”
The headache that had been coming and going all day finally took up permanent residence between my eyes and proved it was the kind of noisy neighbor that played the stereo at a thumping full blast.
Fulcrum.
The point of balance. Three times in one day the concept of balance had come up. I don’t believe in coincidence. “Tell me everything you remember.”
Everything, as it turned out, was almost nothing. Dante had been very careful to keep Sylvie isolated from outside contact. What little she did know had come from shameless eavesdropping and conjecture.
“Do you think he knows I’m…you know, dead?”
“Yes, I’m sure he does.” Treacherous truth wouldn’t give her the comfort of a harmless white lie, but I had nothing else to offer. There’s no Santa Clause and angels mustn’t fib.
“Because you think he killed me, right? Well, I know it wasn’t him.” Despite defending him hotly, I sensed Sylvie had her doubts. “Dante was in class when it happened, so it must have been someone else.”
“Then you didn’t see your killer.” I made it a statement, not a question, because the fear that she might have been betrayed by her lover put a quaver in Sylvie’s voice whenever she mentioned his name.
“I heard someone call out to me, and then I saw the carvings on the knife.” The tiny hairs on the back of my neck tickled to standing. There was something here.”
“Tell me everything you remember about the knife.”
“It had a black handle and a design carved into the blade.” She traced a triangular shape in the air. “Dante didn’t hurt me and you’re going to help me prove it.” Clearly the spirit had no idea to whom she was issuing orders. “I mean it. You help me or I’ll…”
I let my raised eyebrow and steely gaze demand an end to that sentence. What threat could she possibly use on me?
“…I’ll follow you everywhere you go.” When I shrugged off her threat, she upped the ante. “I’ll talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Until it drives you crazy. Day and night. Night and day. Talk. Talk. Talk. You won’t have a minute’s rest until you agree to help me.”
She needn’t have bothered resorting to coercion. Our interests were aligned, and it was my job to help her anyway. That I admired her spunk was something I could keep to myself. Or not.
“Imaginative threat. I like your style.”
Sylvie opened her mouth to make good on her plan and I gestured for her to stop. “Save the chatter. I’ll help. After…” I interrupted an excited squeal, “I get some sleep. Come back in the morning.”
Fading out like the Cheshire cat, Sylvie took herself off to wherever it is errant spirits go when they’re not bugging those few people who can hear or see them.
Walking toward Number 218 Canal Street, I knew I was in the right place. With crisply painted lavender siding and eggplant colored shutters, it practically screamed Amethyst. The only thing more pointed would have been a purple neon beacon flashing her name. Gustavia had had a hand in the landscaping, unless I missed my guess. Petunias a shade darker than bubblegum pink cascaded from planter boxes along the porch railing to trail blossoms behind a bank of fragrant wild roses right at the end of their blooming cycle. Not much more than three feet of mowed grass separated the sidewalk from the rose bushes, and a pair of potted geraniums flanked the paved entrance.
Running along the right side of the house, the narrow driveway terminated at a single bay garage painted the same deep purple as the shutters. Feeling a little like a trespasser, I quickly located the key right where Kat had said it would be and let myself into the house. The aftermath of an adrenaline-fueled day had left me shaking with exhaustion, so I hit the bathroom and the bed in that order.
Chapter Eight
I meant to be out of bed at sunrise, but soft sheets, fluffy pillows, and a mattress with just the right amount of firmness seduced me into dispensing with all my good intentions. When my feet finally hit the floor, it was past eight o’clock in the morning and the only thought in my head had to do with scouring the kitchen for something dark, hot, and full of caffeine.
Dressed in a borrowed tee that could only have belonged to Reid because one of Amethyst’s would have fallen no lower than my navel, I padded into the galley kitchen and confronted the beast that common sense told me would provide me with dark nectar if only I could figure out how to tame it. All gleaming stainless steel, it hunkered on the counter and eyed me with distrust as if it knew I was out of my depth.
The handles and jets and a tiny glass pot looked nothing like the simple machines I had barely mastered. This was the dragon of coffeemakers. The king of the dragons, really, and I was outclassed before I even figured out where to put the water.
In the third drawer I opened, I found the instruction manual. All forty-six pages of it, I kid you not. I was about to give it up as a bad job when a laminated card with a quick start guide fell out. I followed the instructions to the letter and produced the second worst cup of coffee I had ever put in my mouth—which I doctored up with a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar, and drank down in three huge gulps anyway. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint off a wall, but at least I was finally fully awake enough to take in my surroundings.
Half again the size of my last digs, the house still qualified as tiny. On one sid
e of the open floor plan living space, the compact kitchen featured a two-seater breakfast bar on the left that doubled as counter space, and to the right sat a small table. Behind them was a centered sink with a small section of counter top on either side. The range occupied one corner and the refrigerator the other.
The whole thing looked out onto a comfortable living room with a cathedral ceiling. A sectional sofa covered in plush tan fabric and dotted with brightly patterned throw pillows—in shades of purple naturally—dominated the small space, providing a generous amount of seating given the room’s narrow dimensions.
Toast and eggs soaked up the rest of the swill that couldn’t remotely be called coffee before it could chew through my stomach lining. I think people with brewing skills like mine were the reason coffee shops were invented. To save us from an untimely, acid stomach-related death.
Half an hour later, the kitchen was tidy, the bed made, and I was just stepping out of the shower when I realized I had nothing clean to wear. Borrowing something to sleep in was one thing, but Reid’s dresser drawers were not mine to rummage through with abandon. Not that he would protest—I knew without doubt I was welcome to borrow whatever I might need, but his waist was inches larger than my own and I preferred not to go with the cinch, pleat, and belt routine to hold up my pants.
As I picked up my phone from the table where I had stashed it the night before, a thought occurred. If I could retain the cell phone by virtue of it being on my person when I was bounced from one place to the next, why not carry a few more things? A couple changes of clothes, some non-perishable food items, toiletries, and a small first aid kit would fit into a small backpack for a start.
Once upon a time, I was the guardian angel of a Boy Scout leader who preached endlessly about always being prepared. Now I was ready to admit he might have been on to something.
Dressed temporarily in the best fitting items I could cadge from the closet, I consulted my mental map for the closest second hand store and set off at a brisk walk. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I could be one of those vagabonds who whisk off from place to place at a moment’s notice. Okay, so I was lucky if I got that much warning, and I was the whiskee, never the whisker, but you get the idea. A few necessities that I hoped I could count on having with me at all times might lessen the impact of waking up in weird places alone.
“That’s an LL Bean backpack,” said the friendly cashier at the thrift store. “You know those have a lifetime warranty, right? It’s in great condition now, but when it wears out, you can exchange it for a new one.”
Lifetime warranty. Interesting concept. Whose lifetime? Mine or the company who manufactured the item’s? Thinking too much about the finality of death was not going to be super useful to me, given the gravitas of my current situation. I had no idea what my lifespan might be. The same as any other human? Longer? Or, if I had to tangle with too many demons, a whole lot shorter.
Eventually I realized the clerk was looking at me with naked curiosity on her face, so I paid for my purchases and skedaddled out of there before she could point out any more items of clothing that had the potential to outlive me. What a depressing thought.
My next stop took me into a corner drug store where I added travel sized toiletries and a basic first aid kit to my pack. With each addition, the pack physically got heavier while my heart lightened. These things were inconsequential in the grand scheme, but they were mine. There was satisfaction to be had when I settled their weight between my shoulder blades and tugged the straps into a comfortable position. Being proactive felt amazing.
“I had a backpack just like that, only it was pink instead of blue. And it wasn’t an LL Bean, it was from Walmart. The straps were wider.” Either Sylvie was following through on her plan to talk me into submission or her mouth was in its natural mode. On.
“So, really, nothing like this one, then.” I muttered while trying to keep from moving my lips too much and drawing attention to myself.
Chapter Nine
The beep of my text signal interrupted the next spate of questions and the display showed Kat’s number.
Go to 157 East Hammond Street. Knock on the door three times and ask for Cassandra. She has connections to the spirit world and a story to tell you.
Before I had a chance to text any of the half dozen questions that popped into my head, the tone sounded a second time.
Just go.
Bossy.
I have my own connections to the spirit world—I texted back and received a frowning emoticon in reply.
Okay, I’m going.
Now I was stuck in a tricky situation. Taking Sylvie with me to visit Cassandra seemed like a bad idea, and telling her to buzz off sounded like a worse one. Only one solution came to mind.
“Sylvie, do you remember the man who tried to help you yesterday?”
“The blond with the piercing stare? Sure.”
“Could you,” a short battle waged in my head and I barely managed not to say the phrase latch on, “find him the same way you found me?”
“Easy, why?”
“He got there ahead of me, maybe he saw something helpful. You should go,” talk him half to death, “ask him.”
Brightened by the thought of doing something proactive, Sylvie sped off to do my bidding.
The section of town Kat sent me to had its roots in the manufacturing boom during the late 1920s. A row of six houses, identical save for color and trim options, had been built for the department heads of the hulk of a baked bean factory that was crumbling into ruin at the dead end of the street. Some were grateful to see an end to the smell of cooking beans, while others in the neighborhood cursed the technological advancements that had finally taken the factory into a smaller building.
By the end of the century, automation had displaced most of the workforce, including the supervisors, and the homes were now privately owned. Number 157 was the shabbiest of the six, and badly in need of a little TLC. Peeling paint littered the porch floor where it met the wall, and tattered plastic sheeting stood in place of glass in the smaller of the two windows. Creaking sounds from under my feet boded ill for anyone dumb enough to jump up and down on the porch, and I walked as gingerly across the sagging floorboards as I could.
Each knock echoed loudly on the weathered, but surprisingly still sturdy front door, and I waited what seemed like forever before I heard the sound of someone on the other side.
“Who’s there?” A high-pitched voice came through the door at about the height of a pre-teen child.
“My name is Adriel. Can I speak to Cassandra? Kat sent me.” I hoped Cassandra wasn’t expecting a secret handshake. This all seemed dramatically clandestine to me.
“Kat? Don’t know nobody named Kat.”
What was that other name she used? Madame something. Weather related. Not storm. Breeze? No. Then I remembered.
“Madame Zephyr sent me.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that to begin with?” The door creaked on aged hinges as it swung wide, and I followed the four-foot nothing form into the dark recesses of the old house. The place looked like something whipped up by a Hollywood set designer as the perfect model of a haunted house. Wallpaper yellowed with age and browned by water stains was loosening its hold on the walls in perfectly artistic shreds. Scarred woodwork, flickering bulbs that gave off flaccid light, and carpets worn threadbare gave way into a kitchen that was cheerful by contrast.
A vintage, porcelain-coated, cast iron range was the unmistakable heart of the room. Aqua and white, its lines reminded me of a classic car. Built for speed and cocky with it, the versatile range top featured a set of gas burners on one side and wood on the other. A tank for heating water was mounted to the side of the wood burning box and a pair of warming ovens with rounded doors spanned the top. It was a thing of beauty compared to the modern, box-like options currently in vogue.
Sunny yellow walls contrasted nicely with the blue-green porcelain and made the room that much
brighter. Worn to a flat white in the middle, the textured linoleum carried a floral pattern in the lower traffic areas. Painted aluminum cabinets lined one wall and windows lined the other.
When Cassandra turned to offer me a seat at the table, I realized the figure I had mistaken for a child was merely a woman made child-sized by advanced age. Towering over her, I felt like a giant.
“You’re the angel.” Shrewd eyes roved over me speculatively from a face tilted sideways, traced the shape of my unseen wings.
“I am. Kat says you have a story to tell me.”
Cassandra ignored my invitation to tell what she knew. Instead, she blinked twice and a chill stole over me as I heard the popping sounds of her spine straightening. The age fell from her like shattered glass to break upon the floor, and I got to see her as she must have been when she was new. Bright and shining with the kind of beauty that ran rampant in the home I could no longer reach. Hers was a soul that had chosen to make many trips to the physical world—this being her last. Hard-earned wisdom afforded her a small measure of the very same grace that I had once commanded with ease, and which now sat on me with much less comfort.
One small hand lifted to rest against my cheek, eyes lit by white fire burned into me, and I knew her for what she was. An oracle.
“Seek not your grace in the faces of others, in the wheels of time, nor mourn for its passing and home. Tis not gone, nor does it lie in subdued slumber. Tis not diminished by circumstance or flesh. Embrace your path, and that which blinds you to your own light will fall away. All that you have ever been, or will ever be lies within you now as it always has.” Power laced Cassandra’s voice with a bell-like quality that made each word fall on me like a hammer.
Mere seconds passed and the strange onus upon her drifted away, taking that sense of youth along with it to leave her body bent and twisted, the strange light gone.
“Every psychic in a hundred mile radius felt it when you dropped out of the sky. You’re the answer to our prayers. It’s getting bad out there, and I was beginning to think this was the start of the end times. Then you came streaking down out of the blue, and we knew you had come to save us all.” She picked up the conversation as though nothing had happened. “You’ll have a cup of tea and sit a spell.” An order, not an invitation. Angel Adriel would have turned on the juice and gotten an answer out of her without the need for niceties. Human Adriel was beginning to wonder if angel Adriel hadn’t been somewhat of a jerk when it came to interspecies relationships.
Earthbound Wings: An Earthbound Novel (The Psychic Seasons Series Book 6) Page 5