by Dyan Brown
“We keep man as close to the path of God as possible while still allowing him to choose whether or not he takes the door that God has opened for him. Free will. Do you know the saying ‘when God shuts a door, He opens a window’?”
I nod.
“We—all who are gifted—are those windows.
“Unfortunately, not everyone believes our gifts are good. There is a society that’s been growing for the past millennia or so—we really don’t know how long, exactly—who doesn’t think we’re gifted. They believe us to be… cursed. The Harvested Guild considers us a false light, drawing mankind slowly to an unholy apocalypse like moths drawn to a flame.”
“Harvested Guild? What does that mean?”
“Their leaders select the prime of mankind to fight against us. Like a farmer picking the best of his crop, they are ‘harvested’ from society. They claim they’re the ones who’ve been selected by the divine to protect mankind from those who are cursed—meaning us. Their leader claims to be a messenger of God, telling them that we, The Divinely Touched, work for Satan.”
“Like, Satan Satan?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard my voice go to that high-pitched before.
He nods. “As in the devil himself, yes.” He leans back, half-sitting on the windowsill, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“But…” I pause, contemplating. A deep line sets between my brows as my eyes linger on the trees over his shoulder. I watch the branches sway in a strong summer wind that makes them slap at one another, each leaf a tiny palm in a giant game of hot hands. “Okay, umm, not to be a downer, but how do we know we’re the ones who are right? I mean, this whole war thing has been going on for centuries or longer because they misunderstand what we do. Isn’t it reasonable to think we’re misunderstanding them, too?”
“You make a valid point. It’s good to question these things. I guess we don’t fully know that we’re the good ones and they’re the bad. Perhaps in the stories I tell you, in our ancestry, you can find some answers for yourself about those things.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s gone into full professor-lecture mode.
“You know, the question ‘are we are doing the right thing’ is something every person should ask themselves every day, gift or not. Gut feelings tell us a lot. In thirty years of drifting, I’ve never felt in my gut that anything I’ve done was inherently bad. I’ve seen lives changed for the better and even saved.” Bringing one hand up to his jaw, he rasps his fingers over a day’s growth, seeming to contemplate his next words. “Do you remember when I said you may even see an angel sometimes? I know that because I have.”
“Seriously?”
He holds a hand up, asking for me to hold the sarcasm I obviously couldn’t hide. “I’ve only ever seen a few over three decades, and it’s usually when the job at hand is too much to handle alone. Also, do you think what you did to save that little girl was the wrong thing to do?”
“Well, no. Of course not. I know what I did saved that girl. But if this whole thing is a misunderstanding, why can’t we find one of them, make them take us to the head guy, and just explain the things we know?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I hear what a naive notion it is.
To my uncle’s credit, he doesn’t laugh at me. “I know your proposition seems like a very logical and simple solution, but as with any war, things are never as simple as they may seem. Every war throughout history can be simplified to one person or party not understanding the other. As far as we know, this war has been going on for far longer than a millennium or two. Their leader is undoubtedly well past a good talking to.”
“When you saw the angels, did you ever ask them? Did they ever tell you anything to help?”
“No, not to me, I’m afraid. Actually, one of the reasons Drifters were created was to help the angels. In Revelations twelve, verse four, it states that one third of God’s heavenly children followed Satan to Earth. When the population of man was undoubtedly going to grow into the billions, perhaps more, Drifters would grow with the population. It’s far more difficult to create an angel than a human, I imagine,” he says with a scoff.
“I guess somewhere along the way, one of the angels must have talked to one of us. The only thing we know about the leader of the guild is that he’s an angel who fell and was cast into the depths of Hell. His name is Dantanian—the fallen angel with many faces.”
“Doesn’t that help us at all?”
“In truth, it does the opposite, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand. How?” I ask, confused.
“It opens up a lot more questions than it answers.” He unfolds his arms and put his hands palm-side down on the windowsill, making him lean forward a bit. “Some of the most obvious questions, besides why, are how do you catch a fallen angel—a legion of hell? How do you fight him? And mostly, how do you kill him? Do you have any idea how to kill a demon?” He lifts his shoulders to answer the rhetorical question.
I shift in my chair, sitting sideways and facing my uncle with one leg tucked underneath me and the other dangling off the chair. Propping my elbow on the back of the chair, I look back at the now-still tree canopy outside while I think and sigh heavily. “I see what you mean,” I say after a moment of contemplation.
“Do you now understand what I mean when I say we cannot trust anyone? Anyone, at any time, can be Harvested and sent to kill us.”
All this talk of trusting someone makes my thoughts wander back to Cedrick. “What about other Drifters? We could trust other Drifters, right?”
“I suppose we could if any of us knew one another, but I’ve never seen one; or at least known that I’ve seen them. We can’t see each other during drifts, and we can’t talk about what we do in general, so it’s not like we meet up at a rally every year.” He stretches his neck to the right, rubbing the muscles above a shirt collar that would have been starched five years ago, but is now limp and only a sad impression of its full potential.
“We can’t?” Unintentional surprise is in my tone, and I scold myself. You aren’t supposed to tell him anything, Sam! “See each other during drifts, I mean? I just kinda figured we would, eventually…”
“No, our gift can be… quite lonely sometimes. That’s what makes it so hard—harder than the other gifts if you ask me. I haven’t ever known another gifted, other than those in our family. I don’t even know if there are any more Guardians left to protect us. For all we know, they could have been wiped out during the Crusades, which was the last all-out war between the Divinely Touched and the Guild.”
“But I thought the Crusades were about taking back the holy land?”
He points a finger at me like I’m the only student in the class catching on. “That’s what the history books state. Correct,” he says almost excitedly.
“Wait, are you saying the Crusades were, like, a cover up?” I blink. “That a three-hundred-year-long war that happened almost a thousand years ago was actually started over something else entirely?” I’d never thought of Carl as a conspiracy theorist, but really?
“Come on, really?” I blurt, my mouth echoing my brain.
He chuckles. “Cover up is a bit of a stretch considering how public the war was. But anyway, it’s not so much about the war as it is about what happened because of it. Generally speaking, there was a vast boom in the progression of both science and the arts during the post-Crusade era.”
“True… You said that was ‘the last all-out war’, so there were more before?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, there were a few others that we’re sure of, like the Hundred Years’ War between France and England,” he says quickly after stretching his yeah out into two syllables. “But back to the Crusades…”
Uncle Carl goes on for the rest of the day about post-war production, but my mind keeps wandering back to one thing. If Drifters can’t see each other… then what is Cedrick?
13
I ponder this thought, among other things, for the rest of the day and into the ear
ly evening. Grayson picks me up at five, as he said he would, and we head back to the apartment. If this is how most of my nights will go, I think I’ll like it quite a lot.
To my surprise, April is home studying on the sofa when we get there. The three of us make dinner together, which is simple and fun, although it seems neither of them passed or attended home economics. I have to tell them how to make spaghetti and meatballs. Oh well. At least I feel useful.
April goes on and on about how much she hates her English Lit professor, whose class she has to retake next semester. Then she tries to rope us into plans for the Fourth of July in a few days. When April starts hinting at leaving to go out tonight, saying it will give us some alone time, Grayson takes off.
My guess is that it’s all a ploy to get her brother’s blessing to go out and party on a Monday. Because about an hour after he left us sitting like couch potatoes, she is decked out in a short, hot pink mini dress with a halter-top neckline.
“Are you sure you won’t come out with me?” she asks. “It’s not like Grayson’s coming back tonight.”
“I’m sorry, April, but I’ve never been one to party. I didn’t even go to prom.”
“Shut. Up!” She looks like I slapped her. “Really?”
Damn it.
“No one asked,” I say simply, avoiding eye contact by playing with my phone.
“Yeah, right,” she responds, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one expensively shod foot. I know she’s waiting for the truth, but I stay quiet. “Whatever.” She picks up her clutch and checks the contents. “I will drag you out one day, Wallflower. Don’t wait up!” April winks as she reaches the door.
When she’s gone, I can finally breathe. I lie down on the couch, close my eyes, and try to concentrate. If I can drift into a not-so-bad situation, I can have more time to ask Cedrick who, or what, he is. I try to think about the feeling of drifting and make myself feel the same way while projecting my inner self outside of my body, but all I can think about is the nine o’clock news humming softly in the background. Sighing heavily, I grab the remote and click the TV off.
“There,” I breathe out, settling back into my position. I resume my process of closing my eyes for a minute, and then I open them again, looking at the ceiling. Maybe I should try breathing exercises or meditation…
“What is it they say? Ooooo… nope… Uhhh…nope.” I frown as I consider looking it up on my phone, but then it hits me. “Ohm? Yes! Okay!” I close my eyes and ready myself a third time.
I take a deep breath in, letting it fill my lungs and stretch my diaphragm completely. I slowly release it through my mouth and inhale again through my nose, exhaling into my ohm. “Ooh—”
“What in hell are you trying to do?” a man’s amused voice asks.
I scream, jump off the sofa, and reach for a weapon. “What the fuck!”
Unfortunately, I grab the lamp from the end table, ready to defend myself with it, before I can compose myself slightly. “Jesus Christ, Cedrick!” I exclaim, shaking from the shock.
“Close, but not quite,” Cedrick chuckles at his own joke from Grayson’s chair.
I can’t help but stare at him. He looks very cocky with his elbows up on the arms of the chair and his fingers laced in front of his chest, his right ankle on his left knee.
“Oh, put down the lamp. I’m not going to hurt you, and you can’t do crap to me with that.”
My cheeks flush from embarrassment, and I put the lamp back in its place.
“Do you always talk to yourself when you’re alone?”
“How did you get in here?” I demand, refusing to come closer until I can stop trembling. “Wait—am I drifting?” I frown and reach for my hair to see if it’s Jessica Rabbit red… Nope.
He smiles, still amused. “Were you trying to make yourself drift?”
“Yeah, why not?” I sit back on the edge of the sofa farthest from him. “I needed to talk to you,” I admit. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” I demand again.
He smiles playfully. “You haven’t figured out what I am yet?”
Instead of answering, I bite the inside of my lip and start to play with my locket.
“Geez, kid! Do I have to draw you a map?”
Kid?
“Kid!” I scoff. “You’re, like, what—five or six years older than me?”
He raises his eyebrows and looks at his hands arrogantly. “Yeah, I guess I do look fairly good for someone my age.” He’s starting to annoy me. “Then again, how often do you get to see someone who’s been around for… oh, let’s just go with a few thousand years?”
Oh, dear Lord…
“Great. You’re a lunatic.” I look down at the floor in dismay. “Well, crap. I thought you could help me.” Oh well, there goes that idea.
“All that talk with your uncle today, and you still don’t get it, do you?” He rolls his eyes. “Training you is going to be a breeze,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Standing, he looks up with open arms, talking to the ceiling.
“This is who You chose to raise an army? Ha! This should be a fucking breeze. Fantastic!” Dragging out the last word, he looks back at me for a pointed moment, then shakes his head and goes around the bar to the kitchen. “I need a drink.”
If he… then that means he’s…
I feel like I’m in a fog. I get up and walk over to the counter, watching him open cabinets and get down a glass. He continues his search.
“There is stuff in the fridge,” I say quietly, inspecting his every move. He’s extremely graceful in every way he moves, which is impressive for someone so tall and muscular. I didn’t notice the other night, but he’s even taller than Grayson by a few inches.
As he’s dressed much the same as he was the other night—rough jeans, white shirt, and a leather jacket—he looks like a cross between a GQ model and a club bouncer. Then again, I’m not sure what I expected angels to look like. White robes? It would be a bit cliché.
He continues his search, opening the fridge and rifling through our groceries. “Man, you guys don’t have shit to drink around here. I thought this was college. Where’s the liquor?”
“No one here is of legal age to drink,” I say pointedly.
“All the more reason. Of course, I guess I should’ve figured as much with the Boy Scouts of America’s spokesman checking in on your every move.”
I frown. Grayson?
Cedrick walks back over to the cabinet and gets down a second short glass. He takes them both and sets them on the counter by the sink so I can see. One at a time, he fills them half full of water, placing them back down beside one another.
He catches my eye, his gaze intent, ensuring my complete attention is on him. “I guess it’s a good thing I have a few divine perks.”
His purple-blue eyes seem to lighten with impishness as a crooked smile appears slowly on his face. His lips part as he brings his right index finger up to his mouth and quickly taps it on his tongue, which is barely showing between his lips. I scarcely manage to keep my thoughts clean concerning what he’s going to do with his now-wet finger. Cedrick’s face slowly turns into a full, mischievous grin. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks again, and for a moment, I fear my thoughts show on my face. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. I shake away my inappropriate thoughts and watch his hand instead.
His fingertip, now glistening with moisture, makes its way to the rim of the first glass. Slowly, he circles it around until a high-pitched tone emits from it. I watch, and as the tone continues, the water in the glass begins to swirl in the opposite direction in which his finger is moving.
That’s impossible… Right?
Once it’s spinning fast enough to form a funnel of water in the center, I have to blink my eyes. I watch as something red spirals up from the center and transforms the clear water funnel into a deep red tornado. Once the color has permeated the contents of the glass, he stops the musical tone.
“There we go,” he says, lifting the gl
ass and setting it on the bar in front of me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Water to wine? I thought that was a Jesus thing, not a party trick for angels.”
“Ah, so she can be taught.” He picks up the second glass, brings it up to his lips, and quickly blows over the top of the glass, making the water instantaneously become wine. “Cheers,” he says as he holds his glass aloft, then downs half of the glass’s contents in one mouthful.
“Show off,” I mutter.
I look down at my glass, then bring it to my nose for a sniff… It smells sweet and earthy—really nice—but I’m not sure about drinking it. I mean, just because a servant of God gives you alcohol doesn’t make underage drinking the right thing to do, right?
On the other hand, I do think that I’m seeing and communicating with an angel… which seems insane. And if I’m going insane, what would it matter if I had a drink? I put the rim of the glass to my lips and slowly take in a small amount of the deep red liquid. It’s rich, full of flavor, and makes my mouth water. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Wow!”
“Why, thank you,” he says as he empties the rest of his glass.
Without thinking, I ask, “Can you teach me that?” When Cedrick bursts with laughter, I realize how silly my request is. Trying to save face, I shrug and take another sip, letting the liquid flood my mouth while he continues his mirth. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” As he continues to try to get control, I roll my eyes. “Or perhaps you can…”
“Oh, that was good. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time,” he says when he catches his breath.
I roll my eyes and then play back in my mind what he said earlier. “What did you mean by lead an army? Did you know what I was going to ask you tonight?”
I watch as he refills his glass with wine that is now coming out of the kitchen faucet, making my head lop to one side. I take another hearty swig from my own glass and hold it up to him, a silent request. He refills it without question and hands it back to me, although his face has turned serious.