Angel 2 - Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  It was me.

  With a cry, I dropped his hand. There was a pause.

  “Well?” said Alex.

  I hugged myself, not looking at him. He wasn’t crazy; his energy had felt clear and strong. The truth of everything he had said, every word, beat through me.

  Along with the memory of my wings, gently stirring the air.

  “What does this mean?” My voice came out high, frightened. “These . . . angel things that you’ve seen about me. How can I be part angel, unless . . . ” I stopped as if the breath had been punched out of me. When I was around eleven, I went through this phase where I really wanted to know who my father was. Since Aunt Jo had no idea, I had asked Mom, over and over, whispering the question to her and trying to break through her dreamworld. Mom, who was my father? Mom? Do you remember? Who was my dad?

  And once, and only once, she had answered me. Smiling, her eyes had focused briefly on mine as she’d whispered, “He was an angel.” I’d given up trying after that.

  I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. The image of my father that I’d seen once when I tried to read Mom, the man who’d creeped me out so much he made me shudder. He’d had the same strange, compelling eyes as the angel that had stood on my doorstep. And now I remembered: amid the pretty rainbows of Mom’s mind, there had sometimes been an angel, too, standing in her old apartment and smiling at her. An angel with the same face as my father. I had thought she was just hallucinating.

  I could hardly breathe. I clenched my skirt, bunching the material in my fist.

  “Unless what?” pressed Alex.

  “You — you said that angels can cause insanity,” I burst out. “Do they ever — have relationships with humans? I mean —”

  “Yeah,” he said, giving me a piercing look.

  “What about their eyes? Are they —?”

  “Weird,” he said tersely. “Too intense. Too dark sometimes. You feel like you can’t look away from them.”

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered. My skirt twisted and writhed in my fist.

  “Your father,” said Alex, his mouth grim. “I’m right, aren’t I? He’s one of them.”

  Panic gripped me, quickening my breath. “I — I don’t know. I never knew him. . . . I only saw him once, when I tried to read my mom. But his eyes were just like that. He — he broke my mother’s mind; my aunt said that she was normal before him.” I stopped, the words dying coldly in my throat.

  Alex sat staring at me, his expression battling between I knew it and something like disgust. “A half angel,” he muttered finally. “Great.” He started the car again and merged back onto the highway, punching the accelerator hard. A few seconds later, we were edging up to ninety.

  The world was pitching around me like a hurricane. I knew it was true, even if I didn’t want to believe it. I was a half angel. My father had been one of those things; he’d destroyed my mother.

  “This should be impossible,” said Alex in a low voice. “If angels can breed now —” He broke off, his hands tightening on the wheel. After a pause, he blew out a breath. “Anyway, they think you’re a danger to them, and I can’t take the chance that you’re not. So — what’s it going to be? Are you coming with me, or do I have to follow you and try to keep you from getting killed?”

  Remembering the sensation of my wings opening and closing, I thought I might throw up. Don’t think of it. Don’t think of it. I let go of my skirt and shakily smoothed my hand over it. “Who is it that you want to go see?”

  “A guy called Cully,” said Alex. His dark hair had fallen onto his forehead again; he shoved it back without looking at me. “He used to be an AK. Angel Killer. He’s the only person I can trust now that they’ve taken over Project Angel.”

  What was Project Angel? It sounded like something out of a cheesy action film. But then, so did being shot at in a parking lot. I licked my lips. “Will — will those people really go to my house? What happens if they do? What if they hurt Mom and Aunt Jo?”

  He gave a curt shrug, glancing over his shoulder as he took the turnoff for the interstate. “I don’t know. They’ll be searching for this car before they do anything else. But like I said, if you do go home, you’ll die, and so might your family. That’s the best I can tell you.”

  He sounded so brusque, as if it didn’t matter to him in the slightest. “And you think this . . . Cully person might have some answers.”

  “He’s the only person in the world who might.”

  I fell silent. Mom. I envisioned her sitting dreaming in her chair, her eyes filled with distant, beautiful things. I thought of Aunt Jo’s house, of the lavender swaths of fabric draped across my bedposts. And then I saw the screaming crowd at the Church of Angels, felt their hatred again, surging toward me in a dark sea. The beautiful winged being as it swooped after me, shrieking — the barrel of the rifle, pointing straight at me. Maybe Alex didn’t seem very friendly, but he had saved my life; I knew it without a doubt. If he hadn’t been there, I’d be dead now.

  A shiver ran sickly through me. He was right: I couldn’t go home. I’d die if I did; I’d put Mom and Aunt Jo in terrible danger. In my mind, Aunt Jo’s house suddenly looked very small — already distant, moving away from me forever. If I couldn’t go home, then where could I go? I couldn’t put Nina in danger, either. There was no place that was safe; those people weren’t going to be happy until I was dead.

  A half angel.

  The only sounds were the humming of the Porsche’s engine and the slight whisper of wind rushing past. I hugged myself. If this person Alex knew really did have some answers, then he was someone I seriously needed to meet.

  The words hesitated in my throat. I couldn’t believe that I was actually saying them.

  “OK,” I whispered, so softly that I could hardly hear myself. “I’ll go.”

  FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, neither of us spoke. I stared out the window at the passing trees and farms, hardly able to believe this had happened. Eventually the traffic got busier and the highway widened to six lanes, and I woke up out of my daze and realized that we were on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading into New York City. Almost as soon as I thought it, I could see its famous skyline through my window to the right, spiking up in the late-afternoon sun. Alex took the George Washington Bridge across the river, paying the toll in cash. Skirting north of Manhattan, he drove us into the Bronx. After a while, we were in a neighborhood of crumbling buildings and overflowing Dumpsters.

  I cleared my throat. “I thought we were going to New Mexico.”

  Alex didn’t even glance at me. “Not in this car; they’ve seen it.” His voice was flat. Obviously, he was as thrilled about going to New Mexico together as I was.

  Pulling into a small, run-down shopping center, he parked the Porsche and got out. I followed him, wrapping my jean jacket tightly around myself. Nervousness prickled at my scalp as I took in the graffiti on the buildings, the broken glass on the ground.

  Alex opened the trunk. There was a black nylon bag inside; he unzipped it and pulled out a bulky envelope, which he tucked into his inside jacket pocket. Then he went around to the front, swept his hand under the driver’s seat, and took out a small metal box. He shoved it into the nylon bag; I caught a glimpse of jeans and folded T-shirts inside. He put in a few things from the glove compartment, too, and then zipped the bag shut again and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said shortly.

  Shoving down my irritation at having orders barked at me, I started to tell him that he’d left his keys in the car — and then I realized that that was the idea. Feeling sort of stunned, I followed him across the parking lot with its cracked asphalt, glancing back over my shoulder at the gleaming black Porsche.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked as we passed a Dumpster. I nodded, and he said, “Let me have it.”

  “Please,” I muttered. I dug in my bag for my little blue Nokia and handed it to him. He pulled a sleek-looking phone out of his own pocket and tossed them both into
the Dumpster. They made a clattering noise at they hit the side.

  I stared at him. “But —”

  “They can track them.” He started off again without checking to see if I was following. “They’re probably already inspecting your account, to see if you’ve called home. Don’t. Not for any reason. We can’t risk it.”

  I started to protest, but the words faded in my throat. This was real. People were actually trying to kill me. “Yeah . . . OK,” I said. I trudged along beside him, my thoughts whirling. Aunt Jo and I had never been bosom buddies, but she was still going to be worried sick when I didn’t come home tonight. And Mom . . . would she even notice? The thought of that felt even worse somehow.

  We came to a subway station, and Alex jogged down the cement stairs. He bought us both a fare card, handing mine over without looking at me. I wanted to know where we were going but didn’t really feel like talking to him, any more than he seemed to want to talk to me.

  We rode the crowded subway in silence. Alex sat leaning back with his knees slightly apart, tapping his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. Studying him in the darkened window opposite, I took in the slant of his cheekbones, the tense line between his dark eyebrows. My gaze lingered on the shape of his lips. He really was completely gorgeous, I realized reluctantly.

  I almost jumped as our eyes met in the darkened window. For a second Alex’s face was unguarded as he glanced at me, and I caught a glimpse of something — concern, maybe? — that made my heartbeat quicken in surprise. Then the shutters snapped shut again, and he frowned and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. Remembering his expression of disgust in the car earlier, I felt cold suddenly. I shifted as far away from him on the seat as I could.

  When we got to Lexington Avenue, Alex stood up without saying anything. As we emerged out onto the streets again, the sun was setting, clouds bleeding red against the sky. We were in another run-down neighborhood, though not nearly as bad as the one in the Bronx. Glancing up at some shops, I saw that the signs were in both English and Spanish. “Where are we?”

  “Spanish Harlem,” said Alex, speaking to the air in front of him. He was striding along, so that I had to hurry to keep up.

  Even so, he didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, just wandering from street to street. After a while we came to a residential area lined with old brownstones and parked cars. Here in the city, the evening still had a tinge of summer to it, and people were sitting outside on their front steps, talking and laughing. Rock music throbbed through the air, something with a heavy beat and warbling Spanish lyrics. I stared around us, taking it all in. I’d never felt so conscious of my blond hair in my life.

  “Bingo,” murmured Alex. Following his gaze, I saw an olive-green Mustang Boss parked on the side of the street, maybe a ’69 or ’70. It was sort of beat-up, with a dent on the hood and another on the passenger-side door, but it was still a classic, with hard, muscular lines. There was a sign on it: $1200 OBO.

  A group of dark-haired guys was sitting on the brownstone steps nearby, drinking beers. They looked up when Alex approached. “¿Hola, qué tal?” he said. “¿De quién es este coche?” He jerked his thumb at the Mustang. His Spanish was quick, fluent.

  “Es mío,” said one of the men. “¿Estás interesado?” He had friendly brown eyes and thick black hair. Rising, he handed his beer can to one of his friends and walked down the steps toward the car.

  Alex shrugged, following him. “Sí, puede que sí. Si me haces un buen precio, podría pagarte ahora mismo.” I gave him a sideways glance as the two of them walked around the Mustang, talking in quick-fire Spanish. Where had he learned to do that? I wondered. God, I hardly knew anything about him — except that he didn’t seem to like me very much. The realization made me feel very lonely. I looked away, leaning against the brick stoop and hugging myself.

  About five minutes of bartering later, Alex was counting out some bills from the envelope he’d tucked into his jacket. The guy pocketed the money with a grin, handing over a key ring with a tiny set of fuzzy dice on it. “Gracias, amigo.”

  “Gracias,” said Alex as they shook hands. He tossed his bag onto the backseat, and we got in the car. Black vinyl seats that were deep and cracked; a curved sweep of dashboard. “Highway robbery,” said Alex under his breath, starting up the engine.

  “Why?” I asked faintly. He didn’t answer; the car coughed once, and we pulled away from the curb, leaving the men on the brownstone steps behind. I let out a breath, suddenly sick of him ignoring me. “Why was it highway robbery?” I said again, my voice deliberate.

  A muscle in Alex’s jaw tensed as he drove. Finally he said, “He wouldn’t take less than nine hundred, even in cash.”

  “Really? He must have been desperate.” Alex looked over at me with a frown, and I shrugged, slumping back against the seat. I wasn’t really in the mood to explain to him that classic Mustangs were collectors’ cars and that the chassis on this one was in great shape, even with the bodywork it needed. The guy could have sold it to an enthusiast for way more than what Alex had paid.

  As we drove uptown, I spotted a Kmart on a corner, with its familiar red sign. I cleared my throat. “Wait. Can we stop for a minute?”

  “What for?”

  “Just — I need a few things.”

  He looked irritated, but he pulled into a metered space. “We don’t really have time to go shopping.”

  I glared at him. “Yeah, excuse me for being so frivolous. You have your suitcase all packed already; I don’t even have any clean underwear. I’ll be right back.” Getting out of the car, I slammed the door shut. Once inside the Kmart, I found the clothes section and quickly picked out five pairs of underwear in my size. I fingered a T-shirt, wishing I had enough money for it, too, but I didn’t — and I wasn’t about to go back out to the car and ask Alex for any.

  As I waited in line for the cashier, I saw a News of the World headline that said, THE ANGELS WALK AMONG US, SAYS WELFARE MOM. I stared at it, the brightly lit store fading away around me. All of this had really happened. That was why I was here in New York City, buying cheap underwear and about to drive across the country with a boy I hardly knew.

  I was a half angel.

  “Can I help you?” called the checkout girl.

  Coming back to myself with a start, I walked up to the cash register, clutching the tiny plastic hangers. I slid them across the Formica counter. “Um, yeah — just these, please.”

  When I got back outside, Alex was leaning against the car, drinking a Starbucks coffee, his dark hair ruffled from the breeze. Even just standing there in faded jeans and a leather jacket, he gave off a sense of confidence somehow — of being at ease in his own body. A girl about my own age gave him a second look as she passed; he didn’t seem to notice. For a moment I felt embarrassed that he knew I’d bought underwear, and then I shoved it away. None of this was exactly my fault.

  As I walked up, Alex glanced at me. “How did you pay?”

  With money, I almost said. “Cash,” I told him.

  “If you have any plastic, don’t use it.”

  “Do you mind not barking orders at me?” I said tightly. “This is all sort of — difficult enough already, actually.”

  He gave me a look. Then he drained the coffee and tossed the empty cup into a garbage can. “There’s an Internet café across the street; I need to check something out. Do you want to come with me or wait in the car?” His tone was super-polite. I could have kicked him.

  “I’ll come,” I said.

  We crossed the street. The café was one of those places where you can buy cans of soda and sandwiches. “What do you want to eat?” asked Alex as he paid for half an hour’s Internet time. “I don’t want to stop again tonight.”

  I knew that I should be hungry — I hadn’t eaten anything since an apple at lunchtime — but food had never held less interest for me. I shook my head. Alex bought two sandwiches anyway and handed them to me in their plastic containers. “Here, pu
t these in your bag.” Our eyes met as I stared coldly at him. I didn’t care how good-looking he was; it didn’t give him the right to boss me around. He let out a breath. “Please,” he added.

  A few minutes later, he was sitting at one of the computer terminals, laboriously typing something into a search engine. The computer next to him was empty. I sat in the plastic chair and watched his screen . . . and then tensed as a white church on a broad green hill appeared. The Church of Angels site.

  “What are you checking?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond, scrolling down the main screen with the cursor. “Great,” he muttered to himself. “They didn’t waste any time.”

  I stared at the screen. My throat felt like it had sand in it. My own face was looking back at me, with text underneath it that said:

  Willow Fields was seen leaving the Church of Angels parking lot in Schenectady, New York, with a dark-haired youth in a black Porsche Carrera. Have you seen her? Please contact your local Church leader urgently for more information and to find out how YOU can help.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “But how did they get my photo?”

  Alex tapped his mouth with his thumb. “That . . . book with everyone’s picture in it, that you have in high school.”

  “Yearbook,” I said. Was he trying to be funny? But of course he was right; that’s exactly where it was from. “Come on, let’s get back to the car,” I hissed, glancing around me. Suddenly it felt like everyone in the Internet café was busy going onto the Church of Angels website, scrutinizing my photo.

  “Not yet,” he said tersely, scraping back his chair. “We’d better get you some sunglasses or something first.”

  Sunglasses at night, I thought inanely as we headed back to the Kmart, remembering the old ’80s song. Nina and I used to do that a lot. We’d quote song lyrics at each other — saying them seriously, like we really meant them in conversation, and then the other one would say, “Hey, I think there’s a song about that.” I rubbed my arms as I realized I was already thinking about Nina in the past tense. God, what was she going to think when she heard that I’d disappeared?