Angel 2 - Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  I shook my head, trying to comprehend it all. “What happens if you can’t stop them?”

  Alex shrugged as he glanced at me. “Humanity will die,” he said. “Maybe in a few decades . . . fifty years. The AKs are losing, you know — slowly but surely. We need something big to stop them, or we haven’t got a chance.”

  My mouth went dry. Was I supposed to be the something big, then? I thought of the hospital beds that had lined the corridor in the news program, and didn’t know what to say. “This is just . . . I can’t believe that no one knows about this,” I whispered. “Why doesn’t the government do something? Why don’t they tell everyone?”

  With eerie timing, the Church of Angels commercial came on again. Alex gazed up at the screen, his mouth twisting wryly. “It’s not that easy. Most people can only see angels for what they really are when they’re being fed from, and by then they’ve got angel burn; they wouldn’t try to get away if you paid them.”

  I saw what he meant. I imagined what would have happened if I’d tried to drag Beth away while that thing was draining her; I think she would have physically attacked me.

  Alex was still looking at the commercial. “Plus, the angels seem to make a point of targeting the police and the government. Quite a few higher-ups have gotten angel burn since the Invasion — that’s what first tipped off the CIA that something weird was going on.”

  “Really?” I stared at him, my blood chilling. “Who? Do you mean the president?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly. People who you wouldn’t want to have it, definitely.”

  As the commercial ended, the final image of an angel gazed out at us with a serene smile, its halo and wings a pure, radiant white. “They’re so beautiful,” I admitted softly.

  “Yeah, they are.”

  I picked at a loose seam in the nylon bedspread. I didn’t really want to ask, but I had to know. “So . . . when someone has angel burn, what happens?”

  Alex’s dark hair fell over his forehead as he looked at me, his expression reluctant. “When an angel feeds off someone, the effect is toxic,” he said. “The person perceives the angel as wonderful and kind, but meanwhile it’s damaging them in some way — causing some sort of disease or mental illness. MS, cancer, whatever. The more the person’s energy is drained, the more severe the burn.”

  I thought of Mom, with her vacant, dreamy gaze . . . and of the being who’d made her that way. My father. This was a part of me; it was inside of me. No wonder Alex hadn’t wanted anything to do with me at first; I could hardly blame him. I stared down at the seam, trying not to hate myself and failing.

  From the other bed, I could feel Alex’s gaze still on me. He cleared his throat. “You know, from what I could tell, your mother’s one of the lucky ones. I mean, when I checked out her energy, it didn’t feel distressed or anything. She seems content.”

  I nodded. Suddenly my eyes were leaking; I wiped them with the flat of my hand. “Yeah . . . it’s always sucked for me, not having a mom, but at least I know she’s happy off in her dreamworld.” I glanced at him and managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  A late-night talk show came on; we watched in silence as the host stood in front of the audience, making jokes for the intro. I hesitated as I thought of everything Alex had just told me.

  “So, my angel — the one you saw over me — it doesn’t feed, right?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Alex.

  I looked up at him, biting my lip. “You’re sure?”

  He kept his voice matter-of-fact, but his eyes told me he understood how I was feeling. “I’m positive. Your angel doesn’t have a halo, and that’s an angel’s heart; it’s where the energy is distributed from as they feed. Plus your aura doesn’t show any signs of feeding — an angel’s aura always does.”

  “So I don’t . . . hurt people when I touch them, or anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Alex. “I mean, a half angel is something new, but I don’t see any reason why you would, Willow. Angels in their human form don’t hurt people; it’s only when they feed. And, you know, if you haven’t noticed anything in sixteen years, then I’d say you’re probably safe.”

  I let out a breath. Thank God for that. This was already nightmarish enough, without the thought that maybe I was somehow damaging people the way angels did.

  On the TV, the talk show host was sitting behind his desk with a miniature skyline of New York City behind him, interviewing an actress in a tight red dress. It felt so unreal, that angels were here in our world, hurting people, and that everyone was just going about their business, oblivious. Alex must feel like this all the time, I realized.

  “Can I ask you something, now?” he said.

  A wariness came over me, but I nodded.

  “Your, um . . . your angel,” he said. He picked up the remote, turning it over in his hand. “I know you weren’t aware of it before a few days ago. But now that you are, can you feel it there?”

  I stiffened. “No,” I said flatly.

  Alex nodded, looking down at his knee as he tapped the remote against it. “I just . . . wondered whether you could make contact with it, if you tried.”

  My muscles were rigid. “I have no idea, and I’m not going to try. I wish it would just go away.”

  A commercial came on; when it ended and the show came back, the actress was gone and a comedian came onto the stage. I could feel Alex’s gaze on me. “I don’t know if ignoring it is going to work,” he said after a pause. “I mean it’s there, protecting you. It’s a part of you somehow.”

  “Well, I don’t want it to be,” I said. My voice was shaking. “God, Alex — one of those things destroyed my mother’s mind; one’s ruined Beth’s life. I hate it that I have something like that inside of me. So, no, I’m not about to contact it or make friends with it, or whatever. No way.”

  “OK,” he said. “Sorry.”

  I didn’t say anything. I stared at the screen, listening to the audience laugh at jokes that didn’t seem remotely funny to me.

  Alex glanced at me, his blue-gray eyes concerned. “Listen, I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. This all must be —” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine what this must be like for you.”

  And it helped, somehow, just knowing that he had thought about it, that he realized how hard it was. I sighed. “The thing is . . . I feel so completely human. I know I’m not; I know that. But inside, I just feel normal. I mean, OK, maybe I’m sort of weird, but still normal.”

  He gave a slight smile. “You’re not weird.”

  “Oh, please.” I rolled onto my side to face him. “Listen, when you saw the — the angel hovering over me . . . ” I trailed off, not even really sure what I wanted to ask.

  “What?” he asked. His dark hair was almost dry now, looking soft and tousled.

  I shook my head quickly. “Nothing.”

  Alex hesitated, studying me. “Look, do you want to change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know.” He motioned toward the TV. “We could talk about this comedian; he’s supposed to be getting his own sitcom soon.”

  I snorted and rolled onto my back again, propping myself up onto the pillows. “Yeah, if anyone’s left to see it. Alex, doesn’t it drive you insane, knowing all of this when the rest of the world doesn’t?”

  He shrugged as he leaned back against his own pillows, resting an elbow behind his head. “Sure. But, you know — it’s just how it is. If I thought about it too much, I’d go crazy, so I don’t.”

  That sounded like pretty good advice, to be honest. As the comedian went on with his routine, I felt the tension inside me loosen a notch. “What’s his sitcom supposed to be about? Do you know?” I asked finally.

  We watched the rest of the show, chatting sometimes about the guest stars and the jokes. When it was over, we went to sleep. It felt weird sliding under the covers with Alex in the next bed — so intimate, even though he was about ten feet away. Once w
e were both settled, he switched off the light, and the room plunged into blackness.

  We lay there in silence for a while. The absence of light was so total that I couldn’t even see his bed. “Alex, do you think the angels are right?” I said quietly. “Do you think I really can destroy them somehow?”

  His voice sounded deeper in the darkness. “I hope so. God, I really hope so.” There was a pause, and then he said, “Good night, Willow.”

  “Good night,” I echoed.

  I lay awake for a while, listening as his breathing grew slower, more regular. As I fell asleep, my hand seemed to creep up of its own accord to touch my arm, stroking the softness of his T-shirt. I drifted off feeling the warmth of Alex’s energy wrapping gently around me.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Alex and I headed back to the garage to find out about the car. Though it was only ten o’clock, the day was sticky with humidity already; my hair up under the baseball cap felt damp and heavy. As we walked the half mile or so, we talked about the heat, whether the car would be ready that day, the too-sweet motel donuts we’d had for breakfast. Neither of us mentioned how things had shifted between us, but it was there, anyway. Things just felt a lot more relaxed, as though we didn’t actually hate each other now.

  But then, as we started to cross the concrete forecourt to the garage, a feeling of foreboding gripped me and I stopped short. “Wait a minute,” I said, touching Alex’s arm.

  He glanced down at me. He was wearing a burgundy T-shirt, and the hair at the nape of his neck was curling slightly from the heat. “What?”

  I shook my head, still gazing at the garage with its bright sign and plate-glass windows. It had seemed fine yesterday, but today I had the weirdest feeling about it — nothing I could put my finger on, just a really strong sense that I shouldn’t go inside. “I — I better go back to the motel,” I said, taking a step backward. “I’ll wait for you there, OK?”

  Alex’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Just — I don’t think I should go in there.”

  He glanced over at the garage, frowning. “OK, here.” He dug in his jeans pocket for the plastic card key. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  “Thanks.” I took the card key. “Listen, have them check out the Mustang’s air filter while they’re at it, OK? I think it might need a new one.” Then I turned and started walking hurriedly back up the road, glad for the sunglasses that covered half my face.

  It was so quiet out, with only the occasional car speeding past. After I’d been walking for about five minutes, I heard a new noise: rhythmic footsteps striding behind me, growing closer. Hugging my elbows, I peered over my shoulder. It was Alex. I felt my shoulders relax; I waited for him to catch up.

  “You were right,” he said as he fell into step beside me. “There was a guy in there wearing a Church of Angels cap.”

  I heaved out a breath. “Oh, God. Do you think he saw me?”

  Alex shook his head. “I don’t think so; he was talking to the mechanic when I went in. The Mustang won’t be ready until around noon tomorrow,” he added. “He found a garage that has the right bolts, but he won’t be able to get them until this afternoon.”

  Tomorrow. I rubbed my arms. “So . . . I guess we’ll just wait in the motel room, then.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Alex. He was walking with his hands stuck in his back pockets; his legs were so much longer than mine that he took two steps to my every three. “It’s not exactly safe for us to go sightseeing, even if there was anything worth looking at around here.”

  We got the motel room for another night and headed back to it. As Alex swung open the door to the room, something occurred to me. “Hey, what’s your last name, anyway? I just realized I don’t know.”

  With a wry smile, Alex took his wallet out of his jeans pocket; opening it, he pulled out a few pieces of ID and handed them to me. “Here, take your pick.”

  I flipped through in amazement. A California license for Alexander Stroud . . . a Michigan license for Alex Patton . . . an Ohio license for William Fraser . . . I started to laugh. “God, you’re like James Bond,” I said, handing them back to him. “What’s your real, actual last name?”

  “Kylar,” he said, tossing the wallet onto the dresser. “I don’t have any ID with that on it, though. I don’t exist, as far as the system’s concerned.”

  I blinked. “What — really?”

  He looked amused at the expression on my face. “Yeah, really. My bank account was under a fake name; it was set up by the CIA. I never got a social security card or anything. Or a real driver’s license.”

  I couldn’t think of much to say to this. I had thought I was joking about the James Bond thing; apparently I wasn’t. I sat down on my bed and pulled my shoes off. “Do you have a middle name?”

  Alex grinned. “Yeah, it’s James, actually.” Taking his own shoes off, he sprawled back onto his bed, reaching for the remote. As he switched the TV on, a talk show flickered onto the screen.

  “You’re just making this up now,” I said after a pause. “Your middle name is not James, as in James Bond.”

  “No, it’s James, as in James Kylar, my grandfather. What about you? Have you got one?”

  “No, just Willow Fields,” I said, stretching out. “I always wanted a middle name; I was the only girl in my class who didn’t have one.”

  Alex looked over at me, his eyes interested. “So what was it like? Going to school?”

  I glanced at him in confusion and then suddenly realized. “You never went.”

  He shook his head. “I grew up at the camp, pretty much. I’ve only seen school on TV. Is it really like that — with homecoming and proms and stuff?”

  So that’s why he hadn’t known what a yearbook was called. Feeling sort of dazed, I said, “Yeah, it’s exactly like that. Prom is a very big deal, actually. Some of the girls at my school even go into New York City to get their dresses. They spend, like, thousands of dollars on them.”

  “Did you?”

  I barked out a short laugh. “Uh, no. I never went.”

  He rolled onto his side, facing me. “Why not?”

  I could feel my cheeks heating up. I stared at the TV, where the talk-show host was sitting next to a guest, both of them dabbing at their eyes with tissues. “Because no one ever asked me.”

  Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. High school is . . . ” I tried to think how to describe it. “There are all these ruling cliques, and if you don’t belong to one of them, then — that’s sort of that for you. I never really fit in; I was always Queen Weird.”

  His eyes were narrowed as he looked at me.

  “What?” I said, feeling self-conscious.

  “I’m just having a really hard time picturing this,” he said. “Prom is like the big dance, right? At the end of school? And you’re saying that nobody ever asked you to it?”

  I would have been irritated, except that he sounded so honestly surprised that I found myself laughing instead. “Alex, I’ve never even had a date. You’re really not grasping the extent of the ‘Queen Weird’ thing here.”

  “Queen Weird,” he repeated. “Why — because of the psychic stuff?”

  I pretended to be deep in thought. “Well, let’s see; there was the psychic stuff and the way I dress and fixing cars . . . ”

  “What’s wrong with the way you dress? You mean like that purple skirt thing?”

  I held back a smile at ‘purple skirt thing.’ “Yes, exactly. It’s not in fashion; I bought it at a thrift shop. Most of my clothes are like that.” I thought of a cloche hat from the twenties I had loved and a pair of high-button shoes that I’d worn until they literally fell to pieces. And Nina had threatened to disown me when I’d turned up to school in a bomber jacket once.

  Alex was starting to look seriously confused. “OK, so . . . maybe girls would notice that kind of thing, but you’re saying that this actually mattered to the guys?”
/>   “In Pawtucket, it did,” I said. “The girls who were popular were the ones who wore the right things and had perfect makeup. I hardly even own any makeup. I mean, I think I literally have one tube of mascara, and it’s about two years old.”

  “Why do you need makeup?” He sounded bewildered.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never really understood it, either. I guess that’s why I’m Queen Weird.”

  “Right,” said Alex after a long pause. He gave his head a brief shake, as if he was clearing it. “Well . . . if you want my opinion, the guys in Pawtucket are idiots.”

  “I always liked to think so.” My face tinged with heat as I glanced at him. “Thanks.”

  He smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “OK, take me through a typical day,” he said, straightening up.

  “You’re really interested?”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  I shrugged. “OK. It’s pretty boring, though.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed facing him, I described everything about Pawtucket High — classes, and bells ringing, and homework, and GPAs, and shuffling through the hallways in a crowd, and final exams and lockers, and the cafeteria, and skipping classes sometimes when it got so boring I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Alex listened intently, absorbing every word. When I finished, he was quiet for a minute, his expression thoughtful. “That all sounds so strange. I can’t really imagine it — having to do homework and caring about what grade you get.”

  I laughed. “Wait, my life sounds strange? God, yours is like something out of a movie.” And then it hit me — really hit me — that I might never go to high school again. I had always sort of hated it, but it was a bizarre thought, anyway; it made me feel so adrift somehow. What was going on there now? Everyone must be talking about me, wondering what had happened.

  “What?” asked Alex, watching me.

  I managed a smile. “Nothing.”

  We watched TV for a while after that, ordering a pizza when we got hungry. Alex turned out to know the plots of half the soap operas that were on. “I can’t believe that you actually watch this stuff,” I said. It was midafternoon by then, and I was lying on my bed, feeling too full and slightly stir-crazy.