Angels & Patriots

by Salina B Baker

  Michael shoved Liam, and yelled, “Why are ya saying that?”

  “Because it is important,” Liam affirmed.

  Michael reached for the front of Liam’s coat, but Liam dodged him.

  Patrick jumped between them. “Stop it, Michael! Them men are watchin’ us!”

  “Why did ya say that?” Michael insisted.

  “Do you not understand the gravity of what we are facing? What Colm is facing?” Liam asked.

  “NO, I DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Michael screamed. He was shaking under the weight of his anger and apprehension. “Something’s happening to us that has nothing to do with demons!”

  “Michael, lower your voice,” Patrick warned.

  Michael ran a hand across his mouth. His chest heaved; he panted as if he had been running for miles. His palimpsest cried for attention. He pushed it away. It was a stranger who had no business interfering in his relationship with his brotherhood.

  “Do ya feel him? Do ya?” he demanded of Patrick.

  “Who?”

  “I feel him. I think Ian might feel him. FUCK!” Michael turned in a circle, put a hand to his forehead, let his hand drop and ran toward the gathering of men on the common.

  Patrick’s beautiful effeminate face contorted with foreboding. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

  Liam was uncertain, but whatever it was made him uneasy. He struggled to keep his green aura from bursting forth. His wings rustled. He regained control and walked across the common.

  Patrick followed. The men of the Boston militia watched the angels’ approach with expectation.

  William Dawes went to meet them. Their tension oppressed him to the point that he felt like praying.

  Michael stormed past him and fell in with the other militia members.

  “What is wrong?” William asked Patrick in alarm.

  He saw Patrick’s blue aura flash as Liam and Patrick walked past. “Patrick, stop,” he implored. Something was changing between the angels and their patriotic alliance with humans; something deeper than even Dr. Warren had proclaimed at the Old South Meetinghouse.

  “I stand with your pain as you stand with mine,” William offered.

  Patrick and Liam stopped. They looked at William.

  “Please, what is the matter?” William asked.

  Liam said. “They are upset with me for telling the truth of what I see.” He continued toward the waiting men.

  The Boston militia, under the watchful eyes of British soldiers, drilled on the muddy grounds of Boston Common under the sun washed skies of a spring day. It would be their last drill. General Thomas Gage passed an ordinance two days later, forbidding any type of provincial military-like drills in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

  The ordinance was a relief to the angels. It was nearly impossible for them to follow another commander other than Colm.

  After drills, Patrick convinced William and Paul to join him and Michael for a draught at the Green Dragon. Liam kept his appointed visit with the Adamses.

  A young man answered Liam’s knock on the door. He frowned and asked, “Sir?”

  Liam experienced an unsettling emotion he did not understand. He considered leaving. If Abigail had not come to the door, he would have left. Her smile lit up his world.

  “Bertie, this is Mr. Kavangh. Please allow him to come in.”

  Bertie scowled, but he stepped aside to let Liam pass.

  “This is John’s nephew, Bertie…Bert Adams,” Abigail said in introduction. “Bertie, Mr. Kavangh and I will be visiting in the living room. You are welcome to join us, but your attendance is not required.”

  Bertie was a young, skinny, unattractive prig with a pimply forehead and chin. Liam sensed that Bertie posed a threat, but the nature of it was beyond his understanding.

  On the other hand, Abigail was aware that entertaining Liam alone would set the stage for unfounded idle gossip that would begin with her sour-faced nephew. Yet, she did not extract herself from the situation. Her husband had prior knowledge of the angel’s visit and had not deterred it.

  “John is at our home in Braintree on unexpected family business. He extends his apology for his absence,” Abigail said as she led Liam into the living room.

  There was a decanter of wine on a drop-leaf table in the living room. Abigail poured a glass and offered it to Liam. Their fingertips brushed when he took the glass from her hand. She filled her glass, sat on the couch, patted the seat beside her and said, “Please sit with me.”

  Liam winced from the stab of a spoken memory his spirit did not recognize. Sit with me, son.

  He sat beside her. Despite the unsettling false memory, the sulking nephew, the absence of her husband, and the unfamiliar surroundings of her living room, his enthusiasm for the visit had not waned. However, he had no idea how to begin a conversation.

  Abigail saw his conundrum cloud his face. She asked, “How are the accommodations at the farm in Roxbury?”

  “The farm is suitable.”

  There was a long pause. Abigail continued, “I read the missive you wrote when it was first published in the Boston Gazette. I appreciated its eloquence. Following the confrontation with that demon in the meetinghouse, I read it again. I have read it many times since, and now I hear your voice in those words.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying, now that we are better acquainted, I have more appreciation for your writing.”

  “The advertisement was a simple challenge.”

  “Please, do not be so modest.”

  Liam frowned. “Is this considered polite conversation?”

  “It does sound that way,” she tittered.

  “I wanted so much to see you again, but this is a mistake. I should not be here without John in attendance.” Liam rose from the couch. “My presence without the protection of a man in the house is endangering you and your children.”

  She smiled inwardly. Apparently, Liam did not consider Bertie a man. “My children are in Braintree. I will join them in a few days. Please stay.”

  Liam sat down and drained his glass of wine. He had no powers of resistance when it came to Abigail Adams.

  She continued her conversation, “In your missive, you used the term preceptors of mysteries in reference to yourselves. That demon called Mr. Bohannon a preceptor. What does that mean?”

  “When humans pray to God, we, the angels, answer those prayers. You ask for signs that God has heard you. You ask for signs of miracles. You ask for guidance. Angels reveal the mysteries of God in answer to the lessons you have asked for.”

  “Angels consider those lessons?”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail feared the answer to her next question, but she asked it anyway. “Does God love us?”

  “Abigail, I do not think that—”

  “I am sorry. I did not intend for this to turn into a religious discussion.”

  “We are not discussing anything. You are questioning me about a God who does not love me or my brotherhood.”

  She looked at him with shame.

  “I understand your need for religious answers. It is an archetype we have encountered throughout the millennium. But you are searching for those answers from a banished angel. I have no right to offer you heavenly guidance or assurance.”

  “Again, I offer my apologies.”

  “Why do humans apologize? I fail to see the purpose.”

  She smiled. “It is a societal habit intended to smooth ruffled feathers, but you are right, apologies have no real purpose. If we learned from the cradle that honesty is not an insult, apologies would not be necessary.”

  Liam had no reply.

  “We have much to learn from one another,” Abigail said. “I shall leave the matter of God in the hands of the church.”

  Liam found her enchanting.

  She said, “I saw Mr. Bohannon’s angelic light. What of yours?”

  “His name is Colm.”

  “Yes, I am aware.”

  “It is rare th
at a human can perceive our light unless we are under extreme duress. Or unless we allow it.”

  She hoped that he would allow it.

  He understood her expectation and said, “I cannot.”

  “Are we to become better acquainted or not?”

  Liam offered a smile.

  “The idea of your angelic spirit is enthralling. I so want to see and feel it.”

  “Abigail, what you are asking of me is the same as asking me to walk naked in front of you.”

  “Please, do not become exasperated. We are learning together. Remember?”

  “I am not exasperated with you. If I give in to the vulnerabilities I have for you, I am afraid of how far I will let them go.”

  Abigail was surprised and stifled the urge to issue an apology.

  “Did John tell you why we were banished from Heaven?” Liam asked.

  “No.”

  “There were those of us who could not resist our vulnerabilities. We, with the Grigori angels, fulfilled our lust for human women. Some of us created Nephilim.”

  “You defied God’s command?”

  “Yes, so do you understand why I cannot give in to you?”

  “You have…known a woman?”

  “No. Ian, Seamus, and Michael created the Nephilim. The rest of us, under Colm’s command, tried to stop them, but we were too late.”

  “Why was Colm commanding the charge?”

  “He is the archangel who shepherded the Grigori angels.”

  “So, all of you were punished?”

  “Yes.”

  She struggled with this new knowledge, and the religious implications. God was not the just being she believed him to be.

  As Liam watched her inner strife cloud her beautiful brown eyes, his resolve to remain invulnerable weakened. The urge to soothe her strife overcame him. He rose from the couch and placed his empty wine glass on the drop-leaf table.

  He closed his eyes and summoned the pageantry of his heavenly being. His wings unfurled as silently as snow falling in the dead of night. They swept the parlor from floor to ceiling. Silver crystals rained upon everything in the living room. They gathered on the furniture and drifted against the walls.

  Abigail watched in awe as his shimmering wings fluttered over the drop-leaf table without disturbing any of the delicate glassware on top. His luminous aura illuminated the parlor with green light.

  She fought the instinct to fall to her knees in reverence.

  Liam furled his wings and doused his aura. Abigail’s smile and obvious adoration fulfilled his need to please her—until he saw Bertie Adams standing in the living room doorway. Bertie flashed his orange eyes at Liam.

  Liam’s actions shook him to the core of his angelic spirit. He had committed an act that bordered on creating a Nephilim. Not only had he disobeyed a direct standing order from his commander; a demon had witnessed the act. Liam was certain that when he first arrived, Bertie was not possessed.

  Bertie smirked at Abigail, and then walked away.

  She went to Liam’s side. “We have done nothing wrong! There is nothing Bertie can say that John is not already aware of. If he speaks of what he saw to those who do not know of you, they will think him distracted.”

  “What I just did is forbidden.”

  “Who forbids it?”

  “Colm.”

  “Why?”

  “It makes no difference why. He is my superior.”

  Abigail stepped closer to Liam. When he looked at her, his eyes appeared calm. “Are you going to tell him?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You are not afraid of the consequences?”

  “I am terrified.”

  Despite his words, she saw no terror skewing his countenance, and that confused her.

  “This is my fault.” She pressed a hand to her breast as if her heart was breaking. “I will plead with John to speak with Colm on your behalf. I will beg him to have mercy because you were tempted by my sin.”

  “You will not beg! Colm is not God! When will you understand that we are not here in the name of religion?”

  She had no answer.

  “We struggle just as you struggle in the pursuit of life and liberty,” Liam said. “Understand that. Then, perhaps you will open your eyes to me.”

  With remorse, she realized that she was projecting human emotions and reactions onto a being that was not human. It was no different than expecting a dog to speak English or a horse to use table manners.

  “You are right. I did not see you before.”

  Liam wanted to touch her cheek or take her hand, but he did neither. He said, “It may be a long time before we meet again. I will have to face the consequences of my actions today. It is not your burden to carry.”

  Abigail nodded and led him to the door. Without any thought for the lurking Bertie, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Liam goodbye on the cheek.

  Her kiss left a strange sensation on his skin. He hesitated to leave Abigail alone with her nephew. Bertie’s sudden demonic possession was worrisome, but Liam could not linger in the Adams house like a fabled guardian angel. He took his leave.

  As he walked to the Green Dragon, he contemplated his behavior. He had envisioned the visit in a completely different vein. He had assumed that the visit would be one of many lessons he would learn about the society in which the brotherhood was trying to assimilate.

  His humanistic urge to please her confused him. It lurked near his angelic spirit, and it was satisfied because what had happened was what it wanted.

  Seventeen

  Liam entered the Green Dragon at five o’clock in the afternoon. Michael, Patrick, and William were very drunk. Liam was not looking forward to their journey back to the farm.

  “Have a draught!” Michael suggested. “Ya just missed Paul.”

  “I think Paul wearied of us,” William explained as he tried to control his drunken tongue. “He called us stupid kids. I am thirty years old! I’ve a wife and four child’en!” He elbowed Patrick in the side and pointed at Liam. “Tell ’im Patrick.”

  “It’s ture,” Patrick confirmed.

  Michael howled laughter. “Ture? That’s not a word!”

  Liam looked around the shadowed candlelit tavern. Points of orange light flared here and there. Demons were watching. He said, “We need to go.”

  Patrick stood up and stumbled sideways.

  Michael and William tried to stand, but instead fell backward off the bench where they were sitting. They burst out in laughter as they lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.

  Liam left the tavern and ran down Union Street toward the North End. He found Paul on his way home.

  “I need help getting Michael, Patrick, and William out of the tavern. I do not think they are aware that demons are watching them. I am sure the demons were watching you as well.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow, but then realized he should not have been surprised.

  “Can you return to the tavern and ensure William gets home?” Liam asked. “I will not be able to get him and the boys out of there on my own.”

  “You angels are a demanding bunch,” Paul said, exasperated. He knew John Adams was in Braintree, and wondered why Liam had kept his appointment with the Adamses anyway. He also knew that John’s dolt nephew was staying with the Adamses. In Paul’s opinion, Bertie was useless as a chaperon or as anything else, for that matter.

  “I will assist, but only for Mehitable’s sake,” Paul said referring to William’s wife. “Are those demons going to follow us home?”

  “I cannot answer with certainty, but I see no purpose it would serve.”

  Patrick, Michael, and William were sitting outside of the Green Dragon when Paul and Liam arrived.

  “Can you stand?” Paul asked William.

  William looked up at Paul and burped. “I am gonna puke.”

  Michael and Patrick struggled to get to their feet. They stumbled into one another and bounced off the tavern’s brick outer wall. Liam was remind
ed of their drunken sprees with Brandon in Burkes Garden. The boys often spent those nights woods-running. Liam longed to be back on Garden Mountain living in seclusion.

  Paul helped William to his feet and steadied him.

  William said, “I tole ya…” and vomited on his boots.

  Michael and Patrick threw their backs against the tavern wall and erupted into raucous laughter. The noise drew the attention of several British soldiers.

  Paul did not look at the angels as he urged William away from the tavern toward home.

  Liam managed to corral Michael and Patrick by pointing out the soldiers striding purposefully toward them. Michael and Patrick were too drunk to make sense of the danger posed by the soldiers’ approach, but they were not too drunk to run. The angels made it to Orange Street and escaped Boston without being detained at the Neck. The soldiers at the Neck’s guard post had no interest in what they believed to be ignorant drunken Yankee farmers.

  Patrick tripped and slid headlong on the slick muddy road. Tree roots, downed branches, and rocks ripped his cloak and breeches, and cut his face and hands. Michael stumbled to a halt and dropped to his knees beside Patrick.

  Patrick spit mud from his mouth and said, “I cain’t.” He threw up.

  Michael pitched sideways.

  Both boys passed out. Liam shivered in the freezing Massachusetts March night; he sat on the muddy road guarding Colm’s and Seamus’ little brothers, contemplating his disobedience.

  Patrick felt the toe of a boot nudge his ribs and heard, “Wake up, Brother.” He rolled onto his back and tried to focus his eyes. The waning crescent moon cast little light on the road. It took him a moment to realize Seamus and Colm were standing over him with their arms crossed. He didn’t know where he was or why he was there, but he supposed that meant that Michael was with him, and they had gotten very drunk.

  “Get up, Brother,” Seamus calmly said.

  It took Patrick a full minute to get stable footing in the mud. His mud-caked clothes were wet and heavy, and he smelled vomit. He detected movement to his right. Michael was standing, but he was unsteady.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t spotted by patrols,” Seamus said.

  “Where are we?” Patrick asked.