by C. L. Coffey
“That’s true,” Michael nodded. “However, you did speak to your aunt.”
I sat upright and glared at him. “In a dream. How was I supposed to know that it was as good as going to see her face to face? You never told me. You don’t tell me half the things I think you should, and the other half, I think you hold back intentionally.”
Michael sat back and perched on the coffee table, looking tired. “You are right. There are things I hold back on telling you, only because you do not need to know them yet. The other things – I don’t want to overwhelm you. There is a lot to take on board.”
“Just tell me.” I sighed, any remaining anger finally escaping me. “I know by your standards I don’t even register in the evolutionary chain-”
“Is that what you think?” he asked me, surprised. In fact, he almost looked offended. “That you don’t register with me? That you’re not important?”
“Kinda,” I told him. I swear, not only did this guy wear me out physically, he drained my mind too. “Slave driver might have been a little exaggerated, but I feel like a private in the army – a lowly soldier in the grand scheme of things.”
He was up in a flash, moving so quickly that my reaction was delayed. Crouching on one knee in front of me, he grasped my hands. “You are important, and whatever happens, you need to remember that.”
I cleared my throat, peeling his hands from me. I know he didn’t mean it in that way, but the action was making me feel rather uncomfortable. “I can’t take you seriously without a top on,” I told him, awkwardly. “I feel like you’re proposing to me.”
He didn’t smile, he didn’t nod. He just rose to his feet, disappeared into his bedroom and returned moments later with a wife beater on. A little better, but not much. “I mean it, Angel. You are important,” he reiterated, his expression still solemn.
I could feel the heat creeping up my neck as I grew uncomfortably warm. “Dream Walker?” I prompted him, trying to move the conversation into something which would make me feel a little less embarrassed.
The bewilderment returned to his features as he began pacing back and forth. “It’s rare.” He paused to look at me. “It’s a good sign on your part – only archangels can have that ability, and even then, not all of us do.”
“Do you?” I asked him curiously. He nodded his head. “So, I’m entering their dreams?” I asked, tilting my head. It kind of made sense, once I got past the idea it was possible.
Michael nodded, resuming his pacing. “Yes, in a sense. The dreamer sets the scene, they dictate the mood – even down to what you’re wearing.”
“So you’re telling me that you want to see me in jeans and a tank top? Because I will quite happily ditch that uniform,” I informed him, beaming at the prospect. As he paused again, a concerned look on his face, I felt my smile falter.
“You seem to have some control over what is happening. I would never have imagined you in those clothes, Angel.”
Despite the fact I knew it wasn’t like talking to a normal red-blooded guy that made me wince slightly. I did my best to hide it, and if he did notice it, he didn’t say anything.
“It’s a very personal thing,” he explained, his hands moving as he did. “You’re not just entering their dreams – you’re invading them. It can be like reading minds – there are elements to dreams which are personal.”
I flushed again, wondering what I had interrupted when I had gone barging into Michael’s dream. “Can I die in a dream?” I asked him quickly. I had read once that if you died in a dream, you would actually die in real life.
Thankfully Michael shook his head. “No. You cannot die, you cannot eat, drink... it is a dream.”
“So the cookies I ate at Sarah’s aren’t going to make me fat?” I asked hopefully. Realistically I’m not going to get fat from one plate of cookies, but I had pigged out on them, and I was feeling a little guilty about that.
“You do remember me telling you a vessel cannot gain weight, don’t you?” Michael asked, his mouth quirking up at the corners in amusement.
“Of course,” I bluffed. “But I can also tell someone something in a dream, and they will remember it when they wake up.”
Michael sighed. “Dream walking is used to deliver messages – despite its rarity, it is incredibly subtle. It depends on how receptive the recipient is. Some, like your aunt will wake thinking it was a message, whereas most will subconsciously see it as a nudge in the right direction. It is usually something that must be done over several occasions to build up the impact. You must also remember your aunt shares a very strong connection with you.”
“So what happens now?” I asked him carefully as I focused on picking non-existent fluff from my nightwear.
“You did break a rule,” he agreed, thoughtfully.
“I didn’t mean to!” I objected angrily.
“But it was still broken,” Michael mused. I leapt to my feet, prepared to argue my case, but he held a hand up at me. “Regardless of it being intentional or not, Angel, a rule has still been broken and it cannot go unpunished. You will continue with your messenger duties.”
“I don’t see why I am being punished,” I growled at him, folding my arms over my chest.
He gave me a small smile, moving over to place his hands on my shoulders. “Go get some sleep. Return to me when you wake. You have a long day ahead of you. And Angel,” he added. “Do not make me tell you again about walking around my House in your nightwear.”
His words were final and he retreated into his bedroom, leaving me alone in his office. I shot the evilest glare that I could muster at the closed door. “Gah!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms in the air. Archangel or not, he was the most infuriating being I knew.
I turned on my heel and stomped back to my bedroom, not caring about the hour nor the noise I was making as I slammed my door shut. I got back into bed and threw the covers over me, this time, falling into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
When I awoke later, I again had no idea of what time it was, but the sun was up. I showered quickly and dressed. The corridors were empty as always, as I made my way upstairs to Michael’s room. He was waiting for me, another cream envelope in his hands.
It took everything in my power not to glower at him as I walked to the front of his desk. “Oh joy,” I muttered, taking the envelope from him.
He remained silent, watching me carefully. I sighed and turned, ready to leave, but my eyes fell to the address on the envelope. It was an address in Lakeview that I knew by heart. It was the house I had lived in for the last seven years.
I whirled back to face him so quickly my own hair flicked me in my face. “Is this a joke?” I demanded, thrusting the envelope at him.
“Deliver the message, Angel,” Michael instructed me, and then he returned his attention to whatever paperwork he had been going over on his desk.
My hand was trembling as I reread the address. This was cruel. Whether I had said something or not, it was me who had done it, not Sarah – she didn’t need to be punished. “Don’t take this out on my aunt, Michael,” I whispered, unable to make my voice stronger.
The archangel brought his attention back to me and stared at me so intently it made me feel uncomfortable, but I stood my ground. “This isn’t about punishing her,” he told me eventually, his brown eyes unreadable.
“And you think turning up on her doorstep isn’t going to hurt her?” I asked, truly surprised that he could think otherwise.
“Deliver the message,” Michael repeated, his tone calm.
I could feel the paper crumpling around my fist as I stormed back out of the room. I was afraid that if I stayed in there any longer I was going to do something that I would eventually regret. Such as launching my fist at an archangel’s face.
I still had the keys from my trip to Baton Rouge, so I slipped out the back door. I wasn’t up for a conversation with Cupid. I didn’t think I would be able to go much longer without crying.
I was right. As s
oon as I slipped into the already hot car, the dam burst and the tears began to fall down my cheeks in a constant flow. I glanced down at the address through blurry eyes, praying that I had misread it. When the numbers and letters didn’t change in front of my eyes, I dropped the envelope on the seat next to me. It landed inches from the message I had delivered the night before and had yet to give the response to Michael.
I took a sliver of satisfaction at that fact as I started the engine, the air conditioning kicking in straight away. The music remained off as I began the half hour journey through rush hour traffic to the part of the city which was closer to Lake Pontchartrain than the Mississippi.
My street and most of Lakeview was pretty badly hit during Katrina. Our house on Orleans Street faces a high wall – a levee. According to Sarah, it didn’t breach, but we’re not far from the lake and one of the three major levee breaks was on the 17th Street Canal. Our street was under water for weeks and our house wasn’t accessible for a few months. Thankfully, my aunt had gotten out in time, making it to my uncle’s family in Monroe to the north. I never met my uncle. He had died just before I had moved to America. An ex-army general, Henry Morgan had met my aunt when he had been stationed in Prague and taken the opportunity to spend some leave in England.
My aunt had eventually returned to New Orleans, after spending time up in North Monroe with her mother-in-law, and set to rebuilding our home. I only ever saw the damage in photographs, but she lived in a trailer on our front garden while the work took place, carefully overseeing everything.
I hadn’t witnessed any of it. When Katrina hit, and during the worst of the clean-up, I had still been living in England with my parents. Many of my friends hadn’t been so lucky, and there was more than one person who had lived on my street that didn’t survive the storm. Even now, there are a handful of houses in the neighborhood which still haven’t returned to their former glory; for reasons ranging from lack of insurance pay-out to lack of residents wanting to return to face the damage.
The house had received a lick of sky blue paint, and, as I pulled the Yukon up outside the property, the woodwork was still looking well.
The tears I had been fighting against the entire journey reappeared with a vengeance. Knowing that they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, I grabbed the message and exited the car, dragging my feet up the concrete path.
With no key, I had no option but to knock and wait for my aunt to answer. It took a few, long, painful minutes for the door to be opened, my aunt refraining from peering out through the windows either side of the door. Her mouth fell open as she saw me. “Am I dreaming again?” she whispered.
I leapt at her, unable to keep from hugging her as I sobbed into her shoulder. I don’t know how long we stood there, crying on each other, but finally she broke away. Her mascara was all over her face. I had a feeling I didn’t look much better.
She shut the door, never letting go of my hand, and led me into the living room, sitting me down beside me on the couch. It had a large fireplace that we had only used once since it was installed in the remodel. Sarah had wanted one to remind her of the homeland.
“I have to give you this,” I told her weakly, handing her the message. I didn’t want her to take it off me, my stomach twisting uncomfortably at the thought of what kind of punishment could be in there.
Sensing my discomfort, she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before taking the envelope and releasing my other hand so she could tear it open. It took her seconds to read it, her eyes scanning quickly over the words. I expected some form of pained reaction from her, but when her eyes met mine, they were sparkling happily.
“What?” I asked her cautiously, barely allowing myself to breath.
Unable to speak, Sarah handed me the sheet of paper. I couldn’t read it at first – my hands were shaking too much to be able to see the handwritten note.
I apologize for my words last night, Sarah.
Although I was not lying when I told you Angelina was not here, I allowed you to believe the words had another meaning. Our rules dictate that no one can know who or what we are, and my aim was merely to drive you away.
As it turns out Angelina is special – a Dream Walker - and told you these secrets in your dreams, technically she did not break any rules. As this is the first time this has ever happened, and there is no precedence, I feel the only thing appropriate in these circumstances is to allow her to continue to see you as and when you both feel, so long as it does not interfere with her duties.
Forgive me for any further grief I caused you, however, you should be aware that if you ever speak of what she is or where we reside – if you tell anyone there is concrete evidence of angels, there will be dire consequences for yourself and Angelina.
I will assume you agree to these terms should Angelina not return to my House promptly.
Michael, Archangel.
I had to read the note four times over before the words sank in. I glanced up to look at Sarah. “Do you want me to go?” I asked her, scared to hear the answer.
“Of course I don’t!” she exclaimed, looking horrified. “I am not losing you again!”
Any fears or doubts I ever had disappeared in that instance as the relief flooded me. It didn’t stop the tears from coming again, although this time, they were there for happier reasons.
“That’s enough tears now,” Sarah sighed, wiping her own away. “I’ve spent too much time crying.” She pulled the letter from my hands, sitting it next to the lamp beside the couch, and she turned back to face me. “Go have a shower, change into something comfortable and I’ll get you something cooking.” Sarah knew me too well. I wiped the tears away, but couldn’t resist giving her one last hug before I disappeared upstairs.
My room was as I had remembered it in the dream. It was a large room, taking up a lot of the back of the house, and it also had its own balcony – the floor of which being the roof to the porch below. Sarah had wanted the room overlooking the road, and I was not going to complain that I got this one.
It was reassuring to know that nothing had changed, even if it saddened me to think that Sarah had been hanging on for so long without any answers. I pushed the thought from my mind. Today was going to be a happy day.
I hurried through a shower, eager to spend as much of the day as possible with Sarah before I had to return to the convent. With my hair wet, I searched through my drawers and wardrobe, looking for something comfortable to wear. I settled on a pair of denim cut-off jeans and green Tulane t-shirt, opting for comfort. Leaving my feet bare, I hurried back out of my room, thankful to see that I had to go down the stairs before I could get in the kitchen.
Sarah hadn’t showered, but she had cleared her streaking make-up away. She was waiting for me with a champagne flute in each hand, and offered me one as I walked in the room. “I know you’re not old enough, but if there was ever a time to celebrate, this would be it. Besides, you would be if you were in England.”
“I can’t,” I sighed. Seeing an alarmed look begin to grow, I quickly shook my head, knowing exactly what she was thinking. “I’m not pregnant. It’s just one of the rules. I can’t drink.”
“You can’t drink?” Sarah repeated her lips quirking into a smile.
“I don’t drink!” I objected. At the look she gave me, I sighed. “Well I don’t drink anymore. There are many things I can’t do now,” I told her, pulling a face. “Drinking is just one of them and after everything that’s happened, or could have happened, with breaking a rule by telling you, I’m not about to risk it by having a sip.”
Sarah nodded, throwing the liquid straight into the sink. She set the glasses on the side and stuck a cork back into bottle.
“Don’t let me stop you having a drink,” I objected.
“If you’re not drinking, then neither am I,” Sarah responded firmly. She stuck her head into the fridge and pulled out some Gatorade, pouring the bright green liquid into the flutes. I took the glass, smiling at the comically colored dr
ink we were using to celebrate, but chinked my glass against hers.
“How do you feel about dirty rice?” Sarah asked, her head disappearing back into the fridge, without waiting for the affirmative answer she knew she would get, to pull out some ingredients. Dirty rice, despite its name, is delicious – the dirty part coming from the ground meat. “So tell me about it,” Sarah said as she set to work with her usual efficiency.
I pulled myself up onto the kitchen counter beside her and puffed my cheeks out, wondering where to begin. “I’m trying to earn my wings,” I started. It earned a raised eyebrow off my aunt. “I don’t think they’re literal wings, I mean, there are fifty other angels in the convent, and I’ve never seen wings on any of them.”
“Fifty?” Sarah repeated, her hands paused in mixing.
“Well, forty-nine,” I nodded, reaching to steal a raw mushroom to nibble on. “And they all look like they crawled off a runway.”
“Can’t be too bad then,” Sarah mused, resuming the mixing.
I snorted in a very unladylike fashion. “I’ve never spoken to most of them. According to Cupid and-”
“Cupid?” Sarah laughed. “I thought he was a god?”
“Apparently he’s just a very good matchmaker,” I shrugged. “But according to him, they’re all airheads. Not that it would matter either way as another delightful rule is that I’m not allowed to get involved with any of them.” I frowned. “Or anyone.”
Sarah gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “That must be hard.”
“Not at the moment, but an eternity of it could be,” I admitted.
“Not at the moment?” Sarah repeated in a tone which said she didn’t believe me. “I’ve met that archangel of yours, remember? And I know you.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Michael is gorgeous,” I agreed. “But he’s really not my type.”