Justine blushes. “And you too,” she hollers back.
When we get out of range of the house, I let go of his arm and turn to him. “What are you doing?”
“I came to get you,” he says. “I promised you I would, and that we could talk.”
“Yes, but not the front door,” I say.
“Would you have preferred I came to the back door?” he asks.
Normally, I would think this was sarcasm, but in his case I think he is serious. “No. I don’t want you to come to the back door. I would prefer you didn’t come to the house at all. Especially, wearing Jeff’s clothes. They are bound to ask questions that I can’t answer without being committed to an institution.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I did not mean to distress you. I just thought after our talk last night you would want me…”
“I understand. I just don’t want you to come to the house.”
“Of course, but how will I get a hold of you.”
“Don’t you have some sort of Angel telepathy or something? Can’t you send a bird to tell me you want to see me? There has to be some way.”
“I can’t speak to you in your mind when I am in this form. Just like I cannot tell what will happen to you. By entering the physical plane of this world, I am limited in what I can do. And I don’t know what you mean about sending a bird.”
“Never mind, we just have to be more discrete,” I say. I look him over. “We really should get you some better clothes. And do something with that hair. You look like you belong on the cover of one of Justine’s cheap romance novels.”
He runs his fingers along his hair as if offended. “What are cheap romance novels?”
“Best you stay away from them,” I answer, putting my hand on his shoulder and leading him toward town center.
I always keep a little cash with me that I’ve scraped together over the years. That way, if something happens and I have to run away from a foster home, I can. At least, that was the idea. I never did collect enough to completely leave, but enough to get things here and there. Living with little had taught me well the difference between what I needed and what I didn’t. This was a perfect example of a need. I couldn’t have Ashur seen in Jeff’s clothes and it probably won’t be long before Jeff begins to miss them.
We find a clothing shop and step inside. As I expected, none of the styles are exactly up to date. But with a few minutes of perusing, I am able to cluster together the makings of a decent wardrobe. I pass them off to Ashur as I go. He follows without objection. When I am satisfied with the collection, I point him to the dressing room. “Alright, try them on.”
He looks at the clothes and back at me. “I couldn’t ask you to get all this.”
“I’m not getting all of them,” I say. “That’s just for you try on. You always try on ten outfits for every one you take. By my calculations, you have about three or four good outfits there.”
“But…”
“No buts,” I cut him off. “March in there and try them on.” I give him a little shove toward a vacant fitting room. He reluctantly steps inside. And I shut the door. “Don’t forget to let me see them on you,” I shout through the door.
One by one, he dawns the outfits and dutifully walks out of the dressing room to show me. Of course, I have him twirl a few times in each one before making my comment. Reclined on one of the waiting couches, I give him thumbs up or thumbs down. Soon, the two lady clerks sit down next to me and give their assessments. There is an impulse in women that sparks at childhood while playing with dolls that makes this fun. It’s like having my own Abercrombie and Fitch model to dress. Only this one’s fully clothed and has less enthusiasm.
He finally models the last of the outfits. And with an exasperated voice, says, “Now can we get to business.”
I puff out my bottom lip. “You’re no fun.” Grabbing the two outfits that I like, I leap from the couch and head to the register. “There’s one more thing needed.” He shakes his head as he steps back in the dressing room. “Uh-uh. Keep that one on.” I turn to the clerk. “We’ll take these three.”
The next stop is the Barbershop. From the look of the barber I can tell this is not going to be the most stylish cut. He is old with barely any hair of his own. He dips a comb in a jar of water and combs it over a few wisps of his hair that spread unevenly across the crown of his liver-spotted head. It’s like getting diet advice from a fat fitness instructor with a chili dog in his hand. It doesn’t instill very much confidence. But it will have to do.
Ashur sits in the chair. The barber steps on the pedal a few times, pumping it to the right level. He throws a cape across him, tying it at the back and rotates Ashur to face the mirror. “What size?” he asks.
“Size?”
“You know, the size of the attachment for the trimmer,” the barber says, showing the hair trimmer to Ashur.
“I don’t know,” answers Ashur.
The barber looks at his hair. “Humph. I suppose you don’t.” He pulls the hair back and lets it drape over the back of the chair. “Been a while, hasn’t it.”
“I’ve never had a hair cut before,” he says.
The barber looks at him curiously. “What he means,” I butt in, “is that his mother usually cuts his hair.” I glare at Ashur.
“Yes,” he says, nodding his head, uncertain what he should do. “My mother cuts it.”
“She hasn’t recently,” grumbles the barber.
I laugh uneasily. “She’s…dead. Died. A while ago. Very tragic.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the barber says in an unconvincing show of sympathy. “Well, maybe we should start off with a longer adjustment and work from that.”
“That would be quite good sir,” says Ashur. “Cut away.”
The barber runs the trimmer along the hair, allowing it to fall away onto the floor. As it hits the floor, the barber leans over and spits on it. At first, I think nothing of it. But another clump of hair falls to the floor and he does the same thing. That certainly is odd. He sees me staring at him, but says nothing, continuing with the trimming. Several more times he repeats the ritual. Ashur does not seem bothered by the manners of the barber. But, of course, having never had a haircut before, he probably thinks it’s normal.
Finally, I have to say something. “Why do you spit on the hair?”
Setting the trimmer down, he picks up a pair of scissors and a comb. After wiping the comb across his apron, he holds it over Ashur’s head like a maestro readying his baton. Then with the other hand, he begins snipping. Raising his eyes above the line of his hands, he says, “Where I come from, hair is a powerful thing. It is said that people can curse you, or at least keep you from cursing them, by simply holding a lock of your hair.”
“So why the spit?”
“According to tradition,” he continues. “By spitting on the hair, it defiles it. Making it useless to whoever may use it for the wrong reasons.”
A week ago, I would have thought that this guy was off his rocker. But after the past two days, nothing seems strange at all in what he says. In a lot of ways, it seems almost logical. Maybe that means I am slipping into insanity. I put my hand over my chest. My mother’s locket is hanging loosely there. After the dream last night, I felt it safer to keep it close to me. I wonder if my mother had some intention in putting the hair in it.
“You said the hair could keep someone from cursing you,” I say. “How does that work?”
The barber dips the comb in a jar of solution and continues cutting. “It weakens the power of the person against you. Some say it makes you invulnerable to them. I prefer to see it as more of just a protection.”
“And you believe in this power?”
“I don’t know how much I believe in it,” he says, after which spitting again on the hair. He wipes his lip of spittle. “But better safe than sorry.”
I nod in agreement as I run my hand over the locket. “Better safe than sorry.”
The barber rotates Ashur
to face me and rips off the apron. “Well, what do you think,” he asks. “I suppose you should give the final say, since it’s your eyes he’ll be treating.”
I look at Ashur’s hair. Its short, parted on the right, combed neatly to his left shoulder. I step to the counter, reaching for the gel. “May I.” The barber consents heartily and I proceed to put the gel in Ashur’s hair. I message it into his hair and as I do, I catch him watching me. I say ‘catch’, but he doesn’t look away like he is ashamed at being found staring. Instead, he continues to look as if in the act of appreciation, like one would study and appreciate a work of art. I blush and he notices, smiling.
Self-conscious now, I focus on his hair and he breaks off his stare. Once the gel is evenly spread, I take to sculpting his hair into an organized mess of strands zigzagging back and forth, taking a form pleasing to the eye. I stand back and look him over, taking in the whole package. He sits erect, his jaw jetting out and his soft baby-blue eyes looking up at me. “So,” he says, confidently. “How do I look?”
I take a deep breath in to recover from the overwhelming sight, trying desperately not to look…well desperate. “It will do,” I say.
He quietly snickers to himself as if he knows I am not expressing my true feelings. In a way, this frustrates me because I cannot read how he truly feels about me. He never lets his guard down. He is always vigilant—always intense. I don’t know if he gets nervous around me or if I have any effect on him at all. For all I know, I am just another assignment to him. Even in those moments when he is watching me, I don’t know what he is thinking. Does he see something that draws him in or is it just pure curiosity. Is that all I am to him, nothing more than another novelty. Then I think of all the guys that I had known before, that is all they were to me. Why is this one so different? Why am I unnerved by him?
The thought comes, It’s love. I quickly dismiss this thought though. It can’t be love. I won’t let it be love. I won’t let anyone get that close to me. I won’t let him hurt me. All these emotions and thoughts pour out of my head like a mixed up frenzy and I can’t seem to sort them out. Then, he takes my hand and they all fall away. He looks me in the eyes and says in that tender voice, “We should get down to business now.”
The ground drops out from under me, but not in the good sense. More in the ‘why am I so stupid to think that this guy could be into me’ kind of sense. Again the frustration comes. I don’t know whether I’m mad at him or at me for falling for him. Maybe it’s both. No it is both. He’s an angel; he could have made himself less attractive. He could have made a few imperfections and exaggerations with that clay stuff. I mean, if all he wants to do is get down to business, it would have been much easier. But no, he has to come in the ‘material form’ of a Greek god. The nerve.
I tip the barber and stomp outside, not giving Ashur another look. When we’re outside, I turn and face him abruptly. “So what is this business that’s so important to you,” I say, my anger seething in every word.
“I need to find out why you are in danger,” he says. “Why someone wants you dead.”
“Because it’s your job. Got it.”
“Yes it’s my job, but…”
I don’t allow him a chance to say any more. “Then let’s just get it figured out, so you can go back to whatever heavenly realm you came from.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t.
“So where do you want to go?” I ask abruptly.
“I thought we should talk to the shadow people again.”
“The shadow people? Hello! They were the ones who tried to kill me. And you want to talk to them.”
“They aren’t a threat if I am with you,” he says. “Besides its daylight, they are weaker during this time.”
“Somehow, I’m not convinced,” I mutter as I walk away. Ashur is still standing at the entrance to the barbershop.
I turn back to say, “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
His expression is one of concern and with some reluctance he sets out after me. I know he never meant me to fall in love with him. It’s not his fault, but right now I can’t convince my emotions of that. I can’t help but hate the fact that he is here. I just want him to leave, so I don’t have to feel so mixed up all the time. I want my sanity back. And yet, even as I think of him going, a weight presses on my chest, making it hard to breath. The only clear thought is that I am falling in love with him and I will be hurt.
Chapter 12
As we approach the edge of town, there is a little apprehension in me. Holding at my throat, I recall the unseen hands around them, a sensation I do not soon wish to repeat. I lean against the lamp post. Looking up the line of the post, I notice that the lamp is still lit even though it is light outside. Someone must have forgotten to extinguish it.
Ashur continues to walk ahead of me. He hasn’t noticed I have stopped because we haven’t talked during the entire trip here. When he does realize that I am not with him, he stops and waits. “Is everything alright,” he says.
“I’m just not sure about this,” I answer back. “I don’t think it’s the best idea.”
“You can go back,” he says. “I think you will be safe at home.”
“You think? That’s not very reassuring.”
“The only way I can be sure you are safe, is if you are with me. You need to trust me.”
“Let’s just say, I have issues with trust.”
“I’m an angel,” he says, “what’s not to trust.”
I laugh, though I try not to. Then with some hesitation, I walk toward him. When we are side by side, I say, “I have trouble trusting God. Never mind, one of his lower ranking cronies.”
His mouth drops in an exaggerated offense. “That really hurts,” he says. “I happen to be a high ranking crony.”
“Can’t be that high if you’re stuck babysitting me.”
He laughs and I allow myself to laugh too. Again he watches me in that way, like he sees something remarkable. I am uncomfortable when he does that. I don’t know what he could possibly see when he watches me. I walk fast ahead of him. But the closer we get to the gate of the graveyard, the slower I walk, allowing him to catch up.
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” I ask again.
“The shadows can’t cross into the light,” he says.
“Then where will we find them?”
“Someplace dark, I suppose.”
We walk up the path off the main road, crossing over moss covered tree roots and toppled markers. He takes me by the hand and helps me over the more precarious spots. The ground is soft in the more shaded areas, still wet from the morning dew. A cool breeze brushes past, causing me to shiver, a contrast from the lighter patches where the sun beats down, intensely hot.
Ashur surveys the landscape. “I don’t see any good places for them around here. There must be a cave or something nearby. Is there anything you can recall from that night?”
I think for a moment, not really wanting to drudge those memories back up. “I remember a clearing. That’s where Liv stopped, said she couldn’t go any further.”
“Good. Now think about that spot in your mind. Are there any markers, rocks, anything that can possibly hide a shadow?”
In my mind, I see the clearing with Liv lying on the ground, exhausted. Just as it was that night. Concentrating, I try to see details that I might have missed, but all I see are trees. “It was so dark,” I say. “I don’t know that I could see it if there was anything to see.”
“You have to try,” he says. “The mind sees more than you are aware of.”
I continue to focus on the image of the clearing, holding Liv, the force knocking me back, my struggling to see Liv and then I see it. “There were rocks. A whole surface of rocks. Maybe even an opening in them.”
“A cave,” Ashur says. “That might be where they dwell.” He looks over the path, studying it. “It looks like this is where you left the path and climbed up the hill. We can follow this
and maybe find our way back to where you were last night.”
He helps me up the hill and we make our way through the trees. As we walk, the way seems vaguely familiar, although it is different in the daylight. It’s almost serene. I find it hard to imagine that this was the scene of so much horror just the night before. Still the thoughts of the previous night bring with them apprehension. “What about the dogs?” I ask.
“The dogs may have been possessed,” he says, “in which case we shouldn’t have a problem with them now. Besides, I’m here. What could go wrong?”
I know he is saying that to ease my nerves, but I am not so easily reassured. Trust has always been an issue with me. It kind of comes with being abandoned by both parents. While other girls were being comforted when the boogie man under the bed invades their dreams, my mother was ranting about real boogie men coming after her. After my father left, I had no one of stability. I couldn’t go to my mother; she couldn’t deal with her own problems. Even then, I still had this naïve sense that my mother would always be there for me. That is until the day she dropped me off at the family services.
Angel Realms 01 The Dawn of Angels Page 12