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Authors: Cynthia Leitich Smith

Eternal (9 page)

BOOK: Eternal
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I used to be able to do that — show my wings one minute, make them disappear the next. I used to be able to fly.

I’m dying to know what’s up. But Josh can never keep his mouth shut for long. I decide to wait him out.

I do know, though, that his being here means his latest assignment died recently. I don’t ask about that. The topic is off-limits. GAs aren’t supposed to compare notes on our human charges. We’re not supposed to tag-team Fate. I’m tempted to ask anyway, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. I never planned to be heaven’s bad boy.

But I can tell his loss wasn’t that tragic, relatively speaking. Josh still has that peppy attitude of new GAs whose charges have all died of natural causes and in a state of grace. In the early days, before our first assignments, we were so alike.

“You haven’t fallen,” Josh finally says. “But you have, uh, slipped.”

I struggle to register that. “Slipped?”

He takes a breath. “Your powers have been yanked. No flying. No radiance. And you can’t carry a tune, not that that’s anything new.”

Not all angels can sing like, uh, angels. “I know that, so —”

“But,” he goes on, “you’re still one of us. You can’t die. Your veins are full of light, you know, metaphorically speaking. This” — he gestures as if to the whole enchilada of Creation — “is what the archangels are calling ‘a time-out.’”

The train car chugs to a stop. Our arrival in Little Rock is announced over the loudspeaker. The hallway fills with underwashed and bleary-eyed travelers.

My stomach turns again. I shouldn’t have messed with tequila. Is Josh saying what I think he’s saying? “I’ve been —”

“It doesn’t matter where you’ve been,” he tells me, hands pressed piously together beneath his chin. “It’s all about where you’re going.”

“Oh, please. Enough with the cryptic crap.”

A big man with a big leather bag, a big belly, a big belt buckle, and big boots looks at us a little too long. Then a girl in a Razorbacks T-shirt says something to her friend about my butt and Josh’s shoulders. They dissolve into giggles.

I follow Josh back into my cramped private cabin. I take a seat on the bench. Sniff at the T. Pull it over my head. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do, but —”

“What is
that
?” Josh asks, pointing at my chest.

I look. “It’s a tattoo,” I say, just as surprised. “Of a cherub.”

A new one. About an inch around, over my heart. It itches.

I resurrect a dim memory of a tattoo parlor. I remember someone making reassuring noises about clean needles and wisecracking about the Roman avatar of love.

“That is not one of the
cherubim
!” Josh exclaims. “That is a fat, naked white baby with wings! How could you do that? Body. Temple. Didn’t you read The Written?”

“I’ve done worse,” I say.

We both know it’s true. Miranda’s name hangs unspoken between us.

Somewhere on the train, a child begins to cry.

“Why are you here, Josh?”

“Michael sent me with a request. He called it ‘an assassination of sorts.’ If you succeed: do the deed, keep the faith, and, oh yeah, remain virtuous.” He smirks. “More virtuous than you’ve been lately. You may get your powers back. You might get new assignments. You might even get a chance to prove yourself worthy of hauling ass back upstairs.”

May, might, might. If I know anything from being a GA, it’s that redemption never comes easily or without a price. “Michael wants me to kill —”

“Wipe out.”

“Someone?” Last time I checked, angels weren’t in the assassination business.

“Some
thing,
” Josh clarifies. “Something” — he makes air quotes with his fingers — “of tremendous significance.”

The earth is plagued by demons. Lucky me. This one’s special. Destroy it and my prayers will be answered. Screw up and I’ll be punted permanently. And the Word is clear on that: fallen angels roam the world until Judgment Day. Then they’re sent to hell.

I put my head in my hands and rub my temples. I’m a guardian angel, the lowest ranked. Not an avenging angel. Not an archangel. (Not that it’s always easy to tell the difference.) Besides, I no longer have powers. How am I supposed to fight? And
what
?

“What do you say?” Josh asks.

He’s asking. Not ordering. My free will is still in play.

“Is that all you’re going to tell me?” I ask, glancing up.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s gone.

“Yeah, yeah, okay!” I answer in the empty tin box. “Nice seeing you.”

Still, I can’t help breaking into a smile for the first time since I lost my girl. After all that’s happened, it’s kind of nice to know that Josh is still Josh.

I open the bag. Rummage through. A few changes of clothes (office and casual), a toothbrush and paste, floss, mint mouthwash, stick deodorant, a razor, a travel-size bottle of shampoo-conditioner, a black plastic comb, a ten-dollar bill, and two cold bottles of water.

A matchbook from Tia Leticia’s Salsa Bar sticks out of the breast pocket of one of the lightly starched blue shirts. Inside it is printed an address in Whitby Estates, Illinois. I’ve heard of the place. It’s a lakefront suburb just north of Chicago.

This isn’t my first trip to the Windy City. I used to work there.

I remember overhearing a mob boss talk about Whitby Estates, back in the day. He called it “the scariest damn place on earth.”

IT’S BEEN ALMOST TWO DECADES
since I last spent quality time in Chi-Town. Back then I was the guardian angel to my first assignment.

Daniel “Dan the Man” Bianchi was a twice-indicted politician who supplemented his income with “donations for favors” in brown envelopes slipped under doors. He died from a drug-alcohol cocktail mixed by a high-end call girl in a junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel. It was such a shame. He’d been boisterous as a boy, athletic, and close to his family. He’d gone into politics with the best of intentions, but then . . . Put mildly, I didn’t exactly manage to steer him toward good works, good thoughts, a good end.

With Danny, it wasn’t his being agnostic that was the problem. Forget what you might have heard. There are no separate corps of angels for agnostics, atheists, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Mormons, Buddhists, Unitarians, Hindus, Druids, Shintoists, Wiccans, and so on. To put a spin on the old saying, it’s okay if you don’t believe in angels.

We believe in you.

At the moment, I’m on the South Side, holding onto a metal stability bar on a crowded El train barreling farther south, toward the Cermak-Chinatown station. I should be heading north. I got turned around at the station. Worse, I can’t even find Whitby Estates on my map.

I’m also tired, achy, and (Amtrak pulled in twelve hours late) sick of trains.

The sun will set soon. Not that long ago, there were a lot of neighborhoods in Chicago that went dicey after dark. Josh said I can’t die. That doesn’t mean someone can’t rob me or torture me or break my kneecaps or toss me into Lake Michigan wearing cement shoes. Now
that
would be a pleasant way to wait for Judgment Day.

On the other hand, the view outside the sleet-dusted window isn’t anything like the Near South I remember. It’s condo city out there.

Looking for help, I rule out the sleeping man who reeks of rum and the young guys kicking a Coke can on the floor and the businesswoman reading a self-help book on self-esteem and the middle-aged executive in the heavy overcoat barking into his cell phone and the elderly lady knitting with a Madame-Defarge intensity.

Somebody in hoop earrings, who might be male or female — it’s hard to tell — gives me an inviting smile. I consider saying hi.

Then I notice the Gen-X priest fiddling with his iPod on the plastic bench beneath the
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
sign. I’m not sure if the sign is a
sign
or a coincidence. I know enough about the universe to go with it. “Excuse me, Father?”

I tap his shoulder, and he takes out the earbuds. “Yes?”

“I’m lost. I was supposed to get on a northbound train and —”

“Happens all the time,” the priest assures me. “Where are you trying to go?”

“Whitby Estates. Didn’t it used to be on this line?”

His hand moves to his cross. “The trains don’t stop there. Not anymore.” Lowering his voice, he adds, “One of our more subtle victories.”

I shift the shoulder strap of my bag. What is that supposed to mean?

The priest studies me a moment. Then he brightens, and I realize that, despite my missing wings and slipped status, he can somehow sense what I am. He’s the first adult human to do so. It’s a rare ability, even among the pure of heart. Little kids are the most likely to spot us. “Father . . . ?”

“Ramos.” The priest blinks twice and runs a hand through his hair. Regaining his composure, Father Ramos reaches into his jacket pocket, slips a hundred-dollar bill into my hand, and grasps it with both of his. “Take a cab. Tell the driver to drop you off a block away. If he balks, offer a fifty-percent tip up front.” He pauses. “You’re going dressed like that?”

Before leaving the Amtrak car, I showered and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, hooded Bulls sweatshirt. “I guess.”

Father Ramos removes the cross from around his neck. He drapes its long chain around mine. “Take this.”

Only one kind of monster is well known for fearing religious symbols. The kind I want to think about least, the kind I hate most.

The priest also hands me a business card.
Holy Cross Catholic Church. Winnetka, Illinois.
“In case you need any assistance,” he says. “Or a place to stay or . . . or a nice fruit platter?”

I can’t help grinning slightly. A fruit platter doesn’t sound bad.

Father Ramos is flustered. He didn’t board the El train this evening with the idea that he’d have a chat with a guardian angel.

I consider inviting him along on my mission, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. I don’t trust myself to keep him safe. But the priest will pray for me. I can tell from his voice. The way he suddenly looks ten years younger than when I first saw him. It’s good to know I have at least one friend in this town.

The train stops. Its doors slide open, and the priest is lost among the changeover of passengers. Exiting myself, I don’t spot him on the snowy platform.

But there is a girl about Miranda’s height, build, and age, with almost-black hair, carrying a flute case. Her gaze lingers on my face as she walks by. I almost say something — which would be nuts, considering — but it’s not her. When she stifles a yawn, her breath puffs warm. Alive. But they could be half sisters or first cousins.

Miranda. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed a similar-looking girl. There was that one at the runaway shelter, a closer match. Another at a Sixth Street bar in Austin. My “date” for the night bitched me out for staring.

It’s below freezing and sleeting. Taking the stairs from the train station to Cermak, I wish Josh had spotted me a pair of boots. My Nikes are already soaked through. That morning, he left me only ten bucks in the Amtrak sleeper cabin.

But now I have the money from the priest, too. No way does a cab across town cost that much. Even with a massive tip. And I’m hungry again. I ate lunch on the train, a hot dog and fries. But they didn’t offer seconds, and that was hours ago. One thing about having a corporeal body: you have to feed it on a pretty regular basis.

I halfheartedly jog the short distance down the sidewalk into Chinatown, passing the neighborhood parking lot and new gold-and-green Nine Dragon Wall.

From what I can see, the place hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years or so. Only a handful of the low-lying brick buildings feature an architectural nod to the ethnic flavor of the neighborhood. That mostly comes through in the Asian-style lettering on the signs and the ornate red gate.

I duck into a nearby restaurant. It’s the kind of place that has black lacquer furniture; plastic-covered red seats; drinks with names like Scorpion, Fog Cutter, and Zombie; and the Great Wall depicted in a cross-stitched mural.

The grandmother behind the desk rises from sliding a phone book onto a low shelf. “May I help you?” she asks with a slight accent. “Party of one?”

I order four egg rolls to go. “Where’s the men’s room?”

Looking up from the notepad, the lady smiles, smoothes her gray-streaked hair, and shows me to the top of a steep, narrow staircase.

In the dingy, single-stall men’s room, I change into a blue dress shirt and black pants, both wrinkled from the bag, and black wing tips.

I trust Father Ramos. If he thinks it’s important to dress to impress, I will. Besides, my best bud gave me the duds for a reason. I tuck the cross under my shirt.

Darkness falls, further lowering the temperature. Outside the restaurant, the arriving cab is a welcome sight. I open the door. Navigate the filthy snow-and-ice-packed curb. Slide myself and my bag onto the cracked vinyl backseat.

“Where to?” The cabbie grins, showing a gold tooth in the rearview mirror.

“Um.” I draw the matchbook from my shirt pocket. Read off the address.

BOOK: Eternal
12.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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