Angel Fever (36 page)

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

No man is an island. No author is, either.
Angel Fever
was over a year in the writing, and huge thanks are due to all those who helped make it happen.

First, my editors on both coasts: Rebecca Hill and Stephanie King at Usborne in the UK, and Deborah Noyes at Candlewick in the US.
Fever
was determined to be very different from the story I’d originally planned, and without my editors to offer solutions, feedback and a keen, critical eye I would have been lost. Thank you more than I can say.

My thanks also to:

My agent Caroline Sheldon for her unwavering support and guidance. You are a rock! (And you also rock.) My lovely friends Julie Sykes and Linda Chapman for all the honest criticism, coffees, and generally keeping me sane(ish). Love to you both. Special thanks to the fabulous Julie Cohen, who had THE answer about a crucial scene. Amy Dobson and Anna Howorth at Usborne Publicity and Marketing respectively, for general awesomeness, as well as the aptly-named Tracy Miracle at Candlewick Publicity. My brother and sister, Chuck Benson and Susan Lawrence – love you! Neil Chowney, who knew how Willow could get gasoline from a disused service station (don’t try this one at home, kids!). Jean and James Vallesteros: Jean, your enthusiasm for books is inspirational, and James, your portrait of Alex and Willow makes me smile every time I see it. All of the bloggers, Facebook friends and Twitter followers who have reviewed or commented on the series, or even just tweeted to say hello – thank you! Special thanks again this time to @MarDixon, @DarkReaders and @EmpireofBooks. Thanks also to everyone who took part in the #ILoveAngelTrilogy Twitter contest, especially the winner, Christine Brenda Bernard Bolodo from Malaysia, for her great winning tweet: “It’s the first novel that got me deeply engrossed into reading, took me away from reality and I just can’t stop myself.” And to all my readers who’ve loved the story and have waited, patiently or impatiently, for this final instalment – thank you so much. I hope it was worth the wait.

Last but never least, my husband. Pete, thank you for always being there, especially these last few years. The poem that “Alex’s grandfather” wrote is for you. I love you.

Readers can drop me a line at the L.A. Weatherly Facebook author page, or follow me on Twitter: @LA_Weatherly

EXCLUSIVE DELETED SCENES

Author’s note: I’ve always had a soft spot for Jonah as a character. Originally, my intention was for him to have a fairly major role throughout the series, though this didn’t pan out. The following sequence is from an early version of
Angel Fire.
I was always sorry that I had to cut it!

It was strange, being back on his old college campus. Jonah walked slowly down the sidewalk that led from the Science block, remembering the day two years ago when his life had changed for ever.

He’d been trudging along this very path, worried about his biology grade, wondering glumly if he should give up on his degree. It wasn’t as if he even wanted it anyway. No one would be surprised that he hadn’t managed to cut it in college – certainly not his family, and least of all Jonah himself. But he’d been too gutless to actually make the decision and face the fallout from his parents, and so he’d kept going to classes out of some ghastly mix of cowardice and inertia, waiting for the inevitable failure to solve the problem for him. That was what his whole life had been like, so far: waiting for the inevitable failure.

And then he’d seen the angel.

Jonah paused as he came to the exact spot, near an oak tree that grew beside the path. A winter breeze stirred the dark curls around the edge of his thermal cap as in his mind, he saw the angel flying towards him again: her wings, shining like sunlight on new snow; her beautiful, peaceful face.

Do not be afraid,
she had said.
I have something to give you.

And she had. She’d given him the courage to change.

Jonah sighed and leaned against the tree, ignoring a group of laughing students heading past. The realisation that angels really existed had brought magic, wonder,
hope
to his life. To find out that yes, they existed, but everything else about them was a lie, had sliced his moorings right out from under him. He’d been stunned these last few months, wondering what he was supposed to do now. It was as if there’d never been any magic in his life at all.

Jonah pushed off the tree and started walking again, staring down at his scuffed shoes. Part of him wished that he hadn’t escaped, that day back at the Denver cathedral. What was the point of living when the loss of the angels was a constant pain inside of him? Even now, knowing that it was all a lie, he’d give anything if he could believe in their goodness again.

Reaching the parking lot, Jonah headed dully for his car. He supposed he’d return to the cheap furnished apartment he was renting. Yes, and then think these same pointless thoughts a few more thousand times. He winced. No, maybe he’d just go for a drive – try to clear his head.

Digging in his jeans pocket for his keys, Jonah froze.

There was a man with a neat brown beard standing a few cars away: a teacher, maybe. His car door was still open, as if he’d just gotten out of it, and he was staring upwards, smiling.

“You’re real,” Jonah heard him say. The smile on the man’s face widened as he went silent.

Jonah felt sick suddenly. Since the arrival of the Second Wave, the angels seemed to be everywhere; too many times to count these last few months, he’d seen the faraway smile of someone being fed from.

As Jonah leaned limply against his car, unable to look away, he wondered yet again why
he
was so special. For he was immune to the angels’ touch; when his angel had given him courage, she’d also done something to his aura, making him undesirable to the predators. But why should someone as spineless as him be protected,
why?

You made a mistake,
he thought sadly to his angel.
Oh god, you made such a mistake, choosing me.

Gradually, the victim came back to himself, blinking, and Jonah knew the angel must have left. The man took a briefcase from his car and slowly shut the door, glancing upwards again with that same wondering smile. As he walked off, he was unsteady on his feet.

I wonder what he’s got,
Jonah thought glumly as he took out his keys. What new disease was even now coursing its way through the man’s body? His muscles tightened with helpless anger. What right did the angels have to do this, as if humans were nothing more than – than
fuel
?

If I were an Angel Killer, I could have stopped it.

The thought surged through him like a lightning bolt. Jonah went still; all at once his heart was pounding. Him…an Angel Killer?

In his mind he saw Alex again, standing in the Church of Angels cathedral holding a gun on him. It had struck Jonah then that Alex, though several years younger, was older than he himself would ever be. Yes, he realized now – because Alex had been facing the enemy for years, actually
doing
something about it. Unlike Jonah, who’d spent these last three months wishing he’d never found out the truth. He had no idea where Alex and Willow had gone after his brief encounter with them, but he bet it wasn’t someplace to lick their wounds and feel sorry for themselves. No, they’d be out there fighting the angels.

Could he join them?

Suddenly Jonah was filled with a hope so strong it was almost painful. Getting into his car he reversed quickly out of the parking lot, heading back to his apartment after all. He knew exactly who he needed to call – he just prayed that he still had the number.

Once back in his apartment he sprinted to the bedroom. On the chest of drawers was a pile of business cards, still lying from where he’d tossed them a week ago, when he’d cleaned out his wallet from sheer boredom. Grabbing them up, Jonah flipped through them, his fingers trembling. It had to be here. It
had
to be.

It wasn’t.

Jonah went through the cards again, then a third time. “Please, please,” he muttered as he slapped each one down – as if some miracle might suddenly produce the business card from the CIA agent who’d recruited him to help with the attack on the Second Wave.

No miracle occurred. And now, belatedly, he remembered: he’d thrown the card away in a hotel room in Wyoming, a few days after his escape from the cathedral. He’d been in despair, wishing that he’d never even heard of Sophie and Nate, the two agents who’d ripped the blinders from his eyes. He’d also been drunk, for almost the first time in his life. He’d torn the card into little pieces and hurled them violently in the wastepaper basket; they’d be rotting away in some landfill by now.

Jonah slowly sank down onto the sagging bed. What now? Sophie was the last agent left from Project Angel. The business card with her handwritten cellphone number had been the only way to reach her. As for the Angel Killers, all the field agents had been assassinated, except for Alex. And Alex could be anywhere by now.

It was a complete dead end.

Slowly, Jonah pulled off his cap, releasing his dark, springy curls. It felt as if the disappointment might crush him completely. Why, though? It wasn’t as if they’d have actually
accepted
him as an Angel Killer. No one in their right mind would ever hand him a loaded gun and trust him to protect someone with it. What had he been thinking? He’d never even shot an air rifle before.

On a scale of dumb ideas, it was pretty impressive, all right.

Yet over the days that followed, it wouldn’t leave him. He thought about it as he went to the store, pushing a shopping cart around and buying food that he didn’t want. He thought about it as he thumbed dully through a college catalogue, wondering if he could work up the interest to take a few classes. He thought about it as he took his morning shower, gazing down at his body with its lack of muscles and realising afresh what a stupid idea it had been – him, an Angel Killer. He scrubbed shampoo into his scalp almost viciously, tilting his head back into the burning water and relishing the stings when the soap got into his eyes.

Finally Jonah found himself in a sports bar one night, simply because another night at home alone in front of his TV set would have driven him crazy. And even there, he found himself watching TV anyway – sitting at the bar with a Bud Light and staring dully up at the screen, though it was impossible to hear it with the rock music that was pulsing through the air.

Some story on CNN. A foreign city he didn’t recognize, with a golden angel high on a pedestal. Jonah grimaced; angel images abounded these days. The camera panned over a crowd scene: people cheering, holding up signs in Spanish. Jonah’s high school Spanish deciphered:
We love the angels!
He sighed and rubbed his forehead, wondering about heading over to the pinball machine.

When he glanced at the screen again, he saw Alex.

“Turn it up, turn it up!” he yelled, scrambling on top of the bar to reach the TV. He cranked up the volume and heard “
…such as this angelic demonstration in the Zócalo, the city’s main square. People from all around the world are flocking to the city, lured by the hope of angels. In fact, they say if you love the angels at all…this is the place to be!
”

A commercial came on. “Wait! What city? Where?” cried Jonah, banging his hand on the TV set.

The entire sports bar was staring at him. “Dude,” said the bartender slowly. “You are going to get down off my bar. Now.”

Jonah climbed down, red-faced but with hope thudding through him. He’d watch CNN when he got home; they always played the same stories over and over. In fact, he’d go now. Leaving his beer half-full he started to zip up his jacket. The guy at the next stool was eyeing him warily.

“Whoa,” he said. “You must really be into Mexico City, huh?”

Jonah felt like kissing him. “Is that where it was? Are you sure?”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, I was there last year. That square, the Zócalo? It’s wild, man – it’s like the biggest square in the world.” He dribbled a few Planters peanuts into his mouth from a bag. “And listen, the place was obsessed enough about the angels
last
year – looks like it’s just gotten unreal now.” His gaze narrowed as he studied Jonah. “
You’re
not into the angels, are you? I mean, I know a lot of people are, but—”

“No, not me,” Jonah assured him. Happiness was singing through him.
Of course
– Alex was in Mexico City. Far away from the US, where he and Willow were in so much danger, but still in a place where he could fight the angels.

When Jonah got home, he taped the story and watched the crowd scene over and over. It was just a sweeping pan of the camera, but it showed Alex, he was sure of it, the expression on his handsome face in stark contrast to the exultant cheers. Was that Willow beside him? Jonah frowned, rewinding and freezing the frame. He couldn’t tell; the girl was half-hidden, and had red hair instead of Willow’s distinctive blonde. But that was definitely Alex. No doubt.

Still staring at the screen, Jonah slumped back against the worn sofa, clutching his head and grinning. He’d found the last remaining Angel Killer; the one person on the planet who could teach him how to fight the angels. Yes, there was still the little detail of actually
finding
him, in a city of twenty million people – but at least he had a reason to hope now.

And after these last three months, that felt…pretty good, actually.

Author’s note: At first I’d planned to include Miranda’s point of view in
Fever
, but this turned out to feel a bit complicated and unneeded, so I ended up cutting it. However, here’s the original prologue, which is in her point of view. I really loved the dark power of this sequence and regretted having to lose it, though echoes of it did remain in the dreams that trouble Raziel. (You may also recognize a character last seen in
Angel
!)

It wasn’t often that she noticed her surroundings…but when she did, she was dimly aware that they’d changed.

Beneath her feet lay wooden floorboards instead of worn and faded carpet; through the window she could see a placid lake instead of a street with houses. There was no steady rise-and-fall drone of a TV set, or the noise of cars. Instead came the rhythmic lapping of water against a dock – and at twilight when the mist crept in there were long, wavering birdcalls that echoed across the lake. Even the people had changed. Her sister, once all spikes and sharp corners, now showed only a sad, wistful smile:
Can you hear me, dear?
instead of
Oh, for the love of Mike, snap out of it!

Of Willow, there was no sign at all. There was a teenaged girl, just as pretty, but she was night to Willow’s day in how she tiptoed around Miranda, so nervous and respectful.

“Mrs. Fields, would you like…”

“Not
Mrs.,”
Jo gently corrected. “She never married, you know. But the angels don’t mind, and so neither should we.”

The teenaged girl cleared her throat. “Oh, I –
Miss
Fields, then. Would you like…”

Where was Willow? Where was her daughter? The question brought a sense of unease even when she couldn’t remember why – so much so that occasionally Miranda ventured out of her dreams and struggled to focus on the here and now, murmuring Willow’s name in a question. And then hands that were meant to be soothing would stroke her arm, her forehead.

“Don’t you worry about
her
,” Jo would say. “If she ever shows her face here, we’ll know what to do.”

The words made no sense. The house she was in wasn’t right, the view wasn’t right, the people were all wrong. But maybe the problem was with her – she knew that she often got confused. It was a relief to give up trying and sink back into the only world that still felt real. Here, nothing had changed. Here, everything was the same as always.

Rainbows.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, Miranda let out a thankful breath and sat hugging her knees, her blonde head tipped back as she took in the dancing prisms. Crystals sparkled and shimmered around her, casting broken rainbows that made her whole. As if on cue, one of her favourite memories arrived to carry her away. With a smile, Miranda closed her eyes and felt dew-damp grass brushing her bare feet as she walked, and the long skirt whispering around her legs.

The years fell away, and she was back.

The willow tree stood on the bank of a small pond, its trailing branches lacing blackly against the dusk. Miranda couldn’t tell whether he’d come or not, and her heart beat faster. No, he wouldn’t be there – of course he wouldn’t. Things like this didn’t happen to shy, quiet Miranda Fields, who could only express herself with a guitar in her hands. Ever since she’d met him, she’d been certain that she was either dreaming or going insane.

Miranda walked faster, almost breaking into a run. As she came to the tree she ducked down and groped through its feathery branches. “Hello?” she called, her pulse pounding. “Raziel, are you here?”

A long, dark shadow detached itself lazily from the tree trunk.

“You came,” he observed.

His voice thrilled through her; she gasped in relief. “Yes, of course I came! I – oh, Raziel—”

She didn’t remember closing the distance between them, but somehow she was there beside him, so close that she could smell his cologne: a heady, spicy scent that went dizzily to her head. Lost in wonder, she ran her hand up his arm and heard him chuckle. Why on earth had she been so apprehensive of him when they’d first met? The memory seemed alien now.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered. She looked up at his face and then quickly away again, flustered. Though she could barely make out his features in the dim light, his eyes were still compelling – unsettling.

Raziel had begun stroking his hands over her without quite touching her, gliding them up and down her arms, her back, her torso. She could feel the faint stirring of air as his hands moved, and a yearning to feel his touch that was more intense than touch itself shivered through her.

“Which can’t you believe?” he asked, his hands never pausing. “That angels are real, or that
I
am one?” His accent was faintly English; she could just see his black hair, cresting in a sharp widow’s peak.

“Both,” she said weakly. “It’s like – like living in a fairytale.”

“A fairytale,” he repeated, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. “So that would make me the handsome prince, I suppose?”

His teasing, agonising hands were still stroking, taking their time.
Oh, please touch me.
Miranda leaned against the tree trunk, feeling faint, and wondered if it was possible to literally dissolve into nothing.

“You’re making fun of me,” she got out.

A low, anticipatory laugh. “Ah, Miranda. You are quite, quite delicious.” His hand hovered over her shoulder, drifted musingly above her collarbone. “I can almost taste you, you know – right through my fingertips.”

He bent his head; his warm mouth lightly touched hers. For a contradictory, tumbling moment the world stood still even though she was falling – and then she caught her breath sharply as Raziel nipped her lower lip, hard enough to hurt.

“And now I want to taste you for real,” he whispered. He propped an elbow beside her head and played with a strand of her hair. “Would you like that, little Miranda? Hmm?”

Her blood beat faster as she realized what he meant. The teasing note in his voice said that he was going to do as he pleased regardless, but Miranda couldn’t bring herself to care. She wouldn’t deny him anything, not ever – especially not something that she longed for so much herself.

“Yes, I want you to,” she whispered.

The space under the willow tree exploded into light. Miranda slumped against the tree trunk, staring at the angel who now stood before her, on fire with radiance, great wings outspread. His face was Raziel’s, only so much more beautiful that it stole the breath from her throat.

Humans weren’t meant to witness such perfection,
she thought dazedly as he reached for her. The willow’s long branches looked unnaturally green in the angel’s glow, each leaf as sharply outlined as if a child had drawn it.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” said Raziel in a soft voice.

Miranda couldn’t answer. Even now, he didn’t quite touch her, but instead rested his gleaming hands just over her arms. From the opening and closing of his palms it was as if he were gripping her tightly – as if he could never bear to let her go.

“Yes, oh yes,” he murmured, shutting his eyes.

She let out a shuddering breath. The racing of her heart was like that of a small, trapped creature, except that was crazy, it was nothing at all like that – because this was bliss, pure and simple. Joy poured through her: an ecstatic jumble of Raziel’s beauty, and his love, and the love of
all
angels.

The angels are here, and they love us,
she thought in wonder. Overwhelmed, tears pricked at Miranda’s eyes – and with every beat of her pulse she could see Raziel’s halo glowing brighter, as though her own love were lighting him up from inside.

Finally Raziel lowered his hands. His halo was now blazing like a small sun, so that it hurt Miranda to look at it.

“Very nice,” he said from far away.

Darkness fell again like cool dew as he shivered back to his human form. Miranda wrapped her arms around him with a whimper, suddenly so exhausted she could hardly stand, her mind spinning dizzily. She closed her eyes as she clung to him – to the feeling of ecstasy still thrumming through her. The weakness didn’t matter; it would go away. It took a while sometimes, but it always went away.

Finally her legs felt able to support her again. She let out a long breath. “You know, I…I get confused sometimes now,” she whispered shakily.

Raziel had swept her long hair back and was kissing her neck. “Do you really?”

She nodded. “Since I met you, I – it’s hard to think; it’s like part of me is in another world, and I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to be…”

She knew that she wasn’t making much sense. “First a fairytale and now another world,” observed Raziel with a chuckle. “I’m not very good at keeping you in the here and now, am I?”

“No, you are – you’re the only thing that does.” The words felt too tight for Miranda’s throat. She reached up to touch his cheek. “The rest of my life – college, compositions, concerts – none of it matters compared to this, right now, with you …”

“Shall we make the most of it, then?” he suggested. She caught her breath as his warm hands slipped under her shirt, caressing her. “Of course, it will probably make you feel even
more
confused, so maybe we shouldn’t.”

His voice held an amused challenge. She stared up at him, drinking him in. She’d been chided for an overactive imagination all her life, but she’d never dreamed of anything even close to how Raziel made her feel.

“No, we should,” she said faintly. Suddenly joy swept through her, so forcefully that she laughed out loud. “We definitely should.”

The angel’s own laugh was low; it tickled through her. “I had a feeling you’d say that. Ah, little Miranda … you’re beautiful, you know. Even when the confusion is all that’s left, you’ll still be beautiful…”

She didn’t know what he meant and didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was in Raziel’s arms, and as they sank to the soft ground and the trailing willow leaves stirred gently around them, she thought,
I will never be happier than I am right now, at this very moment.

“Miranda?” Jo’s voice sounded distant. “Miranda, you need to eat. Can you hear me?”

“Rainbows,” murmured Miranda, because now that she’d come out of that perfect slice of her past, she could see them all around her again: pure, clear crystals that shimmered in the sunlight.

“No, dear, there aren’t any rainbows. Come on now, you have to eat something. You’ve got to keep your strength up, for when the angels need you.”

The words stirred through her, unsettling her. Did the angels really need her? With a great effort, Miranda pulled herself out of the sparkling perfection and tried to focus on her surroundings.

Jo’s face, leaning over her. On the wall behind her sister hung a calendar showing a picture of geese in flight. Miranda stared in confusion. Was that really the year? But then Willow must be almost an adult now. How could that be, when she hadn’t even
had
Willow only moments ago? She licked her lips; the urge to sink back into the clarity of her crystal world was almost overwhelming.

“I…don’t understand,” she whispered, gazing fearfully at the geese.

“There, that’s better,” said Jo. “Here, have some soup.”

A spoon was suddenly in her mouth. Miranda swallowed, hardly tasting the broth. Across the room, the geese kept soaring above their wrong date, and she could see a teenaged girl moving about, tidying things. It wasn’t her daughter. Now Miranda remembered worrying about this before, and a headache began to throb. Where was Willow?

“The angels will be very pleased that you’re keeping your strength up,” Jo was saying. She scraped up another spoonful of soup and popped it in Miranda’s mouth. “They’ve got big plans for you, you know.”

“I wish we knew more about that,” said the teenaged girl. She’d been sweeping; she leaned over her broom, resting her arms on it. “We’ve been here for so long already…”

Jo’s thin lips grew thinner. “That’s not for us to question,” she said sternly. “The angels want us to take care of Miranda until it’s her time, and so that’s what we’ll do.”

“Oh, of course!” The girl had honey-coloured hair, and blue eyes that had widened in sudden alarm. “I didn’t mean – all I want is to serve the angels, you know that—” She broke off, coughing. Her body was too thin, as if each cough might break her in two. Behind the girl, the lake looked grey and restless through the window: choppy waves biting at a colourless sky. Miranda shivered.

“You’re cold,” announced Jo, putting the empty soup bowl to one side. “Beth, hand me that afghan. I’ll build up the fire.”

The afghan was duly produced and tucked around her – and then, seamlessly, she had somehow tumbled back into her crystal haven. Far away, Miranda felt her hand on the afghan relax, her fingers melting into the knitted threads.

Oh, thank you,
she thought to whatever unseen benefactor had brought her back here – to her memories, to Raziel.
Thank you.

Miranda blinked as she became aware that the afghan had vanished again, and her chair had been moved – it now sat in the corner, near the fireplace. The lake looked lethally cold now: dull grey with thin shards of ice glistening at its bank.

Across the room, the geese had been replaced. Miranda gaped at the calendar’s picture of snowy fields.
The date.
Where had all the months gone? The numbers under the geese had been bad enough, but now…

Miranda started to shake; she clutched blindly for the afghan and realized again it was gone. Nearby, the teenaged girl sat hunched on a battered sofa, her honey-coloured hair looking dull and lifeless. The house was so still, as if she and this unknown girl were the only people in existence.

“What’s happening?” Miranda’s voice sounded too loud in the silence.

The girl slowly raised her head. She’d been crying. “I – I can’t say,” she replied after a pause. “But the angels aren’t pleased.”

“Where’s Jo?”

“I don’t know if I should…” The girl swallowed, wiped her eyes. “She’s not here. She’s gone to—” She broke off at the sound of a door closing, longing and dread plain on her once-pretty face. “They’re here,” she whispered. “Oh the angels, they’re here.” She slid hurriedly off the sofa and knelt on the floor, head bowed, her thin body visibly trembling.