Angel in Training (The Louisiangel Series, Book One) (13 page)

“When you spoke to your aunt,” he started
slowly.

I shook my head and cut him off. “I didn’t
speak to my aunt – that is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“When you spoke to your aunt,” he repeated
more forcefully, although he didn’t look angry. He took a few steps
towards me. “When you spoke to your aunt, was it in a dream?”

My mouth fell open. “How did you know
that?”

“You appeared in my dream,” he told me.
“You’re a Dream Walker.”

I only heard the first part because the
second was deafened by the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. I
hadn’t exactly held back when I had been ranting at an archangel –
I’d called him a Nazi slave driver. I could feel the world spinning
around me, the pounding getting louder, and then I blacked out.

I woke up on the couch, Michael's face
hovering just above mine, awash with concern. “Angel?” he asked,
softly.

I curled up into a fetal position and
squeezed my eyes shut – maybe this was a dream too? My eyes shot
back open as Michael laid a warm hand on my arm. “Are you
alright?”

“I’m so sorry,” I muttered, unable to look in
him the eyes. “I should never have said those things.”

“Did you mean them?” he asked gently.

“Some of them,” I admitted, guiltily. “Not
that it makes it alright.”

“Angel, you can be forgiven for thinking that
it was a dream, but you should talk to me if things are upsetting
you,” he told me.

“I tried to talk to you last night, but you
didn’t listen. You just sent me to the other side of the state.” It
was hardly the other side of the state, but that wasn’t my point.
He was hardly the most approachable person.

“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 soon 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 17
^th
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.