Angel in Training (The Louisiangel Series, Book One) (2 page)

I gave myself a moment for my eyes to adjust
to the darkness. I could just about make out a chest of drawers and
a wardrobe from the little amount of light that was coming in
through the curtains. I walked over to the door, feeling for the
light switch and flicked it on, wincing as the room exploded into
light.

I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to
the brightness only to discover that I was still no closer to
recognizing the room. The floor was wooden and dark, matching the
furniture. There was nothing fancy about any of the pieces in the
room; they were very plain, like the furniture in a college dorm
would be. With the exception of the thick claret curtains which
matched the blankets on the bed, I could have sworn I was in a
single dorm room that had yet to be decorated by its occupant. The
only thing on the wall and the only thing that was remotely
decorative was the large ornate wooden cross hanging above the
headboard. There wasn’t even a mirror on the wall.

I turned, reaching for the door handle, but
stopped, my hand hovering mid-air. My attention had been distracted
by the white lace around my wrist. I glanced down, my mouth finally
dropping open. “What in God’s name am I wearing?” I muttered as I
gaped in horror at the monstrosity that was covering me.

This was most definitely not the little red
dress that I had gone out in. It was white, came down to my ankles
and it hung like a sack. Either someone with a really weird fetish
had kidnapped me and dressed me in a Victorian nightdress, or I had
taken my drunkenness to a whole new level.

I shut my eyes and I took a deep breath,
turning the door handle. I didn’t realize until I exhaled deeply,
that I had been expecting it to be locked. The door didn’t creak
when it opened. I peeked out into the hallway which was brightly
lit by long fluorescent lighting tubes. The walls were the same
dull cream color as the room I was in, and the woodwork the same
dark wood. To my left, the hallway ended abruptly with a window,
again covered in the thick claret curtains. To my right, the
hallway stretched out, a half dozen doors breaking up the
cream.

I stepped out into the corridor and pulled
the door closed behind me, noting the cross with small golden
numbers of 238 engraved in the centre. My stomach chose that moment
to start churning. Rather than the normal butterflies feeling, it
felt more like there was a flock of geese flying about in
there.

I took another deep breath. It still looked
like a dorm. I was alive, unhurt, and dressed … albeit in a very
odd outfit, but there was still a small possibility that I had put
it on myself. I walked down the hallway, ignoring all the numbered
doors that I passed, aiming for the one at the end.

This door opened into another hallway, almost
identical to the last, and eventually, another door at the far end.
This time the door opened up to the stairway, the wooden steps
curving downwards.

For some reason though, I kept walking past
the stairs. It’s hard to explain but something in my gut was
leading me elsewhere. I walked to the other end of the building and
took the last door on the right. This one led to yet more stairs,
stone this time, and less elaborate – like an unlabeled emergency
exit. I followed the flight of stairs down, walked along another
corridor, and then finally, came across a door to the outside.

It was still night time. The inky night had
the orange tint to it which most cities have, the street lights
barely making anything other than the moon visible. It was quiet
too, although I could hear noise in the distance – I don’t think I
was too far from Bourbon Street.

I rounded a corner and bit back a scream. It
took me a moment to get my breathing under control as I realized
that the thing that had startled me was a nun. More specifically,
it was a statue of a nun with a serene face, her hands in prayer,
glowing in the moonlight.

As I glanced back at the building behind
me, another wave of confusion washed over me as I realized where I
was. The Old Ursuline Convent. It was situated a few blocks from
Bourbon Street, easily in walking distance, but it was also a
museum which certainly should have been closed at this time. I had
been past it a couple of times with my aunt, though never inside
it. I was definitely trespassing, and I
still
had no recollection of how I had gotten
there.

“What have you done this time?” I asked
myself as I hurried for the exit. I was near the gates when I
spotted the light coming from the small church within the grounds.
Again, that same gut pull had me changing direction and heading to
the side door of the church.

This door, like all the others was unlocked
and opened noiselessly. Inside, although equipped with electric
chandeliers, it was lit with hundreds of candles, bathing the room
with a soft and inviting glow. I took a couple of steps in, looking
around in awe.

I’m not religious, I don’t believe in God,
and the last time I went to church, despite my aunt’s
disappointment, was the day of my parent’s funeral. That being
said, this church was beautiful.

It was bigger than I expected, with high
ceilings and row upon row of uncomfortable looking wooden pews.
Above the main entrance was a gallery, which looked down upon the
altar. The altar itself was simply magnificent. There were columns,
gold moldings, and a truly impressive painting of what I would
guess was a depiction of some verse in the Bible – angels flying
alongside a man on the ceiling. It wasn’t the Sistine Chapel, but
it
was
a work of
art.

The painting held my attention for so long
that I didn’t even notice the figure that sat a few rows from the
front. I walked towards him, my bare feet barely making any sound
on the marble floor. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I drew
close. He was wearing a light gray suit with polished shoes: an
outfit that seemed exceedingly expensive, and made him look older
than he was. Looking at his profile, he was only about twenty-five
at most. The clothes, while perfectly fitting, made him look like
he was closer to thirty. He was also beautiful.

If someone could sculpture perfection, he was
it. Even sitting down, his head bowed and lips moving with a silent
prayer, I could tell he was tall. His blonde hair, the color of
gold, was kept long enough that it spiked up slightly.

He wasn’t my type. I go for the tall, dark,
and brooding– the polar opposite of what he seemed to be – but even
I had already decided that if he asked, I was handing my number
over.

“Hello, Angel.” He didn’t turn his head.

I blinked. “How do you know my name?” I
demanded. My voice felt too loud for my surroundings, but I had
never met this guy before. I would remember someone that
delicious.

He finished his prayer and stood, giving a
small nod to the cross. He stepped out, moving in front of me, but
kept a large gap between the two of us as he considered me.

I glowered back at him, my arms crossing my
chest as I inwardly groaned at the flush I could feel working up my
neck and into my cheeks. His eyes were brown. A warm brown.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, it sparked a memory, but it
was like trying to grab mist as I tried to place it.

“I read your ID,” he eventually told me.

“What the hell are you doing going through my
things?” I demanded. “Where the hell is my bag?” My arms had
started flying around me in a slightly crazed fashion as I became
more annoyed at the thought of him going through my things, but
they suddenly froze. The only ID I’d gone out with was my fake one.
“It has Prudence on my ID,” I said, slowly.

Although his posture remained relaxed, the
guy sighed and shifted his weight. “Will you please not refer to
hell in that context within a house of the Lord?” he requested,
politely.

“
I will damn well refer to hell all I want
to, until you can give me a reasonable explanation as to why I woke
up in a museum in this
thing
,”
I gestured to the gown. “And why the hell are you going through my
belongings?”

His hands slid under his jacket and into his
trouser pockets. “You are dead.”

I snorted, the noise echoing around the room.
“Dead?” I repeated. “I’m walking and talking,” I pointed out. “I’m
hardly dead.”

There was another sigh. “You are dead. It is
your vessel that is walking and talking.”

I couldn’t help but pull a face. Gorgeous
or not, the guy was insane. “Whatever,” I told him, turning on my
heel and marching for the main door. “This
vessel
is walking and talking her way out of
here.”

“
Stop!
” His command echoed loudly around the
room.

And I stopped. Trust me – it wasn’t because I
wanted to, but because my feet physically wouldn’t let me. It was
as though they were listening to him, and not me. As if by their
own accord, they swiveled on the spot, turning me back to him. He
hadn’t moved. He was still standing, relaxed, with his hands in his
pockets.

I swallowed back the fear that was beginning
to build up in the back of my throat, and I crossed my arms,
glaring at him with a false bravado. “Who the hell are you, and
what the hell have you just done to me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Angel, I have asked
nicely, now I am telling you: do not talk like that in the house of
the Lord.”

I was ready to snap back at him that I would
talk however the hell I damn well wanted, but I couldn’t. Just like
my feet, my voice didn’t seem to be under my control either.

His gaze softened and he took a few paces to
close the gap between us. “You are dead,” he told me again, his
hands coming to rest on my shoulders. “You died six months ago.
Don’t you remember?”

My brave act crumbled as my bottom lip began
to quiver. Great, I was going to cry. “What do you want from me?” I
asked him, my voice breaking. Short of killing me, I had no idea
what the guy wanted, and even if I wanted to (which I didn’t), I
didn’t think I could come up with some form of explanation as to
why I was there. The tears began to leak from my eyes and I quickly
brushed them aside, furious at myself for showing weakness. If he
was going to kill me, I damn well didn’t want to show him how
scared I was.

“You don’t remember,” he repeated, this time
as a statement. He ushered me over to the nearest pew and sat me
down just before my knees gave out from under me. “Angel, you
died,” he told me again, gently this time. “You were dying when I
found you and I offered you a choice. You chose this.”

“I can’t be dead,” I told him, shaking my
head. My hand clutched the back of the pew in front of me. It just
wasn’t possible. “I can feel my heart beating. I can feel the grain
of the wood underneath the polish.”

“You’re going to be an angel,” he said.

I shook my head again. “And how do you know
my name?”

“
No, you
are
an angel.”

“I haven’t forgotten my name,” I told him, a
hint of ice somehow finding its way into my tone. “I just don’t
understand what you want with me? What have I done? Why do you want
to kill me?”

“Angel,” he said softly, his hand covering
the one I was using to clutch the pew. “I didn’t kill you. I don’t
know who did. I gave you a choice between eternal happiness and
eternal life. You chose life. You have been given the opportunity
to earn your wings and become an angel.”

“Become an angel called Angel?” I asked him,
pulling my hand free from under his. “An angel called Angel?” I
repeated. Suddenly a glimmer of a memory hit me. I was back in that
alleyway and he was crouched beside me, staring at me with the same
intensity in his chocolate eyes as he was now. “No,” I told him,
finding my feet. “I chose life, not eternal life. I thought you
were going to save me!”

“I did,” he told me, taking a step back. He
looked surprised. “You are to become an angel.”

“
I don’t want to be an angel,” I yelled as
I pushed past him. “I want to be me. A normal, human,
living
, me.” I
ran for the door, pushing it open and stumbling into the street. It
was deserted with only a handful of cars parked in the
area.

“Angel, come back here,” the guy ordered,
still within the church.

Once again my body seemed to take on a life
of its own, as my feet carried me back into the church. He closed
the door behind me and watched me warily. There was no holding back
the tears now. I was full on sobbing my heart out. There were no
such things as angels. The guy was a lunatic and he was going to
kill me.

“Okay,” he sighed, slipping his jacket off.
He draped it over my shoulders and led me back to the door I had
entered the church through. Somehow, even though there wasn’t a
hint of a breeze, the hundreds of candles extinguished themselves
behind us.

He took me back into the main building. In
the foyer, behind an elaborate desk, another guy, almost as good
looking as my supposed rescuer, jumped to his feet. He nodded at
us, his eyebrows rising as he saw me. Instead of saying anything,
he just sat back down.

There were more people in on whatever this
was, I realized, as I was led up the wooden staircase and through
the doorway directly opposite. This door led to another staircase,
which in turn, opened up into a very large office. Judging from the
slanted ceilings, we were in the attic.

To one side there were two brown leather
couches facing each other, a small wooden coffee table between
them. The guy sat me down on one of the couches before walking over
to the sideboard and pouring a glass of clear liquid from a
decanter. He walked back to me, offering the tumbler to me and sat
down on the opposite couch.