Angel in Training (The Louisiangel Series, Book One) (4 page)

Michael nodded. “You will meet him tomorrow.
I think, for now, it would be best if you got some rest.”

“But I’m dead,” I pointed out, not that he
needed to be told that, considering how many times he had to point
that out to me. “What do I need sleep for?”

“
You don’t, but your vessel does,” Michael
informed me. “Likewise, it will need feeding and watering.” He was
making me sound like a horse. “While
you
are immortal, your body is not. You can make it do a lot
more than it would have been able to when you were alive, and it
will be able to heal quickly from most wounds, but too much damage
and not even a year of rest will allow it to recover.”

“What happens then?” I asked him warily. I
had visions of zombies in my head, wandering around with their
flesh hanging from their faces.

“You will need to replace the vessel,” he
revealed. He watched me for a moment and sighed. “I will not go
into too much detail now, but there are also injuries that both you
and your vessel will not recover from.”

“Right,” I muttered at his completely vague
warning. How on earth could an immortal being not recover from an
injury? I sighed. “Don’t tell people I’m an angel, don’t tell
people where I live, and keep my body healthy. Anything else?”

I was surprised when he nodded. Clearly he
hadn’t grasped the concept of sarcasm.

“No sex, no drinking, no smoking, and no
drugs,” he added, calmly.

“
No sex or alcohol?” I blurted out. I
didn’t smoke or do drugs, but sex and alcohol? “You expect me to go
an eternity without
either
?”

Michael just nodded at me.

I wondered if angels could commit
suicide.

Michael stood up and moved to his desk,
ignoring the look of horror I am sure was plastered all over my
face. He pressed a button on his phone and muttered one word.
“Come.”

There was a muffled reply I didn’t catch and
then Michael moved back to me, perching on the arm of the couch. “I
will have you taken back to your room. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you
will meet your charge and we will start your training with the
bow.”

I glanced up at him, unable to keep from
rolling my eyes. “A bow and arrow? Really? Do I look like
Cupid?”

Michael frowned in confusion. “Cupid? As he
works on my front desk, I can assure you that no, you do not look
like Cupid.”

My mouth was still hanging open when there
was a knock at the door and a person entered. It was the same guy
who had been sitting at the front desk – Cupid. Silently, I slipped
Michael’s jacket from my shoulders, draping it over the arm of the
couch.

Michael gestured I should follow Cupid and I
quickly closed my mouth, moving towards the door. “Oh, and Angel?”
Michael called after me.

I paused, turning back. “Yes?”

“The next time you leave your room, please
don’t do so in your nightwear.”

I glanced down at the dress and flushed.
Unable to meet his eyes, I nodded and stepped out of the room
pulling the door closed behind me. I took a deep breath and slumped
back against the door, screwing my eyes shut.

“He is rather yummy, isn’t he?”

My eyes flew open as I remembered that I
wasn’t alone. Cupid was yet another beautiful creation. He was tall
and skinny with fluffy brown hair and hazel eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“Michael,” he clarified, his high toned voice
in a stage whisper. “There is no denying that man is positively
delicious. Come on.”

He started walking down the stairs and I
hurried after him. “You’re Cupid? As in... Cupid? I thought you
were a Roman god?” History hadn’t been a strong point in school,
but I didn’t fare too badly with Roman, Greek or Norse
mythology.

Cupid glanced back at me and rolled his eyes.
“Ugh, please! You set one Caesar up on a date and you’re branded
for life. I’m not even a cherub.”

“A cherub,” I repeated. “There are such
things as cherubs?” My nose wrinkled up at the thought of diaper
wearing babies wandering the halls, making people fall in love.
That was kind of creepy.

Cupid stopped and turned, looking at me
with a mixture of wonder and pity. “Oh, you are so new you’re
simply divine. Yes, honey,
cherubim
. Before you say anything, they are not bouncing bundles of
baby joy.”

“They’re not?” I asked in surprise. There was
a bit of relief in there too.

He turned and continued to lead me back down
the stairs to the second floor. “Nope, they are teenagers.” He
opened the door for me and as I walked past, he leaned over, and
with another conspiratorial whisper, announced, “Moody, stubborn,
petulant teenagers, permanently stuck in puberty.” The door closed
behind us and we continued walking towards the room I had awoken
in. “They are the housekeepers, the chefs, the cleaners and the
handymen. They get very offended in their emo little ways if you
ever mistake them as babies.”

I truly wanted to laugh. Or cry. Again. Or
both. Emo teenage angels?

At my silence, he glanced down at me and
sighed. “I can’t believe they’re still issuing this as the
nightwear for female angels,” he told me, pinching the fabric like
he would catch something from it. “I’m sorry, but it does nothing
for you.”

I looked up at him and pulled a face. “I’m
not allowed to have sex. What does it matter? It’s not like
anybody’s ever going to see it.”

“He told you that already?” Cupid asked me,
giving me a sympathetic smile. “Unlucky.”

“Oh yes,” I muttered darkly. “No sex, drugs
or rock ‘n’ roll. I got the memo.”

Cupid winced. “Not all of it, by the sounds
of things. It sounds like he missed out the other half.”

“What. Other. Half?” I asked him through
gritted teeth.

“You’re surrounded by angels,” he
announced.

“Your point being?” I asked.

“Well they all look like models, don’t they?”
he informed me as we reached my door. He opened it and pushed me
in. “And on top of that, as a female, you’re in the minority.”

My hands found my hips as I glared at him.
“Define minority.”

“Well, currently,” he sat on my bed and
smiled. “The grand total of female angels would be you.”

I had died and gone to live as the only girl
in a house of male models, and yet somehow I was in hell rather
than heaven. Was being an angel a reward or a punishment?

The Salty Dog

Needless to say, my mood hadn’t improved much
when Cupid knocked on my door the following morning. Without
waiting for an answer, he bounded in and sat himself down on the
end of the bed. I pulled myself upright, groaning at the effort.
“Out of curiosity, are you going to do that every morning for the
rest of eternity?”

“Oh,” he cooed, pouting as he reached over to
pinch my cheek. “Someone isn’t a morning person.”

I jerked my head back and poked my tongue out
at him. “Bite me,” I grumbled.

Taking no offence at my words, Cupid beamed
at me and leapt off my bed. In two bounds with his long and skinny
legs, he had pulled back the curtains allowing the early morning
sunlight to flood the room. “It’s a beautiful day outside,” he
informed me.

A low growl escaped my throat as I squinted
at him in the bright light. “It’s New Orleans in the summer,” I
grumbled at him. “It’s probably a hundred degrees with the same
humidity.”

“104,” he corrected me. “Or at least it’s
going to be. And you need to get up, shower and dress, so we can
grab some food before it all goes.”

I pulled back the sheets and dragged my feet
through the door he was pointing at. It led to my own en suite
bathroom. It was a little on the small side – it definitely wasn’t
big enough for me to be able to lie down on the floor and stretch
out - but it had a shower, toilet and sink, as well as all the
basic necessities, including shampoo and conditioner. Most
importantly, it held a mirror. I turned the shower on and stepped
in, surprised at how much pressure and heat there was in the water
in the old building. It was blissful.

I allowed the water to run over my body,
enjoying the feeling as it woke me up. Cupid was right: I was far
from a morning person, but a shower would work wonders on me. My
eyes fell to my abdomen, searching for a trace of what had happened
six months ago. I didn’t have to look hard. There were several thin
slivers of silvery skin, glinting up at me.

I grabbed the shampoo and scrubbed my hair
with it, but even after three washes, the temporary hair dye had
yet to turn the water red. I had been hoping that, despite it
remaining vibrant after six months, it would wash out. But no.
Great, I was stuck with red hair for ten to fifteen years. There
were murderers who got lesser sentences than me.

Admitting defeat, I rinsed my hair and
stepped out, wrapping a towel around me. I quickly brushed my teeth
and then searched the cupboard for anything resembling make up.
There wasn’t any, although there was a hairdryer. With the small
motor drowning out my curses, I set to drying my hair.

Dry, the color was just as vibrant as it had
been when I dyed it, and somehow, even though there were no
straighteners or hairspray in sight, it still flicked out. Well, at
least my hair looked good: I had just had it cut so it looked neat,
the length sitting just below my shoulder blades. With little else
to do, I opened the door. Waiting for me on the other side was
Cupid. He thrust a pile of clothing into my arms, before handing
over a small bag.

I took the items and retreated back into the
bathroom. I pulled the clothes on, surprised at the silkiness of
the underwear. Fully dressed, I stood back and examined the outfit
in the mirror. It wasn’t quite what I expected, especially after
the nightdress, but it actually wasn’t too bad.

The trousers were a pale gray and long enough
that even when wearing heels, they would cover the shoes. They were
also very flattering without being too sexy. The shirt was short
sleeved and had a slight puff at the shoulders, while the main body
was long, resting on my upper thighs. Over the top I had been given
a waistcoat –gray like the trousers - that was very short,
buttoning just below my breasts with only two buttons.

I turned my attention to the small bag.
Inside was a stick of mascara, black eye kohl and some blusher. I
could have kissed Cupid.

Finally satisfied, I exited the bathroom and
gave Cupid a quick twirl, earning a low whistle off him. “I can
assure you that you won’t be the only one cursing the no sex rule,”
he told me.

I snatched the high heeled pumps he was
offering me and stuck my feet into them, bringing my eye line to
his. “Take me to the food,” I told him, by stomach choosing the
moment to emphasize the fact I was hungry.

He led me downstairs to the opposite side of
the building. Once upon a time, the building had been used as a
girl’s school, and the canteen still remained. It was now full of,
as Cupid had described them, models. All of them turning to stare
at me in curiosity.

“Can we get a to-go bag?” I hissed in Cupid’s
ear.

He turned to me and grinned. “Don’t worry,
they’re all drones. Give it ten minutes and their meals will be
more interesting.”

I followed him over to the food. It was a
help yourself system, although behind the counter, what I assumed
to be the cherubim were keeping the containers well stocked. Cupid
had been right; they were all emo teenagers, although there were a
few females in there, much to my surprise. All of them were wearing
far too much eyeliner, their hair inky black, and none of them
smiled. I ignored the grits and piled my plate high with bacon,
eggs and biscuits – the Louisianan equivalent of plain scones.

“I haven’t eaten for months,” I told Cupid as
I sat opposite. He had been staring in disbelief at the amount of
food piled up on my plate. It wasn’t until I had devoured half of
my breakfast that I paused long enough to question Cupid. “I
thought I was the only female,” I accused him.

Cupid looked momentarily confused before the
understanding washed over him. “You mean the cherubim?” He laughed.
“They are stuck in puberty for eternity. They hardly count. All
those hormones and insecurities?” He shuddered.

“We’re more female then you are,” a voice
announced taking the chair between me and Cupid. Behind the shaggy
black hair, hidden underneath layers of kohl, were two sparkling
gray eyes. She looked about sixteen.

Cupid let out an exaggerated sigh. “This is
Veronica. She spends her life wallowing in an imaginary quagmire of
torment.”

“Because you’re not a walking cliché
yourself,” she retorted, stealing Cupid’s fork and stabbing it into
a pile of scrambled eggs.

I watched the pair bicker, unable to keep
myself from smiling. Despite their words, they were obviously good
friends. While Veronica’s focus was on Cupid’s food, he winked at
me. “Veronica is just pissed because the cherubim used to be the
highest ranking angels, and now they’re just the help.”

If I’d have blinked, I would have missed the
movement, but with her free hand, she punched Cupid’s arm. “We
volunteered for this, as you well know,” she told him, smiling in
satisfaction as he rubbed his arm. She turned her attention to me.
“Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“Jeeze, Ronnie, whoever decided to stick you
guys in the kitchen because you couldn’t fight has clearly never
been on the other end of your fist,” Cupid complained.

“Too right,” Veronica agreed. “We never saw
the front line the last time around. This time, we volunteered to
help and Michael placed us behind the scenes. Everyone just assumes
we’re sulking because we’re the help, as Cupid labeled us. We’re
just pissed we’ve not been given the chance to train in weaponry.
We could kick ass given the chance.”