Angelborn (5 page)

“I’ll put away your tray,” he says as I scrabble for my backpack. Damn him and his impeccable manners. It makes it much harder not to believe him. To want to help him in some way.

But whether he’s a ghost or not, I need to stick by my policy of non-involvement. I need to be Switzerland, completely neutral, not swayed to feel compassion for rogue half-angels escaping hell to find their true loves.

I run across campus, reminding myself of that over and over.
I don’t get involved. I don’t get involved.

I walk into a nightmare. I’m still in the doorway, but I immediately want to turn around and run away. The walls are a pleasant light blue. The furniture looks comfortable, no springs jutting out or peeling paint, but there is one very big problem.

Two little kids sit on the living room floor with toys scattered all around them. It’s like Toys “R” Us exploded in this little brick rowhouse. A pathway has been cleared from the front door to the kitchen, revealing the tan carpet. Another makeshift walkway leads left, over to the staircase.

My head pounds, once for every doll, truck, animal, weapon, and figurine lying scattered across the carpet. My hands ball into fists and clench so tight that my short nails dig into the skin of my palm. I close my eyes and will my body to stop shaking. Breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth like I read about to try and calm down.

I can’t live here.

Karen, my new foster mother, drops her keys on a side table and steps into the chaos.

“These are the twins,” she says, motioning to the boy and girl in the sea of toys. She announces their names, but I miss them as the war in my head starts.
Try to act normal, Maia
,
one half of me says.
They’re just toys. Kids are messy, you know that. It’s better than a group home.
The other half of me vibrates, suppressing the need, the compulsion, to bring order to the mayhem before me.

How can I live here?

Breathe in through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Karen breezes into the kitchen. “Your room’s upstairs,” she calls out. “First door on the left. Go on and get settled, I’ll have lunch ready soon.”

A girl about my age appears at the top of the stairs. Glaring at me. Great, I’ve been here all of sixty seconds and already made an enemy. On top of everything else.

“I’m Maia,” I say, waving up at her.

The boy twin cranes his neck to look at me for a second before resuming rolling a dump truck over a graveyard of toy soldiers. The girl on the stairs frowns, but doesn’t respond. If anything, her scowl intensifies. She turns and disappears around the corner.

I hitch my backpack on my shoulder and step along the toy-lined path. If I don’t look at the mess, it’s like it doesn’t exist. Right? The rampage in my head only quiets once I make it upstairs. The hallway is blissfully empty, and all that air I’ve been taking in finally makes it into my lungs.

The room is clean and sparse. It holds a single twin bed, frilly curtains, a desk and dresser. Bigger than my last one, and I’d had to share that with two other kids. But my relief is short-lived when the glaring girl appears in the doorway.

“This is my room,” she says.

I look around. There aren’t any personal belongings anywhere. No posters or pictures. I open the closet to find it empty.

“If this is your room, where’s your stuff?” I ask, getting tired of her attitude.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s my room.”

“Whatever.” She wants to prove she’s the alpha dog here by laying claim to everything in the house. That’s nothing new. I sit my backpack on the dresser. Carved into the wooden surface is the name
Natasha.

“See,” the girl says from right over my shoulder. “It’s got my name on it.” She sounds proud of herself, like she’s proven something to me.

I unpack my few belongings into the empty drawers while Natasha buzzes around me, hovering. Warning me that I won’t be here long. That this is her house, her room, her family.

“Listen, bitch,” I say, whirling on her. “Just shut up. I get it, you don’t want me here. Too bad I don’t have a choice about it. Get out of
my
room and leave me the hell alone!”

“Who are you talking to?” a little voice says from the doorway. The boy twin stands there, dump truck in hand.

“Natasha,” I say, pointing to her. She’s near the window, boring holes in me with her eyes.

“Who?”

Ice fills my veins. I walk toward the boy and reach out to nudge his shoulder. My finger connects with the fabric of his shirt.

“Quit it!” he shouts. “I’ll tell.”

I walk back to Natasha and try the same thing. My finger moves through the air, through where her shoulder should be, until I have to catch myself from stumbling into empty space.

I swallow and turn back to the boy.

“Never mind, I was just talking to myself.”

“Don’t poke me no more,” he says, scowling.

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me alone with Natasha.

“You think you’re gonna take my place, don’t you?” she sneers. “Well, not for long.” And then she disappears before my eyes.

“Lunch is ready,” Karen calls out from downstairs.

I tiptoe back to the living room and through the maze of toys. The mess is just a low drone of tension in the back of my mind, dwarfed by this new disaster. A picture on the bookshelf makes me stop short. It’s of Karen and her husband David. Natasha stands between them, smiling brightly. They’re all in front of a Ferris wheel at some kind of carnival.

Next to the photo, a newspaper article has been cut out and framed.
Father charged in local teen’s murder. Fourteen-year-old Natasha Hawley was stabbed to death by her biological father only weeks after her adoption was complete. Her father, Trevor Chamberson, 36, lost custody of his daughter and was facing physical abuse charges. Thursday night he broke into the home of the teen’s adoptive parents and stabbed her while she slept.

I put the frame back down, not wanting to read the rest. The date on the paper is from three years ago. Tears pool in my eyes as I turn around.

In the kitchen, Karen hums as she sets plates of grilled cheese sandwiches on the breakfast bar. I didn’t know what to make of her at first, but if she’s the type to adopt a fourteen-year-old, then I guess I can cut her some slack.

In the midst of the toy landfill clogging the living room, I fall to my knees. The defeat and helplessness wash over me in waves, tug me into their tide and try to drown me. My vision narrows into tiny tunnels, and I sink.

“You’re not hungry, Maia?” Karen’s voice is from far away, on the other side of the tunnel. The side where kind people take in discarded children and shower them with more toys than they could play with in a lifetime.

I can’t respond, though, because I’m under water.

Yellow with yellow. Orange with orange. There aren’t enough bins for each color to have its own, so I’ll have to combine. Maybe I can convince Karen to buy me some more.

Blues and greens will have to go together. A rainbow-striped frog temporarily baffles me.

A figure blocks the light from the window. Natasha looms over me on the bottom step. When I finally meet her gaze, her mouth forms words with no sound, but I can tell what she says.

“Not for long,” her lips tell me. The expression on her face makes me shiver.

I refocus on the little things I can control. Until I get another bin, purple will have to go with pink.

I save the reds for last. It’s my least favorite color.

“
C
aleb
, look.” Genna peers over the edge of the terrace to the pavement one story below. The area behind the student center swells and ripples with the sea of bodies. It’s a favorite lunchtime meeting place with people filling every inch of concrete, enjoying the crisp afternoon.

“What is it?” I follow her eyeline to the lower level, which is oddly empty. Wedged in the corner between the wall and a planter box lies a dead pigeon. Genna points again. The pigeon’s wing twitches — not dead after all.

For a brief moment I marvel at this small glimpse into Maia’s life, unable to tell the living from the dead.

“We should help it,” Genna says, concern filling her voice.

“How do we get down there?” The lower terrace is walled off, with only a glass door leading into the building’s lower level.

“It’s the grad student patio. The lounge is through there. Maybe we can get someone to let us in.”

“I can just climb down,” I say, and I hop over the railing. There are too many people around to fly. I could avert their attention for the moment, but it’s just as easy to leap down. Genna begins to protest, but I’ve already made the jump before she’s completed her objection.

I approach the bird, reaching for it with my power. It’s missing quite a large chunk of feathers, in addition to having a wing punctured and a leg fractured.

“What sort of trouble did you get yourself into, little one?”

He stares at me out of one eye as I gather him in hand. I heal his leg immediately, as it was causing the most pain. Genna would notice if the bird turned up completely healthy after being in obvious distress, so I leave the other nuisance injuries and climb back up the railing, the bird tucked into my sweatshirt.

Genna coos and fusses over the little thing, suggesting we take him to the biology department and talk to a professor there about his recovery. The professor recommends a veterinarian and so we find ourselves on the city bus, en route to the vet’s office. The pigeon rests in a small box, wrapped in a towel and possibly more comfortable than he’s ever been. A satisfied gleam shines in his eye.

Through the window, the city races by. Genna takes my hand and squeezes. “Thank you,” she says, intertwining our fingers. “I couldn’t bear to see him suffer.” I wish I could take this moment and freeze it — I would place it in an album next to the other moments that I hold close to my heart.

It was on a day much like this one, the late summer heat just beginning to give way, when I first saw Viv. She stood behind her family’s fruit stall at the Inverness Street Market, a small basket of tomatoes in each hand. They were on sale, two for one. Her heart-shaped face was filled with joy, and I could not get her smile out of my head. I went back the next week and the next — my tiny rented room overflowed with tomatoes before I worked up the nerve to talk to her.

She captured me, and I experienced all the wonder and passion that had impelled me to leave sterile Euphoria in the first place. My heart ached. I felt the spark that Kalyx had told me would mean I’d found my
one
. The Destinies all believe that each human has a
one.
As so many of their missions are centered around affairs of the heart, they, more than other angels, get a firsthand look at how love grows and changes a person. Kalyx said that when you meet your
one,
it feels like a cold engine sputtering to life — gears crank and turn, creating motion and energy where before there was nothing but the potential for it. That is what she felt when she met my father. It is what I’d hoped for when I’d left home.

Meeting Viv gave Kalyx’s words new meaning. I felt the slow and steady pulse inside me quicken to a sprint. Everything that had been still sped to a blur, everything neatly arranged became spontaneous and impetuous. It could only be the energy of her soul calling to me. We were in sync, our hearts beating with the same cadence. Her heart recognized me; her soul would soon follow.

Genna’s care and compassion, her gentle nature and virtue, are just as Viv’s were. I squeeze her hand back and hope to never let go.

A small hooded figure in a dark sweatshirt climbs onto the bus at its next stop. A flash of silver rings are visible as the payment ticket is swiped, and my shoulders stiffen. The girl turns to walk down the aisle and I loosen again — it isn’t Maia. I realize I’m clutching Genna’s hand too tightly and slacken my grip.

The girl who isn’t Maia sits next to an elderly couple. I focus on their lined faces, the way the man holds out his arm to steady the woman when the bus makes a jerky turn. The way she pats his hand and links their arms at the elbows. These appear to be souls in sync. Could this be my future with Genna?

Next to me, Genna leans down to check on the bird again, nestled in his little box. The bus rattles over an uneven portion of road, and she slides into me. I unclasp our hands and wrap my arm around her shoulder, pulling her in closer. Her hair smells like watermelons, a bit cloying but cheery.

I steal another glance down the aisle at the girl who isn’t Maia. And try to dampen the part of me that wishes she were.

I
’d forgotten
how quiet the nights are here. In the Wasteland, a constant hum of noise fills the air. The wordless moans of the soulless and some other, undefinable sound vibrate through your bones and set your teeth on edge. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, it keeps you unsettled, disconcerted.

Here, everything stops in the middle of the night when humans sleep, even on an otherwise boisterous college campus. I check in on the girls once I’m sure they’re both sound asleep. Hovering near the ceiling, I use too much of my power to keep as much distance as possible between myself and Genna. My fingers flex with the desire to touch her.

The brush of her hand against mine or the feel of her breath across my cheek as she leans in to share a laugh makes my nerve endings stir. Viv’s raven hair and creamy skin were so different from Genna’s caramel complexion and ever-changing head of bronze hair. Some days it cascades in soft curls, some days it falls in a subdued curtain. I’m amazed how a single soul can shine through no matter what the exterior package. She would be beautiful to me in any form.

Genna’s breath rises and falls softly, her dreams peaceful, in direct opposition to Maia. Across the room, she’s kicked off her covers. One brown leg sticks out, hanging partially off the bed. She doesn’t cry out, she never makes a sound, but her movements are jerky and fitful.

The two girls couldn’t be more different — even their bedspreads are opposite. Genna’s is pink and flowery, matching the theme of the decor on her side of the room. Her bed is a sea of stuffed animals and small, lacy pillows. Framed posters grace the walls, along with photos of her family.

Maia’s half is sparse, ascetic. A plain, sterile blue coverlet. Bare walls. Very few items on the desk or dresser. She’s left such a small footprint, it’s like she scarcely even exists. This distresses me for reasons that aren’t entirely clear. Is it the human emotions overwhelming me or something else?

Genna sighs, a small smile playing upon her lips. Curiosity tugs at me, but I don’t dip into her dreams to assuage it. I leave her the privacy of her slumber. It’s enough to be near her again, to talk and laugh with her again. No part of me has forgotten her.

Maia shivers, grasping for the bedspread blindly in her sleep without reaching it. I’m about to replace it for her when the tempo of her dream changes drastically.

Suddenly her arms and legs thrash as if she’s beating off an attacker. Her head jerks back and forth, straining her neck. Her dream has turned into a nightmare before my eyes.

Without conscious thought, I find myself next to her, sitting on the bed, stroking her hair, trying to
soothe
her. It isn’t working — she’s too far gone — and, again without thinking, I grasp on to the vibrating tendrils of her dream and slide down into it.

I emerge in a darkened corridor smelling strongly of ammonia. A low greenish light provides the only illumination. Identical doors are spaced evenly on either side. Each has a tiny barred window near the top. A prison, perhaps? The hallway is icy cold, and thunder booms in the distance.

The window in the first door reveals a narrow bed, empty, but with straps attached to the posts. A chair, desk, and dresser are the only other pieces of furniture. The other rooms are identical. The chill in the air burrows beneath my skin, digging arctic fingers into my flesh.

A shriek pierces the eerie silence.
Maia!
I race down the hall, but make no progress. The farther I go, the longer it becomes. I’m not an experienced dream-walker. Only the Destinies truly excel at it. When I first left Euphoria, thoughts of learning about humans as Kalyx did, through their dreams, spurred me to try it a few times, but it isn’t easy to master. I’ve already forgotten the basic rules of humans’ dreams — mainly that they have no rules.

Maia screams once more, but from farther away. I stop running and focus on her location, willing myself close to her.

A wide, shadowy room unfolds around me. The greenish light with no source reminds me of the drab glow of the Wasteland and paints everything with a sickly palette. In the center, Maia is strapped to a bed, kicking and screaming with all her might. A phalanx of faceless figures in long white coats stands around menacingly. They’re all nearly seven feet tall and tower over the bed.

Her cries propel me forward. I push through the figures to reach her. She’s dressed in a tattered hospital gown. Her hair is longer, not shaved on the sides, disheveled, and her face is painted like a skull, white with black eye sockets and lines for teeth covering her lips.

I call her name as she continues to fight. When I finally get to her side, I reach out, intending to untie the straps restraining her, but a force pushes me back. Maia pauses her struggle, confused, like she’s listening to someone or something.

“Who?” she says, her voice raspy and raw.

“Maia, it’s me,” I call out, reaching for her again, only to be pushed back by an invisible pressure against my chest.

“Caleb?” she says uncertainly. “Natasha! Leave him alone!”

The air in front of me congeals, and a dark mass takes shape. A young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, emerges. Her short hair has been chopped off erratically, and she wields a butcher knife, waving it in front of me like a taunt. Her eyes are bloodshot and empty. A vicious smile reveals brown teeth. With an agility only found in dreams, she leaps on top of Maia’s chest and holds the knife to her neck.

Maia is quiet now, her breath heaving from the weight of the girl.

“What do you want, Natasha?” she whispers.

The girl traces a line on Maia’s neck without piercing the skin. She moves lower, slicing another tear in the thin gown, then drags the knife to Maia’s left arm, suspended above her by the straps. There’s a scar there, a long one reaching from her wrist to her elbow. I haven’t noticed it before, but she’s always entirely covered up. Natasha traces the scar with the tip of the blade and Maia sucks in a breath as if in pain.

Natasha seems so enthralled by her actions, she isn’t paying attention to anything else. I leap into motion, catapulting myself into the girl and knocking her to the ground. The knife clatters out of her grip, but due to dream logic, it’s back a moment later. She is incredibly strong and writhes in my grip. I’m not prepared, and before I know it, she’s pulled her arm free and sliced a line from my shoulder across my chest. Pain radiates from the wound, but I grab hold of both of her wrists and pin her to the ground.

Suddenly, Maia crouches next to me, somehow freed from her restraints. With her painted face, she looks both fierce and fragile. A question sits on the tip of my tongue, more than one, actually, but an enormous
boom
roars, shaking apart the fabric of this tenuous, warped reality. The floor ripples and quakes. Behind us, all the tall figures have gone. Within my grip, the solid flesh of Natasha’s wrists melts away. She is subsumed in a blaze of black angelfire, its inky flames like tongues lapping at my hands as I pull them back, empty.

“We need to run,” Maia says into my ear. She takes my hand, pulling us both up as an explosion tears the room apart. This is all too familiar to me, running through a shower of debris as the world flies apart. Maia is barefoot but seems to know the path as she leads us into the shadows.

We’re now outside on a dark city street, wind battering us and the sound of destruction following as we try to outrun it. Another roar rends the sky, releasing bitter-smelling rain that burns through my clothes on its way to my skin. The pain is delayed, but when it hits, the knife wound on my chest feels like a tickle in comparison. Pure agony, far worse than the metal that skewered and killed me.

Maia cries out beside me, suffering as well, and I feel the need to protect her. I wrap an arm around her and break the cardinal rule of dream-walking.

We stand in a green valley, the clouds low enough to touch. Rolling hills spread out all around us. The rain burned away most of her gown, leaving strips of fabric which do nothing to cover her. The skin across her chest and torso is angry, puckered with welts. I look the same. Although she must be in pain, she notices my gaze, which has stopped on her breasts, and covers herself with her arms.