Color of Angels' Souls (5 page)

Elsewhere, two blue Angels floating above a man were warmly congratulating him: “Way to go! We saved five patients tonight. You're an amazing surgeon!”

Jeremy observed all the hullabaloo as he waited for the doors to open. Both blue and red Angels were giving advice and making suggestions, and the Mist emanating from the living showed which people were affected by their influence. Jeremy was hardly surprised when he realized that the people who looked the most creative and restless were the ones the most sensitive to the Angels' words. The narrow-minded and withdrawn people only had a single Angel over them, and sometimes none at all. He had been surprised at first, until he saw a man walking slowly down the street who didn't give off any vapors. None at all. He could feel nothing coming from the man except for complete exhaustion. He looked completely defeated, judging by the way he walked. The sight made Jeremy shiver.

He also looked on as loved ones were reunited. People died every day—from natural deaths, of course, and not beheadings. Unlike for Jeremy, who had found no one waiting for him in the afterlife, many of the Angels' families were waiting for them just after they died. It was quite comic to see the surprised look on the old peoples' faces when they beheld their parents: “Dad? Mom? Grandma? Grandpa? Is that really you?” It would take them hours to say hello to everyone, and all the outpouring of joy was reassuring—both for Jeremy and the Newcomers. Oftentimes, the whole clan would fly away carrying the new arrivals, who would make a funny face and try not to throw up on their ancestors.

“Don't be so cynical,” Jeremy chided himself. “You're just jealous because no one was waiting for
you
.”

Then a group of living people, escorted by a cloud of red Angels, arrived behind an ambulance. Jeremy jumped to his feet and followed them into the morgue, while the dance of the Angels above the roof grew to a fever pitch. Grief and sorrow rose through the ceiling in clouds of brown—light at first, but then growing darker. The Angels were going to have a feast.

Once he was inside, Jeremy couldn't find his body. The late hour didn't help matters, as most of the rooms were closed. He had to wait impatiently for one of the doctors on duty to open the door. The velvety stuff on the walls and doors still wouldn't let him through. At one point, he had no choice but to watch a series of autopsies after a door closed behind him without warning. Something he certainly could have done without.

When the coroner lifted the brain from the skull of a teenage boy who'd been beaten to death, Jeremy figured he must have been turned more green than blue, and calmly considered the possibility of whether or not ghosts (OK, OK, Angels) could throw up their lunch. Even worse, he was shocked (for only about the fiftieth time that day) when he realized that the mirrors didn't reflect his image, as if he were a vampire or something. He quickly realized it only made sense. If living people couldn't see him, then mirrors couldn't show his reflection; at least that was clear.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and an assistant entered. Jeremy sighed with relief as he was finally able to escape from the room, but immediately had to jump out of the way when a cart appeared out of nowhere. He moved backward and passed right through the glass doors behind him. For a few seconds, he remained suspended in the air, wondering where the heck he was. He looked down at his feet and saw he was standing on … Oh God! On nothing at all! He began to run frantically in place, like a character in a Tex Avery cartoon, and had just the time to cry out “oh no!” before he plunged down the elevator shaft.

Luckily for him the elevator was not far below, and he crashed into the ceiling. The strange velvety fabric barely absorbed the impact, and he groaned in pain, completely befuddled by his predicament. If he ran, he was out of breath. If he fell, he could feel pain. Wasn't he supposed to be a reincarnated ghost? What kind of paradise was this anyway? Then he was overcome with fear when he suddenly realized that there was no way for him to get inside the elevator car.

“OK, Jeremy, take it easy now. Think. What happened just before you fell down here? You were afraid, you wanted to avoid banging into that cart, and then—ahhh!”

As he was thinking, the elevator had begun to climb and was getting dangerously close to the top of the shaft. Before he had time to think he was plummeting again, and ended up inside the elevator after falling on top of some living people—or rather, falling
through
them. Luckily they didn't feel a thing.

When the doors finally opened, Jeremy was aching all over, but he had also figured something out. By hook or by crook, he was able to control the dematerialization of his body (or at least, he would be able to when he figured out how the whole thing worked). It would have been nice to have learned less painfully, but he was still proud of himself. He had found out for himself and come through the ordeal unscathed. Good for him! He took a deep breath before trying to figure out where he was now. Strange. There weren't any Angels in this part of the morgue. He thought it would have been filled with Reds. They must have stayed up above the building with the family.

A doctor passed by pushing a gurney and Jeremy immediately recognized the feet sticking out from beneath the sheet. They were his! With a lump in his throat, he followed the man through a doorway, only to be shocked as soon as he entered by the sight of his mother. Of course. She was the only person they could have called.

She was wearing an impeccable black dress and a beautiful chain of pink pearls around her neck. Everything about her was spotless perfection, as if it weren't four o'clock in the morning and she was at one of the charity cocktail parties she was always attending. She gazed in horror at the body, unable to fathom the idea that her son's lifeless body was beneath the sheet, laid out on a steel cart.

Then she did something very surprising.

She fainted.

Jeremy tried to grab hold of her, but she dropped right through his hands. The medical assistant must have been used to such reactions, because he caught her just before she hit the ground. Jeremy bent over her, sick with worry, but the doctors were already carrying her over to a nearby chair.

“Ms. Galveaux-Tachini?” one of the men asked gently. “Are you OK?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked about in a daze.

“Oh, what happened?”

“You saw your son's body and you fainted. I'm so sorry.”

“Fainted? Me? That's impossible!”

That's just what Jeremy would have said if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. His mother, the obdurate Claire Galveaux-Tachini, had fainted over something as vulgar as the corpse of her son! That would certainly make all the headlines. Ever since she had married her husband the weapons trafficker ten years ago and had Jeremy's half sister with him, he had always figured nothing and nobody could ever find a crack in her armor.

It looked like he'd been wrong.

She snapped the armor back on so quickly that he could almost hear the “click!” She shot straight up, erect in her seat, and quickly donned the familiar cold, impassive mask. But the Mist that rose from her body—a bright blue with hints of brown—betrayed her emotions, and Jeremy was taken aback. So his mother still loved him! Despite all their bickering, all the pent-up hostility and the rebukes, his mother was overcome with sorrow. For the first time since he had left home three years earlier, Jeremy felt bad for her. And a ton of regret for having misjudged her so.

The door opened a crack and a small woman peeked her head in tentatively. It was Natasha, Claire's live-in companion. She peered about, eyes wide with apprehension.

“Madame? The chauffeur sent me to tell you that your daughter has awakened. She had one of her nightmares again and has asked for you.”

“I'm coming, Natasha,” Claire replied, back to her haughty self. “Gentlemen, I will take care of everything for the funeral. When can I recover my son's body?”

“In four days, ma'am,” one of the men replied. “The police will probably want to talk to you. Your son was murdered, and it looks like it may have been premeditated.”

“Very well. I will remain at your disposal. Natasha, we will be leaving now.”

She left the room, leaving a costly trail of Chanel No. 5 behind her.

Jeremy gave one last longing look at his body, then decided it was more important to follow his mother.

Because he had no real enemies that he could think of.

Except for … his stepfather.

Jeremy had to pass right through his mother to get into her car. It still felt weird when he did that. The velvety film covered all inanimate objects, but the living remained immaterial for the dead. Whenever he tried to touch one of them his hand passed right through.

Reality hit him like a slap in the face. He wasn't dreaming. There were too many details, too many incredible things that had happened. He was
really
dead, and his mother, who he had thought was cold and insensitive, was eaten up with grief. The realization shattered him, almost as much as his own death.

As they drove along, Claire was so absorbed by her grief that she completely ignored Natasha and picked nervously at her handkerchief—which was made of linen, of course. Jeremy had never seen his mother blow her nose with anything but linen handkerchiefs. A Kleenex was much too vulgar for her.

“I … I'm very sorry, ma'am,” Natasha said in a whisper. Claire gazed up at her with her steely blue eyes—the same as her son's.

“Why ever should you be sorry?” she snapped. “You didn't even know him.”

“I feel sorry for
you,
ma'am,” Natasha insisted. “I can see how upset you are. It's simply dreadful to lose a child.”

Claire pinched her lips into a tight line, refusing to show any emotions, and Natasha thought it best not to insist. Jeremy looked closely at his mother. She was still quite a beauty. Although time had left its mark, a discrete facelift and a few touches of Botox here and there had erased most of the signs. Apparently, Angels weren't telepathic because he couldn't read her mind, but the Mist that enveloped her gave him a good idea of what she was feeling: Its color was oscillating between light and dark brown, indicating fear mixed with sadness. Jeremy made sure to keep a safe distance from it, but could still sense a touch of bitterness in her Mist as well. Even more strange was the dark, sooty red that seemed to run through the Mist, ready to become the dominant color at the slightest occasion.

Which meant his mother was angry. With who? And why?

The limousine passed through the front gate of the mansion outside the city where Claire lived with Jeremy's stepfather. Claire jumped quickly out of the car and Jeremy had to hurry after her to avoid getting the door slammed in his face. His mother crossed the large entrance hall tiled with black and white marble, and then bounded up the stairs two by two, despite the fact that she was wearing high heels.

He didn't understand why his mother was in such a rush until he saw Angela. Mr. Gunrunner's little blond angel. His half sister. The little girl was scrunched up beneath her comforter in the cavernous room—her bedroom in fact. A few posters had been tacked up on the walls to make the place a little more homey, but without success. Everything was white, as if the little angel lost in her oversized bed needed to be surrounded by a pure white setting. Claire held out her arms and the
Grande Dame
, who was so firmly in control of her life and her emotions, finally let her mask drop.

“Angela, sweetie, what's wrong?”

“I couldn't find you, Mommy,” the little girl squeaked in a voice so choked up with fear that Jeremy was taken aback. “Where were you?”

“I … I got a call, it was something important, but I didn't leave for long, my love, and I'm here now. Tell me what's wrong.”

“It's … it's that dream, Mommy, it's always the same!”

As Jeremy walked into the room, he got the absurd impression that he was desecrating a sanctuary. That was when he saw him.

An Angel. Red. Obese. Monstrous.

Hanging from the ceiling like a fat and filthy sausage, wearing nothing but a loincloth, he was gobbling up the child's fear with a repugnant avidity.

“Don't be afraid,” Claire said. “I'm here now.”

“But I'm afraid to go to sleep,” the girl whispered. “He's always there, Mommy, every time. He kills the other man, and there's blood everywhere, everywhere, it's even on me, and I turn all red! Make him go away, Mommy!”

Feelings of intense anguish began to rise out of Claire, so thick they made the red Angel snicker greedily as he sucked them into his gaping maw.

“Of courrrse, there's blood,” growled the Angel in a thick accent. “Mostly mine! But your father is going to pay for it, my little darrrling. It should only take me about ten years before you go completely mad!”

“I'll give you some of your medicine, honey,” Claire said in a soothing voice. “Then you'll be able to sleep without that bad dream bothering you anymore.”

“Oh no! Not that crap!” howled the Angel. “You won't get off that easy, baby! I may not be able to get inside her head when she drinks her medicine, but you can't give it to her every day, can you? Or else she'll be so stoned she won't even know her own name. I can be patient; yes, I can wait!”

Then he disappeared in a flash before Jeremy even had the time to call after him.

The little girl was so exhausted that she didn't put up a fight. She drank her syrup and Claire waited patiently for her to fall asleep, stroking her hair as she told her a nice story. Just like the ones she used to tell Jeremy in the old days. Before she met her new husband, Frank Tachini. The weapons trafficker. Jeremy knew it was stupid but he couldn't help feeling jealous. It sounded like the red Angel had a score to settle with Angela's father. But why? What had happened? Jeremy decided to wait until the Angel came back that night to ask him. While he waited, the only thing to do was snoop around the mansion.