Color of Angels' Souls (6 page)

He climbed the stairs. Everything was completely overdone in the house, and he had absolutely hated everything about it back when he'd lived there. He hadn't stayed very long though, as he had preferred spending his days and nights with his daunting mentor and grandfather, the infamous James Stuyvesant, one of the most ruthless and successful financial wizards of his time. The old man had taught him almost everything he knew. When Jeremy the boy genius had finished his studies, he had jumped at one of the first job offers he'd received and left home. His phenomenal intuition had quickly opened doors for him in the financial world, and his newfound wealth had enabled him to shrug off his ties to his family. “Ties” might have been too strong a word … they were more like silk strings that had been severely frayed.

He walked past the haughty portraits hanging on the walls and could feel the anger rising. Where had the arms dealer dug up all these distinguished ancestors? His family may have had enough money for him to study at the best schools and rub elbows with New York's high society, but everyone knew that his wealth was all new money, obtained under shady circumstances. The portraits only showed that the Tachinis wanted to lay claim to some sort of noble ancestry. What a joke.

The weapons trafficker's bedroom door was closed. Jeremy tried to pass through it, but without success. The wood somehow managed to resist all his efforts. He tried again and again, but then he leaned against the wall and suddenly fell right through, only to find himself sprawled out on the floor in the bedroom. He got quickly to his feet, at a loss to explain how he'd finally succeeded but happy nonetheless.

He was surprised to find Frank still awake. He was talking on the phone, and a blue Mist rose from his body. For the first time, Jeremy was able to contemplate his stepfather without feelings of anger and bitter rage clouding his judgment. He was a handsome man: tall and dark, with the slightest hint of gray at his temples. He exuded power and excellent breeding. It was hard to imagine that the stately gentleman in front of him, the polo-playing Harvard graduate, was an arms dealer. Claire had been fooled by him. Jeremy had been too, at least at first.

“Yes, I heard—a job well done, thank you. That meddler won't be bothering us anymore. Excellent work! Tell your man that he'll be paid as we agreed—for both jobs, of course!”

Jeremy's blood froze. It wasn't hard to figure out what he was talking about. He had just admitted to his crime. Frank had paid someone to kill him! Filled with an uncontrollable rage, he rushed over and punched that smug face with all his might, but obviously to no effect. Why could he touch the surface of objects, but not people? The shadowboxing didn't make him feel any better though: Frank hadn't even flinched, and still had the same pompous, self-satisfied expression on his face. It quickly disappeared when his wife entered the room, however. The color of Frank's emotions changed immediately, and Jeremy looked on incredulously as they turned a bright blue—which Jeremy now knew was the color of love. Well imagine that! The arms dealer was really in love! His mother tensed up at first when her husband enclosed her in a warm embrace, but then she slumped over in his arms. The pale-colored Mist emanating from her, a sad and distressed brown, melded for an instant with Tachini's Mist. Then Claire straightened back up and moved away from him. Her sorrow had changed her husband's Mist from brown to silver, which surprised Jeremy again. He had thought his stepfather was incapable of feeling compassion.

“Well?” Frank asked gently, in a worried voice.

Claire's hand trembled as she ran it through her hair. She sat down.

“It was him. My God, Frank, I can't believe it. Somebody killed him! Cut his head off like … as if he were an animal or something. Who could be so cruel? To kill someone like that! It's … it's unthinkable.”

Her face suddenly grew livid and she glared at her husband.

“Could his murder have something to do with your … business?”

The way she said “business” made Frank frown.

“Of course not,” he said bluntly. “I don't have any enemies.”

“No living ones, anyway,” Jeremy murmured. “But it looks like you've got quite a few dead ones, my friend!”

Claire could hardly contain her anger.

“What do you know? Ever since I found out what you're involved in, I've been sick with worry that something may happen to Angela. But I never worried about Jeremy. Even though he was so angry with us, so dead set against you and your
business
. How could I have been so naïve, to think that no one would want to harm him! Oh Frank! Please, give me what I keep asking you: Grant me a divorce! I don't want any of your money. I just want to live a normal life, without having to constantly worry that someone will harm my daughter. They've already taken my son—Frank, let me go!”

Jeremy could see clearly that it wasn't anger that was rising out of Frank: It was terror.

He threw himself at Claire's feet and grasped her knees, despite her efforts to push him back. Jeremy could feel nothing but disdain for his stepfather, but the man's display of emotions made him feel uneasy. There was still something that didn't make sense about the whole business though. He forced back his feelings of disgust and stayed to hear more.

“Claire, I'm begging you, Claire; if you leave me I'll die! Just as surely as if you cut my throat! Claire, please! You're all I have to live for. Give me some time. I'm all through with that business that makes you so scared. Everything's legal now, Claire: completely transparent!”

Claire recoiled from her husband and pushed him away. He slowly got back to his feet.

“Nothing illegal!” She almost choked with rage. “You sell weapons! What an idiot I've been! So blind, so meek and obedient, so in lo—” Out of breath, she left off before finishing the word, refusing to pronounce it as if it were some sort of poison. “When I think that it took me eight years to find out the truth!”

“Thanks to your dear son, who had me investigated. Oh yes, I know,” Frank replied, his emotions now colored by bitterness and anger.

“Your construction company was nothing but a façade!” Claire said, ignoring his accusation. “How could I keep on trusting you after you'd lied to me for all those years?!”

“I only did it because I loved you so much!” Frank pleaded, holding out his hands entreatingly. “If I had told you the truth you never would have married me. And if I'd been poor I couldn't even have talked to you! I was backed into a corner, Claire; I didn't have a choice. My family has been in this business for generations. When Dad died I started to go straight. We were happy together for years, we were a great couple, and now I feel like I'm a stranger in my own home! You've become so cold, Claire; I can't stand it anymore. You won't let me sleep in the same bed with you, you ask me for a divorce ten times a day—it's unbearable!”

Claire glared at him, her eyes slits. She was just as upset as him.

“If you can't bear it anymore, then do what I ask!” she hissed. “Let me go.”

“Uhh, Mom, judging by the color of his emotions right now,” Jeremy whispered nervously, “I think you should maybe talk about this some other time! The man is dangerous, Mom; don't make him lose his temper!”

Jeremy was right. A dark, menacing red Mist was rising from Frank. He was furious and desperate—a very bad combination that often makes people say exactly the opposite of what they're really thinking.

“Very well then,” he raged. “If you hate me so much, then I don't suppose anything I do will make any difference. Then I'll give you the choice. You can leave …” He made a brusque gesture with his hand at Claire, who was about to speak.

“… but I keep Angela.”

Jeremy saw the gleam of hope fade in his mother's eyes, as the color drained from her face.

“You … you wouldn't possibly—”

“Without hesitation,” he replied coolly, despite the anxiety that was roiling inside him. “You don't have any money, Claire, and you don't have a job. You are nothing but the very lovely and respectable lady of the house. To which one of us do you think a judge would grant custody of Angela?”

Frank was wrong. Judging by the colors of her emotions, Claire felt no hate toward him. She was just tired and distraught, fed up with having to worry just as much about him (something she had carefully omitted) as she did about her daughter. But after what he'd just intimated, everything had changed. Claire's love for her first husband, Jeremy's father, had changed her, and then she had changed again when she fell in love with Frank. But beneath the surface, the woman of the world had remained a fighter. She was courageous and tough as nails.

She was visibly shaken, but then regained her resolve.

“My son just died,” she said in a flat voice.

“I'm aware of that,” Frank retorted, visibly trying to remain calm. “What of it?”

“You still don't understand, Frank? My son has died. My father, James, disinherited me when I married Paul Galveaux. Paul the painter, Paul the weakling, Paul who was nothing but a whining little worm in the eyes of that shark. But James also set up a trust for Jeremy. My father made millions of dollars. Billions. But Jeremy refused to touch a penny of it, because he wanted to make it on his own. But now … he's dead.”

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words. The Mist rising from him reflected his disarray.

“I am Jeremy's only heir,” she added. “I'm sorry, Frank.”

There was nothing left to say. Without another word, she left the room. Jeremy felt like crying. What a waste! He understood now that the two of them had really been in love, so in love in fact that they couldn't find a way to separate without hurting each other. He was still furious with Frank, but now he was starting to get really worried about his mother.

Because Frank didn't hold back his tears any longer once he was finally alone (or so he thought), and the Mist emanating from him had now turned a menacing orange as he contemplated his revenge.

Jeremy recoiled from the vapor. He couldn't get anywhere near it. He fled from the room through the door that his mother had luckily left open, and caught up to her in the hallway. He managed to slip into her bedroom with her just before she closed the door. She threw herself on her bed and began sobbing. Her Mist was a thick, chocolate brown, and smelled absolutely delicious. He moved off to the side to avoid it.

“Aw, Mom, I'm so sorry,” he groaned sadly. “I'm dead now; I can't protect you. You're trapped and there's nothing I can do. Mother, listen to me: this guy is really dangerous. You've got to be very careful what you say to him, or he'll have you knocked off just like me.”

But when he thought over what Frank had said, what he'd done … there was still something Jeremy couldn't understand. Something that had struck him … something not quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He stayed with his mother until she regained her composure, trying to touch her so that she might respond to his words, but she was too distraught. Nothing he said seemed to have any effect on her. Jeremy suddenly felt completely drained, discouraged by the whole affair. He finally pulled himself away from his mother, managed to get through the door, and walked off to find a guest room.

There were quite a few in the huge mansion, but he settled on his favorite, the one with creamy yellow wallpaper decorated with hunters on horseback, chasing foxes through butterflies and flowers. He stretched out on the bed, which was covered with the omnipresent velvety fabric, so soft and strangely comfortable. He saw that his body left no mark on the bedcover and then … dropped off to sleep.

When he woke up, it took him a second to remember where he was.

This wasn't his apartment. Why was he in this bedr—? Suddenly, it all came back to him and he snapped straight up. He was dead. Completely and definitively. For heaven's sake, how many times would the realization hit him like a slap in the face?! He couldn't get used to it. He was
dead
.

And he was
naked
.

These Mist clothes certainly didn't last very long. The Angel Flint had told him as much, but he had forgotten. He suddenly felt completely miserable. None of this made any sense. It was all so unfair. He felt so defeated he rolled up into a fetal position on the bed. He had lost everything: his friends, his life, his family, even if they hadn't been very close. The tears began streaming down his cheeks. He wiped them away, still amazed by it all. He had never cried much, but ever since he'd arrived in this strange new world he'd been bawling all the time.

While Jeremy was contemplating his wet fingers, lost in his thoughts, the bloated red Angel that he had seen the day before passed through the room, looked down at him with contempt, and then slowly continued along through the far wall.

Jeremy shuddered, as if something cold and slimy had touched him. Then he realized that the Angel could only have come back for one reason: to continue with his long and patient annihilation of Jeremy's half sister. He immediately jumped to his feet to follow the Angel, and bounced off the wall.

It hurt like hell—especially since he hadn't been expecting it.

Well, it looked as if he hadn't yet perfected his “walking through walls” technique. Luckily, the door to the guest room was still open and he went out into the hall. He told himself that he absolutely must perfect his ability to dematerialize, or else he would end up getting stuck somewhere for good one of these days.

It wasn't too difficult to guess where the Angel had been headed. Jeremy would follow him—but not right away. He was hungry. When he walked by a window he saw that night had fallen, which meant that he had “slept” the entire day.

Jeremy still didn't understand the rules that governed this new world. He “ate” people's emotions but never had to go to the bathroom, which didn't seem right. If he started to run, he would soon be out of breath, but he never sweated. He could cry, and the tears would get his hands and cheeks wet, but he couldn't feel his heart beat. It was as if his new body were nothing but a projection of his original self, as if his soul had assumed the form that was most familiar to him—more out of habit than anything else—and had adopted the limits that went with it.