Dark Angel; The Chosen; Soulmate (6 page)

I can do this.

To show that she was serious, she took the open scissors, bracketed the pale blond curtain at a level with her ear, and squeezed them shut. Her hair just folded around the scissors.

“Okay.” The angel was laughing. “Hold onto the hair at the bottom and
pull
. And try less hair.”

He sounded like himself again: warm and teasing and
loving—helpful. Gillian let out her breath, gave a wobbly smile, and devoted herself to the horrible and fascinating business of cutting off long blond chunks.

When she was done, she had a silky blond cap. Short. It was shorter than Amy's hair, almost as short as J.Z. Oberlin's hair, the girl at school who worked as a model and looked like a Calvin Klein ad. It was
really
short.

“Look in the mirror,” the angel said, although Gillian was already looking. “What do you see?”

“Somebody with a bad haircut?”

“Wrong. You see somebody who's brave. Strong. Out there. Unique. Individualist. And, incidentally, gorgeous.”

“Oh, please.” But she
did
look different. Under the ragged St. Joan bob, her cheekbones seemed to stand out more; she looked older, more sophisticated. And there was color in her cheeks.

“But it's still all uneven.”

“We can get it smoothed out tomorrow. The important thing is that you took the first step yourself. By the way, you'd better learn to stop blushing. A girl as beautiful as you has to get used to compliments.”

“You're a funny kind of angel.”

“I told you, it's part of the job. Now let's see what you've got in your closet.”

An hour later, Gillian was in bed again. This time, under the covers. She was tired, dazed, and very happy.

“Sleep fast,” the angel said. “You've got a big day tomorrow.”

“Yes. But wait.” Gillian tried to keep her eyes open. “There were some things I forgot to ask you.”

“Ask.”

“That crying I heard in the woods—the reason I went in. Was it a kid? And are they okay?”

There was a brief pause before he answered. “That information is classified. But don't worry,” he added. “Nobody's hurt—now.”

Gillian opened one eye at him, but it was clear he wasn't going to say any more. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “And the other thing was—I
still
don't know what to call you.”

“I told you. Angel.”

Gillian smiled, and was immediately struck by a jaw-cracking yawn. “Okay. Angel.” She opened her eyes again. “Wait. One more thing…”

But she couldn't think of it. There had been some other mystery she'd wanted to ask about, something that had to do with Tanya, with Tanya and blood. But she couldn't summon it up.

Oh, well. She'd remember later. “I just wanted to say—thank you.”

He snorted. “You can say it anytime. Get this through your head, kid: I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here tomorrow morning.” He began to hum a Blind Melon song. “‘I'll always be there when you wake….' Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Gillian felt warm, protected… loved. She fell asleep smiling.

• • •

The next morning she woke early and spent a long time in the bathroom. She came down the stairs feeling self-conscious and light-headed—literally. With her hair gone, her neck felt as if it were floating. She braced herself as she walked into the kitchen.

Neither of her parents was there, even though her father was usually having breakfast by now. Instead, a girl with dark hair was sitting at the kitchen table, bent closely over a calculus textbook.

“Amy!”

Amy glanced up and blinked. She squinted, blinked again, then jumped up, standing an inch taller than Gillian. She moved forward, her eyes huge.

Then she screamed.

“Your hair!” Amy screamed. “Gillian, your
hair
! What did you
do
to it?”

Amy's own hair was short, cropped close in back and full in front. She had large, limpid blue eyes that always looked as if she were about to cry, because she was nearsighted but couldn't wear contacts and wouldn't wear glasses. Her face was sweet and usually anxious; just now it looked more anxious than normal.

Gillian put a self-conscious hand to her head. “Don't you like it?”

“I don't know! It's gone!”

“This is true.”

“But
why
?”

“Calm down, Amy.” (If this is the way everybody's going to react, I think I'm in trouble.) Gillian had discovered that she could talk to Angel without moving her lips and that he could answer in her head. It was convenient.

(Tell her you cut it because it froze. That ought to flip her guilt circuits.) Angel's voice sounded the same as it did when she could see him. Soft, wry, distinctly his. It seemed to be located just behind her left ear.

“I had to cut it because it was frozen,” Gillian said. “It broke off,” she added brightly, inspired.

Amy's blue eyes got even wider with horror. She looked stricken. “Oh, my God, Gillian—” Then she cocked her head and frowned. “Actually, I don't think that's possible,” she said. “I think it'd stay pliable even frozen. Unless, like, you dipped it in liquid nitrogen….”

“Whatever,” Gillian said grimly. “I did it. Listen, I've got it slicked back behind my ears right now, but the ends are sort of uneven. Can you smooth them out a little?”

“I can try,” Amy said doubtfully.

Gillian sat down, pulling together the neck of the rose-colored bathrobe she was wearing over her clothes. She handed Amy the scissors. “Got a comb?”

“Yes. Oh, Gillian, I was trying to tell you. I'm so sorry about yesterday. I just forgot—but it's all my fault—and you almost
died
!” The comb quivered against the back of Gillian's neck.

“Wait a minute. How did you find out about that?”

“Eugene heard it from Steffi Lockhart's little brother, and I think Steffi heard it from David Blackburn. Did he really save you? That's so incredibly romantic.”

“Yeah, sort of.” (Uh, what do I tell people about that? What do I tell them about the whole thing?)

(The truth. Up to a point. Just leave me and the near-death stuff out.)

“I've been thinking all morning,” Amy was saying, “and I realized that I've been an absolute pig this last week. I don't deserve to be called a best friend. And I want you to know that I'm sorry, and that things are going to be different now. I came to pick
you
up first, and then we're going to get Eugene.”

(Oh, joy.)

(Be nice, dragonfly. She's trying. Say thank you.)

Gillian shrugged. It didn't seem to matter much
what
Amy did, now that she had Angel. But she said, “Thanks, Amy,” and held still as the cold scissors went
snip
behind her ear.

“You're so sweet,” Amy murmured. “I thought you'd be all mad. But you're such a good person. I felt so terrible, thinking about you alone out there, freezing, and being so brave, trying to save a little kid—”

“Did they
find
a kid?” Gillian interrupted.

“Huh? No, I don't think so. Nobody was talking about anything like that last night. And I haven't heard about any kid being missing, either.”

(Told you, dragonfly. Are you satisfied now?)

(Yes, I am. Sorry.)

“But it was still brave,” Amy said. “Your mom thinks so, too.”

“My mom's up?”

“She went to the store. She said she'd be back in a few minutes.” Amy stepped back and looked at Gillian, scissors held in the air. “You know, I'm not sure I should be doing this….”

Before Gillian could summon up a reply, she heard the sound of the front door opening and the rustling of paper bags. Then her mother appeared, her cheeks red with cold. She had two grocery bags in her arms.

“Hi, girls,” she began, and broke off. She focused on Gillian's hair. Her mouth fell open.

“Don't drop the bags,” Gillian said. She tried to sound careless, but her stomach was clenched like a fist. Her neck felt stiff and unnatural as she held very still. “Do you like it?”

“I—I—” Gillian's mother put the bags on the counter. “Amy… did you have to cut it
all
?”

“Amy didn't do it. I did it last night. I just got tired of it long—” (And getting all wet and icy) “—and getting all wet and icy. So I cut it. So do you like it, or not?”

“I don't know,” her mother said slowly. “You look so much older. Like a Parisian model.”

Gillian glowed.

“Well.” Her mother shook her head slightly. “Now that it's done—here, let me shape it a little. Just touch up the ends.” She took the scissors from Amy.

(I'm going to be bald when this is finished!)

(No, you're not, kid. She knows what she's doing.)

And, strangely, there was something comforting about
feeling her mother gently wield the scissors. About her mother's scent, which was fresh like lavender soap, without any hint of the terrible alcohol smell. It reminded Gillian of the old days, when her mom taught at the junior college and was up every morning and never had uncombed hair or bloodshot eyes. Before the fights started, before her mom had to go to the hospital.

Her mother seemed to feel it, too. She gave Gillian's shoulder a pat as she whisked a bit of cut hair away. “I got fresh bread. I'll make cinnamon toast and hot chocolate.” Another pat, and then she spoke with careful calm. “Are you sure you're all right? You must have been… pretty cold last night. We can call Dr. Kaczmarek if you want; it wouldn't take a minute.”

“No, I'm fine. Really. But where's Daddy? Did he already go to work?”

There was a pause, then her mother said, still calmly, “Your father left last night.”

“Dad left?” (Dad
left
?)

(It happened last night while you were asleep.)

(A
lot
seems to have happened last night while I was asleep.)

(The world's kind of that way, dragonfly. It keeps on going even when you're not paying attention.)

“Anyway, we'll talk about it later,” her mother said. A final pat. “There, that's perfect. You're beautiful, even if you don't look like my little girl anymore. You'd better bundle up, though; it's pretty cold out this morning.”

“I'm already dressed.” The moment had come, and
Gillian didn't really care if she shocked her mother now or not. Her father had left again—and if that wasn't unusual, it was still upsetting. The closeness with her mother had been spoiled, and she didn't want cinnamon toast anymore.

Gillian stepped to the middle of the kitchen and shrugged off the pink bathrobe.

She was wearing black hipsters and a black camisole. Over it was a sheer black shirt, worn loose. She had on flat black boots and a black watch, and that was
all
she had on.

“Gillian.”

Amy and her mother were staring.

Gillian stood defiantly.

“But you never wear black,” her mother said weakly.

Gillian knew. It had taken a long time to cull these things from the forgotten hinterlands of her closet. The camisole was from Great-Grandma Elspeth, two Christmases ago, and had still had the price tag attached.

“Didn't you sort of forget to put on a sweater on top?” Amy suggested.

(Stand your ground, kid. You look terrific.)

“No, I didn't forget. I'm going to wear a coat outside, of course. How do I
look
?”

Amy swallowed. “Well—great. Extremely hot. But kind of scary.”

Gillian's mother lifted her hands and dropped them. “I don't really know you anymore.”

(Hooray!)

(Yup, kid. Perfect.)

Gillian was happy enough to give her mother a flying kiss. “Come on, Amy! We'd better get moving if we're going to pick up Eugene.” She dragged the other girl behind her like the tail of a comet. Her mother followed, calling worriedly about breakfast.

“Give us something to take with us. Where's that old black coat I never wore? The fancy one you got me for church. Never mind, I found it.”

In three minutes she and Amy were on the porch.

“Wait,” Gillian said. She fished through the black canvas bag she was carrying in place of a backpack and came up with a small compact and a tube of lipstick. “I almost forgot.”

She put on the lipstick. It was red, not orange-red or bluered, but
red
red, the color of holly berries or Christmas ribbon. That shiny, too. It made her lips look fuller, somehow, almost pouty. Gillian pursed her lips, considered her image, then kissed the compact mirror lightly and snapped it shut.

Amy was staring again. “Gillian…
what
is going
on
? What's happened to you?”

“Come on, we're going to be late.”

“The outfit just makes you look like you're going out to burgle something, but that lipstick makes you look…
bad
. Like a girl with a reputation.”

“Good.”

“Gillian! You're scaring me. There's something—” She caught Gillian's arm and peered into her eyes. “Something about you—
around
you—oh, I don't know what I'm talking about! But it's different and it's dark and it's
not good
.”

She was so genuinely shaken that for a moment Gillian was frightened herself. A quick stab of fear like the flick of a knife in her stomach. Amy was neurotic, sure, but she wasn't the type to hallucinate. What if—

(Angel—)

A horn honked.

Startled, Gillian turned. Right at the edge of the driveway, behind Amy's Geo, was a somewhat battered but still proud tan Mustang. A dark head was sticking out the window.

“Standing me up?” David Blackburn called.

“What—is—
that
?” Amy breathed.