On Unfaithful Wings (29 page)

“Poe.”

The nun’s spirit raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.

“She’s my guardian angel.”

Sister Mary-Therese gasped then ran her finger down the moth’s furry thorax.

“There’s an angel in here?”

I nodded, surprised by how the tiny, unmoving weight in my hand made me feel: desperate, empty.

“Then you must get her out.”

“I...” Another deep breath did little to help collect myself. “I don’t know how.”

The nun’s spirit brushed her fingers on my cheek. “Yes you do.”

I did. At least, I thought I did.

We headed across the lawn, up the rocky hill and into the slash of forest, my eyes darting, searching behind every tree, every shrub--I wouldn’t allow a carrion to stop us this time. I wrapped my fingers protectively around Poe’s broken body, careful not to exert the slightest pressure, and shielded the nun’s spirit with my body. We passed through the thicket, emerging on the sidewalk of the busy street and stopped, indecisive. The toy store was too far and we’d left my car parked at the church, dead--one soul I couldn’t salvage. Walk or catch a bus? I didn’t think Poe would last the walk, if any life remained in her at all. I slapped my pocket, hoping for the tell-tale jingle of bus-fare change. Nothing.

“Damn it.”

“Icarus!”

Not the first time Sister Mary-Therese scolded me for bad language. The belt already squeezing my heart tightened a notch as I realized it might be the last.

“Sorry, sister, but I don’t have money for the bus.” I looked at the moth lying motionless on my palm. “I can’t lose you and her in the same day.”

“I know she’s important to you. Check again.”

I looked at her for a second and then dug deep with my free hand and came out with a crumpled five--more than enough for my bus fare. To the best of my knowledge, disembodied spirits and near-dead insects ride for free.

“Okay.” A sliver of hope lifted my spirits. “Let’s find a bus stop.”

She followed me. “Where are we going?”

“Toy store.”

Raphael had saved me there. Maybe he could help Poe.

We headed left down the block and found a bus shelter packed with commuters checking their watches, tapping their feet--good indication a bus was due soon, perhaps overdue. I stood away from the impatient crowd, checking Poe every few seconds and feeling useless. Sister Mary-Therese’s spirit stood close, hand hooked through my arm, likely more to support me emotionally than her physically as I fidgeted and searched expectantly for an on-coming bus.

Five minutes later, the bus pulled up with a squeak of over-worked brakes and a cloud of diesel fumes. The doors shushed open and the crowd filed on in the kind of orderly chaos reserved for bus stops, subway stations and airports. We got on last, standing mid-way down the bus, close to the exit doors. I didn’t know how close the bus would get us to our destination, but at least it was headed the right direction. As we pulled away from the curb, I resisted the urge to speak to Sister Mary-Therese. Enough people cast me odd looks for carrying around a dead bug, I didn’t need to be seen talking to myself, too.

The bus hit every stop, letting people off or crowding more commuters on; my concern for Poe grew every time the door slid open. The moth didn’t move--no flutter of a wing or twitch of an antenna. Her condition filled me with so much anxiety, I almost didn’t notice the woman staring at me from a seat at the front of the bus.

She was beautiful: mid-forties with thick, black hair bordering on wild, angular chin, high cheek bones and dark eyes suggesting Slavic descent. Every time my gaze strayed away then returned, she still looked at me, eyes intense, expression placid. I shuffled my feet uncomfortably, examined the moth in my hand. I started to ask Sister Mary-Therese’s opinion of the woman but stopped when I noticed the nun staring back at her. Someone pulled the cord requesting a stop and the bell distracted me, pulling my gaze out the window. The bus glided past a carved wooden sign proclaiming ‘99 Red Balloons.’

We couldn’t possibly be here yet.

The door opened and I jostled my way through the forest of riders without looking to see if the sister followed. As a spirit, doors didn’t mean much to her.

With the sidewalk under my feet and Sister Mary-Therese at my elbow, I watched the bus pull away, mesmerized by the dark-haired woman. She stared out the window at us and I stared back, watching the back of the bus as it disappeared down the block.

Something about her. Something--

“Icarus.”

Sister Mary-Therese’s spirit tugged at my elbow and the weight of reality crashed in on me. Cradling moth-Poe close to my chest, we hurried to the toy store, the little brass bell jingling gaily as the door swung open. A few children milled about bouncing balls or pushing a wooden train on its wooden tracks while mothers chatted idly near the cashier. I glanced from one face to the next, looking for an angelic glow to help me with Poe, to take Sister Mary-Therese to her final destination, but only normal, living people filled the shop. We rushed by the shelves filled with games and puzzles, dolls and stuffed animals, heading for the back room, ignoring the store patrons’ questioning looks. As long as the young woman behind the counter didn’t call the police to report the crazy, moth-carrying man running through her store, we should be all right.

I spilled through the door into the back room, the sister’s spirit following close behind. Even through Raphael’s heavenly luster, my impression of the room was correct, the boxes and file cabinets placed exactly how I expected. The calendar on the wall above the desk was turned to May, 1982, and showed a picture of a blond angel with cherubic cheeks and white robes, a long golden horn pressed to his lips as he floated amongst pillowy clouds. Other than the style of clothing and the ridiculous trumpet, the man sitting in the chair at the desk might have modeled for the painting. The thought of an angelic pin-up calendar made me feel a little queasy, unless they asked Gabe, of course.

“Help,” I said, breathless with anxiety rather than exertion. “We need your help.”

With white hair and blue eyes, he may or may not have been one of the angels I’d met before. It was damned hard telling the lesser angels apart. He rose from the chair, eyes flickering like wind across a clear lake.

“What’s happened?” he asked in the angelic multi-voice. Their speech was difficult to understand in the way the unpracticed have a hard time deciphering the words of a three-year-old.

“It’s Poe. She’s hurt.”

His gaze fell on the crushed moth in my hand before he looked up and nodded at the Sister.

“This is an unscheduled delivery.”

“I don’t need a fucking appointment,” I snapped. It would have been far more satisfying if he’d reacted. His lack of response made me angrier. “You have to help her.”

The man in white stepped past me and took Sister Mary-Therese by the hand, leading her away. I grasped his arm, but he slipped away like a snake dipped in grease. The spot where he held the sister’s hand glowed amber, the light spreading up her arm.

“For you, we will make an exception, Mary,” the angel said.

“Where are you going? She needs your help.” I extended my hand for him to see Poe’s crushed body, her torn wings. My anger turned to desperation. “You have to save her. Please.”

He faced me at the same infuriatingly deliberate pace as all angels, and regarded the moth. After a second, he looked into my eyes and I felt I could have slipped into their blueness if I wasn’t careful.

“You have naught but a moth, Icarus Fell.”

“No, it’s Poe, my guardian angel.” As I spoke, his words sank in, resonating in my head. “Do something.”

He shook his head. The glow emanating from him and the Sister brightened to the point I wished I’d brought sunglasses.

“She’s gone,” he said without emotion.

I looked down at the moth, surprised by the tears overflowing my eyes. My vision doubled, blurring the room and the moth in my hand. I blinked them back and, when I looked up, Sister Mary-Therese stared at me, her expression more joyous and serene than I’d ever seen anywhere outside a Renaissance painting.

“Thank you, Icarus. Trust everything will be all right.”

“Wait, Sister,” I said taking a step toward them. “Who was the woman on the bus?”

The glow flowed down her legs, brightening as it enveloped her body completely, smearing her features in a ball of light. She answered as they disappeared, the light dimming, her words hanging in the air as her outline faded.

“She was your mother.”

A second later, only the curious angel smell that reminded me of fresh baking remained. My mind whirled. Sister Mary-Therese, the one person left in the world I could count on, was gone; the mother I’d never met showed up on a bus; a minor demon crushed my guardian angel under the heel of his boot. Shitty day.

I grabbed an empty shoe box from atop a filing cabinet and laid the moth’s body inside, unable to bear the idea of simply throwing the remains in the garbage. This wasn’t Poe, not anymore, but it still felt wrong to unceremoniously dispose of her last earthly vessel. I put the box on the bottom level of a set of rusted metal shelves, a place where a thick layer of dust suggested things remained undisturbed for long periods of time, then sat cross-legged on the floor to say a silent good-bye.

What happens to angels when they die?

I didn’t know but hoped they went somewhere nice. Or maybe it finally ended. Maybe becoming an angel was the ultimate reward and nothing lay beyond. For Poe’s sake, I hoped for more. She deserved better than this, deserved better than me.

I sat a while, sorting through the tornado of thoughts spinning around my head. One kept finding its way to the surface, persistent and urgent: too many people had died needlessly because of me, and I refused to let it happen anymore.

“Thanks for everything, Poe,” I murmured as I pushed myself up and headed for the door. Somewhere out there my son was in danger.

I’d die again before letting anything happen to him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Seeing my mother’s ghost on the bus left me feeling raw.

I imagined what she must have gone through as I figured out how to get to Rae’s place. Did she try to convince them Azrael was the father of her child? And, if so, did they think her a liar or crazy?

Rae’s was too far to walk and I suffered no inclination to bus it again. It wasn’t exactly a rule of mine, but hanging out somewhere you’ve seen your long-deceased mother seemed a bad idea: enough dead people were already dropping in and out of my life for my liking, thank you very much. All other options ruled out, I found myself on the top floor of a parkade, searching out the car least likely to have an alarm or one of those bastardly devices designed to cut the ignition when you boosted it. Of course, I’d never hot-wired a car in my life. No time like the present.

I chose an older Honda Civic, vintage circa 1992. Good, reliable car and, if I remembered my statistics, consistently one of the most commonly stolen vehicles. Had to be for a reason.

Getting in proved simple enough: an elbow through the rear window gets you into most cars. I cringed as it shattered, waiting to see if someone spent more money to install an alarm than the car was worth. They hadn’t. I reached through and unlocked the front door, surprised to see the rear window’s safety glass beaded up on the seat with few sharp edges, as advertised. Maybe you could trust a couple of things car salesmen said. Not much, but some.

I jumped into the seat, knees slamming the steering column. Someone much shorter than me owned this car. I fished under the seat for the lever to move it back and found it behind my right knee, the farthest spot from the door.

Who designs these things?

The seat slid back with a clunk and I stared at the steering wheel for a second, rubbing my pained knees and doing my best to recall every car-theft movie I’d seen:
The Fast and the Furious
,
Gone in 60 Seconds.
How’d they do it? First of all, they didn’t stare at the steering wheel, feeling guilty about breaking into the car. If memory served, the usual method involved popping out the ignition cylinder with a screwdriver and touching two wires together. A couple of small problems: no screwdriver and no idea which wires.

“Shit.”

The car horn chirrped with the impact of my palms slamming against the steering wheel in frustration. I felt seconds ticking by in my head, each one bringing the demonic priest closer to my son. I grabbed the wheel, squeezed until my knuckles went white, and closed my eyes, focusing my thoughts on the current problem.

How do I start the car? What do I do to get it running?

The engine coughed and started.

My eyes snapped open and I glanced around thinking someone played a trick on me with one of those remote starters. Still alone. The engine sputtered and the rpm dipped, so I toed the accelerator and made the little car roar. Apparently, I’d thought the car to life.

Maybe this job held more benefits than I realized.