The Siren (11 page)

I giggled. “Are you going to go to confession?”

Warren’s fingers found the knot in my bathing suit ties at the back of my neck. He worked the strings loose and smiled as the straps came down. “Maybe, and I might have a few more things to add to the list before morning.”

8.

In all my life, I had attended church exactly three times. It was an impressive—or sad—record, considering I grew up in a town with a steeple on about every street corner. I went once with my mom’s sister around Christmas, once for Easter because the Presbyterians were having an egg hunt, and once because a distant cousin was being baptized. None of those churches were Catholic. All I knew about Catholicism was what I learned from television: they had a Pope, they liked Mother Mary, they were allowed to drink alcohol, and priests wore white collars and black suits.
 

The nicest outfit I had packed was a floral sundress with spaghetti straps. I guessed it was hardly appropriate for church, but I was certain it was better than blue jeans. I was slipping on my flip-flops when Warren walked out of the bathroom. A cloud of steam rolled through the door with him, like his own personal stage production. I half-expected spotlights and the sound of angels singing.

“You look great,” I said. He was in dark jeans that clung to all the right muscle groups and a simple, black button-up shirt. I scrunched up my nose. “But I’m afraid you’re going to burn up in the sun.”

“It’s Texas. I’m going to burn up regardless.” He walked over and tugged on the hem of my dress. “You look cute.”

“Thanks. Are you ready to go?”

He looked a little nervous. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Outside the hotel, directly across the busy street, was the stone face of the Alamo. I pointed to it as Warren took my hand. “You know, it still doesn’t seem right that the Alamo is in the middle of the city. You think Alamo, you think desert.”

He laughed, squinting his eyes against the sun as he slipped on his black sunglasses. “I think Alamo and I think of rental cars and steak houses.”
 

It was going to be another hot day in Texas. I thought of the swimming pool on our roof. “What do you want to do this afternoon?”
 

He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Go disembowel that guy we saw last night.”

“Well, that’s gruesome.” I shuddered at the thought of the night before. “That was such an awful feeling. I wonder who he is.”

“I don’t know who he is, but I have an idea of what he’s up to,” he said.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to know. Let’s talk about something else. We could go look for Rachel Smith this afternoon. At least cruise through the area around the convenience store and see if anything looks interesting.”

“We can if you want,” he said. “I wonder how long the service will last.”

“I have no clue,” I said. “I’ve never attended Mass before.”

“I’ve never been inside of any church that I can remember,” he admitted.

I looked up at him with wide eyes. “I wonder if you might burst into flames.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The San Fernando Cathedral was impressive. Two high, Gothic-style stone pillars were adorned with crosses on each side and weathered by three hundred years of Texas sunshine. In the middle, there were three arched, heavy wooden doorways that sat below circular windows framed in peaks that resembled royal crowns. There was certainly nothing architecturally comparable to it in the mountains of Asheville. It looked like it belonged on a hill in Italy, not at the corner of Main and South Flores in downtown San Antonio, Texas. A sign out front stated the church had been founded in 1738, and it was the oldest church in the state.
 

We followed a group of people inside. Mass was already in progress. A choir was singing with a piano at the front of the elaborate sanctuary. One soprano was slightly off-key and singing a little bit louder than the rest. The song was in Spanish, or maybe it was Latin. I wasn’t enough of an expert in either language to be sure.
 

There were no seats left in the pews, so Warren and I stood with the other latecomers in the back of the room. The inside of the church was long and narrow with a high arched ceiling and massive arched columns dividing the room in thirds with the main section straight down the middle. The middle section ended at the far end of the sanctuary with a podium in front of the largest crucifix I had ever seen. Jesus was crucified between enough elaborate stained glass and gold leaflet to pay off my mortgage at least twice over.

Warren leaned down close to my ear. “There’s a dead body in here. Maybe more than one.”

My breath caught in my chest. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he replied.

I looked around the room. Behind a group standing in the corner was a large marble box on the wall. I tugged on his hand, and we inched our way over to it. I read the bronze plaque on the side:
Here lie the remains of Travis, Crockett, Bowie, and other Alamo heroes.

“You’re really weird,” I whispered up at Warren.

He winked. “So are you.”

When the music ended, a man in a long green robe stepped behind the podium and began to read, in what I was sure was Spanish. He was swinging an elaborate steel pot from a chain, pouring smoke in every direction. I looked at Warren. He shrugged his shoulders. I scanned the entrance way, hoping to find a
Catholic Mass for Dummies
book. The next person who got up to speak was also speaking Spanish.

I leaned over to him. “I think we’ve come to the wrong service. I can’t understand a word,” I whispered. “This is pointless.”

He motioned toward the door we had come in. “You wanna go?”
 

I nodded.

Once we were outside, I slipped on my sunglasses and shook my head. “That’s not the way the Presbyterians do church.”

He laughed and followed me across the stone courtyard. I sat down at a small metal bistro table, and he pulled a chair over next to mine. On either side of us were water fountains shooting up out of the ground like the splash pad at the Buncombe County water park. I doubted these weren’t frequented by toddlers in swimming diapers though.

He scanned the courtyard. “Well, what do you want to do now?”
 

I looked up at the elaborate building. “This was a complete bust. I really wanted to talk to a priest or something.” I also felt a little defeated that I didn’t last more than five minutes in church.

“Do you want to wait till the service is over and try to find someone? Maybe they have people you can talk to when it’s over.”

I shrugged and slumped my shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s a long time to sit here and wait in the hot sun.”

A large shadow crept over our table. “May I help you?” a man behind us asked.

I turned to see an old man with thick glasses and a dentured smile that was as welcoming as it was contagious. His bald head was covered in sunspots, several of which came together to perfectly form an outline of South America. He was wearing a black suit with a white collar, and a gold cross dangled around his wrinkled neck.
 

I smiled and jerked my thumb toward the cathedral. “Do you work here?”
 

“I have been here for many more years than I can count. May I be of some assistance? You seem a little lost.” He was supporting himself on the back of an empty chair.

“I don’t want to trouble you if you’re busy.” I squinted up at him against the sunlight which seemed to form a halo around him. “I had some questions.”

He nodded to the table. “May I join you?”

“Please.” I slid my chair away from the table a few inches.

Warren rose from his seat and pulled out a chair for the priest. The old man grimaced as he eased down into the chair as if every joint between his head and his toes ached with age and arthritis. He had to be pushing ninety. Warren sat back down next to me and leaned his elbows on the table.
 

Behind the priest’s coke-bottle-thick lenses, his eyes were fascinating. They were brown, but the right eye seemed to be split down the middle. Half of it was brown, the other half green.
 

I offered him my hand and he shook it. “My name is Sloan. This is my boyfriend, Warren. We are down here visiting from North Carolina.”

He smiled. “North Carolina is a beautiful state. I love the mountains there. I haven’t been in some time, but it is a spectacular piece of God’s handiwork, particularly this time of year.” He chuckled a bit like Santa Claus. “Not to mention it’s a lot cooler there than here.”

I laughed and nodded my head. “That’s for sure. Can I ask your name?”

“Father John Michaels, but I am old and nontraditional with no need for formalities. You can call me John if you’d like.” He had lowered his voice like he was telling us a great secret.

“Father John, can you tell me anything about angels?” I asked.

He studied my face for a moment and then suddenly broke into laughter. “Most questions I get are about Mass or Jesus or Mary.”

I laughed. “Well, I have lots of questions about Mass as well. They really need a cheat sheet in there.”
 

He smiled. “I agree. What would you like to know about angels?”

“Do you think they are real?” I asked.

“Of course I do.” He chuckled again and folded his hands over his belly.

“Are they here on Earth? Like, could they be walking around here with us?” I asked, gesturing with my hand toward the courtyard.

He nodded. “Absolutely. The Bible makes that very clear. The book of Hebrews, chapter thirteen verse two, reminds us to ‘not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.’”

“Really?” I looked over at Warren and then at the priest. “Here’s a weird question.” I hesitated for a moment. “Do you know if they can have children? Or maybe reproduce with humans?”

He considered my query. “I believe so, though some others in The Church do not. The Old Testament, the book of Genesis specifically, speaks of the Nephilim, who were the children born to the sons of God and the daughters of men. However, it has been greatly debated that they were the actual offspring of angels.”

Warren leaned toward him. “Do you know anything about Azrael?”

The priest’s eyes widened. “Azrael is not mentioned in the Christian Bible, but in other texts, Azrael is said to be an angel of death. The Bible does speak of an angel of death, but he is not named. I believe Azrael is derived from the teachings of Judaism and, perhaps, Islam.”

Warren nodded and looked off into the distance.

“You’ve studied up on this quite a lot, haven’t you?” I asked.

He smiled and spread his hands on the table. “I admit I’ve always had a touch of fascination with the angelic.” He looked between us. “May I ask what has stirred your curiosity on the subject?”
 

Warren and I exchanged glances. I scrambled for an answer. “We have a friend who we believe could have some kind of supernatural gifts. We were curious as to where those gifts might have come from. Does that sound crazy?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, dear. It doesn’t sound crazy at all. God puts us all here with different gifts and abilities to further His kingdom.”

I was skeptical. “What if our friend doesn’t share your beliefs about God’s kingdom?” I was a little afraid of his answer. “What if she’s not sure God even exists at all?”

He smiled and lowered his voice again. “God is still God, despite what we believe about him.”
 

Warren chuckled.
 

I reached for the old man’s wrinkled hand. “Thank you, Father John. You don’t know how helpful you’ve been.”

He squeezed my fingers. “It is my pleasure. I will pray you find the answers you seek.” He smiled warmly and sunlight glistened off his glasses. “And remember, even if you don’t believe in God, he still believes in you. Ask and you shall receive. Seek and you shall find. Knock and the door will be opened unto you.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I smiled as if I did and stood up.

“Thank you,” Warren said. He shook the priest’s hand and then helped him to his feet.

I smiled at Father John. “I’m glad we stopped by, even if we didn’t understand a thing about Mass. I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

Warren put his hand on my back as we turned to leave. Church bells rang out from the cathedral tower, disturbing a flock of black birds.

“Sloan.” The priest grabbed my arm, pulling us to a stop.

We turned toward him.

“I feel like I should give you a word of caution,” he said. “Not all angels are good. The fallen angels of Heaven were banished here to Earth when they rebelled against God. If you are on a quest seeking angels, take great care. Even Satan himself masquerades as an angel of the light.”

9.

“Well, that was terrifying.” I was laughing as we crossed the street but didn’t exactly think it was funny. “I’ve got my hands full worrying about murderers and child molesters. Now I’ve got to worry about Satan himself?”

Warren laced his fingers with mine. “A lot of what he said seems to fit with your theory.”
 

“Yeah. Maybe it’s true then,” I said.

“How do we know for sure though?” he asked.

“I think finding Rachel Smith would be a good start,” I answered.

He laughed. “Unless she’s as clueless as we are.”

“True.”

He patted his flat stomach. “I’m getting hungry.”

I nodded. “Me too. I wonder what Nathan and Shannon are doing.”

My cell phone buzzed in my hand. I looked at the screen. Of course, it was a message from Nathan.

Warren looked down at my phone and shook his head. “That’s still pretty creepy.”
 

“I know.” I read Nathan’s message aloud. “Having lunch at the pool. Where are you guys? Did Warren get struck by lightning when he walked into church?” I laughed.

“Jerk,” Warren grumbled.

I looked up and tugged on his hand. “Do you want to have lunch at the pool and cool off for a bit in this heat? I know you must be sweltering in that black shirt.”