The Wrong Enemy Page 12

“Do you think I haven’t?”

  Voriah said, “Then we pray together.”

  Rachmiel checked on Elizabeth one more time and then he and Voriah opened up, inviting God into their hearts. Voriah backed off as Rachmiel presented his question to God, and then waited. At first, peace filled him, and at that moment he knew that no matter what he decided to do about Tabris, he always would be cherished. Even if no answer came, this was enough, and Rachmiel projected his thanks.

  Behind him, Voriah pushed the question.

  But for an hour or so—what did time mean with God?—Rachmiel bathed in that attention and let himself return the love poured over him. There were no words, just him and his Creator, with Rachmiel so, so glad to be near Him.

  And then, although Rachmiel had forgotten the question, God said, Compassion, son of Love, will you serve me?

  No words would have sufficed. “Always” and “Absolutely” would have fallen short of the assent that burst from Rachmiel’s heart.

  God smiled, and Rachmiel drew closer to Him.

  In his heart, Rachmiel felt answers:

  Be patient.

  Tabris needed him to be strong.

  Tabris needed him to be trustworthy.

  Rachmiel assented. Of course he wanted all these things too. But God continued:

  Tabris was by no means out of danger.

  A spike of cold stabbed through Rachmiel. Danger. There was only one danger for an angel.

  God continued with one final instruction: Before Tabris could be safe again, Rachmiel would have to love him.

  The chill went all the way through Rachmiel. But he killed Sebastian!

  God said, Loving him doesn’t mean approving of what he did.

  Rachmiel’s heart hammered. I have a child to protect!

  God replied, I need to protect My child too.

  Rachmiel curled over himself, aching. Voriah drew near and helped Rachmiel open up again to apologize.

  I’ll try,” Rachmiel promised. But he’s not making it easy for me to like him. I don’t think he likes himself anymore. He won’t even accept Your love.

  God replied, I need you to love him for me, as me, until he’ll come to me again.

  If God had asked Rachmiel to move the Pacific Ocean to Jupiter with a slotted tablespoon, Rachmiel would have found a way. In fact, he wished God had asked that instead. The earlier communication, though: Tabris is by no means out of danger. Forgiveness meant nothing if you didn’t ask for it—less if you didn’t accept it. God could unlock the cell door, but the soul had to step out of prison.

  The Holy Spirit churned over Rachmiel and through him, the pieces fitting together in His wake: patience, because it couldn’t happen now, but God also had time; strength, because God was asking something tremendous, and yet Rachmiel had been the one angel in all Creation He’d asked it of; trust, because God had gifts to give, and Rachmiel didn’t have to struggle alone.

  More than that: he should be ready; he needed to be ready to respond.

  Grasping to regain the calm he’d lost, Rachmiel flailed until Voriah’s touch grounded him. The Spirit wrapped him in warmth, and Rachmiel let the emotions recede from him like the tide over a beach, each wave leaving the sand smooth in its wake, until he’d come back to himself. The moon had set. The sky began brightening, and Rachmiel returned to Elizabeth.

  Twelve

  On the first clear Saturday of the spring, the Hayes family had a picnic. The boys played Frisbee with Andrew while Mithra studied how the Frisbee’s spin made it more dynamic. Connie and Bridget set up food on a red picnic table that had chips gouged from the paint and pale shoots of grass forcing itself awake under the benches.

  Elizabeth read a book beneath an apple tree, Rachmiel at her side reading it with her. Images from the book filled his head, and he lay like a filter on her imagination, catching the ideas and emphasizing what was good.

  A wingspan away, Miriael bowed before Tabris. “I’ve just given you a mortal insult.”

  “How awful.” Grinning, Tabris called his sword to his side. “I suppose I’ll have to battle you to defend my honor.”

  Miriael laughed out loud, and the pair took off.

  Contented by the story unfolding in his mind via Elizabeth’s imagination, Rachmiel watched Miriael and Tabris locked in combat. Although they’d started by joking, they each picked up a singular focus, like Michael and Lucifer. As often as they’d sparred since Tabris’s arrival, Rachmiel had never watched them in action. Miriael had mentioned his work prior to guarding Kyle, but it had never occurred to Rachmiel to think about the combat he’d seen.

  The two of them broke apart to gather themselves. Miriael called, “I’m pretty sure that can’t have made up for the severity of the aspersions I cast upon—”

  Tabris interrupted by renewing the attack.

  Miriael’s charge Kyle jumped his brother Martin, unnoticed by Miriael. Rachmiel checked on Elizabeth, but she was still concentrating on her book.

  The “sound” of spiritual battle echoed off the hills, not clangs and crashes as much as a death-like intent radiating for miles around. By now, both angels’ swords were in flames, and they trailed light wherever they struck. Several angels showed up, armed.

  One of the outsider angels said, “Isn’t that—”

  “Yes,” said Rachmiel. “It’s friendly fire.”

  The newcomers stayed. Rachmiel couldn’t tell from their projections whether they thought Tabris might pose an actual threat, or whether they just wanted to watch a duel between two highly-skilled angels.

  Elizabeth put down her book, staring at Kyle and Martin’s wrestling match.

  Hadriel said, “Should we stop them?”

  Josai’el said, “Let them finish.”

  Voriah flashed up close to Rachmiel. “You could never defend Elizabeth against that.”

  “Then you’d better pray I don’t have to.”

  After ten minutes it was apparent to everyone that the pair was evenly matched. By now they knew each other’s styles and could anticipate one another’s moves, so they might fight for hours before either made a slip in judgment that would cost him the battle. Surrounding Elizabeth and drawing off as much restlessness as he could, Rachmiel realized winning wasn’t the point. Ending the match too quickly would be a shame; they wanted combat for the sake of combat.

  Voriah said, “Was Tabris a soldier?”

  “Yes. And a good one,” Mithra said.

  Rachmiel leaned forward, watching Tabris’s style, the spareness of his motions, the way he never left an opening. Tabris’s awareness was focused not only on Miriael, but also spread out over the entire field so that the breeze, the clouds, the motion of the tree limbs all contributed to the fight. If Miriael flashed to another location, Tabris reacted with a speed Rachmiel had to call instinct, and Rachmiel wondered if Tabris was fully conscious of all his moves. The control said yes. The speed said no.

  “He’s amazing,” he whispered. And to Mithra, “Did you and he ever fight together?”

  Mithra assented. Rachmiel felt Mithra direct his thoughts to the power behind every strike.

  Tabris landed a blow on Miriael, and Rachmiel flinched at the force.

  Sebastian, on the other end of that, would have been blown to pieces. No chance. No chance whatsoever.

  Power went out from Tabris to Miriael, who remained in position a moment before a crack resounded across the field, and Miriael charged.

  Mithra leaned forward. “Ooh! Nice!”

  “What was that?”

  “Tabris pinned him. It’s like a Guard, where your will keeps someone out of a space. This is more like a fishhook: you can keep someone anchored to one spot so he can’t run away.”

  Rachmiel straightened. “That’s what you did to Katra’il.”

  Mithra nodded.

  Voriah said, “It sounded like Miriael broke it.”

  “Oh, they can be broken, but a demon who’s trying to run won’t normally move toward the one he’s trying t
o run from. Miriael broke it by moving toward him instead of trying to escape.” Mithra folded his arms. “I’ll show you how to do it later.”

  The game ended when three demons arrived to investigate. Tabris and Miriael changed focus to drive them away. Battle-warmed, within seconds they forced the demons to run.

  Josai’el flashed between the pair before they could regroup. “Miriael! Look at Kyle!”

  Miriael’s eyes rounded, and he flashed to Kyle and Martin, streaming apologies to Josai’el.

  “And Tabris—” Josai’el said, turning to him.

  But Tabris had already flashed to Elizabeth, dropping to his knees and wrapping arms and wings around her. Rachmiel projected reassurance, but he felt Tabris taking himself to task. An image flared in his mind: Sebastian’s mother refraining from wine while pregnant because of the life within. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Sparring while she was awake was unprofessional. We won’t do that again.”

  Josai’el returned to Bridget.

  Tabris put his head against Elizabeth, frowning.

  In the silence that followed the reprimand, Rachmiel said, “You were very good. I never watched you fight before.”

  Tabris snapped, “For all the good it did Elizabeth.”

  The family continued their picnic once the boys had finished their wrestling match. Elizabeth returned to her book. Katra’il summoned her guitar, made from her soul’s substance the way Tabris’s and Miriael’s swords were fashioned from theirs, and she played Tarrega’s Recuerdos de la Alhambra. Hadriel and Mithra formed a light sculpture, calling up a solid block of light and then spinning it as though it were pottery on the wheel; wherever they touched it, the light changed color and shape. Rachmiel watched their sculpture altering as it spun, and he extended his fingers to graze the outside, leaving a swath of orange. Listless, Tabris remained alongside Elizabeth.

  Rachmiel called him. “Do you want to try this?”

  Tabris looked right at him, and Rachmiel felt what Tabris wasn’t saying: Light shouldn’t be dirty.

  “You’re welcome to try,” said Rachmiel, but Tabris focused away. Fragments of anger clung to him, but Rachmiel wasn’t sure at whom.

  When Connie gathered everyone to eat, the angels pulled in their wings and bowed their heads while Andrew said grace for the family. Then the children began squabbling over how many hot dogs they deserved and who got the only can of orange soda.

  Tabris retreated from the noise, looking at the tree crowns where birds had begun building nests.

  Rachmiel was about to call him when power washed over the field. All eight angels turned toward Jesus where he’d appeared. Seven of them bowed; Tabris had thrown himself to the ground.

  Josai’el said, “My Lord.”

  Jesus stood before Tabris, looking at him in silence. Rachmiel moved closer, hands clasped at his chest and wings trembling. Love him, God had said during prayer, and he hadn’t. Had Tabris run out of time because of him...? But surely God wouldn’t have given Rachmiel instructions for helping Tabris only to end his probation now with fire.

  Jesus said, “Tabris.”

  Rachmiel’s spirit twanged like an overtight violin string. The cold light in Jesus’s eyes was nothing Rachmiel wanted to see directed at himself, ever, nor at Elizabeth. It was hard enough standing near Tabris when his Lord looked so angry. But Jesus sent him reassurance, and Rachmiel tried to unkey himself. Voriah appeared at Rachmiel’s back.

  Tabris drew up to his knees, but he kept his arms crossed over his chest. He bowed his head.

  Jesus said, “You haven’t expressed any concern about Sebastian.”

  Tabris pulled his wings tighter to his back.

  “It’s time you visited him.”

  Tabris’s head snapped up. “No!”

  Amplifying Tabris’s own emotions, Rachmiel was speaking before he realized. “He’s not ready!”

  Jesus looked at Rachmiel, and Tabris said, “I can’t.”

  Rachmiel dropped to his knees, unsure if it was worship or weakness. “Please don’t force him. Don’t give an ultimatum.” Tabris’s desperation had grown to a whine in his mind; it hurt to think. Options. He needed options. He needed space to figure out what to do. Tabris’s distress had shot up through Elizabeth (mercifully too young to feel what she conducted) and out her heart into Rachmiel, who formed it up as the loss of everything valuable, everything but God torn away—and maybe God too. Maybe even Him.

  Rachmiel raised his wings. “My Lord, send me instead.”

  Tabris cringed.

  But if Rachmiel could stand in his place, it made sense. If someone had to visit the boy, it could be him. He could prepare the way. Buy Tabris more time.

  Behind him, Voriah said, “Please. Have mercy.”

  Rachmiel could feel the prayers of the other household angels, and laced around them, a sensation he could feel only because it backwashed through Elizabeth: Tabris’s fear. Not fear of God. Fear of the household angels. Their loyalty frightened him more than condemnation.

  Rachmiel pumped strength into Elizabeth, hoping it would overflow into Tabris.

  Jesus said, “Why are you doing this?”

  Rachmiel closed his eyes. “Please. He needs more time.”

  “Sebastian needs him.”

  Rachmiel closed his eyes. “Let me be Tabris to Sebastian. I’ll stand in his place. Please. You’re all-powerful and all-knowing. You must know some way I can help.”

  A long pause. Then Jesus said, “Granted. Rachmiel, you can visit Sebastian for now. Tabris?” His voice sharpened. “He’s won more time for you, but you need to face Sebastian eventually. Use it well.”

  Tabris closed his eyes.

  Jesus looked back at Rachmiel, who shook with relief. “Tonight I’ll send a messenger for you. Thank you.” He vanished.

  Those parting words—thank you—as if Rachmiel had done him a favor. They made no sense. God had done him a favor. Done Tabris a favor. God had told him to be ready to respond, and Rachmiel hadn’t done anything more than asked.

  Across the field, the family was eating potato salad and pretzels, talking about the NCAA basketball tournament and other important things.

  Thirteen

  Rachmiel didn’t have long to be nervous that night: a messenger angel came for him as soon as Elizabeth fell asleep. The white-winged angel bowed, projecting that he would escort him to Sebastian.

  The messenger scanned for Tabris. He wouldn’t find him: Tabris had made sure he was out of the house the moment Elizabeth turned off her light. The messenger projected a question to Rachmiel, who opened his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  The other angel frowned, and Rachmiel felt his scorn. Stray ideas: replacements; murder; lack of love.

  Looking down, Rachmiel bit back a rejoinder. Let the other angel think what he would. He only said, “If he didn’t love Sebastian, I think he would have gone immediately.”

  The messenger angel blinked, second guesses clouding his eyes.

  Second guesses. Rachmiel had been enduring a lot of those on his own, uncertain whether Tabris would be angry with him for going (although to be fair, there hadn’t seemed any choice) and then wondering whether he shouldn’t have let God force the issue. Tabris might not have persisted in refusing if refusal meant Hell, and maybe Sebastian did need to see him. Maybe he needed to see Sebastian.

  As Elizabeth had brushed her teeth, Rachmiel had said, “Do you have anything you want me to tell him for you?” and Tabris had said no.

  No. Just no, like Connie telling Andrew she didn’t need anything from the store. It didn’t feel right to leave it at that. “I could say you want him to forgive you,” Rachmiel had added, and Tabris had only said, “I would prefer you didn’t mention me at all.”

  As if that would be possible. Sebastian would have questions. A thousand questions.

  The other angel flashed Rachmiel to a grassy field. Limbo. Nearby they could see two figures, and they walked in that direction.

/>   On the sloped terrain, Rachmiel felt a stabbing homesickness for Heaven. As Heaven’s outer layer, Limbo resembled it in so many ways: the distant mountains, the air so clean it could mesh with his own essence and remain tinged with angelic spirit for a few minutes. Rachmiel could sense other angel-human pairs at a distance, individuals completing their development before presenting themselves before God. Their guardians would know what they needed and spend the time productively.

  Tabris could have done the same for Sebastian. For the first time, Rachmiel wondered why keeping the pair together was such a bad idea.

  “Sebastian’s caregiver is Casifer,” said the messenger. “He’s been given charge over the boy’s upbringing until he’s ready to enter Heaven.”

  Remembering the other angels’ speculation about the child having committed a capital crime, Rachmiel said, “What’s holding him back?”

  “Casifer will fill you in, but he’s got plenty of company, and he’s happy.” A bird passed overhead, and the messenger watched the path of its flight. “He knows Casifer isn’t his original guardian, and he knows what happened, but he doesn’t know about Tabris or Tabris’s name.”

  Yeah, that would be a recipe for mutual misery, if the boy were able to repeatedly summon Tabris while the ex-guardian refused to respond.

  “He’s still wearing the body of a twelve-year-old, but at some point Casifer will teach him to modulate his appearance.”

  The angels crested the final hill before meeting Sebastian, and Rachmiel gasped as he saw—Tabris!

  It had to be Tabris, only he wasn’t. He was much younger, his spirit not weighed with the experience of eons. Physically, he was shorter, stockier, less athletic, and of course he had no wings. He still bore an adolescent off-balance Rachmiel had seen come and go in each of Elizabeth’s older brothers, when they began growing faster than their minds could adjust to their bodies.

  In every other way, the resemblance gave Rachmiel shivers. It was the soul that resembled Tabris exactly, as though God had photocopied the angel, reduced him in size, and inserted him into a human frame.

  The boy’s eyes glimmered with the same depth Tabris’s had, and he kept his face under the same control—a practiced blankness. Confronted by this imitation, Rachmiel found himself attempting to read the boy the same way he read Tabris all the time, ready to either help Tabris or protect Elizabeth from him.