The Wrong Enemy Read online

  And once that meeting had ended, Rachmiel had been sent to fetch him, the boys’ guardians had dispersed, and the guardians of the three elders had remained to discuss how you handle a threat God orders you not to send away. Apparently you bring it into the living room and introduce it to everyone, and then wait for a speech.

  Tabris shivered. “Thanks for taking me in.” His voice sounded thin, but he thought it was expected, and he could never let his guard down, never let himself forget this community of angels was doing him a favor.

  Josai’el embraced him, and he allowed her. “Welcome, Tabris. We’re glad to have you.”

  Three

  Josai’el’s first impulse had been that one more angel meant that much more strength against demonic attacks. Her second thought came right on the heels of the first, and that was the one she held onto: Tabris needed them. A heady thought, that one. Of all the families on Earth, God chose hers as the best stronghold for a wounded angel.

  The whole story felt like a disaster. The instant Tabris had arrived beside Raguel, his pain had overwhelmed her. Worse, when Rachmiel had towed their new member back from the outside, she’d sensed that despite his best resolutions, Rachmiel had been harsh. A wingspan before her, Tabris had stood with the hollowest expression she’d ever seen on an angel, and the impulse to embrace him had been so strong. The damage of the past twenty-four hours was etched onto his face, especially his eyes, and Josai’el wondered how many other signs she hadn’t recognized.

  With the family due to awaken soon, she invited Mithra and Tabris to accompany her on a survey of the house. “You have to know the place since you’ll be working here.”

  The others remained silent while she led them from room to room, introducing the human inhabitants (but allowing Mithra to introduce his charge.) Tabris couldn’t possibly be retaining all the names and relationships, but he’d piece it together during daily interactions. She brought them outside, showing him the limits of the property, then detailing the places she loved and the spots most likely to hide demons.

  Outdoors again, Tabris stood a bit freer. “It’s a far cry from suburbia.” His voice was low, restrained. He flexed his wings and craned his neck toward the cold expanse of the predawn sky.

  Josai’el said, “The Hayes family has lived here over two centuries. Bridget was born in the master bedroom of this house.”

  Mithra did a perfect imitation of her voice. “Andrew was born in room 302 of the city hospital.”

  She made a face at him, and he laughed.

  “How far is the city?” Tabris asked.

  Mithra pointed south. “About fifteen miles, but we don’t go often. Elizabeth’s school is in town.”

  Tabris began to speak, then stopped. They continued walking while Josai’el wondered whether she ought to press him or give him breathing room. Mithra remained quiet, and because he’d known Tabris longer, she followed his lead.

  At the woodshed, a hiss stopped all three. “Tab-riss!”

  Tabris and Mithra whirled instantly, manifesting their swords from their own soul-material. Even brighter than the light of their weapons, Josai’el rose into the air, illuminating the field with a spiritual glow.

  “No need.” An angelic form appeared sitting on the wood pile, his sharp shadow jolting where it passed over split logs. “I’ll show myself. Tabris and I go way back. You’re my pal. Tell them.”

  Tabris said, “Zeffar.”

  “I go by another name now. You can call me Accuser.”

  As Tabris trembled, Josai’el moved closer. “You’re not wanted. Leave.”

  “Tabris missed his destiny.” Accuser drew up his knees and spread his wings. “I tried to help him along, but your Jesus sinks in his claws and never lets go, even though Tabris couldn’t have made his intentions clearer. I told Tabris to fight for his freedom, but he was too weak.”

  “Quiet,” Josai’el said. “Go.”

  The demon vanished. Mithra put away his sword, but Tabris kept his raised.

  Mithra sounded upset. “He asked for your damnation?”

  Tabris nodded.

  Mithra projected disgust, adding that Satan always sent someone to a trial. Tabris sighed, then extinguished his sword.

  Mithra turned to Josai’el. “Maybe we should go back inside.” She realized with a jolt that because of the demon, Mithra had swung to Tabris’s side. “Demons will have a harder time getting to us there.”

  Tabris shook his head. “I’d rather stay outside.”

  Josai’el said, “Then let me show you my favorite place. There’s a pond.”

  The pond turned out to be the source of the stream Tabris had discovered earlier, and she hung back while he drew nearer the water. Surrounded by trees decorated with prayers like streamers, Tabris relaxed even more, and for the first time Josai’el caught wisps of his thoughts. Brown eyes, brown hair, a boy’s laughter. Hunger for prayer. And emptiness.

  Pines and oaks mingled with willows around the water, sharing the neighborhood with shrubbery and wild strawberry plants that had lost their fruits to birds and children. Insects came in search of the angels only to pass right through them, and then, confused, resumed their feeding. A muskrat swam on the surface of the pond, then ducked under.

  Tabris’s soul vibrated as though he were very close to projecting something, but then he only spoke. “This is wonderful.”

  “Bridget likes to come here on sunny days to read or sit,” Josai’el said. “I come whenever I can to pray.”

  Mithra had approached a sleeping finch on a tree branch, so Josai’el said more softly, “Come here yourself whenever you want. Feel free to make use of everything we do.”

  “I’m still tethered.”

  “You’re not at your limit, are you?”

  “Close. My hands are numb.”

  Tabris stopped, his eyes widening as he regarded his fingers, his open palms. Josai’el caught from him a fragment of the thought—not even a day before, these hands had robbed the world of a life.

  She rested her hands on his, and Tabris’s head jerked up. She squeezed his fingers, projecting with her heart wide open, All is forgiven.

  Tabris slipped his hands from hers. “When will Elizabeth wake up?”

  Josai’el’s mouth twitched. “Soon.”

  “I should return.” Tabris glanced toward Mithra, then back to her, then off toward the house as if he couldn’t find a safe place to look. “I want to get to know her better. You understand.” And he vanished.

  Josai’el closed her eyes and clenched her hands. Because she thought she did understand.

  When Tabris appeared, Rachmiel offered a smile he didn’t return. Instead, the two-toned angel sat on the floor, near the teddy bear, and refused to look at him.

  Rachmiel burned with irritation. Good morning to you too.

  Regardless, they had to work together, so Rachmiel forged on. “I was going to call you anyway because she’ll be up in a minute.” He curled over her body and whispered, “Sleepyhead, it’s time to get up.”

  Elizabeth stretched, then rolled over beneath the blanket, and Rachmiel waited for that first waking sigh to coax a smile from Tabris. “Come on, Sleepy. It’s morning.”

  Elizabeth sat at the edge of her bed, unfocused.

  Rachmiel continued watching her, acutely aware of Tabris leaning forward, his eyes devouring her, and he hoped Tabris approved of how well he’d guarded her these last ten years.

  “She’s very sweet.” Tabris sounded hoarse.

  Rachmiel let the emotions flow from him toward Tabris, little teasers: was that all he had to say? Didn’t he have a right to be proud of her? What did he think?

  She went to the dresser to get the day’s clothes. Tabris said, “Is she small for her age?”

  Rachmiel acknowledged this, but with the caveat that her mother was slight as well. He stayed close, fussing over her as she readied for the day, and momentarily he found Tabris at his elbow, very close now to the child but keeping Rachmiel between
them.

  Elizabeth’s brush caught on a snarl, and Rachmiel adjusted it so the hair parted. “She’s the only redhead. The rest of the children are blond.”

  Tabris watched over Rachmiel’s shoulder as though bewitched. It was that look, the look Rachmiel had seen on guardians of newborns, as if they could barely comprehend why one awkward human in a world filled with millions would enthrall them so much. But in binding an angel to a human, God manifested some of His own brightness in the child’s soul, and any angel would become intoxicated by the craftsmanship of the Most High. Those intriguing interlocking pieces existed in their full form in every part of her...poised to become something. Ten years ago, the first words Rachmiel had murmured to Elizabeth had been, “Who are you going to be?” and the adventure of every day was watching the changes that would transform her. Even unperfected, her soul was glorious. Naturally Tabris would love her, maybe as much as he did. He’d figured Tabris would gush with amazement and hunger to know more about her.

  Instead, Tabris stopped himself from speaking.

  Rachmiel looked up with concern. Was something wrong?

  Tabris’s attention shifted around the room, back to the girl and then away again. He wasn’t communicating anything, but Rachmiel could feel him vibrating with tension. Finally Tabris said, “I can’t.”

  Watching Tabris was like watching sailors batten down a ship, reefing the sails that should have filled with the wind and taken them wherever God wanted. A momentary anger swelled inside, but then Rachmiel realized Tabris wasn’t being coy. In the face of a storm, you had to reef the sails or the ship got torn apart.

  Rachmiel said, “How old was Sebastian?”

  “Twelve.”

  Questions, so many questions. But how to ask them without shutting down Tabris completely? Did you love him? would be painful and redundant—or worse, what if he hadn’t? What did he look like? would have been pointless. And in the face of Rachmiel’s silence, Tabris himself stayed silent by the window.

  Tabris had trouble deciding which was worse: the day at school, surrounded by hundreds of angels whom he didn’t know but who knew about him, or the time spent with seven angels whom he expected to get to know well and who in turn would try to become close to him.

  He had no reason not to want them for friends. On principle, it would be a good idea. But these angels had accepted him as a service, and gratitude required distance. He should preserve formality at all times and say nothing unless asked. If he did that for a week or two, maybe they would stop condescending and treat him the way he deserved.

  On the drive home from school, the household angels shared notes about the day: what the children had learned, what their friends were doing, which students were absent and might be in need of health-related prayers. They took places in and atop the car, playing as only angels can, perfectly reckless with their hearts trained on God’s. The five angels who had enjoyed this routine for years bantered with one another, calling to angels they passed in the pickup lines and saluting (in unison) the green-eyed guardian of the school. When Tabris shot Rachmiel a questioning look, he laughed: “About two years ago, Zohar tried to pull rank. We’re never going to let him forget it.”

  The guardians watched for demons on the road, of course, and alerted Connie to one distracted driver who might have t-boned the car, but for the most part they relaxed—all but Tabris, who still trembled at the thought of having so recently brushed shoulders with damnation.

  He sat behind Connie, arms locked around her seat and wings tucked forward, eyes mesmerized by the road being sucked under the tires.

  Hell. Not the concept of Hell, but the reality. The way you know it when you watch your best friend abandon God and in turn be abandoned by Him. Tabris didn’t think about the flames and the pain—those seemed less real than the way he’d have lost his personality. The demons had rejected God in favor of independence, of course, but from his perspective, he’d seen angels switch from loving God one moment to cursing Him the next, hating the things that resembled their Creator, and then striking at them. First among those things would be His image and likeness in their hearts.

  Tabris had no reason to believe he’d be any different. If anything, he’d have more reason to tear himself apart.

  Or maybe not. Zeffar didn’t blame himself for his own decision. Maybe like him, Tabris would have convinced himself he was right. Maybe he would have dug deep enough, cut hard enough, and pulled free that wriggling, living thing that was the breath God had breathed to create him all those eons ago, the moment he’d looked up and felt his soul thrumming with a name, his own name...

  Rachmiel touched him, and Tabris felt the concern. He tensed. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Rachmiel chuckled, and Tabris got the sense that it was too late. He pulled his thoughts deeper inside so they wouldn’t filter out of his heart into the chatter filling the car.

  Or maybe he’d have blamed Sebastian. That would be twisted. I’m in Hell because that ridiculous brat made me kill him.

  As the nausea built, Rachmiel’s wingtip touched his again. Tabris pulled his wings closer.

  Don’t think about that. Think about something else. But how could he possibly not love God any longer? He did. He always had. Thinking about how he’d betrayed God’s trust hurt worse than considering what he’d done to Sebastian. It wasn’t like God had asked him to do something six billion angels weren’t already doing. “Here, look out for this human.” How hard could that be? And his accuser’s words rang back at him, that his expression of love “fell short of the ideal,” leaving Tabris always more certain: he should have been damned. A just God could do nothing else.

  A merciful God had.

  Tabris hadn’t been facetious when he’d reflected that he’d been only the dot of an i away from damnation. The t had already been crossed, and by his own hand.

  A third time, Rachmiel touched him, swirling with concern.

  Tabris leaped onto the hood of the car. He stared into the wind, letting it sting tears into his eyes, and then cupped his wings to catch as much of it as he could.

  Voriah sat with his heels against the bumper. “Glad you could come onboard, Tab.”

  Tabris let his ears ring with the sound of the motor under his knees and the children at his back. “I like the wind,” was all he said.

  Voriah smiled. “Then this is the place to be.”

  Having satisfied Voriah’s curiosity, Tabris tried to return to his thoughts, but abruptly he felt the other five angels begin praying. Alan’s teacher had gone on maternity leave; they were praying for a safe delivery.

  Rachmiel reached for him, projecting an invitation, so Tabris slipped back onto the roof. He listened to their prayer but cringed at the thought of adding his own and discovering here, in the middle of everyone, that God didn’t want to hear from him. With his eyes downcast, he wrapped his fingers around one another in a tight weave and felt all too glad when they pulled into the driveway so he could stop what had become, for him, a charade.

  Just a little longer. He just had to get home.

  As he’d hoped, the children dispersed to separate rooms for homework. Tabris followed Elizabeth to the messiest bedroom on the second floor, and as she unpacked her bag, it hit him: he’d been banking on time alone, but as long as he was with Elizabeth, he’d also be with Rachmiel.

  Rachmiel turned with surprise and a question.

  Tabris clamped down again. “She needs to do her math.”

  Rachmiel said, “I know.” And then, “She does math last because she hates it.”

  Tabris folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “All the more reason for her to do it first.”

  “We’re angels,” Rachmiel said with a chuckle, “not miracle workers.”

  They quieted down, and Tabris kept himself to himself through a spelling list, vocabulary sentences, a paragraph about the American Revolution, and a sheet of multiplication problems (which, to be fair, were interspersed with two snacks, a drink
of water, a fifteen-minute pause in front of the TV, a phone call from a classmate, dinner, and four experimental outfits on a fashion doll.) The bedtime routine left him edgy, and as soon as she fell asleep, he asked permission to go outside. With a shrug, Rachmiel indicated he didn’t object. Before he’d even finished, Tabris flashed to the pond.

  It wasn’t yet full dark as Tabris settled at the edge, plopping pebbles into the water one after the next while avoiding the gaze of the waning moon. A musical world greeted his ears, a song no human had ever heard. The tones had been formed long ago by the stars, sent on notes of light aimlessly through the empty distances until somehow they all collided on Earth around Tabris in a serenade. He could hear the rhythmic foundation provided by the water lapping the pond’s edge, harmony contributed by the breaths of sleeping birds and the crinkle of rodents searching for food in fallen leaves. A descant of promised snow hovered in the air, and all for Tabris because he was the only one out that night.

  “Raguel,” he said as though dictating a letter, “I think I’m doing all right. So is Elizabeth Hayes. There’s nothing challenging enough here to require two guardians, so it’s not very stressful. She’s very sweet, by the way. I think I— She’s ten.” He fingered a brown seed head. “The other angels have been very accommodating. Please let me know if I’m in danger of violating probation. Thanks. Tabris.”

  Surrounded by dying cattails, he tossed another pebble into the pond. It skipped before plunging under.

  “Tabris,” drawled a voice.

  “Accuser,” he replied, his features unchanged although his voice had deepened. He didn’t turn. The demon was behind him.

  “I’ve gotten tired of that name. Call me Unbridled.”

  Tabris smirked. “Are you the wind?”

  The demon inched forward from the shade of a pine tree to within arm’s reach of the two-toned angel. “I am. I’m free to go wherever I want rather than chained within a circle with a two-mile radius.”

  “There’s plenty of beauty in my circle.”