The Wrong Enemy Read online

  God prompted Rachmiel to speak. Sitting up, Rachmiel opened his heart so the love poured out, an oblation of spiritual wine on an altar that was the whole of creation. He revealed his soul to God like a child showing his mother a shoebox of his priceless treasures: a dragonfly body and baseball cards and small red trucks and plastic jewelry that glittered. Rachmiel opened all the boxes in his soul, gave God every thought and rededicated his every deed.

  God thanked him, and Rachmiel thrilled. The presence receded, but Rachmiel didn’t scramble to keep hold of the ungraspable. The world burst with glory, and he could view it with eyes like diamonds. He hungered in that moment to take the diamonds from his sight and hold them for Elizabeth to gaze through, then to hold her hand while she got her first glimpses of everything God had done for them.

  He flashed to Elizabeth’s bedside and beamed just like the sun edging into her room.

  “Wake up, Sleepyhead,” he whispered as the other angels returned. “Wake up. See what God’s done for you today!”

  Six

  Tabris found inspiration in camaraderie, but not the type he would have bet Josai’el wanted him to. The best inspiration had been Rachmiel’s soul like a radar dish scanning for any emotion he allowed to escape.

  Every morning, they gathered to say a prayer Tabris had said every morning of Sebastian’s life, something he’d learned only as the guardian prayer, the prayer of an angel over his charge. He’d said the words with them. Words were easy, but afterward he wondered which of the two he’d prayed for.

  The hardest part was the small talk; he etched the smile onto his face, nodded at the end of every phrase, and in turn watched each angel who spoke. They responded well to this. See? He’d just needed to relax.

  It worked. The more he acted what they considered “normal,” the more they acted normal themselves. In time, they might even forget they were associating with a near-demon.

  Empowered by success, Tabris concentrated his efforts on Rachmiel, whose curiosity was stifling. So in an effort to get Rachmiel to back off, he asked for help getting to know the family members.

  Rachmiel nearly exploded: of course Tabris needed more than the most basic introductions, and his eagerness flooded Tabris like a tide.

  Tabris had needed to get around to that anyway. In his mind, the family was little more than names: two parents, a grandmother, and three brothers in orbit around Elizabeth. But to be honest, in order to help her, he needed to know what resources he had on hand, and the best resources were her family.

  With Rachmiel looking just like Sebastian had on Christmas morning, Tabris said, “Let’s talk to Miriael first.”

  Two seconds later, they were in front of Miriael. He was the only Archangel of the household guardians, but despite that, Tabris felt most comfortable around him.

  When Miriael described his charge Kyle, he glowed. At fourteen years old, Kyle loved sports and competitive gaming. He enjoyed logical challenges that could engage his mind’s engines until he pronounced the problem solved. He could become so intent on these challenges that, Miriael said with a laugh, he’d become just as absorbed and work together with Kyle to piece together an answer. With one hand on the boy the entire time, he seemed to be marking his heart’s property. Tabris tried to avoid seeing the hand or the pride, instead focusing on whatever Miriael mentioned: the quick eyes or the strong arms, the hunger for mastery that imbued his spirit.

  Kyle’s roommate was the oldest son Martin, guarded by Katra’il. She spoke with deliberate restraint about Martin as a responsible boy who liked to read and who loved the sciences and computers. At sixteen, the boy was already thinking about college, and Katra’il could have talked for hours about locations and majors without ever touching on what really mattered: the sharpness of Kyle’s mind or the way he focused his efforts.

  Voriah’s charge Alan was thirteen, and that was uncomfortable because Alan was only a year older than Sebastian. Tabris did his best to look impassive and ask about details. Details would distinguish the boys, and then he wouldn’t have to think “Sebastian should be doing this next year” or “Now Sebastian won’t ever get to experience that.” Full of his usual energy, Voriah helped Tabris without realizing it, bounding from topic to topic as if trying to cover the entirety of a person in ten minutes. Alan had become a household mediator, always on everyone’s side, well-respected by adults, not prominent in any one area but efficient in all. Of the three boys, Alan was quietest, an unlikely complement to such an angel as Voriah.

  But Alan was hard to look at, so hard when he seemed so much like another boy, and Tabris asked Rachmiel to postpone the adults’ introductions. Although disappointed, Rachmiel agreed.

  Tabris had forced a few expected polite remarks and questions about each of the boys. During the introductions, they’d transformed from brothers with identical haircuts to three individuals with strengths, faults, and quirks. But then Tabris considered their guardians...Miriael in particular, with fire in his eyes as he equated protecting Kyle to defending God’s throne. If angels could die, these angels would be willing to give their lives in the service. All three of the boys’ angels emanated love and pride that left Tabris breathless. Rachmiel felt the same about Elizabeth, a warmth that surrounded every movement as he followed her days. When Tabris talked to Josai’el, Hadriel and Mithra, no doubt they’d feel the same.

  And then there was himself. A month ago, had he looked and sounded just like them?

  Unanswerable questions. Except for the fact that of course they could be answered: he’d interacted with other guardians every single day of Sebastian’s life, particularly the guardians of Sebastian’s parents. He could have sought them out and asked them. No doubt they’d been interrogated in the aftermath of the death, either by Raguel or a team of Archangels asking over and over again: what was Tabris like with Sebastian? Did he even like the kid? Was he any good as a guardian?

  And what on earth would they have answered?

  He would defend Elizabeth with all his strength: absolutely. But Sebastian...

  Rachmiel always moved nearer to him when his thoughts went down those paths, and that spawned another phase of action: small talk. The more he asked Rachmiel about inane things, the less Rachmiel felt curious. The fits of needing-to-know still overtook him, but not as often, and not to the same degree. The curiosity eased even though Tabris never supplied the answers to the questions Rachmiel might have asked on his own—questions that would have required a look through the pages of his soul. Instead, with the angelic equivalent of discussing the weather, Tabris discovered his own version of “supply and demand.” If he spoke at all, Rachmiel felt satisfied with the little information he had, and that made living together a lot easier.

  The schoolyard scene was more uncomfortable than home, even though only a few weeks ago he and Sebastian had been very much a part of the play and the socializing. Elizabeth was still part of the socializing. Therein lay the problem.

  A hundred children of assorted ages ran about, shouting to one another, pushing the limits of the schoolyard rules. Older girls clustered in groups near the fence; younger girls played jump rope by the building or played tag with the boys. Every section of the wall had been claimed for wall-ball, neatly divided by the classroom windows. Park benches sliced the yard into two sections, the larger one for running games and the smaller for hopscotch, marbles, or just talking.

  Tabris found his place in the melee, his consciousness trained on Elizabeth at all times so that it might have been only him and her in the playground. Wearing a deep silence, he walked past other angels. He had nothing to say to them. Like angry suns the other angels radiated—most of them. Indignation boiled in their hearts, and he guessed half of them wanted him gone. Gone back to Heaven to sit out the rest of eternity, or if he absolutely must be on Earth, assigned to an inventory of dandelions at a garbage dump. Not near their kids. Not near anyone’s.

  But maybe anger was just the loudest emotion. Maybe sometimes he was righ
t when in an unguarded moment he caught an angel studying him with sadness.

  Elizabeth stumbled while she played hopscotch, and Rachmiel steadied her. Tabris reached out too but then hesitated, and several angels pivoted at his movement. He forced himself to stand still, as if he hadn’t moved and hadn’t noticed their reaction.

  This is eerie, he thought, knowing even as he did so that eerie wasn’t the right word, but unwilling to find the exact one because he knew what it was.

  Rachmiel turned to him, refracting the sunlight through his orange eyes. It was a projection that didn’t involve his emotions at all. “This will be one of the last warm days before winter sets in for good.”

  Winter had set in for Tabris six weeks ago. “I like the snow,” was all he said.

  Rachmiel inhaled, stretching his feathers. “Cold is invigorating, but I like it this way. Actually, so does she.” He smiled at Elizabeth, waiting for her turn at the hopscotch grid. “The Earth is alive now. I mean,” he added with a laugh, “it’ll be alive then too, but so much will be in hibernation. Hibernation is amazing. God is amazing.” He grinned. “But the creatures that are up and about interest me more than sleeping ones.”

  Tabris clamped down on the parts of his heart that wanted to argue. He’d always loved the lifeless cold, most of all the near-nothing of deep space. He’d flown through that eternal night between stars, isolated except for his soul’s constant touch with God, and in those times he’d been happy. Months spent near absolute zero until the numbness made his wings ache, and then he’d flashed back to his home in Heaven—a log cabin in the mountains—and wrapped himself in his wings before the fire until the love of God and the warmth of his native country restored feeling to his wings and fingers.

  Prying himself back from his thoughts, Tabris studied Elizabeth. There was no cold aspect to her, nothing isolated, nothing in need of space’s distances. She needed people—as did Rachmiel. Rachmiel instinctively reflected and expressed the feelings of his companions. He comforted by sharing the problem. No doubt Elizabeth could do the same.

  Tabris rose into the air and scanned the schoolyard until he found what he knew had to be nearby: every schoolyard had one. After a moment he nodded, saying, “Elizabeth?” and focused on his target.

  Elizabeth looked up from hopscotch to scan the yard until her eyes fell on the same thing: a girl alone on a park bench, watching the other kids. To Tabris, the girl radiated loneliness.

  Elizabeth turned back to the grid chalked on the ground, and Tabris again brought up that girl in her mind.

  Tabris could tell when Rachmiel saw her too when he felt him project how it would feel to be a misfit.

  Tabris brought Rachmiel’s feelings to the forefront of Elizabeth’s mind. Not everyone would respond without a good push, but Elizabeth was innocent and the reaction innate; the knowledge of the need might be all the motivation she required.

  Elizabeth took her turn, and Tabris again put pressure on her heart: a lone figure on a park bench. Isolation. Need.

  Fidgeting, Elizabeth looked at the girl. Rachmiel had flown behind Tabris and gripped his shoulders, but Tabris only looked between Elizabeth and the other girl. And when he looked at the bench this time, he saw that girl’s guardian staring back: protective. Mistrustful.

  An arrow of hurt shot through him, and it went from his heart into Elizabeth, who in an untutored imitation of her first guardian was just imagining how it felt to be all alone in a schoolyard full of people. She winced, then left her friends. While Rachmiel followed, she crossed the ground to the benches and introduced herself to the other girl.

  Rachmiel glowed. Tabris flashed to the corner of the rooftop while Elizabeth made a lonely soul a little happier.

  “I was surprised,” Rachmiel said later.

  “Why?” Voriah sat on the ridgepole of the Hayes house while the family slept. “He’s still an angel.”

  “It was just so nice, that’s all.” Rachmiel sent a small stone skittering down the roof and summoned it back before it dropped off the edge. Beneath him, he could feel the rhythm of Elizabeth’s breaths, the warmth of the blankets keeping her fully relaxed. When his heart reached for her, he relaxed too. “There wasn’t any ceremony about it. He started looking and then sent Elizabeth to her. I was shocked. I still am.”

  Voriah’s smile glimmered like stardust. “You must be. You’re verbalizing everything just like him. Where is he now, by the way?”

  “By the pond, like every night.” Rachmiel shrugged. “Maybe he finds peace there, or maybe he’s praying.”

  Voriah huffed, and Rachmiel felt his irritation as keenly as if he’d voiced it: Tabris certainly didn’t pray with them.

  “That’s not funny,” Rachmiel said. “He’s been hurt by all that happened.”

  “Get your priorities straight,” Voriah snapped. “He killed a boy. If he’s hurt, then it’s not undeserved.”

  Stung, Rachmiel tucked up his knees and stared at his feet.

  “You can’t turn it around like he’s a victim.” Voriah glared over the rooftop, jaw tight. Rachmiel didn’t need to look at him, though: anger emanated from his heart like a pulse. “I would never kill Alan. Maybe not even if ordered by God—I can’t imagine doing it. What kind of disordered mind would it take to kill your own charge?”

  Rachmiel put his hands over his face. “That’s why there have to be extenuating circumstances.”

  “So extenuating that he didn’t speak a word in his own defense? This had all the elements of a soul-killing sin.”

  Rachmiel tensed.

  “Want to run down the requirements?” Voriah’s face had flushed. “A serious matter—check! Consent of the will—check! Sufficient reflection—”

  Rachmiel straightened.

  “No,” said Voriah. “He must have planned it. Something can’t have turned the world on its head and been accidental. I don’t care what Raguel said. I can’t fathom why God didn’t drop him straight into Hell.”

  “Voriah!”

  “You aren’t angry?” Voriah said, eyes flaring.

  At the moment, actually, Rachmiel was absorbing and amplifying Voriah’s anger, but he choked it down and forced himself to focus on that feeling of Tabris standing beside him like a hollow space, the emotional vacuum of an angel in denial. That haunted feeling had never quite left his soul since then.

  Rachmiel said, “I can’t wish him damned.”

  “I don’t wish it either,” said Voriah, “but for the life of me, I can’t understand why he’s not.”

  There had to be something beyond this, more than the surface of the actions. “Tabris still loves Him.”

  “Loves him so much he doesn’t pray anymore. Some love.”

  Rachmiel said, “He does pray. The morning offering—”

  “Oh, my mistake. He says all the words. He’s locked tighter than a drum, but he’s saying everything he ought to in the script.” Voriah huffed. “Well, if Tabris struck down his charge in ‘love,’ then God could well have returned the favor and dropped him into the pit.”

  Rachmiel shuddered. “And you’re on his side?”

  “No, Rock. Not once did I say he was right.”

  Rachmiel huddled over himself. This was wrong, all wrong. Angels in the same household shouldn’t be taking sides or wishing each other gone. They already had an enemy.

  His voice was low. “Tabris never said he was right, either.”

  “He’d be in Hell for certain if he had.” Voriah paused. “Okay, so I’m on his side. I’m not in front of God’s throne every night asking for his removal, and I’m not urging Alan to run away from home.” Rachmiel chuckled, but Voriah said, “I’m not going to countermand God, so I’ll give Tabris a chance.”

  Rachmiel let out a long breath. “That’s all he asked.”

  “No, that’s all you’re asking. He never asked for anything.” Voriah looked right at Rachmiel. “But I don’t want you wandering around blind, assuming everything’s peachy. What are you going to d
o if he tries the same thing with Elizabeth?”

  “I doubt he would. He’s tentative around her, as if she frightens him.” Rachmiel closed his eyes. “That argues for it having been accidental.”

  “Not good enough.” Voriah leaned closer. “You’ve got to find out exactly how it happened. No matter how much it hurts him, you can’t just shove it to the back of the closet and hope things take care of themselves. For Elizabeth’s sake, you’ve got to find out all the circumstances around Sebastian’s death.”

  Rachmiel had gone cold, and he shook his head. “I can’t do that! He could barely tell me Sebastian’s age, let alone—”

  “As her guardian, it’s your right to know the details of any possible source of harm.”

  Rachmiel got to his feet and walked to the edge of the roof.

  Voriah was standing too. “Do you want him to murder her? Are you sure you’d be able to stop him?”

  “It’s not one or the other, either I interrogate him or he pulls out the sword. I can’t force him to open up.”

  “You most certainly can.”

  “You know I wouldn’t.” Rachmiel wrapped his arms around his stomach and looked down. Twenty feet below was the empty garden where Bridget had grown a thousand pounds of zucchini and a hundred tomatoes. “I don’t want to know.”

  There. Right there, out in the open for Voriah to dissect.

  When Voriah spoke again, he sounded gentler. “Hearing how it happened can’t cause it.”

  “No, but if I learn why and how he did it, I might find myself in the same situation and do the same thing.”

  “I’d think the same would be truer for him.” Voriah extended his wings, and Rachmiel flexed his back so they touched at the tips.

  The breeze troubled the dead leaves still clinging to a few trees, and in their rustle Rachmiel heard Tabris: cut off from the Life-Giver and in the last stages of spiritual starvation before letting go and falling through the sky.

  Voriah moved close. “Don’t do that.”