Angel Burn (15 page)

And she was a half angel.

Alex let out a breath. God, what did that even mean? It shouldn’t be possible, and yet here she was, in the car beside him. Curled up asleep, she looked so completely human. But she wasn’t. If he moved his consciousness up to the ethereal plane, he knew that he’d see the image of Willow’s angel again, calm and serene as it hovered over her. The same angel that had burst into life yesterday when she’d been under attack  . . .  and that looked almost exactly like the beings that had killed everyone he’d ever cared about.

Unbidden, his father’s death flashed in Alex’s mind; he’d died gasping in agony on a hunt in northern California. Lost in his madness by then, Martin should never have gone on a hunt in the first place but had insisted, striding off on his own with a rifle. The angel had seen him and attacked before the rest even knew it was there, ripping Martin’s life energy away with its long, elegant fingers. They had heard the struggle and come running, but they’d been too late; his father had died from a massive heart attack in minutes, clutching his chest and writhing on the ground. Then, just five months later, it was Jake’s turn. And his mother’s death, years earlier, was what had started everything.

He gazed at Willow. The thought of angel-human offspring was repugnant to him; it was just completely wrong. But what really scared him was how drawn he felt to Willow, anyway. Simply looking at her was enough to make him forget what she was and want to just  . . .  talk to her. Touch her. Get to know her. He seriously couldn’t deal with it. She was
half angel;
what the hell was he doing? What he had told her the night before was true; he didn’t want to speak to her any more than he had to — because he had a feeling that if he let his guard down, he’d forget that half of her was like the creatures that had killed his family. And he couldn’t allow himself to forget that, not ever. It was far easier to keep Willow at a distance, “barking orders” at her, as she’d put it yesterday.

Anyway, none of this mattered, Alex reminded himself sharply. The important thing was getting them both to New Mexico and Cully. As far as he could tell, Willow wasn’t dangerous to humans, but he knew that the angels must be so scared of her for a reason. He just hoped to God they were right. The AKs had been slowly losing this war for years; if they couldn’t find some way to hurt their invaders en masse, then humanity’s days were numbered.

With a murmur, Willow stirred on the seat beside him; her green eyes fluttered open. Alex looked away. From the corner of his eye, he saw her jaw tense as her gaze fell on him. Silence weighed heavily between them as she sat up, smoothing her tousled hair. Obviously, she hadn’t forgotten what he’d said to her. Good, it would make things easier.

“We need to find a gas station or something, so I can get changed,” said Willow finally. She was still wearing the sparkly purple skirt and white shirt from the day before; as she pulled on her jean jacket, Alex tried not to notice the V flash of smooth skin at her neck, or the way her long blond hair fell forward onto her shoulders.

“Yeah, OK,” he said. And he adjusted his seat forward and started the car.

FOR THE NEXT DAY AND A HALF, Alex drove steadily southwest, crossing slowly from state to state at the tortoise speed of sixty-five miles an hour. His instinct was to go faster, but he ignored it; the last thing they needed was to get pulled over. Willow sat curled up in her seat, hugging her knees to her chest and staring out the window without looking at him. Behind her giant sunglasses, he could hardly even make out her features, which was a relief; she’d pulled her hair back, too, twisting it tightly and tucking it up under the cap. They stopped at gas stations a few times, to fill up or grab food, with Willow mostly staying in the car so that she wouldn’t be seen. She hadn’t been eating very much and usually just drank water.

She had clearly taken him at his word. They hardly spoke at all, apart from the bare necessities: what kind of sandwich she’d like or what she wanted to drink. On the rare occasions they did have to talk, her voice was cool, her body language stiff — and he realized how much he’d hurt her, saying that part of her was just like the angels. He wasn’t sorry that he’d said it, though, not if it kept her at arm’s length from him.

Even so, Alex couldn’t help noticing things about her, though he was trying very hard not to: the curve of her neck with her hair up, the way she tilted her head to one side as she gazed out the window. Often an expression of sadness crossed her face, and he knew then that she was thinking about the family she’d left behind: her mother, who must have been the damaged energy that Alex had sensed in the house — her mind irreparably scorched by angel burn — and her aunt. For Willow’s sake, he hoped they were both OK.

When his thoughts reached this point, Alex realized that he was spending way too much time thinking about her. It was midafternoon on the second full day of driving, and they were crossing through the endless length of Tennessee — fully in the South now, where summer was still blazing, rather than the autumn chill of upstate New York. To take his mind off of Willow, Alex switched on the radio and took a gulp of 7-Eleven coffee. He missed having a port for his iPod; all you ever got on the radio down here was classic rock, gospel, or country. He settled for classic rock, and Willow stirred in the passenger seat to glance at him.

“Would you turn the volume down, please?” she said tonelessly.

Without answering, Alex twisted the knob down a notch. Willow turned away again, looking out at the dramatic rise and fall of the Smoky Mountains. He hesitated, glancing at her. Part of him wanted to say something to her, maybe about her family, but he didn’t even know where to begin. Grimacing, he took another swig of coffee. Probably a bad idea, anyway.

Just then the Mustang made a loud clunking noise and started to vibrate. Hastily shoving his coffee in the drink holder, Alex peered down at the dashboard. None of the warning lights came on, but then with alarming speed, the vibration got worse, the car jolting back and forth.

“Oh, you ancient piece of crap,” he muttered. He tried slowing and shifting down a gear. It didn’t help any; all it did was add a knocking noise to go along with the clunking. In the passenger seat, Willow had sat up and looked as if she was listening closely. Suddenly the car lurched, slamming forward; Willow cried out as her elbow hit the dashboard.

Alex pulled over to the shoulder as the car groaned and shuddered; he just made it before the rear wheels locked up, bringing them to a halt. He turned off the engine and looked at Willow. “Are you OK?” he said after a pause.

She nodded curtly, rubbing her elbow. “I’m fine.”

Alex blew out a breath. “So I guess I’d better go take a look.” Though he knew it would be a miracle if he could actually tell what was wrong. He and Jake had both learned to drive when they were around ten — doing donuts in the Jeeps out in the desert — but neither of them had ever been much good with engines.

He popped the hood switch and got out of the car, immediately feeling the steamy Tennessee heat pressing down on him. The hood creaked as he opened it; he propped it onto its stick and gazed down at the Mustang’s innards. God, this thing should be in a museum. For lack of any other ideas, he checked the oil, wiping the dip stick off on the edge of his T-shirt. Big surprise; it was fine. Ditto for the water. Great. What now? Alex shoved his hands in his back pockets and glanced up the freeway, trying to remember how far the next town was.

The passenger door opened and Willow got out. Coming around to the front, she took off her sunglasses and thrust them at him. “Here,” she said shortly. Continuing to the driver’s side, she got on her hands and knees and peered under the car. “I need a flashlight,” she said, her voice muffled. “Can you see if there’s one in the trunk?”

Alex blinked. He started to ask if she knew what she was doing, but the answer was pretty evident. He looked in the trunk and then came back. “No. Nothing.”

Willow was silent, still half buried under the car. Finally she came scooting out. “I think the prop shaft has come loose somewhere — I can just see it hanging down at the front, at a sort of an angle. If it is, it’s not a major repair. I could do it myself if I had my tool kit, and the bolts are all still there. Or else it might be the gearbox, which is pretty bad — the whole thing would have to be removed and dismantled.”

“You know about cars,” said Alex. And then felt like an idiot. Christ, way to state the obvious.

Willow gave him a cool look as she brushed off her jeans. “Yeah, go figure. I actually do something that isn’t freaky half-angel stuff.”

OK, he wasn’t going to touch that one. Letting out a breath, Alex looked up the road again. “Well  . . .  we’d better see if we can get a lift into the nearest town. And then I guess we’ll have to get the car towed.”

“Fine,” said Willow. She took her sunglasses back from him; her face vanished as she put them on.

Alex put his bag in the trunk. Wordlessly, Willow handed him her jean jacket; he threw that in, too, and shut the trunk, locking it. He glanced at her. “Look, I —” He stopped, not knowing what to say. Frowning, he turned away, stepping to the side of the road to put his thumb out.

A trucker gave them a lift into Dalton City, about ten miles away. The three of them rode squeezed together up in the cab, with Alex in the middle. He talked to the guy about football, stupidly conscious of Willow sitting so close beside him, her arm and thigh pressed against his. They were both in short sleeves; he could feel the warmth of her bare arm, its light sheen of sweat.
She’s a half angel,
he reminded himself.
Half of her is the same as the creatures that killed your family.

She felt so human that he could barely carry on a conversation.

Finally the truck rolled to a stop. They were on a giant concrete forecourt on the outskirts of town, with a gleaming gas station in front of them. “The garage there’ll give you a tow,” said the trucker in his southern drawl, jerking his thumb at it. “And Rose’s Diner shouldn’t poison you
too
bad, if you want something to eat.” A grin flashed through his beard.

“Thanks, man. We appreciate it,” said Alex, shaking his hand.

“Yeah, thanks,” echoed Willow as they climbed down from the cab. She gave the trucker a friendly wave as he pulled away; then her gaze fell on Alex again, and her smile died.

They went into the garage, and Alex arranged to have the Mustang towed in, though the mechanic said that it would be a couple of hours before he could look at it. Great. Back on the forecourt, he and Willow looked at each other. A huge American flag was flying over the gas station, rustling gently in the wind. And there was a Church of Angels billboard, showing the familiar gleaming white church with an angel hovering over it, protecting it with its wings.

Alex glanced at the billboard and then at Rose’s Diner. Though there didn’t seem much else to do here while they waited, could they afford to take the chance? A quick scan showed him that there were no angels around  . . .  but it wasn’t just angels that they had to worry about.

Behind her sunglasses, Willow seemed to be thinking the same thing; she was gazing fixedly at the restaurant. “I wonder if any Church of Angels people are in there,” she said in a low voice.

Alex made a face. Tennessee was part of the Bible Belt; the Church of Angels was big here. “Better not risk it,” he said.

Willow didn’t respond; she stood very still as she stared at the diner, apparently deep in thought. “It’s OK,” she said suddenly. “I just — sort of have a feeling.”

Alex hesitated. His pistol was hidden under the waistband of his jeans, but he knew he’d be loath to use it on another person — even a Church of Angels fanatic. “Are you sure?”

Still looking at the diner, Willow nodded slowly, the sunshine glinting off her dark glasses. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” She glanced at him, her expression tight. “Sorry. More half-angel freakiness.”

Not wanting to get into it, Alex shrugged. “Fine. Let’s try it.” Crossing the forecourt, they entered the diner; a rush of air-conditioned coolness greeted them. Alex slid into a booth; Willow sat across from him. Waitresses in brown dresses bustled about, refilling coffee cups and carrying trays piled high with cholesterol-laden food. Alex’s stomach growled as he pulled a battered plastic menu from between the salt and pepper shakers. They’d been living off gas station sandwiches for almost two days now.

“What’s a
fritter,
anyway?” murmured Willow to herself, regarding her own menu. “Or
grits
?”

“A fritter’s a sort of fried thing,” said Alex, reading about the different burgers on offer. “Grits are for breakfast; they’re like oatmeal.”

She looked up at him, her face inscrutable behind the sunglasses. “You’ve traveled a lot,” she said after a pause.

Alex lifted a shoulder, wishing he hadn’t said anything. They fell back into silence, reading their menus. A red-haired waitress appeared and set down two glasses of ice water in front of them. “Y’all ready to order?” She took a notepad out from her apron.