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Sophie nodded. “At that point, the giant TV screen is going to be turned off. The official reason is that no one would be able to view the screen with the angels flying past, but really it’s just to give you some added security while you make the attempt, so that no one in the audience will notice your face. ”
I felt dazed; they seemed to have thought of every detail. “And . . . what happens then?”
Sophie’s voice was businesslike, almost brisk. “When you kneel with the others, you’re going to be front and center: right in front of where the gate will start to open. The acolytes will all have their hands in the prayer position, so as you kneel, slip the angelica out of the pouch and hold it between your palms. ” She demonstrated with her hands.
“Then keep watching the air in front of you,” said Nate. “The moment you see a faint ripple begin, that’s your signal. Materialize your angel, contact the angelica, and run forward. The gate will be twenty feet away; you’ll only have a few seconds to get to it in time. ”
Dizziness washed over me. This was real; it was actually going to happen. “Maybe — maybe I’d better practice contacting the stone,” I said weakly, fingering the pouch inside my sleeve.
“Yes, we were going to suggest that,” said Sophie. “Try getting it out of the pocket, too, and hiding it between your palms. ”
Palming the rock was harder than I’d thought it would be. I had to do it over and over, my fingers fumbling with the elastic, before I finally got the hang of twisting my left hand upward into the sleeve and snagging the angelica in a single motion. At last I had done it smoothly a few times in a row.
“Good. Now pretend that you’ve seen the ripple,” said Nate. He was sitting on the sofa, watching with his forearms propped on his knees. “Ready to try contacting the stone?”
I nodded. Closing my eyes, I found my angel. She was there immediately this time, waiting for me; in a matter of seconds, I’d merged with her and lifted up out of myself, hovering with wings spread. In the same instant, I was aware of the stone between my human hands: it gave off a silvery aura, throbbing with life. I reached toward it with my angel hand, stroking its energy with my own and sending it a wordless greeting.
As our two energies made contact, the angelica began to pulse. I could actually feel it beating between my palms, like a living heart.
“Perfect — when you do it tomorrow, you should activate the angelica just as you start running forward,” said Nate. “Good work, Willow. ”
In my angel form, I drifted downward, folding my wings and merging with my human one. Alone again, I stared at the stone that lay cupped in my hand. It looked so ordinary, almost like a piece of granite.
But it could destroy a wall between worlds.
Feeling cold, I tucked it back into its elastic pouch. “I think I’ll go practice on my own for a while and then go to bed,” I said. It was almost six o’clock by then. “Is the bedroom mine?”
Nate nodded. “I’ll be sleeping on the sofa bed tonight; Sophie’s got another apartment down the hall. ”
“Don’t you want anything to eat?” asked Sophie. “We could order in some food. ”
I shook my head. Suddenly I was desperate to be alone. “No, thanks. ”
“Willow, you’ve hardly had anything all day. ”
“I’m really not hungry. ”
“Well, will you at least take a sandwich in with you?” she pressed. Going into the kitchenette, she got the plate from the fridge and put a roast-beef sandwich onto a saucer for me. “Please?” she said, holding it out.
I sighed as I took it, wondering what possible difference it made if I ate anything or not. “OK. Good night. ”
The bedroom was small, functional. I did practice for a while, until I could snag the stone smoothly in just seconds. Then, with relief, I pulled the robe off and draped it over a chair. When I got dressed in my sweatpants and T-shirt again, I could feel the detachment that I’d somehow managed to find begin to falter as I thought, The last time I put these on, it was to sleep beside Alex.
I curled up in bed, hugging the pillow tightly, the sandwich untouched on the bedside table. Was he still at the cabin, now that there was no reason to run anymore? Or had he started for Mexico on his own? I stared into the darkness, my eyes prickling with tears. Not knowing where Alex was felt so wrong, so unnatural. I wanted him there beside me so badly that it felt like some vital part of me had been ripped away. Oh, God, the look in his eyes when he told me to leave. . . .
Holding my pendant, I lay on my side without moving, noiseless tears streaming down my face until the pillow grew damp beneath my cheek. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live, to be with Alex, to experience so much more than I had so far. But just then, it was Alex I was crying for. All that he’d gone through, all those deaths of people he loved — and now he was having to experience it again, with me. Thinking of what he was going through was like being beaten up inside; it was even worse than imagining whatever might happen the next day. Part of me hoped that he really did hate me now — maybe it would help; maybe it would make it not hurt so much.
And more than that, I guess I was crying for both of us . . . that it hadn’t turned out to be always, after all.
The next day seemed endless. I practiced some more. We watched some TV, none of us really talking much. Had lunch. All three of us were watching the clock, I think. The plan was for us to leave for the private airfield at a quarter to five, and then take the helicopter to the Church of Angels’ cathedral. Their contact was going to let me in by a back door and add me to the lineup of acolytes just before they went on. Everyone had already been told that the Wisconsin acolyte was delayed, so hopefully no one would think anything of it.
Now that the time was actually approaching, I just wanted to get it over with; I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen. I sat pressed against the sofa with my arms tight around my knees, staring unseeingly at the TV. I had on the same jeans, T-shirt, and sweater as the day before; they were all I had brought. Sophie was sitting tensely in the armchair, smoking a cigarette and looking like she wasn’t paying any more attention to the show than I was. In the kitchenette, Nate stood making more coffee.
The Church of Angels cathedral with its soaring domed roof came onto the screen. I sat up slowly, my heart thumping. A reporter was standing in the parking lot in front of it, his brown hair looking stiff and hair-sprayed. “In Denver, Colorado, the angels are coming! Hundreds of thousands of devotees are currently flocking to Colorado’s capital city to be present for what they believe will be a second coming of the angels to our world. . . . ”
All three of us had gone still, watching; in the kitchen, Nate’s hands slowed, the coffee forgotten. The camera panned back, showing a solid sea of people in front of the cathedral. I stared at the image, dumbfounded. There were thousands of them. Some were wearing angel’s wings; others were waving signs: PRAISE BE TO ANGELS! And ANGELS, WE LOVE YOU!
The reporter went on, gazing right at the camera: “Though no one really understands it, in the past two years the angel phenomenon has swept the nation, with the Church of Angels the fastest-growing religion in history. Devotees strongly denounce accusations of a cult. They say that the answer’s simple: to know true love, you must know the angels. ”