Chapter 6
One thing Adela had learned in her three-hundred-plus years as an Angel of Death was that there wasn’t any shortage of people dying. Between murders, natural deaths, wars, illness, gang fights—don’t even get her started on those—she’d never had a “slow day.” If anything, it seemed as though things were picking up even more. So why was she being called back? It wasn’t as if she’d broken any rules; she had gotten the souls to where they were supposed to be. She’d find out soon enough what her transgressions were.
The one thing she liked about being an Angel of Death was that she always worked at night. There wasn’t a reason for it—that was just her assignment. She traveled through space beyond the stars and wondered if people below knew that “shooting stars” were actually Angels of Death racing around trying to get souls to where they needed to be.
In the late 1600s, the ways of the world were primitive at best. She had heard that shooting stars were visitors from another universe or God trying to make humans suffer for their indiscretions. Some had even referred to the lights across the night sky as witches on their way to do their evil. Being dead for three hundred years, and seeing everything that had transpired in that time, was quite the education.
The Angels of Death who worked at night were actually chased by the sun, while those who worked during the day followed it. There was no downtime, no time for fun and games. All she did was deliver soul after soul to the Fringe, going back and forth between the eastern and western hemispheres of the globe. It had been over three hundred years since she’d seen the sun’s rays on Earth.
She’d been to every corner of the earth. She’d seen war, famine, and murder. She’d witnessed car accidents, plane crashes, and drug overdoses. People had died in front of her from heart attacks and cancer. She believed that she had seen every way a person could die, and nothing about death could surprise or faze her any longer.
As she floated on the air in blessed silence, her thoughts took her back to her own death and the events that led up to it.
Life had been difficult growing up in Salem, Massachusetts, in the 1670s compared to the way things were today. No electricity, running water, cars . . . but she had been happy. Her younger brother, William, had died from illness at age three when she was six. It had been devastating for the family, but together through their love and prayer, they were able to come to terms with it.
When William died, Adela had felt helpless about not being able to do anything for him, and she also felt powerless when her husband, Edward, had died. She had nursed both of them until they took their last breath, and they had both passed on while she held their hand. It was shortly after Edward’s death that she had heard of the Native Americans, the Naumkeag people, who used herbs to cure their illnesses, and she became very excited by the thought. What if she could study the herbs and find ways to prevent the deaths of children, like her brother? Or even her unborn babies? What if she could help women keep their babies in their wombs? Or help people with profound coughs, such as Edward? She found an older woman named Rose in the next village who was familiar with their teachings. Adela secretly met with Rose for a year and learned about all the maladies Rose was able to cure. A young boy’s cough was alleviated by drinking some of Rose’s herbal tea. Another woman’s rash was cleared from a paste Rose had made.
Adela took some of the herbs back to Salem and began experimenting with them. Word quickly spread of her work, and she was successful in curing some ailments. She worried what the church elders would think of her work with the herbs as it wasn’t sanctioned by the church, but for a few months, nothing was said.
Then in the spring of 1692, Adela worked at her small kitchen table, the candles casting shadows around the room as she ground chamomile with two stones in preparation for a woman who was suffering a horrible skin condition and would be visiting Adela in the morning. Her mother and father had come to share dinner with her, and they talked about the church service they had attended together that morning.
To her shock, the front door had flown open, and Adela stood from the table with such force, the stones and leaves were tossed to the ground. A church elder and three of his followers stepped over the threshold with torches. Adela backed into the corner of the small kitchen as her father came into the room.
“What is this about?” her father had demanded.
One of the men stepped up to her father, the light of his torch exposing the anger and fear on her father’s face.
“Your daughter has been deemed a daughter of Satan . . . a witch,” said the church elder.
“Ridiculous! Based on what grounds?” her father had demanded.
“Based on her work with herbs. Yesterday, she treated a woman who suffered from a stomach ailment, and the woman has passed on. Your daughter is responsible for the woman’s death. This is the work of Satan!”
“It is not!” Adela yelled. She had given the woman herbs that should have cured her ailment, not sent her to her death.
“Silence, witch!” the church elder yelled. “You practice witchcraft, and you shall be tried for your treachery.”
Adela had fought the men when they grabbed her, her father watching helplessly as they took her away. The church elder threatened to kill him and her mother if they tried to stop them.
A week later there was a trial, and at age twenty, Adela was found guilty of witchcraft. She could still hear the creak of the wooden stairs as she stepped up to her death at Gallows Hill and the rough rope of the noose curling around her neck. Before they pulled the hood over her head, she’d scanned the crowd, glad that she didn’t see her parents, and silently damning all to Hell who stood there watching her. She wasn’t a witch—just a woman who was trying to help others. In her last moments, she’d wished she had witchcraft flowing through her veins, because she wanted to strike everyone blind who stood there staring at her, taunting her, waiting for her death. She heard the two other women’s necks snap, and then she was pushed, her feet dangling in the air, the noose tightening around her neck.
Her death had been agonizing as she gasped for breath, desperate to fill her lungs with air, but none came. Lights flashed before her eyes, and just when it felt as if her lungs would explode, her soul was lifted from her body. She met an angel, who motioned her to step into a bright light. She did as she was told, and she spun uncontrollably, as if she were in a cyclone. Upon her arrival in Heaven, she met with the Archangel, Michael. He recognized her fiery spirit and her toughness. Michael reminded her of her last thought before her mortal life ended. Damning others and wishing for satanic influences were definite sins and ones that she would have to atone for. Therefore, she would work under Michael as one of his Angels of Death.
She still felt a deep-seated anger at the fact that she had been killed for a crime she didn’t commit. After all these years, she still couldn’t let it go and accept things as they were. However, she was aware that the anger that simmered within her made her the angel she was today. She had very little patience, and with each day that passed, she tolerated less and less from those souls she was supposed to deliver to Heaven. To be an Angel of Death of her ranking required a thick skin, but also a touch of empathy. She sorely lacked in the empathy department. In fact, especially in cases like the recent gang fight, where an early death was a result of one’s life choices, she felt nothing but outright disdain for those souls.
How much longer would she need to atone for her sins as a human? Honestly, she felt that three hundred years was about two hundred years too many, and that was also a source of her anger. When was this damn job going to end?
“Hello, love.” Startled, she looked to her right. Liam flew next to her, his dark hair mussed in the wind. He closed his eyes and smiled, as though he was enjoying the trip through the air. She remembered a time when she adored it as well, but that had been a couple of centuries ago. Now, she could think of very little that brought her joy.
As she looked at him, she realized he truly
was a beautiful angel.
“Are you admiring my dashing good looks?” he asked, his eyes still closed, but a small smile played on his full lips.
She sighed and set her gaze forward, not bothering to answer. Yes, he might be nice to look at, but his obnoxiousness was too much to handle. Over the course of the past three years, she had run into him more than she cared to. At first she’d been taken aback by his forwardness, but then she realized he had the audacity to flirt with her. She had yet to get used to his sometimes-crude words and innuendos; however, she couldn’t deny within the deep recesses of her soul that she secretly enjoyed it. Their verbal sparring brought a small spark of satisfaction in her otherwise boring existence.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Liam,” she said.
“I don’t have to hope for much, love,” he replied. “I can tell that you are completely smitten with me.”
“In your wildest dreams,” Adela said as they landed on the grassy knolls outside the Fringe.
“Oh, Adela, trust me. You really don’t want to go there.”