Death Sword. Pamela Turner
hope Samael isn’t being too difficult.”
Karla turned to see Metatron sitting next to her. Dressed in Dockers and a University of Louisville Cardinals sweatshirt, he looked like a typical student rather than a supreme archangel.
“I’ll deal with him.”
Metatron crossed an ankle over his knee. “Of course. Don’t hesitate to let Xariel or me know if you need help.”
Karla nodded. She stared skyward, unsure of how to continue. “Look, I know I can’t change your mind about my being an angel of death, but...”
“What?”
Karla scraped soles against the cobblestones, gathering her thoughts. “Everything’s changing so fast. It’s confusing.”
“I see.” Metatron closed his eyes, arm resting across the top of the back of the bench. He seemed deep in thought. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I suppose it is a shock. My fault. I assumed your mother would tell you about your angelic heritage.”
Karla chewed on her lower lip, debating whether to ask the question that had bothered her ever since her encounter with Xariel. “Can you answer me something?”
“Sure.”
“Am I dead? I mean, really dead?” She gave an involuntary shudder. “Will I start rotting, that kind of thing?”
“No.” Metatron’s surprised look could have meant anything. Karla’s stomach tightened as she waited for the bad news. The pause which followed was only a few minutes, but felt like gut-wrenching hours. “Xariel didn’t tell you?”
“What?”
“He couldn’t bring you to me unless he released your angelic side.”
“Okay...” Metatron’s explanation was as clear as a quadratic equation, and she sucked at math.
“The stabbing served two purposes. One, it released your angelic side, which had remained dormant until now. Also, it allowed you to experience what it feels like to die.”
She wanted to say, “Geez, thanks,” but refrained. Couldn’t they have let her “die” in her sleep or something when she was old? “I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in me.”
Metatron smiled at her. “You’ll find out soon enough. Trust me, I know this all seems confusing, but there is a method to our apparent madness.”
“And I thought I was the mad one.” A tinge of bitterness undercut Karla’s retort. While Metatron’s evasive response annoyed her, getting angry about it wouldn’t change anything. No point in blaming him. If anyone were responsible for this mess, it was her mother. Not that Lisa had seemed interested in stepping up to her responsibilities. She’d abandoned Karla and her father shortly after Karla was born. For years, Karla believed it was because of her heterochromia iridium, that her mother was ashamed of her daughter’s different-colored eyes. Her father never confirmed nor denied her speculation. Either he hadn’t known or he wanted to spare her the truth. Now it was too late.
Had her dad known about Azazel? What was her real father like? Karla stared across the street, swinging her legs. She glanced at Metatron, but his eyes were closed and his head tilted back.
“Pretty unfair, isn’t it?” he asked after a few minutes, eyes still shut.
Had he read her mind? Karla stared at him. If so, it explained how Xariel had known about her escape. “Yeah,” she admitted.
“You’re upset.”
“No, not really,” she hedged. “I guess I’d like some say in this, but I’m trying to deal with it.”
Metatron nodded. “Good. The more you resist fate, the more it will ensnare you.”
“You mean like Oedipus Rex?”
“Exactly.” He opened his eyes and turned to her. “Have you learned to teleport yet?”
“No.”
“Xariel can teach you. It’s an innate skill for angels. I’ve never known a human to do it. Since you’re half angel...” He smiled. “You’ll enjoy it once you get used to the physiological after-effects.”
Karla wanted to deny she’d ever get used to the room-spinning vertigo and sensation of wanting to hurl that followed teleportation. It wasn’t fair it didn’t seem to bother Xariel or Samael. Her strong reaction probably resulted from her being half human, she theorized. She was about to ask Metatron if this were true when she noticed Xariel approaching them from the direction of nearby St. James Court. He held a tie in one hand.
“Damn, why the last-minute call?” Drops of water glistened in his hair. “I was in the shower.” He looped the tie around his neck and adjusted the length.
Metatron shrugged. “Running late?”
Xariel finished knotting the tie. “Didn’t get in until early morning. A soul wasn’t exactly cooperative.” He gave Metatron a sidelong glance. “Maybe you should join us drudges in the field for some real work instead of being a pencil-pushing desk jockey.”
Metatron frowned. “Is someone looking to pull a double shift tomorrow?”
“All right. All right.” Xariel turned to Karla. “Boss says I’m to take you home.” He held out his hand. “Ready?”
Karla hesitated before putting her fingers in Xariel’s palm. Teleporting ranked up there with drunken nights spent grasping the bed and praying for the room to stop spinning.
“Hepburn Avenue, right?” Xariel asked.
“Yeah.” It didn’t surprise Karla they knew where she lived. She pointed across the street. “Let’s catch the TARC.”
To her surprise, Metatron agreed. “You can teleport later. We don’t want to draw attention.”
“The bus?” Xariel’s eyes widened as if in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You’ll be fine,” Metatron assured him.
A TARC bus pulled to the curb across the street. Before Xariel could argue, Karla pulled him across the tarmac. They boarded and she dug out fare.
“Two transfers, please.” She handed Xariel one and slid into a window seat.
Xariel slumped in the seat next to her. He glanced around at the other passengers, who eyed him with stony stares. As the bus lumbered toward downtown, he pretended to smooth out an invisible crease in his tailored slacks, checked the soles of his shoes for non-existent gum, tugged at the knot on his tie, and shifted in the hard plastic seat enough times that Karla turned to him and glared.
“Teleporting’s quicker,” he insisted.
“Get over it.”
He huffed, sinking farther in the seat. Karla stifled a grin.
“Ride much?” Xariel asked after the bus stopped to pick up and disgorge passengers.
“Can’t afford a car.” Propping her elbow against the window ledge, she watched Old Louisville, Spalding University, the Unitarian church and the Main Library flash by.
They reached Broadway and disembarked. The connecting bus rumbled on the corner, waiting for the green light. It crossed the intersection and both human and angel were swept up into another small crowd climbing aboard. Here it was standing room only. They grasped poles and balanced themselves.
The bus lurched forward. Xariel grimaced as he steadied himself. “This is why I hate buses.”
Karla ignored him. She leaned over, pressed the yellow bar a block before the driver reached the Bardstown Road-Baxter Avenue junction. They jostled their way to the exit, stepping off. Karla pointed down Baxter Avenue. “Hepburn’s over there.”
She