Trouble with Angels Read online

Trouble with Angels

  SueEllen Holmes

  Copyright 2011

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  Urban Fantasy and Sci-Fi titles available so far:

  The Crone's Stone

  Dominion

  Brink

  A Darker Shade of Grey

  Kaleidoscopic

  My commitment to teen fiction is made possible by my enduringly supportive husband, skilled co-editor daughters and son's brave honesty. For once, words cannot express my love and gratitude.

  Chapter One

  Nimbus’s Problem

  Nimbus lined up his arrow, a faultless trajectory to pierce the girl’s heart clean through. He pulled the golden bow taut, carefully weighing the decision to let fly. She sauntered along the street, oblivious of the angel sighting her from his perch on the edge of a nearby rooftop. Humans were inevitably unaware: they never paid attention.

  “Nimbus!” Came a banshee screech from his left shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  His fingers jerked in surprise and he accidentally let go. He watched in horror as the missile hurtled to collide with its target, the first time ever his aim was accurate. Typical! The girl gasped, hands to her chest, as a glorious starburst of colour and light shattered about her. She blinked myopically at the nearest telegraph pole. Where moments before she wore the snide expression of a modern tween, a dopey leer now resided, the hint of drool shining her lips.

  “Nimbus,” Celestial groaned, luminous white-haired head cupped in her palms. He considered the pose a vast improvement on her accusing features drilling his guilt. “What have you done?”

  “I was practising! Until you showed up, I had no intention of shooting her!”

  “Eternal damnation, Nimbus!” Celestial huffed and directed a glare at him. “You’re not even supposed to be down here. We’re not ready for this world. We’re not trained. The Archangels will have your halo!”

  “They should have yours for spying,” he muttered. “Is it my fault my aim is off lately?”

  This was an understatement. His aim was, and always had been, hideous. And the admission provided Celestial with another cue to lecture. It was one of her favourite activities among many, none of which Nimbus, who was usually on the receiving end, considered pleasant.

  “Your aim is not the problem! It’s your inability to keep an arrow in your quiver! Look at the poor girl. She’s besotted with a post. Out in the open for all to see, stroking timbre and asking if it thinks she’s pretty. I have real concerns about splinters. She’s a laughing stock if anyone happens by. What do you intend to do about it?” she challenged.

  “Let’s not be hasty, Essie.” Nimbus couldn’t hide the desperation and nervously fluttered his feathers. “You can fix it, can’t you?”

  She narrowed to inspect his robe, eyes shimmering from indigo to ice blue. It was not a good sign. She reached over and plucked a crumb of chocolate cake, holding it aloft for his inspection, as if flour and powdered sugar were responsible for the Apocalypse.

  “You’ve been pilfering food,” she hissed. “Again!” Others on the Ethereal Realm raved about her dazzling beauty, but Nimbus only saw her face contorted by a variety of disapproving facades. He’d labelled them: the grumpy troll, the critical Gorgon, the mean Harpy and her current look, the enraged Medusa.

  “It was just a little snack.” The only good thing about this woeful place, now symbolic of one more failure, was the food. He didn’t need to eat, but considered himself a connoisseur. Essie considered the habit shameful and beneath one of his supposed stature.

  “If you were not in such trouble already, I’d tell Bacchus,” she said. “Stealing from those we’re eventually meant to protect is not included in the manual of appropriate Fledgling Angel behaviour. Or any manual, for that matter. And, as the first Chosen on the Ethereal Realm since time unremembered, the standard is even higher for us. At this rate, you couldn’t get accepted to goat-herd school, let alone Seraph training.”

  The truth stabbed Nimbus. So far, he’d proven the only inaccurate prediction the Delphic Oracle had made, and she’d been at it longer than Methuselah wheezed breaths. Great things were expected of the Chosen. Celestial, his birth sister in time, lived up to every one with ease. Essie flew, fought, churned out long passages of whatever script was given and worked spells beyond her grade. Her spectacularness defined his own incompetence. Not that she meant to; Celestial bent over backwards trying to help him. Occasionally, she even covered for him. But his lack was beyond even her capacity to repair. He lived in constant fear of having his wings stripped, tossed from the Ethereal Realm to this hellish sewer for eternity.

  Celestial gazed at him, her fierce demeanour softening. “I will go up and speak to Bacchus, see if there’s anything in the Book of Lore to reverse this catastrophe. And while I’m gone keep out of the humans’ kitchens!”

  Before Nimbus could plead for further help, Celestial disappeared without so much as a goodbye wisp of vapour and he was abandoned to silent misery. Her shrill voice echoed. She was enough to give even the Highest Divine a migraine. But it was chocolate cake! Even the Stoics couldn’t resist.

  He morosely watched the outcome of his latest mistake. The silly girl wailed at the unresponsive pole. “What have I done? Why won’t you speak to me?”

  Nimbus rolled his eyes. They glittered and changed, shifting from the shade of a pristine glacier in the remotest Arctic, to the aquamarine of the Mediterranean Sea to the deepest cobalt of a Morpho butterfly and myriad hues in between, depending on mood. He knew this, because he often gazed at himself in the Pool of Narcissus.

  He grudgingly conceded these humans were charming creatures, especially the females, and confessed an urge to whip out his biggest arrow whenever one walked by (never to Celestial, of course). But surely the Most High could find a better use for a Cherub’s Godly powers than babysitting a race who were more than a few pillars short of a temple? Certainly, anyone who’d witnessed a Star Trek convention or ‘professional’ wrestling would agree, there might be serious design faults.

  Not that Nimbus would ever speak his belief out loud, or there would be Hell to pay. He took a big risk even thinking it. No-one questioned the Architect. Ever! Nimbus was familiar with stories of the Fallen, whose punishment for such impertinence was exile to the Nadir of Eternal Flame. Were they a rough crowd!

  His mope was interrupted by a gang of jeering youths, who’d turned the corner onto the street. He glanced at the young girl slumped in the gutter, sobbing pathetically. Celestial would make the Fallen look like Fairies if Nimbus didn’t save the girl from embarrassment. But how? Just as panic set in and exile down here seemed favourable to her wrath, a brilliant idea erupted like Vulcan’s fireworks.

  Shaking off his Angel-in-Training robe, he pulled his glorious white wings tight to his body, mentally shrinking them, and imagined the normal street clothes of a modern boy. In a blink, Nimbus materialised as close as he dared to the girl. Unfortunately, distracted by the need to stay hidden until the right moment, he overshot the cover of the low brick wall he was hoping for and landed painfully in a thick hedge of hydrangeas. Branches rudely poked unmentionable bits and a thick shower of petals covered his platinum curls in a ridiculous mauve toupee.

  He barely had time to notch an arrow, step from the bushes and whisper a loud “Psst!” like some garden-variety pervert, then send his new hope home. The girl looked up unseeing, as a second sparkling shower of rainbow stars dissolved about her. She squeezed her eyes shut a
nd opened them slowly, love blossoming for the oddly dressed and mildly creepy boy, who’d apparently been stalking her from the foliage.

  Relieved and proud of his genius, Nimbus tried unsuccessfully to coax her behind the fence, when disaster struck and the pack of teenagers arrived. Lucky for the girl, whose longing was now firmly focused on Nimbus, he also had the newcomers’ undivided attention. They screamed in laughter, pointed and grasped at stitches in their sides. Nimbus peered down at himself and sighed in disbelief. Not only had he misjudged his landing, advertised by the scratches on his bare arms and legs, he had decked himself out in a hot-pink pair of leather shorts.

  “What’s that on his head?” shrieked one of the humans. He giggled so madly, Nimbus wondered briefly if Pluto’s jester, Yoric, had sprinkled him with laugh-til-you-die powder.

  “Biker Barbie’s wearing my Gran’s church hat! Such a pretty shade of purple.” The comment drew another round of hysterics. Could it get much worse?

  “Stop it!” the girl squealed. “Leave him alone!”

  “Oooh, little girls in love. How sweet!”

  His limited patience ran drier than the Sahara at midday and Nimbus fantasised unleashing the Biblical plague in downtown suburbia. Maybe he’d smote a few butts? This was all Celestial’s fault! She knew he had trouble with his powers and should never have left him alone down here. He’d learn nothing, practicing mistakes.

  Come to think of it, Nimbus was mighty hungry. What to do that would not provoke a spell in the fiery depths, visiting vicious fiends as a reward? He could simply dematerialise and write the fiasco off as a botched learning exercise, let their tutor, Bacchus, sort it out. This would also conveniently offer quiet time to heal the emotional scars of public humiliation in a hat that resembled a Nereids’ swim-cap. Lavender really wasn’t his colour. It was best to repress the fact he wore an outfit worthy of Mars, who enjoyed cross-dressing. If the Nymphs found out, he’d be the object of more degrading jokes. That sealed it; the humans were on their own.

  Just as Nimbus was poised to break the repeated warnings of Bacchus, “Above all else, leave things better than when they were found”, probably gaining a millennium on the time-out cloud, Celestial returned.

  “What in the Lord’s creation is this horrific nightmare!” She hovered as a dust mote by his ear. She may have been teeny, but her voice was a blaring trumpet and he grimaced. “Honestly, I leave you for one iota --”

  Nimbus cut her off, affecting his best Cupid’s face. “Could we please move passed the sermon to the part where you make it better, Celestial? I pledge the next one hundred years, during which, you can shout yourself hoarse and I will listen enthusiastically.”

  “He’s talking to himself,” said one of the aggravating humans. “Maybe, he’s a nutter.” The group nodded avidly in agreement.

  “Stop wheedling, Nimbus. That cutesy rot might work on harem girls, but I find it an unbecoming waste of your abilities. And --” Blaspheme! Nimbus regretted coming down here more with each passing second. “-- a pledge from you is not worth the spit of the Devil’s three-headed dog. Gabriel says it’s important not to enable you.”

  Things were poorly when even the Archangels deferred to such hair-brained waffle, he fumed. “I should make you clean this up, but there’s something strange going on upstairs and we need to sort it out.” She gave the impression that a good skewering on Lucifer’s pitchfork, to be slow roasted over the barbeques of the Underworld, was the only penalty she’d be happy with. “You get to wriggle out of strife again.”

  Celestial merely had to think it and the youths continued along the path as though uninterrupted, a minute gap in their memories the only sign of their brush with Angels. The girl, enraptured by Nimbus despite his fashion sense, would be far harder to heal.

  Cherub’s arrows were formed from the Breath of the Blessed, who fused stardust and moonbeams, a pinch of time from the beginning and the glorious source that flowed through all the mysteries and the astral bodies; the suns and the planets, and every living being. For Celestial to undo its bond, she too must wield this awesome and majestic power.

  It was a lot to expect of a Cherub, who regardless of her abilities was still only an Angel-in-Training. She took her physical form. Cherubs mostly wore a proper body to interface with others on their Realm and on Earth, which was visible when they wanted it to be. She screwed-up her face in concentration.

  Unnoticed, the girl crept over to Nimbus while he’d been ‘negotiating’, and was currently wrapped so tightly about him, she mimicked an octopus sucking the life from a mollusc. Petals decorated the ground as she seductively ran her fingers through his hair. When did they come of age? This one was clearly far riper than she appeared.

  “When you’re ready!” Nimbus gasped from his choke-hold, regretting writing-off professional wrestling and thinking a couple of the moves might come in handy.

  He had to unglue the girl’s other hand as it snaked down his back towards unexplored territory. Bacchus was right (another point Nimbus would never mention aloud); he had learned his lesson. If he came out of this with his windpipe intact, he would confine himself in future to observing from afar.

  “Shhh! You broke my concentration! It’s not like I’m baking muffins!” Celestial looked at the girl with saintly sympathy. “You stole her dignity, Nimbus. You should be ashamed!”

  “Mmm, anchovy muffins.” He stared wistfully off into space.

  Celestial renewed her focus, her face red and tense with effort. She looked about ready to lay a Brachiosaur egg, but Nimbus decided commenting was most unwise. Suddenly, she burst into radiant white light, shining brighter than the all the stars combined. Nimbus staggered backwards and the girl crumpled to the ground, a blast of supernatural energy drawing an arc around them. As quickly as it had erupted, the blinding glow was gone. Once again, Celestial was a speck at Nimbus’s shoulder.

  The girl jumped to her feet, staring wildly about. She caught sight of Nimbus, and frowned in confusion, inspecting his clothing. He smiled faintly and gave her an encouraging little wave, ruining any possibility of respect. The girl sniggered.

  “Nice outfit! It’s refreshing to see a boy who’s not afraid to promote his love of Mardi Gras.”

  She made an ‘L’ on her forehead and flounced off, the only trace of her ordeal an exaggerated attachment to wood. She went on to become the worst enemy of tree-loggers everywhere.

  Nimbus shook his head sadly. “Love is fickle.”

  “I’d call that an improvement. Wouldn’t you?” Celestial asked with a satisfied nod.

  “Depends whose side you’re on,” Nimbus murmured. “So, what’s going on upstairs?” He inquired as much out of curiosity as the need to prevent extra telling off.

  “The place is completely deserted. I can’t even find Bacchus.”

  “Did you check Zeus’s footstool? He often likes to curl up there after…” he trailed off. But it was too late.

  Bacchus’ less-than-respectable habits never failed to encourage long, boring speeches from Celestial, this time on their Guide’s disappointing fondness for ambrosia, the nectar of the Gods. In her view such excess was not behaviour befitting their rank. Instead, to Nimbus’s immense surprise, Celestial looked mildly offended he thought her capable of missing the obvious.

  “That’s the first place I searched! This has never happened before. I’m worried,” she said almost to herself, blonde spirals jittering in concern. “Come on! If there’s something wrong we have to help.”

  Nimbus followed doubtfully in her wake. If there was trouble, what on the Ethereal Realm could they possibly do that all the fully-fledged Angels and Gods could not?

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Trouble on the Ethereal Realm