“The Archangel Gabriel said that what I was doing—the prophecy?—was somehow connected to the sins of my father,” Aaron said to his angel companion as they reached the padlocked gate.
“Yes,” Camael said as a sword of flame came to life in his hands and he severed the chain with a single slice. “And he also said that you have his eyes.” Camael pushed open the gate and strode through onto the road.
Aaron held back, waiting for his dog to finish up sniffing around a patch of weeds.
“Do you know who he is, Camael?” Aaron asked as his dog trotted over to join him. “My father—do you know who my father is?”
The angel had continued to walk up the road, but he stopped and slowly turned. “I do not, no,” he said, shaking his head. “But what I do know is that he must have been an angel of formidable power to have sired one like you.” Camael then promptly turned away, continuing on his journey.
“I think he just paid you a compliment, Aaron,” Gabriel said as he walked alongside him.
Aaron smiled slightly. “I think you might be right there, Gabe.”
Berkely Street was deathly quiet in the early morning stillness, as was the rest of Blithe. Aaron removed a pair of sweatpants and shirt from the backseat of his car and prepared to put them on over his filthy and ripped clothing.
“I think I might have an extra sweatshirt,” he said to Camael, gazing at the angel’s filthy suit with a wrinkled nose.
“That will be unnecessary,” he said.
And Aaron watched with amazement as the accumulated dirt and grime on his companion’s suit faded away before his eyes, leaving it as if it had just come from the cleaners. The angel then adjusted his tie, glancing casually in his direction.
“Let me guess,” Aaron said as he pulled the sweatshirt down over his head. “I could do that, too, if I just applied myself.”
Camael was about to respond, but Aaron put up a hand to silence him; he didn’t have the time or energy for a dissertation right now. He finished putting on the rest of his clean clothes and checked out his reflection in the side mirror of his car. It would have to do for now. That was all he needed, for Mrs. Provost to see him looking like he’d been through World War III. It was going to be hard enough to explain what had happened and how she had come to be locked in the cellar.
Camael studied the quaint house with squinted eyes. “And you say that the old woman attacked you?”
“Yeah,” Aaron said as he combed his unruly hair with his fingers. “I knocked her out and put her in the cellar. I didn’t want to take the risk of her letting the other people in town know I was on to them.”
“I’m very hungry after being inside the belly of a monster,” Gabriel declared, and hurriedly headed up the walk to the front door. “I wonder if she’ll have any meat loaf?”
“Not if she’s been locked in the basement all night, pal,” he said, coming up behind the dog and reaching for the doorknob.
It was unlocked, and Aaron swung the door wide—and was immediately hit with the smell of something cooking, something that made his belly ache and come to the realization that Gabriel wasn’t the only one who was very hungry.
“Mrs. Provost?” he called out, looking around the foyer and the area around it. Strangely enough, it showed no sign of their struggle. They all moved toward the kitchen, toward the wonderful smell of breakfast cooking, Camael backing up the rear.
“Mrs. Provost?” he said again as he came around the door frame and saw the older woman at the stove. She was wearing an apron and was frying up some bacon. The old woman turned momentarily from her cooking to give him a smile. “Morning,” she said, reaching up with a white bandaged hand to brush away a stray wisp of white hair from her forehead. “Knew the smell of cooking would get you in here.” She went back to work, carefully favoring the injured hand.
“What happened to your hand?” he asked her, knowing full well that she had burned it on his sword during their scuffle. She was placing some strips of bacon onto a folded paper towel on the stove, and Gabriel went to her, tail wagging. She was careful to finish up what she was doing before petting the animal with her good hand.
“I’m not really sure,” she said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Think I took a bit of a spill down the cellar steps last night,” she said kind of dreamily, straining to recall what had happened to her. “Must’ve knocked myself senseless and touched something hot on the furnace.”
She peeled some more strips of the breakfast meat out of the package and laid them in the greasy pan. “Even found a way to lock myself inside,” she said with a laugh. “Good thing I found a spare skeleton key down there or I’d still be locked up.” The old woman was making sure that the bacon was lined up straight in the pan. “Probably should go see the doctor to rule out concussion or anything,” she added. Gabriel lay down on the floor at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly.
Aaron turned and looked at Camael behind him. The angel had been precisely right. Mrs. Provost’s brain had done exactly as he described. It had attempted to rationalize the bizarreness of the situation, steering clear of anything that would be too difficult to explain or comprehend.
Mrs. Provost placed her fork down and walked to the refrigerator, all the while under the watchful eye of his Labrador. “I was just about to cook up some eggs,” she said, pulling on the fridge door to open it. “My father always used to say that a big breakfast could cure what ails you,” she said, removing the carton of fresh white eggs. “Thought today might be a good day to take his advice.”
Camael had not willed himself invisible this time, and Aaron caught her staring at the large, older man behind him—too stubborn to ask his identity. She would wait until he got around to explaining who Camael was.
“This is my friend,” he said in introduction. “The one who had some business up in Portland?” She nodded slowly, remembering the conversation that they’d had the first night over supper. “He just got back this morning,” he explained.
Camael was silent, studying the old woman just as she was studying him.
“Is he staying for breakfast?” she asked, taking the eggs with her to the stove.
Aaron was about to answer for the angel, when Camael suddenly spoke for himself. “I will have French fries,” he said, stunning Aaron with his answer.
Mrs. Provost completely unfazed by the angel’s request, reached down to the stove and pulled it open. A new delicious aroma wafted out of the oven with a blast of heat. There was something cooking inside on metal sheet.
“Don’t have any French fries, but how about home fries—will they do?” she asked. “My husband, God rest his soul, used ta tell me that I made the best home fries in New England.” She used an oven mitt covered in a pattern of bananas to remove the hot pan of browned, chopped potatoes from the stove.
“If you like French fries, you’re going to love these,” Aaron told the angel, his mouth beginning to water.
“Then I will have—home fries,” he said, eyeing the breakfast dish now resting atop the stove.
It was all pretty strange and quite amazing, Aaron mused as he finished up giving Gabriel his breakfast and watched the kindly old woman expertly crack the last of the eggs into the frying pan, making breakfast as if it were just like any other day of the week. It was hard for him to wrap his brain around the concept. Less than two hours ago he had been fighting for his life against a force that could very well have threatened the world—but here he was now, about to sit down to a big breakfast of bacon, egg and home fries. The realization that his life had dramatically changed was again driven home with the force of an atomic blast—and with every new day, it seemed to change more and more. Aaron wondered if he’d ever get used to it, if it would ever seem as mundane as sitting down to eat breakfast.