Chapter 29
l’ve got what?”
“Wings.” Laura hadn’t
noticed, either. I felt less dumb.
“Where?” Laura
twisted from side to side, which had the effect of someone wearing
a backpack trying to see their backpack ... every twist and turn
just angled the item away. Which is how I ended up ...
“Phhhfft!”
... getting a faceful
of feathers.
I waved her away from
me, spitting flight feathers. (Who knew that report I did on
migratory snow and blue geese in eighth grade would have a
practical application in hell?)
“Are they there? I
can’t believe it! What do they look like? I didn’t feel a thing!”
Whack, Whack!
I tried to wave her
away. “Stop it, stop it, I can’t see a thing except for primary and
secondary feathers!”
“You know about
birds?”
“Eighth grade. Never
mind.” I was reminded of the best Christmas movie with dead people
ever, Scrooged, when Carol Kane’s
awesome Ghost of Christmas Present is twisting and jumping around
and keeps whacking Bill Murray in the face with her wings. This was
exactly like that, except it wasn’t December, it was November.
November in hell. “You want to see them? Pop them out. You
know—extend ‘em.”
This was pretty dumb,
because I was standing in exactly the wrong spot. So at about the
same half second I realized Laura had a near seven-foot wingspan,
her extending left wing crashed into me.
Those suckers were
strong. Picture a sparrow, lean and
tough from being busy all day. And also with long blonde hair, and
jeans.
“Oh my God!
Betsy!”
“Could you help me
up, please?” I groaned from the floor. Hell carpet. Bowels of the
pit. Whatever.
She hurried over to
me and hauled me to my feet. Her wings weren’t the stereotypical
snow white you see in old paintings of angels. They really were
like gigantic sparrow feathers—a plain but cute mix of mottled
browns, powerful and practical.
“Sorry to disappear
on you like that; I admit to being something of a micromanager. Oh,
good, you’ve been doing some exploring.”
“Mother! I have wings
here. Wings!”
“Of course you do,”
Satan said, gazing upon Laura with maternal pride. “Your mother is
an angel.”
“It’s so creepy when
you refer to yourself in the third person.”
“Shush. Satan doesn’t
wish to hear from the vampire queen at this time.”
“Creepy!” I
shouted.
But the devil wasn’t
paying any attention to me; she only had eyes for Laura, who,
annoyingly, was even more striking with gorgeous yet practical
wings sprouting from her back. “As I was saying before
what’s-her-name spouted off—”
“You’re being a
pill!” I said, keeping a wary eye on my sister’s
wingspan.
“—you’re half angel.
My lineage didn’t change when I left heaven.”
“Got kicked out, you
mean.”
I was very surprised
to find my feet were a foot off the floor, as Satan had closed the
five-foot distance in half a blink and hoisted me up by the front
of my shirt. “I. Was not. Kicked out. I left. On my
own.”
“Touch-y! D’you mind? I’ve only worn this shirt twice;
also, it’s from Eddie Bauer, which means it’s practically
indestructible.” So, a fine choice for a jaunt through Demon Town.
Oh, Eddie Bauer, only you understand my vacation clothing
needs.
“Let her
go!”
Super. Two winged freaks battling over heaven, hell, and
my turtleneck. “Laura, I’m fine.” I tried a smile to show the
Antichrist that being hoisted into the air and strangled by the
devil wasn’t such a big deal. Shit, I’ve been on dates that were
less pleasant. “It’s not like I need to breathe. Or mind dangling a
foot off the ground. But if I have to grow my larynx back, you’re
gonna be sorry!”
“Worth it,” Satan
muttered, and let go.
Instantly I bent over
and checked out my footgear. “You are sooo lucky I didn’t get a
scuff mark, you big, jerky fallen angel!”
“I tremble as I
consider that close call,” Satan said with a yawn.
“Will they work? I
mean, can I fly?”
“What? Back on the
wings again? After I had to suck up yet another felony assault from
your mother? My Eddie Bauer shirt is fine; thanks for asking.”
Satan’s wings
appeared out of nowhere just as suddenly as Laura’s had. The
malicious cow waited until I was out of Laura’s line of fire, and
into hers, before she showed us her damned (literally)
wingspan.
“I have had enough”—I
cut myself off and spat feathers again—“of facefuls of wings! Which
is not a sentence I thought I’d ever, ever have to say! Hell just sucks, and that’s all
there is to it.”
“Yours are all black,
like raven’s wings,” Laura said, awed. She put out a tentative hand
and stroked her mother’s wing.
“Or really dirty
ones. Like you spent a lot of time lurking in chimneys. Or the Koch
refinery smokestacks.”
The pseudo-angels
ignored me. Getting to be a common theme around here, I was sorry
to note.
“Of course they
work,” Satan was explaining. “But like anything, you will need
practice. But you’re mistaken in your assumption that they’ve only
now ‘appeared.’ They have always been a part of you, just like your
Hellfire weapons. But they can only be seen by all eyes in this
dimension.”
“So when I’m home—St.
Paul, I mean—they’re there, but no one can see them.”
“Yes. It’s too much
for the human eye to take in. I’m not sure I’ll be able to break
this down for you, but I’ll try. Our wings sort of shift between
realities. Your Hellfire sword and crossbow are always with you but
can be seen only under the right circumstance—for example, on
earth, they can be seen when you are stressed, when you are
vengeful. You call on them and they appear to all. But they were
always there. You aren’t making them appear, you’re simply making
use of them. Your wings are much the same.”
“Like how Jessica
can’t always get a taxi. If she’s somewhere late and deserted,
cabbies don’t always see her. They don’t even think they’re being
bigots about it; they’d pass a lie detector test that they never
even saw her.” They both looked at me. “What? I’m trying to
contribute to the weirdest conversation ever.”
“Well, all right. And
I will say you’ve come up with a parallel that isn’t completely
stupid or terrible,” the devil admitted.
“Aw. I’m getting all
choked up and everything.”
“Choked, at the very
least,” the devil muttered. My! Satan was Ms. Crabby Pants
today.