Strange Angels Paperback - 2009

Details

• Title Strange Angels
• Author Lili St Crow
• Binding Paperback
• Edition 1st Edition
• Pages 293
• Volumes 1
• Language ENG
• Publisher Razorbill, New York
• Date 2009-05-14
• ISBN 9781595142511 / 1595142517
• Weight 0.65 lbs (0.29 kg)
• Dimensions 8.24 x 5.48 x 0.81 in (20.93 x 13.92 x 2.06 cm)
• Ages 12 to UP years
• Grade levels 7 - UP
• Reading level 810
• Library of Congress subjects Identity, Identity (Psychology)
• Library of Congress Catalog Number 2008039720
• Dewey Decimal Code FIC

p r o l o g u e

I didn’t tell Dad about Granmama’s white owl. I know I should have.

There’s that space between sleep and dreaming where things—not quite dreams, not fully fledged precognition, but weird little blends of both—sometimes get in. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy, when the sense of someone looking rises through the cotton-wool fog of being warm and tired.

The owl ruffled itself up on my windowsill drenched in moonglow, each pale feather sharp and clear under icy light. I hadn’t bothered to pull the cheap blinds down or hang up the curtains. Why bother, when we—Dad and me—only spend a few months in any town?

I blinked at the yellow-eyed bird. Instead of the comfort that means Gran is thinking about me—and don’t ask how I know the dead think of the living; I’ve seen too much not to know—I felt a sharp annoyance, like a glass splinter under the surface of my brain. The owl’s beak was black, and its feathers had ghostly spots like cobwebs, shadows against snowy down. It stared into my sleepy eyes for what seemed like eternity, ruffling just a bit, puffing up the way Gran always used to when she thought anyone was messing with me.

Not again. Go away.

It usually only showed up when something interesting or really foul was about to happen. Dad had never seen it, or at least I didn’t think so. But he could tell when I had, and it would make him reach for a weapon until I managed to open my mouth and say whether we were going to meet an old friend—or find ourselves in deep shit.

The night Gran died the owl had sat inside the window while she took her last few shallow, sipping breaths, but I don’t think the nurses or the doctor saw it. They would have said something. By that point I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, at least. I just sat there and held Gran’s hand until she drained away; then I sat in the hall while they did things to her empty body and wheeled it off. I curled up inside myself when the doctor or the social worker tried to talk to me, and just kept repeating that my dad would know, that he was on his way—even though I had no clue where he was, really. He’d been gone a good three months, off ridding the world of nasty things while I watched Gran slide downhill.

Of course, that morning Dad showed up, haggard and unshaven, his shoulder bandaged and his face bruised. He had all the ID, signed all the papers, and answered all the questions. Everything turned out okay, but sometimes I dream about that night, wondering if I’m going to get left behind again in some fluorescent-lit corridor smelling of Lysol and cold pain.

I don’t like thinking about that. I settled further into the pillow, watching the owl’s fluffing, each feather edged with cold moonlight.

My eyes drifted closed. Warm darkness swallowed me, and when the alarm clock went off it was morning, weak winter sunshine spilling through the window and making a square on the brown carpet. I’d thrashed out of the covers and was about to freeze my ass off. Dad hadn’t turned the heater up.

It took a good twenty minutes in the shower before I felt anything close to awake. Or human. By the time I stamped down the stairs, I was already pissed off and getting worse. My favorite jeans weren’t clean and I had a zit the size of Mount Pinatubo on my temple under a hank of dishwater brown hair. I opted for a gray T-shirt and a red hoodie, a pair of combat boots and no makeup.

Why bother, right? I wasn’t going to be here long enough for anyone to care.

My bag smacked the floor. Last night’s dishes still crouched in the sink. Dad was at the kitchen table, his shoulders hunched over the tray as he loaded clips, each bullet making a little clicking sound. “Hi, sweetheart.”

I snorted, snagging the orange juice and opening the carton, taking a long cold draft. I wiped my mouth and belched musically.

“Ladylike.” His bloodshot blue eyes didn’t rise from the clip, and I knew what that meant.

“Going out tonight?” That’s what I said. What I meant was, without me?

Click. Click. He set the full clip aside and started on the next. The bullets glinted, silver-coated. He must have been up all night with that, making them and loading them. “I won’t be in for dinner. Order a pizza or something.”

Which meant he was going somewhere more-dangerous, not just kinda-dangerous. And that he didn’t need me to zero the target. So he must’ve gotten some kind of intel. He’d been gone every night this week, always reappearing in time for dinner smelling of cigarette smoke and danger. In other towns he’d mostly take me with him; people either didn’t care about a teenage girl drinking a Coke in a bar, or we went places where Dad was reasonably sure he could stop any trouble with an ice-cold military stare or a drawled word.

But in this town he hadn’t taken me anywhere. So if he’d gotten intel, it was on his own.

How? Probably the old-fashioned way. He likes that better, I guess. “I could come along.”

“Dru.” Just the one word, a warning in his tone. Mom’s silver locket glittered at his throat, winking in the morning light.

“You might need me. I can carry the ammo.” And tell you when something invisible’s in the corner, looking at you. I heard the stubborn whine in my voice and belched again to cover it, a nice sonorous one that all but rattled the window looking out onto the scrubby backyard with its dilapidated swing set. There was a box of dishes sitting in front of the cabinets next to the stove; I suppressed the urge to kick at it. Mom’s cookie jar—the one shaped like a fat grinning black-and-white cow—was next to the sink, the first thing unpacked in every new house. I always put it in the bathroom box with the toilet paper and shampoo; that’s always the last in and first one out.

I’ve gotten kind of used to packing and unpacking, you could say. And trying to find toilet paper after a thirty-six-hour drive is no fun.

“Not this time, Dru.” He looked up at me, though, the bristles of his cropped hair glittering blond under fluorescent light. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

I was about to protest, but his mouth had turned into a thin, hard line and the bottle sitting on the table warned me. Jim Beam. It had been almost full last night when I went to bed, and the dregs of amber liquid in it glowed warmer than his hair. Dad was pale blond, almost a towhead, even if his stubble was brown and gold.

I’ve got a washed-out version of Mom’s curls and a better copy of Dad’s blue eyes. The rest of me, I guess, is up for grabs. Except maybe Gran’s nose, but she could have just been trying to make me feel better. I’m no prize. Most girls go through a gawky stage, but I’m beginning to think mine will be a lifelong thing.

It doesn’t bother me too much. Better to be strong than pretty and useless. I’ll take a plain girl with her head screwed on right over a cheerleader any day.

So I just leaned down and scooped up my messenger bag, the strap scraping against my fingerless wool gloves. They’re scratchy but they’re warm, and if you slip small stuff under the cuff, it’s damn near invisible. “Okay.”

“You should have some breakfast.” Click. Another bullet slid into the clip. His eyes dropped back down to it, like it was the most important thing in the world.

Eat something? When he was about to go out and deal with bad news alone? Was he kidding?

My stomach turned over hard. “I’ll miss the bus. Do you want some eggs?”

I don’t know why I offered. He liked them sunny-side up, but neither Mom or me could ever get them done right. I’ve been breaking yolks all my life, even when he tried to teach me the right way to gently jiggle with a spatula to get them out of the pan. Mom would just laugh on Sunday mornings and tell him scrambled or over-hard was what he was going to get, and he’d come up behind her and put his arms around her waist and nuzzle her long, curling chestnut hair. I would always yell, Ewwww! No kissing!

And they would both laugh.

That was Before. A thousand years ago. When I was little.

Dad shook his head a little. “No thanks, kiddo. You have money?”

I spotted his billfold on the counter and scooped it up. “I’m taking twenty.”

“Take another twenty, just in case.” Click. Click. “How’s school going?”

Just fine, Dad. Just freaking dandy. Two weeks in a new town is enough to make me all sorts of friends. “Okay.”

I took two twenties out of his billfold, rubbing the plastic sleeve over Mom’s picture with my thumb like I always did. There was a shiny space on the sleeve right over her wide, bright smile. Her chestnut hair was as wildly curly as mine, but pulled back into a loose ponytail, blonde-streaked ringlets falling into her heart-shaped face. She was beautiful. You could see why Dad fell for her in that picture. You could almost smell her perfume.

“Just okay?” Click.

“It’s fine. It’s stupid. Same old stuff.” I toed the linoleum and set his billfold down. “I’m going.”

Click. He didn’t look up. “Okay. I love you.” He was wearing his Marines sweatshirt and the pair of blue sweats he always worked out in, with the hole in the knee. I stared at the top of his head while he finished the clip, set it aside, and picked up a fresh one. I could almost feel the noise of each bullet being slid home in my own fingers.

My throat had turned to stone. “’Kay. Whatever. Bye.” Don’t get killed. I stamped out of the kitchen and down the hall, one of the stacked boxes barking me in the shin. I still hadn’t unpacked the living room yet. Why bother? I’d just have to box it all up in another couple months.

I slammed the front door, too, and pulled my hood up, shoving my hair back. I hadn’t bothered with much beyond dragging a comb through it. Mom’s curls had been loose pretty ringlets, but mine were pure frizz. The Midwest podunk humidity made it worse; it was a wet blanket of cold that immediately turned my breath into a white cloud and nipped at my elbows and knees.

The rental was on a long, ruler-straight block of similar houses, all dozing under watery sunlight managing to fight its way through overcast. The air tasted like iron and I shivered. We’d been in Florida before this, always sticky, sweaty, sultry heat against the skin like oil. We’d cleared out four poltergeists in Pensacola and a haunting apparition of a woman even Dad could see in some dead-end town north of Miami, and there was a creepy woman with cottonmouths and copperheads in glass cages who sold Dad the silver he needed to take care of something else. I hadn’t had to go to school there—we were so busy staying mobile, moving from one hotel to the next, so whatever Dad needed the silver for couldn’t get a lock on us.

Now it was the Dakotas, and snow up to our knees. Great.

Our yard was the only one with weeds and tall grass. We had a picket fence, too, but the paint was flaking and peeling off and parts of it were missing, like a gap-toothed smile. Still, the porch was sturdy and the house was even sturdier. Dad didn’t believe in renting crappy bungalows. He said it was a bad way to raise a kid. I walked away with my head down and my hands stuffed in my pockets.

I never saw Dad alive again.