“Mrs. Beamis wanted to see me?” Vilma said shyly, nervous anticipation beginning to grab hold of her.
“What’s your name?” Mrs. Vistorino asked as she reached for the telephone next to her and pressed a button. Judy Flannagan came into the office behind her and gave her a polite smile before retrieving a stack of folders from Mrs. Vistorino’s desk and going to a filing cabinet in the corner.
“Vilma Santiago,” she answered, mesmerized by the simple act of the girl filing. I need sleep—badly.
“Vilma Santiago out here to see you,” Mrs. Vistorino said into the receiver. There was a slight pause, and Vilma suddenly found herself praying for some kind of mistake. “Will do,” the receptionist responded as she hung up the phone. “Go on in. Mrs. Beamis is waiting.”
Vilma walked to the door and knocked gently on the wooden frame. The counselor called out for her to enter, greeting her with a warm, friendly smile and motioning Vilma toward a chair in front of her desk. “Come in, Vilma,” she said. “I’m sorry to pull you from class, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you and I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.”
Vilma lowered herself into the chair, taking the book bag from her shoulder and placing it on the floor beside her. “Nothing bad I hope,” she said nervously. The office smelled of peppermint and she noticed that Mrs. Beamis had a piece of white-and-red-striped candy swishing around in her mouth as she studied an open file-hers, she imagined.
“No, nothing bad,” she said, flipping through a few pages. “We’re just a bit concerned right now.” She looked up to meet Vilma’s eyes.
Vilma’s heart began to race. “What… what are you concerned about?”
The guidance counselor closed the folder and picked up a pen from the cluttered surface of her desk. “Since you transferred into Ken Curtis you’ve been one of our finest students, Vilma. Your teachers enjoy having you in their classes, and they say you’re an excellent example for the other students. You’re bright, articulate, and friendly; if we had a thousand more like you in this school, our jobs would be much easier.”
Vilma found that she was blushing again. “Then why—”
“It’s just that when a student such as yourself begins to act out of the ordinary, teachers notice, even students,” she explained.
Vilma felt her heart sink. She had hoped she was hiding her problems well. But, evidently she was only fooling herself. It was having a far more noticeable effect on her than she’d thought.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Mrs. Beamis asked. “A problem here at school, or maybe even at home?”
The urge to confess rose in Vilma’s throat. Maybe it would be for the best to talk about the dreams—about the bizarre things she thought she was seeing.
“We want to help you in any way we can, Vilma,” the counselor continued. “There is no problem too big, you do understand that, don’t you?”
She nodded as images of herself in a strait-jacket flashed through her mind. Mrs. Beamis would think she was crazy—and what if she was? What would she do then? “I’ve been very nervous about graduation,” she lied. “About going off to college… It’s been keeping me awake at night.”
Mrs. Beamis tapped the pen tip on the cover of her folder. The woman’s gaze was intense, as if she could see right through Vilma’s ruse. “It is a very nerve-racking time of your life,” she said, continuing to stare. “I can see where it might affect you.”
Vilma laughed nervously. “It’s just that I know how much my life is going to change, and it scares me.”
“Are you sure that’s the only thing bothering you?” the counselor asked, moving forward in her chair.
Vilma slowly nodded as a creeping feeling of dread spread throughout her body. She thought of going to bed that night. She wanted to sleep so badly, but the dreams were so terrifying.
“No relationship issues?” Mrs. Beamis added. “We can talk about anything, Vilma. I can’t stress that enough.”
Vilma thought of Aaron Corbet. It had been more than a week since his last e-mail. His typed words—I miss you, love, Aaron—were like a knife blade to her chest. She had no idea where these feelings for a mysterious boy she barely knew had come from, but she found them almost as disturbing as her dreams.
“Nope.” Vilma again shook her head. “No problems with boys.”
She would have done just about anything to have Aaron back with her, for somehow she was certain that he could help with her problem. But that wasn’t to be, and sometimes when she thought she would never see him again, it felt as though a part of her were dying.
“With everything I’ve had on my mind lately I really don’t have the time for them.”
The end-of-period bell started to ring and Vilma reached for her book bag leaning against the chair. “Is that all, Mrs. Beamis?” she asked, desperate to be out from beneath the microscope. “I’ve got a quiz in chemistry and I was hoping to review my—”
The guidance counselor picked up Vilma’s file and placed it in a stack on the lefthand corner of her desk. “Yes, Vilma, I think we’re finished here,” she said with a caring smile.
Vilma returned the smile and stood. “Thanks for the talk and everything,” she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder and turning to leave.
“Remember, no problem is too big,” Mrs. Beamis called after her.
If only that were true, Vilma thought, waving good-bye to Mrs. Vistorino on her way to chemistry.
Deep down in the darkness, the power was angry.
As Aaron drifted in the void between oblivion and consciousness, he felt its indignation. He floated buoyantly within the ocean of black, the rage of the angelic charging the very atmosphere of the unconscious environment with its fearsome electricity, and then there came a tug and he was drawn upward toward awareness.
“I think he’s waking up,” he heard a familiar voice say as a wet tongue lapped his face, acting as a slimy lifeline to pull him farther from the depths of oblivion. Aaron opened his eyes and gazed up into Gabriel’s looming face.
“There he is,” the dog said happily. “You’ve been out for quite some time. I was starting to get worried.”
Aaron reached up and scratched his canine friend behind one of his floppy, yellow ears. “Sorry about that, pal. Where’s—”
“I’m here,” Camael said from someplace nearby.
Aaron sat up and the world began to spin. “Damn,” he said, touching a hand to his head. “Is everybody all right?”
“I’m hungry,” Gabriel reported.
“You’re always hungry,” Aaron answered curtly. “What did she hit us with? Lightning?”
He noticed that his wrists were bound, encircled with manacles of golden metal, strange symbols scratched into their surface and a length of thick chain between them. There was a band of the same metal around his throat as well. “What the hell are these?” he asked, looking around.
It appeared that they were in the finished basement of a residential home. The Ping-Pong table, covered in what looked to be a couple of inches of dust and crammed into the far corner of the room, was a dead giveaway.
“The restraints were made by someone well versed in angel magick,” Camael said from across the room. He was manacled as well and sitting stiffly in the center of a black beanbag chair. “The characters inscribed on them are powerful, imbuing the bonds with the capacity to render our abilities inert.”