The girl shakes her head. She turns and runs toward us.
“Get back here!” whispers the urgent voice from behind the car. A man sprints out, running half-crouched. He snatches the little thing into his arms and runs back. The kid squirms like a sack of puppies. She kicks and twists and tries to scream bloody murder but he has his hand over her mouth.
Her muffled yells sound a lot like, “Mommy!”
Beside me, Clara sits perfectly still.
A second girl’s face peeks out from behind the car. She’s a little bigger but just as grubby with hair just as tangled. She looks wide-eyed at us.
“Ella?” Clara whispers so softly that even I have trouble hearing her. She gets up, almost panting. “Ella?” She lurches, then runs toward them.
Uh-oh. This could be really wonderful or really awful.
It’s dark and we’re far enough away that I’m pretty sure they can’t see the details of what Clara looks like yet. I get up and follow discreetly in case she needs backup. Not that I can really help her if her family rejects her, but at least she’ll know she has one person in her corner.
The man freezes on his way to the car. He turns around with the girl in his arms. The kid is going ballistic with her muffled screams of “Mommy!”
The second girl steps gingerly out from behind the car. “Mom?” She sounds totally lost and unsure.
“Chloe.” Clara sobs out her name as she runs toward them.
The older girl approaches Clara. I’m about to have a full-blown smile on my face when the girl stumbles to a stop, staring wide-eyed at her mom. She’s close enough now to see us better. I see Clara again the way my mother sees her, the way the others see her. She really does look like she crawled out of her grave after being dead for a while.
Please don’t scream, Chloe. That would be the end of Clara.
She was strong enough to survive a scorpion attack, strong enough to crawl out of being buried alive and escape from monsters on Alcatraz. But having her little girl scream at the sight of her would shatter her into so many pieces that nothing could glue her back together.
Clara’s steps falter and she stops too. Her face shifts from amazed delight to horrible uncertainty.
The younger girl has managed to squirm out of the man’s arms and dashes over to us. Unlike her sister, she has no hesitation about jumping into Clara’s arms.
“I knew it was you!” The girl looks like she’s about to melt with happiness as she hugs her mom. “Daddy made us wait until we knew for sure. We watched forever. You just cried and cried and we couldn’t tell. Then you started talking and I knew! I heard your voice and I knew. See Daddy? I told you.”
But Daddy stands frozen a few steps away, staring at Clara.
Clara strokes Ella’s hair with a trembling hand. “Yes, baby girl, you were right. I missed you so much. So very much.” She looks fearfully at Chloe and her husband, her eyes begging.
Chloe takes a hesitant step toward her. “Mom? Is it really you? What happened to you?”
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m all right,” says Clara. “I’m all right now.” She puts out her arm in an invitation and Chloe gingerly steps into it.
Dad yanks the girl back. “Is it contagious?”
“What?” Clara looks confused.
“Are you contagious?” Dad enunciates every word like she no longer speaks his language.
“No,” whispers Clara. Her voice cracks and I know she’s barely holding it together. “I swear.”
Chloe slips out of her dad’s hold. She pauses, staring at Clara. Then she hesitantly steps into Clara’s arm. Once there, though, the older girl clings onto her mom as tightly as her baby sister.
Clara’s husband stares at them, looking like he’s torn between running to join his family and simply running away. He stands there, watching his kids chatter to their mom about how they came here to scavenge, that they’d heard valuable things were left here on the dock. How they’d begged their dad to come here one last time. How they pretended they were coming here for their Sunday lunch like they used to.
Hearing Clara chat softly with her girls brings up a picture of a mom that every kid deserves to have. The girls look cozy and happy in the shelter of their mother. I’m guessing that feels pretty great.
Eventually, their dad steps over to Clara like a man in a dream. Without a word, he enfolds all of them in a hug and begins to cry.
I can almost see this pier the way it was when Clara and her husband brought the kids here for lunch. The sound of the seagulls, the salty smell of the ocean on the breeze, and the warmth of the California sun. I can see the couple walking hand-in-hand as the girls run ahead. Clara, the way she used to be with fresh skin and a smile, holding flowers from the farmers’ market, laughing with her husband on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
I melt back into the shadows.
67
I BRACE for Raffe to be sarcastic about Clara’s little reunion. He’s leaning against a shop wall that is mostly intact—a dark, menacing figure against the night. If I didn’t know him, I would walk a long way around to avoid him.
When I get close enough to see his face, there’s no sarcasm in it. He watches Clara’s reunion with her family with far more sympathy than I could have ever predicted for an angel, even Raffe.
But then I remember Beliel’s comment about how angels weren’t meant to be alone. So maybe he understands better than I give him credit for.
“I’m revoking your warrior status,” he says as he watches Clara and her family.
“I had warrior status?”
“For about thirty seconds.”
“What heinous crime did I commit to lose my exalted status?”
“A true warrior would have retrieved her sword first before doing personal business.”
“I’m all about personal business. Every battle I have is personal.” I lead Raffe toward the pile of broken wood and shingles where I hid the sword.
“Hmm. Good answer. Maybe you’ll eventually regain your status.”
“I won’t hold my breath.” I shove the wooden debris out of the way until I see the smudged face of the teddy bear. “There she is.” I carefully pull out the bear and sword. I proudly flip the bridal veil skirt to show him the scabbard.
Raffe stares at the disguised sword for a second before commenting. “Do you know how many kills this sword has?”
“It’s a perfect disguise, Raffe.”
“This sword is not just an angel sword. She’s an archangel sword. Better than an angel sword, in case that’s not clear. She intimidates the other angel swords.”
“What, the other swords quake in their scabbards when they see her?” I walk over to the pile of scattered junk by Captain Jake’s boat.
“Yes, if you must know,” he says following me. “She was made for ultimate respect. How is she supposed to get that disguised as a teddy bear in a bridal gown?”
“It’s not a bridal gown, it’s a skirt for her scabbard. And it’s cute.”
“She hates cute. She wants to maim and scar cute.”
“Nobody hates cute.”
“Angel swords do.” He arches his brow and stares down at me.
I guess I won’t tell him how many cutesy angel figurines and pictures we used to have in the World Before.
Mom’s tracker should be here but I don’t see it in the scattered debris. I do spot a detachable strap hanging out of a purse with keys tethered to it, though. I’ve been meaning to tether the bear to the scabbard and this looks perfect. I clip one end around the ribbon sewn to the bear’s neck and the other end to the scabbard’s strap.
“Have you named her yet?” he asks. “She likes powerful names so maybe you could appease her by giving her a good one.”