Rebellion

Alice felt her jaw drop open and snapped it shut. “Adriel.”

“Yes. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”

“You could say that.” She hadn’t needed the name. Alice had spent enough time around angels to recognise him; the one who made them all twitchy. Black wings. Black eyes.

The Angel of Death.

“A job.”

“A job. Yes.”

“‘Job’ as in ‘mission’?”

“No. ‘Job’ as in ‘employment.’ Paid employment.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry?” Adriel looked puzzled.

“You’re offering me a job. Why? You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to. I was there, after all, in hell. I saw you, and what I saw impressed me.”

“That was kind of a one-off.”

“So I should hope. But you impressed me, and I find myself in need of a new member of staff. And I believe you are in need of a job, are you not?”

He wasn’t wrong. Alice’s own meagre funds hadn’t exactly gone far – however careful with them she was – and she was rapidly depleting Mallory’s emergency savings... which she had very nearly thrown away, hidden as they were inside an old pizza box. Along with a mummified slice of pizza. It was all well and good, this ‘living below the radar’ thing, but she still had to eat.

She sighed. Against her better judgement, she asked, “What kind of job?”

“One in a... sympathetic working environment.”

“Working for you.”

“Working for me.” He nodded. “Somewhere you needn’t worry about the... politics of your actions.” He tapped the cuff of his sleeve, where every angel’s sigil lay. He meant Michael, and his interest in her: of course he did. “So you know: anything you do while working for me will fall under my jurisdiction – not his.”

Alice weighed her options. Or attempted to. She didn’t have many options. She needed the money, and at least this way she didn’t have to worry about explaining to her boss why things around her had a tendency to catch fire.

“And what is it, exactly, that you do?” she asked.

Adriel simply turned his hat over in his hands and smiled. “If you’ll permit me, why don’t I just show you?”

“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Alice folded her arms across her chest and stared at the wide shop frontage: a large window partly obscured by curtains, and a tasteful sign above it.

“Whyever not?” Adriel was a pace behind her. “You’ve been through hell. This should be easy.”

“‘Whyever not?’ How about we start with the bloody obvious? That you’re an undertaker?”

“People die, Alice.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.”

“...which means it’s good business. We don’t tend to experience much fluctuation in trade.”

“But an undertaker. Seriously?”

“I fail to see your point.”

“Of course you do.” Alice shook her head. She’d seen enough. “You don’t want me in there.”

“I thought I’d already made it clear that I do.”

“You don’t. Not me. Trust me on this. The... my ‘gift’ as you lot like to call it? It gets triggered. It gets triggered by fear and grief and pain and – to put it bluntly – all those bad things that people feel when somebody dies. All of which they’re going to be feeling when they walk through that door.” She jabbed her finger at the shop to make her point. “What happens when some dead kid’s mother comes in and I set fire to the curtains?”

“I don’t think we need quite that level of hyperbole, but I understand your concern. If I thought it was going to be a problem, I wouldn’t have made you this offer.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and she fought the urge to shrug it off.

She needed the job.

“I’ll need to think about it.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll see you here on Monday morning. Wear something...”

“Black?”

“Appropriate.” He blinked at her with his black eyes. “Monday, Alice,” he said as he moved towards the door. “I think you’re going to like it here.”

“Sure. Of course I will,” she muttered as the door closed behind him. “It’s not like I’ve got much of a choice.”

DESPITE HAVING SPENT most of the weekend trying to argue herself out of it, Monday morning found her standing on the doorstep of Adriel’s funeral parlour.

The door opened without a sound and as she stepped inside, her feet sank into thick, cream carpet. She hoped it wasn’t going to be her job to vacuum it. She was in a waiting area: three comfortable-looking sofas arranged around a low coffee table, complete with a vase of lilies and a box of tissues. Across the room stood a small, dark wooden desk with an old-fashioned blotter and a leather desk diary. And another vase of lilies. Feeling her eyes start to water, Alice wrinkled her nose.

Further back, there were several doors which might have been offices, and another – half-hidden by a curtain – which was almost certainly not.

Unable to hold it back any longer, Alice sneezed. Loudly, and repeatedly. Fumbling in her pockets for a tissue, she sank into one of the sofas as she tried to get a grip on herself... or at least stop her eyes from streaming. Lilies. Of all the possible flowers, it had to be lilies. Eventually, she forced her eyes open to find Adriel sitting on the sofa beside her, watching her with interest.

“Good morning.”

“Mordig,” Alice said thickly, taking the handkerchief he offered her. “Sorry. Pollen. Can’t...”

“I see.” He folded his hands in his lap and watched as Alice dabbed at her eyes. What she really wanted to do was blow her nose, but she got the feeling that doing that in someone else’s handkerchief was probably not a good idea. Maybe if you offered to wash it...?

“I’m pleased you came.”

“But not surprised,” she said with a sniff.

He smiled. “No. Not surprised.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Before we proceed, there are things you need to understand. Firstly, no-one here knows.”

“About you, you mean.” Alice sighed. Secrets were exhausting. She was learning this the hard way.

“About me. Or you.”

“What happened to the ‘sympathetic working environment’?”

“I think you’ll find I can be very sympathetic. But the staff... they don’t know, and that is how it must stay.” He leaned forward as he spoke, lowering his voice.

“Never know. Got it.” The handkerchief was still balled up in her hand. It felt decidedly soggy.

“Secondly, my name. My name, as far as everyone here is concerned, is Andrew. Andrew Langham. Mister Langham to you, especially in front of clients.”

“Clients. Yes.”

“Which brings me to my next point. You will sit there.” He nodded to the desk across the room. “Your job is simply to meet clients as they come in, see that they’re comfortable and then to inform either myself or my colleagues that they are here.”

“You mean I’m the receptionist.”

“If you like. Offer them tea, coffee...”

“I’m not being funny, Adr... Mister Langham, but a cup of tea? Really? Like that’s