Shuttered Sky

expected. A small gray-haired Panamanian man with weathered skin, a bat-ugly woman with bad hair, and a child.

“Welcome aboard the Blue Horizon,” she said. The man shook her hand, the woman smiled dismally through her cleft lip, and the boy’s attention was lost on the view through the slanted glass window. “Ichole!” he said, the Spanish equivalent of “wow.”

“Would you prefer English, or Spanish?” the man asked.

“English,” she told him.

“Then you have to excuse the accents,” the man said. “Our speak­ing, it is limited by the experience of . . . of. . .” He turned to the boy “Como dice?”

“Human hosts,” the boy answered.

“Yes. We are limited by the experience of our human hosts.”

She was stunned by how blatant they were in declaring their su­pernatural nature, as if it were nothing unusual. She offered to converse in Spanish, but they refused.

“We learn speak more very soon,” said the split-lipped woman, who had the least command of the language.

“Although we are limited by the past of these bodies,” the man said, “our future has no limit.”

The cocktail waiter brought Lourdes her usual, and she stirred the white Colada into the pink daiquiri, but didn’t drink. Best to keep all of her faculties. She offered her guests a round, but they declined.

“Pleasures later,” the man said.

“Alcohol es caca,” the boy said, sticking out his tongue. “Grandpa says so.”

Memories of his host? thought Lourdes. Were those memories an asset, or a hindrance? Whatever these creatures were, did their newly acquired bodies weaken them? How much danger was she in just being with them?

Since they were frank, she chose to be frank as well. “You talk of host bodies,” Lourdes said. “Are you spirit parasites, or spirit preda­tors?”

The boy giggled at the question, but none of them answered.

“Well, what are you?”

They looked to one another, and the boy reached out, gently touching Lourdes’s face. She recoiled from his touch. The boy was unbothered by her reaction. “You must soon learn to love us, I think,” the boy said.

“And why would I ever love you?” Lourdes sneered.

“Because,” said the boy. “We are angels.”

* * *

The Blue Horizon anchored for the rest of the day in the lake, drawing attention and suspicion from canal authorities, who already knew the strange reputation of the rogue ship. They were marginally eased by a spread of stalls and outright lies given them by Carlos Ce­ballos, their own most respected canal pilot.

Lourdes dined with the “angels” in the main dining room at her own table but surrounded by a full seating of guests, never allowing these creatures to get her alone. During the meal, she sensed that nei­ther their breathing, nor their heartbeats were in synch with hers, or with anyone else’s on the ship. Everything about the three was under their own control. It left her feeling vulnerable, unprotected.

Their conversation, which had been so direct in the lounge, lapsed into pleasantries around the dinner table. Apparently her guests had already learned the circular art of conversation.

“How did you come upon this ship,” the woman asked, her En­glish already better. “How long have you traveled in it?”

They revealed little more about themselves, but asked questions of Lourdes she sensed they already knew the answers to. Yet they feigned surprise and interest in her answers, all the while studying her as she studied them. Lourdes obliged them, joining in their gavotte, making her own glib conversation.

“What is your destination?” the woman asked, always the one pressing for information.

“I have none,” Lourdes answered truthfully. “I intend to enjoy myself from here to the end of the world.”

“The world won’t end,” the man told her. “It only will change.”

“Not according to Dillon,” Lourdes said.

They didn’t deny knowing who he was. “His world ends,” the boy told her. “Not yours.”

When the food arrived, the boy shoved it into his mouth with a disregard for manners that typified any eight-year-old.

“I didn’t know angels were gluttons,” Lourdes quipped.

“These bodies need to eat,” said the woman. “And we enjoy the pleasure of it.”

“Since when do angels enjoy pleasures of the flesh?”

“We do when flesh is our temple,” answered the woman, with a pious lift of her eyebrows that made Lourdes squirm.

“So, as angels do you have names I might know? Michael? Gabriel? Do any of you play a horn?”

“People give us names,” said the man, “but they are not our own.”

“I don’t play the horn,” offered the boy. “But my host would like to learn the guitar.” Their little dance went on through the meal, a very civil affair. It was during dessert that Lourdes decided to change the step.

“I’d like to know why I’m dining with angels,” she asked, letting some of the graciousness drain from her voice. “You’ve been here half the day, and still haven’t told me why.”

“That’s easy,” said the boy, sucking mousse from a chocolate swan shell. “We want you to help us.”

“If you’re angels, why would you need my help?”

But the boy seemed more interested in devouring the chocolate swan than answering, so the man took over.

“Even the best craftsmen need tools for their craft. We’ve come to offer you the chance to be a tool in a task more important than you can know.”

“Important to who?”

They chose to ignore that question. “You already have all the money and power you can use, but I know something is missing. Something you feel you were born to do, but what, you don’t know.” He leaned in closer, grinning. “But we know.” He paused, looking Lourdes in the eye. “You were born to serve us. If you serve our needs, for the first time in your life you will truly feel contentment.”

So that was it. Servitude. That wasn’t a dance Lourdes knew. “I don’t serve anyone.”

Then the woman chimed in, oozing self-righteousness. “Do this not for our benefit, but for your own,” she said. “For your own sal­vation.”

Lourdes laughed, spraying a fine mist of mousse in her direction. “My salvation?” Their inflated pretensions grew more annoying by the moment. “If my immortal soul needs saving, I don’t need the three of you as intercessors. Besides, I’ve grown used to the idea of going down with the ship.”

Apparently they weren’t all-knowing, because they had no quick comeback. Lourdes felt herself taking the lead in their nasty little tango.

“We can fill your spirit in ways it has never been filled,” the man pleaded.

“I was offered that once before,” Lourdes told them. “By a creature that called itself Okoya.”

The angels bristled at the name, as if their spirits seethed rage deep within their host bodies. Lourdes smiled. “Ah, I see you know that particular interdimensional scumbag.”

“We are angels!” the man insisted. “Don’t anger us.”

“So perform a miracle.”

It caught them off guard. The man stammered. “What?”

“Perform a miracle. If you’re an angel, make me believe; show me some magic I’ve never seen, and make it good, because I’ve seen a lot.”

The boy looked at her quizzically, the woman looked down, her long hair dangling toward her food. So much for her sanctimonious airs.

“Te podria matar a hora mismo!” the man growled, his anger lapsing him into Spanish.

“Fine, then kill me.” She slammed her fist down on the table, loudly enough for a dozen guests around her to