Angel Burn by L. A. Weatherly

be seen — but there was sure to be a back door. Should he take a chance? Picking locks had never really been his forte, not like it had been Jake’s. But this didn’t look like the sort of place where he’d be likely to encounter anything state of the art.
    Making up his mind, Alex mentally scanned the houses on either side for dogs and then got out of the car, closing the door behind him. He didn’t bother trying to do it softly — if anyone was watching, trying to keep quiet would look a hell of a lot more suspicious than just acting normally. The street remained still, with only the sound of birdsong accompanying his footsteps as he strolled down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. The rifle was back in his car, but he could feel the pistol still tucked in his jeans under his T-shirt, there and ready if he needed it.
    He turned into the house’s driveway. The concrete had spidery cracks running across it and weeds growing here and there. He edged past the two cars, then continued around the house to the backyard, creaking open the gate of the chain-link fence. No lock; that boded well. Closing the gate behind him, he took in at a glance the overgrown grass and faded wooden lawn furniture, the pots of greenery on the patio.
    To his relief, the neighbors’ view was blocked on either side by a dense row of tall arborvitae trees. Alex eased the back screen door open. It had a few holes in it, he noticed — just the thing to keep the flies out. He examined the inner lock and smiled. He was in luck; it was a cheap one. Selecting a rake pick, he inserted it into the keyhole and slid it rapidly back and forth. Almost immediately, there was a faint click as the pins fell obediently into place. Success.
    Alex slipped inside, tucking the lock picks back into his pocket. Jake had always sneered at him for using the rake; it took a lot less skill than some of the other picks and was useless against a good security lock. But if it got the job done, why argue?
    Glancing around, he saw that he was standing in a pale-blue kitchen with white cabinets. An unwashed pot sat on the stove; there was a meal’s worth of dirty dishes beside the sink. He moved through the kitchen and pushed gently at a partially open door. It swung obediently wider; he stepped through and found himself in a dining room, where he stared in disbelief at the large velvet painting of a sad clown that hung on the wall. Whatever this creature was, it had seriously bad taste. Precarious-looking heaps of clutter filled the room’s corners — stacks of papers, magazines, cardboard boxes. A white lace tablecloth covered the dining table, with a messy pile of mail scattered across one end. Alex picked up the top envelope. A bill from the Pawtucket Water Department, addressed to Ms. Joanna Fields.
    He froze as a faint snore sounded in the next room. Quietly, he placed the envelope back onto the pile and pulled out his pistol, flicking the safety off. His fingers dug in his jeans pocket for the silencer; he screwed it on in a few deft movements and eased through a pair of French doors into the living room.
    A teenage girl lay asleep on the sofa, curled under a red-and-black knitted afghan. She was on her side, with one slender arm cradling a throw cushion nestled under her head. Long, wavy blond hair spread across her back and shoulders like a cape. Even though she was sleeping, Alex could see how pretty she was, with her delicate, almost elfin features. He stood in the doorway, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. When he was certain that she wasn’t going to wake up, he closed his eyes and began shifting his consciousness up through his chakras.
    As his focus rose above his crown chakra, he breathed in sharply. The human-angel energy was much stronger here, like a tide threatening to sweep him off his feet. This was it, all right; this girl was what he’d sensed from outside. But what was she? Keeping his focus in the ethereal plane, Alex opened