Dangerous Angels with Bonus Materials Read online

  I suppose I am lucky that I didn’t have my period that night, that it was one night short of a full moon, that I was on Lexapro to quiet my anger, so that I didn’t try to attack Carl Olaf the way I had tried to attack my mother.

  But Carl Olaf was really the lucky one. At least that night.

  Something had risen up in me when he laughed. The animal smell of the barn grew overwhelmingly strong and seemed to have seeped inside of me. The heat of the bonfire where we had stood before now seemed to burn on my skin. I wanted to scream with rage and lash out at Carl with my nails and teeth. I knew these feelings had to do with what happened on my birthday the winter before, but I didn’t understand them. What I did know was this: This thing, whatever it was—it was inside of me and I knew I had to keep it there.

  Carl Olaf was lucky that night but not the next. The following night Carl’s father, Reed Olaf, was the first known victim of the full moon murderer, killed in the woods while he was out hunting deer. My father and his men never caught the killer. I felt terrible for Carl but I never got to give him my condolences because he always leered at me and called me names before I had the chance.

  As I was leaving the party on my bike, that night before Carl’s father died, before I had any sympathy for him at all, I saw by moonlight seven boys coming up the dirt road that ran through the cornfields from the town. The boys all had sleek features, dark hair and gold-colored eyes. One of them walked ahead of the others. He was the tallest and he had a fierce expression on his face. The best-looking boy I had ever seen.

  Something was wrong, I could tell; the boys seemed angry about something, or just very determined, in the way they walked so precisely, two rows of three behind the tall boy, shoulder to shoulder, trudging along the road. I was afraid of them but also drawn to them. I hurried past, trying to keep my head down, but I wanted to stare. When I passed by, I looked back. My face was burning with blood as if I were still gazing into the bonfire. The tallest, most beautiful boy had stopped in his tracks and fixed me with his golden gaze. I could feel him reaching inside me, illuminating the dark, hidden tissue of my brain with the flashlight of his mind. It hurt and felt pleasurable at the same time and I gasped.

  What happened? he asked me, without words.

  How could he do that? I wondered. How could I hear him? But just in case he could hear me, too, I thought back at him as hard as I could: I was shamed.

  He nodded as if he understood.

  Who was this strange boy and why was he here with the six other boys and why did he notice me? But I didn’t want to know the answers to these questions, not really. Somehow I knew that I shouldn’t go there, that it was dangerous. So I tried to forget about him.

  I rode my bike as fast as I could all the way home.

  When I got there I called Corey but I never told him what happened at the party. I was afraid he wouldn’t like me if he knew so I wrote about it in my diary later that night and left it at that. But just hearing Corey’s voice made me feel better, soothed.

  We hadn’t kissed or anything yet at that point. We just hung out in the woods and talked. Or sometimes we were just quiet for hours.

  We listened to music, too. Corey was always finding the perfect music for me, for us. I asked him to try to find something that would make me cry because I was sick of how numb the meds left me and even though I loved the carefully mixed CDs with names like Tears for Liv, they never quite worked. He brought me every version of Sia’s “Breathe Me” and that finally did the trick one night, even with the antidepressants.

  I didn’t even know how in love with Corey I was. It was more the way you feel about your eyes, or your hands. You just can’t imagine it being any different.

  We kissed finally when we were fourteen. I hadn’t really wanted to before, not after the thing with Carl Olaf and also that other thing. Meaning the thing with my mom and the wolf—whatever it was—that I didn’t like to think or talk about. I was afraid that what happened to me after I saw the dead wolf in the truck could happen again if … I didn’t know if what…. If I got angry, of course, but also maybe if I got too excited, or let myself go out of control. But at a certain point Corey and I couldn’t resist and we just kissed and nothing bad happened. It was so sweet and magical and natural, and I didn’t change in any bad way. I just started liking myself a little more and having more confidence. I guess I just felt more complete.

  Now, three years later, I touch Corey’s short brush of dark hair. I can almost feel it buzzing with growth under my fingers. I run my hands over his slender forearm, the well-formed slope of bicep with its delicate tracing of veins. His skin is smooth and very dark. I try to understand, but I don’t. I can’t understand why it would matter. Corey could have scales or fur and I would love him, but this is skin, beautiful skin. He smells musky and clean. Today he feels healthy, frisky but calm; I can tell. He stares out into the dark forest and then he looks back down at me. The almost-always-tense muscles in my neck and shoulders relax under his gaze. I know he won’t judge the length of my fingers, the way soft hair grows on my body. He doesn’t seem to mind anything about me at all.

  He tells me, “That’s love, Liv. When you accept everything about the other person.”

  I hope that he can accept everything about me, I really do.

  We were in the woods, just like this, when we saw the gray wolf.

  She came and stood watching us from the underbrush, her pale eyes glamorously lined and her muzzle quivering with information.

  The wolf population is very small. They are endangered, those wolves, and you almost never see them.

  Corey grabbed my wrist and we sat motionless watching her before she vanished into the woods again.

  “She reminds me of you,” he whispered. “Beautiful and wild.”

  When I looked back at Corey there was awe in his eyes.

  The day dissolved into evening around us. We were so mesmerized by the wolf and each other that it seemed we could not move from the spot, until it got very late. Corey kissed my neck and pressed his face against mine. We shivered. The night was coming and we would have to go home.

  When I stood up, Corey grabbed at my legs and wrestled me back to the ground. We rolled in the soft mulch and leaves caught in our hair. I pressed my face into his chest and tried to curl up smaller against him so I would never have to leave.

  How will we leave this place? How will we return home? When this is the only home.

  My mother looked up from the kitchen sink where she was washing the pots and watching American Idol. My dad and Gramp were watching the news on the TV in the living room. There was a TV in almost every room of the house and my parents usually left them on when they went out of the room—I was always going around turning them off. All I could see of my father was his ex-quarterback shoulders and the top of his dark hair. My grandfather was a little white head peeking over the top of the overstuffed floral sofa. I could smell corn dogs and coleslaw.

  “You missed dinner, hon,” my mom said. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you something.”

  My stomach growled in answer but I shook my head. “I’ll just get a sandwich.” I opened the refrigerator.

  “Wash your hands!” she said.

  I took out cheese, bread and mustard and laid them out on the table. I glanced at the cold cuts and shut the refrigerator door. I have to admit I crave meat but I am still a strict vegetarian.

  My mother was watching me. “You have leaves in your hair.”

  I reached up and felt the crunchy leaves, rubbed them until they disintegrated. The smell reminded me of Corey.

  “Liv,” my mother said, “where do you go? I hope it’s not the woods. We worry.”

  My dad turned off the sound and looked over at us. He was drinking his scotch. “Damn right,” he said.

  “Hi, Liv,” said Gramp. “How’s my girl?”

  I went over and kissed his cheek. “Good, Gramp.

  How are you?” He smiled like a kid and then took the remote and
put the TV sound back on.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” my mom said.

  “I was at Pace’s.”

  She squirted more soap into the sink. She was wearing a flowered apron and high heels. She said it was good exercise for her calf muscles to wear them as much as possible.

  “Maybe you want to invite Pace to Gramp’s birthday party,” my mom said.

  I nodded and poured myself a glass of water. “Yeah, maybe.” As I lifted the glass to my lips I smelled my sleeve as surreptitiously as possible for a whiff of Corey’s scent still lingering there.

  “Liv?” My mother spoke eagerly, like she wanted to connect with me, bring me out of my daze.

  I tried not to sound annoyed with her. “Yeah?”

  “I found you a cute dress in the Nordstrom catalog. I want you to look nice for the party.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I was trying to be positive but I knew I wouldn’t like the dress she picked. I also knew I’d probably end up wearing it for her anyway. I took my sandwich and headed for my room.

  “Liv! What did I tell you about walking on your toes?”

  “I always walk on my toes,” I mumbled. I’d given up trying not to sound annoyed.

  “You’ll get shin splints. And put those jeans in the wash; they’re filthy.” I heard her sigh loudly as I closed my bedroom door behind me.

  About the Author

  FRANCESCA LIA BLOCK, winner of the prestigious Margaret A. Edwards Award, is the author of many acclaimed and bestselling books, including Weetzie Bat, Dangerous Angels: The Weetzie Bat Books, the collection of stories Blood Roses, the poetry collection How to (Un)cage a Girl, the novel The Waters & the Wild, the illustrated novella House of Dolls, and the gothic vampire romance Pretty Dead. Her work is published around the world.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Critical Acclaim for The Weetzie Bat Books…

  “Magic is everywhere in Block’s lyrical and resonant fables, which always point back to the primacy of family, friends, love, location, food, and music. At once modern and mythic, her series deserves as much space as it can command of daydream nation’s shrinking bookshelves.”

  —The Village Voice

  “A poetic series of books celebrating love, art, and the imagination, all in hyper-lyrical language.”

  —Spin

  “Ms. Block’s far-ranging free association has been controlled and shaped into a story with sensual characters. The language is inventive Californian hip, but the patterns are compactly folkloristic and the theme is transcendent.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “[Block’s] extravagantly imaginative setting and finely honed perspectives remind the reader that there is magic everywhere.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Weetzie Bat…

  “[WEETZIE BAT is] one of the most original books of the last ten years.”

  —The Los Angeles Times

  “WEETZIE BAT burst on the scene like a rainbow bubble showering clouds of roses, feathers, tiny shells, and a rubber chicken. Hardened critics were astonished by the freshness of Francesca Lia Block’s voice.”

  —The New York Times

  “Francesca Lia Block’s writing style is a dream—minimalist yet poetic.”

  —Sassy

  Witch Baby…

  “This sequel to the extraordinary WEETZIE BAT revisits L.A.’s frenetic pop world, again using exquisitely crafted language to tell a story whose glitzy surface veils thoughtful consideration of profound contemporary themes.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Wonderful.”

  —The Los Angeles Times

  “Sparkling writing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys…

  “Ms. Block writes about the real Los Angeles better than anybody since Raymond Chandler.”

  —The New York Times

  “Not to be missed.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Missing Angel Juan…

  “An engagingly eccentric mix of fantasy and reality, enhanced by mystery and suspense…. Magical, moving, mischievous, and—literally—marvelous.”

  —School Library Journal

  “This moving novel shares the super-hip aesthetic of its predecessors.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Uniquely fascinating and provocative.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  And Baby Be-Bop

  “The writing is as fevered as life in Los Angeles.”

  —The Horn Book

  “BABY BE-BOP can be read for the straightforward story and then re-read to enjoy the sumptuous layers upon layers of meaning, which cover each other like fine gauze.”

  —Sassy

  Also by Francesca Lia Block:

  Weetzie Bat

  Girl Goddess #9: Nine Stories

  The Hanged Man

  I Was a Teenage Fairy

  Violet & Claire

  The Rose and the Beast

  Echo

  Guarding the Moon

  Wasteland

  Goat Girls: Two Weetzie Bat Books

  Beautiful Boys: Two Weetzie Bat Books

  Necklace of Kisses

  Psyche in a Dress

  With Carmon Staton:

  Ruby

  Copyright

  DANGEROUS ANGELS: The Weetzie Bat Books. Copyright © 1998 by Francesca Lia Block. Weetzie Bat copyright © 1989 by Francesca Lia Block. Witch Baby copyright © 1991 by Francesca Lia Block. Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys copyright © 1992 by Francesca Lia Block. Missing Angel Juan copyright © 1993 by Francesca Lia Block. Baby Be-Bop copyright © 1995 by Francesca Lia Block. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Adobe Digital Edition JANUARY 2012 ISBN 978-0-06-219882-2

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  25 Ryde Road (P.O. Box 321)

  Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

  www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

  Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

  http://www.harpercollins.ca

  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1

  Auckland, New Zealand

  http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road

  London, W6 8JB, UK

  http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, NY 10022

  http://www.harpercollins.com