by Lisa Hughey
Angelina shook in the presence of such unabashed violence. She swallowed the urge to scream, to cringe in fear and held her emotions inside. The trembling increased with the roar of the fire. The ground shook from the force of the flames. The hen houses fireballed in an incredible display of fury. Heat scorched the ground and seared her through heavy denim. She yelped inadvertently.
Rafe turned his head to check on her and the instant of distraction cost him. His opponent jumped up but didn’t attack, instead he ran away.
Rafe hopped up. His face was a mass of bruises and his shirt had ripped to expose the rippled strength of his stomach. Rafe limped toward Angelina. “Are you okay?” He rasped harshly, as if the smoke that clogged the air had jammed his throat.
She nodded silently.
A trail of blood seeped from a cut underneath his eye and trickled down his cheek. Instinctively, she reached to wipe away the blood and examine his wound. But, Angelina curled her fingers into a fist and lowered her hand to her side. So many questions crowded her mind. Where were they? Who attacked him? What had he done earlier to the man on the ground?
His face had been stoic as he placed his hand upon the man’s chest. She’d watched him. The man on the ground stopped moving, stopped breathing in time with the labored breath of her Archangel. Angelina couldn’t help the thought that popped into her mind. He’d killed that man.
As if he’d read her mind, he glanced back toward the two men, both now prone on the ground.
“I need to get you home.” He reached out his hand, his knuckles bloodied and swollen.
Tentatively Angelina grasped his larger, rougher hand. “Hold on.”
In a blink, they were back in her house. Back in the cozy, sheltered warmth of her kitchen. “Who--” Angelina was disoriented at the abrupt change from the noisy inferno to the quiet of her house.
“I have to go.” Rafe said, “I’ll be back to continue your training.”
Training? “What? Oh no.” She couldn’t. She couldn’t do what he’d just done. That hadn’t looked like healing. It had looked like killing.
Whatever it had been, she wasn’t cut out for the task. He had the wrong woman. He had to be wrong. She couldn’t handle one more responsibility. “I can’t.”
His brows were an angry arch over accusing gray eyes full of utter contempt. “We will discuss it later.” He hesitated then said, “If you need me, call my name.”
“But--”
“Healing comes with a price.” Rafe ignored her protest. “You must keep yourself isolated from people. Remember what happened at the doctor’s office.” His bruised and bloodied hands gripped her shoulders in a ruthless clasp. “Don’t touch anyone.”
And he was gone.
THIRTEEN
Just because her day had taken a whirl down into crazy land didn’t mean she could neglect her responsibilities. Angelina shoved all the confusion about her confrontation with Rafe to the back of her mind. Part of her couldn’t believe he was real, the other part acknowledged that she had been on the beach and then at a fire and then, thankfully, back in her own home. But she would have to deal with all of that later. She had kids to take care of.
Brandt sat on the ladder-back chair at the kitchen table, and looked miserable. He hadn’t thrown up in six hours. She knew that talking about this when he was physically ill was probably not the best time. But the conversation had to take place, now while frustration and worry were hot in her mind.
Gary, of course, had bailed.
She should have known he wouldn’t show. He didn’t like to deal with anything unpleasant. That always fell to her. It had been that way for years. But somehow she’d just realized it.
She dropped down into the chair kitty corner to her almost grown son. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he croaked.
“You want some chicken noodle soup?”
He thought about it for a second and nodded. “Yeah.”
She used the request as an excuse to postpone the inevitable and gear up her courage. The rote actions, twisting the can opener, listening to the grind of metal against metal, comforted her. Water rushed out from the tap. The starter click-click-clicked as the gas burner caught. The small everyday sounds gave the moment a normalcy that she needed. Then she took a deep breath, dread balling in her stomach.
And she pulled out the baggy.
Just like when he was little and gotten caught in a lie, Brandt’s eyes got really wide, as if he could mesmerize her with the expansion of his pupils and deflect the punishment he knew was coming.
“We have to talk about this.”
He opened his mouth. She could see he was getting ready to play dumb.
“Don’t.” Angelina shook her head. “Don’t go there. It’s yours.”
He sighed. “Yeah. But it’s no big deal. Everyone does it.”
Her blood pressure started to rise. That was so not an excuse in their household. She refrained from the >if everyone jumped off a cliff would you do it too?’ retort. “It’s illegal.”
“Mom. Seriously, weed is minor.”
“Doing something illegal is not minor.” Was this a boy thing? A teenage thing? This compulsion to argue even when they had to know they were wrong, wrong, wrong? Her stomach began the stress grind, and she realized for a few hours the constant ache had been gone.
“It’s just pot.”
She skittered over possibilities, trying to find some argument, some twist that would get through to him. “You can’t do drugs and still run the four hundred.”
He snorted. “You’re kidding right?”
“You took health class.” Why couldn’t he see how bad this was? “Pot is a gateway drug.”
He sighed. “It’s just to take the edge off.”
“The edge?” She heard that hysterical note but she couldn’t stop herself. Was it too much to ask for a simple apology? A simple, ‘you’re right, I’m wrong, thanks, Mom’?
“There are so many worse drugs out there,” he said as if justifying his actions.
She so didn’t want to have this conversation. She was shaking, the depth of her emotions overwhelming her nervous system. She just couldn’t handle one more thing. “Drugs are not the solution.”
“Mom. At least it isn’t Oxy or Meth or Xanax or Valium,” Brandt argued. “I can get any of those at school.”
As if he realized that his statement wasn’t going to make her feel any better, he looked at her and suddenly his gaze seemed so much older. As if maturity had taken hold and taken over. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, she wanted to believe him. And she knew right in this moment he was profoundly sorry. She had no idea if he was sorry he’d done it or sorry he’d gotten caught.
And she didn’t know if sorry would last the next time he was presented with an opportunity to say, yes...rather than no.
“It’s just....” Brandt looked at the rooster clock ticking over the sink, the sheen of tears in his eyes. “You know this whole divorce thing hasn’t been easy.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And you drink wine.”
She made the decision right then to pour her Chardonnay down the drain. So much for drowning her sorrows. “Yeah. It’s also not illegal.”
He opened his mouth. She thought he was going to argue again. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” But she didn’t want to give in too easily. Threats were always good. “I could always send you to live with Gary and Candy.”
“Please. Not that Mom.” Brandt leaned closer to her. “You ever notice her boobs don’t move?”
“You shouldn’t pay attention to her boobs.”
“You gotta admit they’re kinda hard to ignore.”
Candy had gone for the double D cups which on a bigger woman would have been fine but on her uber-skinny, heavily muscled frame, they stuck out. Literally.
She stifled a snicker. But she must not have been completely successful. Angelina headed for the stove to stir the chicken nood
le soup.
“Please don’t make this kind of choice. Go for a run. Read a book. Talk to someone. But not drugs.”
“Okay. Mom. I love you.” Brandt stood up from the table and wrapped his arms around her like he’d done when he was a little kid and rested his head on her shoulder. How precious these moments are now. It was rare that he would allow the contact, stuck in that place between man and child and unable to figure out his attachment to her. She clung to his broad shoulders and ached for the little boy he’d been.
As if she’d been zapped, white light blinded her vision. Her stomach roiled and pitched as she fell into him.
“Mom?”
She reached for the garbage can. Her stomach’s meager contents propelled out as if with claws. She hunched over the can, curled in on herself like prey protecting its vital organs. She still couldn’t see but hoped she hit her target.
When she’d stopped vomiting, Brandt led her over to the table and eased her into the kitchen chair. “You must have caught my flu.”
Holy hell, did Brandt feel this badly? “Shit, shit, shit.” As soon as he let go, she felt marginally better. But her head began to swirl, and pretty colors kaleidescoped through her vision. This wasn’t any flu. This was how she had felt earlier. Unconsciousness rushed toward her like a meaty fist. She had mere seconds. She tried to reassure Brandt but it was too late. “Don’t panic.”
As she tipped toward the hardwood floor, she inanely noticed the finish had finally worn thin under the kitchen table leg. Then she did the only thing she could think of.
“Rafe.”
***
Rafe translocated into Angelina’s kitchen. Damn it. He’d just left her a few hours ago. How could she have found trouble so quickly?
He had needed to get back to Stanislaus’ family and begin to transition his son Tomasz. Normally he would have left the process to Nathan’s under secretary but Stas’s death troubled him. And Rafe wanted to make sure that his son was well trained. His affection for his old friend compelled him to work this one himself. He should be moving further away from the human realm but oddly he was drawn back into their world because of the last few weeks.
Stas’s last words had stayed with Rafe. Don’t judge them. Don’t judge who? And was it possible that Tomasz would know who Stas meant?
Angelina lay on the floor. A ragged teenager hovered over her. Her son, presumably.
“What did she do?”
“Who the hell are you?” The boy whirled around and puffed up his chest. His hair was the same color as Angelina’s. His face held the budding maturity of a man and the paucity of the recently sick. “And how did you get in here?”
Rafe held his palms six inches over her prone form and searched for the problem.
He couldn’t tell the kid he’d translocated into the house, so he improvised with a much needed lie. “The front door was open. I knocked...but no one answered.” He hadn’t thought about her family before he’d translocated into the house.
The stench of vomit came from the basket near his shoulder. “Can you move that? It stinks.”
On Earth, the smells were so much more intense. In the Angelic Realm, senses were muted, colors more faded, scents less pungent. Most of the time this was not so great. They missed out on the aroma of a blooming rose and the freshness of ozone during a spring rain. But in certain situations, like now, he could do without the intensity of earthly odors.
“Hey, man. Get away from my mom.” The kid had straightened. His face had already become rosier.
“I want to heal her, not hurt her.” Rafe drew the excess positive energy from her body, and absorbed the illness into his body while he searched for damage. “What was wrong with you?”
“Stomach flu.”
“Did you touch her?”
That would explain the inflammation in her stomach lining. But her body’s reaction was extreme. She’d reacted far too strongly for a minor flu.
“Dude, tell me who you are.” The kid clenched his fists. “Or I’m gonna call the cops.”
“I told you, I’m a friend of your mother’s. Your Grammy knows me, too. My name is Raphael. Did you touch her?”
“Gave her a hug. That wouldn’t give her the flu, not that fast. She must have already had it.” He looked sheepish for a minute.
Angelina hadn’t even had her hands on her son’s heart chakra, the main receptor to perform a healing. Unbelievable. She shouldn’t be unconscious from the small amount of inadvertent healing. Something else was wrong. “How do you feel now?”
The kid blinked and smiled. “A lot better. Hey, I don’t feel sick at all.”
Damn it. She hadn’t just healed him. As Rafe pulled more positive energy from her body, he realized she had to have given Brandt extra energy. Brandt was fine and she was out cold. Without even trying.
What were the odds of that?
“Are you some kind of doctor?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Rafe’s hands hovered over Angelina. “Angelina, wake up.”
The front door slammed. “Hello, my adoring fans, I’m home,” a girl called from the entryway.
The daughter. Great. Maybe Angelina’s sister and ex-husband could show up so the whole family could be here. Rafe shook off worries about an audience and concentrated on Angelina. He examined every vein and connection, all her organs, looking for any reason for her disturbing and continued unconsciousness.
“Who is he?” Lina asked.
Rafe glanced up briefly and noted the girl looked like a younger version of her mother.
“You’ve never seen him either?” Brandt stiffened.
“I’m a friend.” Rafe thought he caught a tainted edge in her bloodstream. “Can you both be quiet?”
He could almost isolate the problem. Could the acupuncturist have given her a drug? At the time he’d discounted her allegations, but now Rafe had to wonder if the acupuncturist had done something more sinister.
Because he’d been so busy not having sex with her, he hadn’t paid attention to the smaller details of her transition. He didn’t have a record of her blood chemistry when she first began. He would like to compare her blood now to an original blood sample, before she started the change. He needed to talk to Angelina.
“Angelina, wake up.” She should already be recovered. But when he leaned over her, he realized she was exhausted. A weariness of spirit coated her even in unconsciousness.
She moaned, low and soft, and lifted her hand to her forehead.
“Who are you?” The girl stood, hands on her hips, mouth pressed in a flat line.
Rafe was going to have to touch Angelina. Carry her to bed, because he couldn’t translocate her in front of the two kids. That was off limits.
He stood, and towered over the petite girl. But she didn’t back down.
“Rafe Azarias.” He held out his hand. “You must be Lina and Brandt.”
“How come we’ve never heard of you?” she asked suspiciously. Brandt stood with his arms folded over his chest.
Rafe used a little guilt to stall their questions. “You don’t usually ask your mom about her day, do you?”
They both had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“I’m an old friend of the family. We reconnected a few weeks ago,” said Rafe. “And we’re just friends. Now I’ll carry her up to bed. I think she’s just exhausted.”
Rafe took in a careful, measured breath before he lifted her into his arms. At least with the children as chaperones their contact couldn’t change into inappropriate touches. She was lighter than air. Her body, limp against his chest, caused a little bubble in his lungs, and for a moment it was difficult to breathe.
“Wow, you must be really strong.” Brandt admired his strength.
Lina eyed Rafe. “Yeah, she’s no lightweight.”
Rafe took the stairs two at a time and strode to her bedroom. He lay Angelina down on the cream satin-trimmed comforter.
From downstairs Lina whispered, “If they’re just frie
nds, how does he know which room is hers?”
FOURTEEN
Rafe closed the door and waited uncomfortably in Angelina’s bedroom. A place he’d avoided for the obvious reasons. But even his attraction to her couldn’t eradicate his worry as he watched her and anticipated her return to consciousness. He’d told her not to touch anyone. And even without training, without proper knowledge she’d done more than heal, she’d given energy.
She was his. He would protect her, but she would become a great healer, whether she wanted to or not. He had no room in his heart for her denial of her gift. He refused to let her quit. And he refused give her up, at least until he ascended. Illogical? Yes. Irrefutable? Yes. Could he change his mind? No.
The downy cushion of her feather top mattress cradled Angelina in an embrace Rafe envied. Candles in lavender and geranium scented the room, feminine gauze draped the canopy and wrapped around the poles like sleek arms around a naked lover.
The ultra-feminine room contrasted her softness with his big, rough hardness. He should have felt out of place and intrusive. Instead he wanted to sink into the fluffy bed, wrap his arms around her, and bury his head in her silky hair and completely ignore the world.
Her body curled toward him. As if she subconsciously sought his presence, her eyelids lifted lazily.
“How do you feel?” He brushed her hair away from her pale face, fingered the caramel strands, and marveled at their softness. Sultry lavender lotion wafted from her skin.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” Her smile was a little loopy. Without volition he stroked his palm down her muscled bicep with a lazy swipe, the swarthy skin of his long hard fingers a sensual contrast to her pale fragile arm. She appeared mesmerized by the languorous movement. Her musky arousal perfumed the air. He drew in a long, slow breath, and savored the knowledge that he did this to her body.
“You try my patience.”
“Why are you here?” Angelina blinked. She shoved up to a seated position and scooted back against the pillows. “What happened?”
