Samael

by Heather Killough-Walden

  But the girls were prepared as well. They backpedalled and growled, baring mouths filled with teeth that had become rows of sharp points, framed by fangs as long as Azrael’s. Even as he moved to intercept them, Max was trying to figure out what the hell they were. Green eyes, green hair, freckled skin….

  Gabriel shoved Juliette behind him, Uriel backed up to give himself fighting range, and being the cop that he was, Michael of course pulled out his gun.

  “Everyone out of the building!” Michael commanded, flashing his badge to the patrons at the adjoining tables and areas. But the other customers were already moving. Maybe Az was playing with their minds, hurrying them along and erasing their memories as he did so, or maybe they were just wisely scared. Shit was going down, and these days, with the weapons people normally carried around, that almost always meant a high body count.

  All around them, the restaurant emptied out, leaving the thirteen of them to square off.

  “What are you?” Mimi asked breathlessly where she pressed against the table, obviously wanting to get closer, but knowing she couldn’t dare attempt it with the lot of them around.

  Max’s eyes widened. What kind of guts did the kid have to have to just out-and-out ask these girls what they –

  “They’re selkies,” said Gabriel from where he stood across the table, eyeing them warily. His green eyes sparkled and flared, even more vibrantly than theirs did. “Aren’t ye?” he asked softly.

  The girls were done with pretense. The one with dark hair dropped the pen and napkin, which hit the floor and began to burn a hole into it. They eyed Gabriel with mirrored understanding, and the hardest edges of their anger smoothed out. The red-haired girl said, “That’s what your people have always called us.” It sounded strange coming through the sharpened teeth as it did.

  “But you’re really mermaids, aren’t you?” Mimi asked. “I mean… your skin shines because you really have tiny scales, and those strands of green in your hair aren’t dye, are they? They’re like seaweed or something.”

  Max was beginning to think he should get over being surprised by the girl.

  “You’re observant.” The black-haired woman said. The acid was gone from her tone. “Fire Child.”

  All around the room, the tension was beginning to drain. Just a little. Max looked for Lilith, who had simply stepped back and dropped her hands to her sides when the excitement began. He met her gaze, but there was no direction there. She wasn’t telling him what to do.

  He would have to decide on this one himself.

  “Who sent you here?” he asked, trying to keep his tone level. “Was it Gregori?”

  The girls exchanged glances again. Their expressions told him they were indecisive. They looked around for a moment, weighing their options. Then one of them hesitantly nodded. “Yes.”

  “He has our sister,” the other said.

  Gregori had sent selkies after them. Or mermaids. Whatever.

  Max looked down at the napkin and pen. A pool of melted ground bubbled around the dropped items. At the edges of the pool sprouted black dandelions.

  Max could only imagine what the items had been charmed to do to an archangel. But he had a feeling that whatever it would have done to Uriel, none of them would have been able to heal him.

  Chapter Thirty

  “The Diaries of Adam and Eve.” Figures, she thought as she read the name on the play book that was attached to the menu. This, too, was one of her favorite stories. Jules Verne was one of her most beloved authors. But at the very top of that short list was Samuel Clemens, the author of the play they would be seeing that night.

  The similarity of the author’s name to that of the man sitting across the crystal table from her was not lost on Angel. Hell, nothing was lost on her right now.

  She had a million things to ask him. But she may as well begin with this. “How did you know?” she asked, drawing his attention up and away from his own menu. He gently folded it and laid it down, giving her his undivided attention as she continued. “I’m sorry but… how did you know about my perfume, my lip balm, the jewelry, shoes and clothes? How did you know about this play?” She gestured to the stage that was still empty right in front of them. The play wasn’t set to begin for another fifteen minutes.

  It couldn’t all be coincidence. There was just too much of it.

  Sam laced his fingers together, placed them on the table, and leaned forward. “The truth is,” he began in a soft tone, “I wasn’t positive about a lot of it. Most were… educated guesses.” He took a deep breath, contemplated his next words, and said, “I’ve been dreaming lately. For nearly two-thousand years, there was nothing in my sleep. Then, little by little, I began sensing things at night. I would see vague images, catch snatches of sound, swaths of color, a hint of scent. Over the weeks, the dreams became clearer and longer, and I pieced things together.”

  He sat back a bit and met her gaze, and his own hardened just a touch. “When I finally learned of your existence after Michael met his little girlfriend, I began doing my homework.”

  Angel lifted her chin. “I see. And no one gathers intel like Samuel Lambent.”

  She could just imagine how he’d scrambled, sending his men out through every channel he had at his disposal to try and learn as much about her as possible. It must have been extremely frustrating to learn there was no record of her on file anywhere. She didn’t exist.

  Angel hugged herself when goose bumps rose across her skin.

  Sam looked down at her arms. Then, in one fluid movement, he was standing and rounding the table, shrugging off his suit jacket. Angel had no time to react before he was leaning into her and draping the jacket over her shoulders.

  She was at once enveloped in the scent of him – rain and aftershave – and the feel of him – smooth, warm and comforting – and she barely knew what to say. Luckily, two thousand years of basic politeness training took over.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that her voice sounded breathless.

  “It can become chilly in here,” he said by way of explanation. But somehow, she didn’t think that was true. Somehow, she was certain that her first impression about the play house’s temperature was spot on. It was always perfect, no matter who or what you were or what you were wearing. He knew she wasn’t actually cold. He knew that she was shaken. He was just enough of a gentleman not to say anything.

  The jacket did help. More than she was outwardly willing to admit.

  He returned to his seat, and the waiter approached to take their drink orders. Sam ordered a bottle of wine and glasses of water. The waiter of course told him he had excellent taste, then left to fulfill the request.

  “I’m glad you like Clemens,” Sam said as soon as the waiter vanished. It was sudden, and it took Angel by surprise. But he went on. “His older brother, Orion, ran a newspaper in Hannibal, Missouri, where their family grew up. Orion was well educated and had an incredible head for business, so his was one of the first papers I financially supported. Samuel worked for him as a typesetter, and I met him there at the paper one morning in 1848. There was something about the boy….”

  Angel understood that. It was something in the eyes, a certain clarity, as if the world had attempted to pull the wool over them, and Clemens had hastily shoved that wool away. He saw life with no filter. That was rare.

  “Later, he wrote an article for another newspaper I owned, the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise. The short story was singularly amusing.” Sam stopped and smiled, and his eyes took on a shadowed cast, as if filling with memories. “There was a wit to the turn of phrase that felt to me like a breath of fresh air.”

  “You’re talking about The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” Angel said, recalling the story herself.

  Sam’s smile broadened. His gray eyes shimmered. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Their wine came, and Sam poured them each a glass. But he continued talking. “One afternoon, I made it a point to meet him,
though it was quite by accident from his perspective. The next two hours enveloped what was one of the most intriguing conversations I’ve ever had with a human being.”

  Angel was instantly jealous. Which was ridiculous, seeing as how she’d personally met and spoken with the man too. It was just a knee-jerk kind of thing. Like, “Clemens is mine! Hands off!” She smiled to herself and suppressed a chuckle.

  And then something occurred to her. Her eyes widened.

  Sam watched her over the lip of his glass as he took a drink. When he lowered it, it was clear he knew what she was thinking. “Yes,” he said. “He’s the reason I decided to go with Samuel, despite how closely it resembled my own name. Besides,” he shrugged. “I’ve never been much for hiding.”

  No, he hadn’t.

  Angel took a good long moment to mull over everything he’d told her. She was seeing a side of Samael that she had not only never seen before, but frankly hadn’t thought existed. It was a creative, open-minded side. A laid back side.

  A talkative side.

  “Angel.”

  She looked up.

  “You wanted to hear my side of the story. So let me tell you now.”

  Angel swallowed, and realized her throat had suddenly gotten tight. She took another few drinks of wine anyway, pushing them down, and only stopped when she found that she’d emptied the glass.

  He wanted to tell his side of the story.... A part of her felt panicked. He wanted to tell her now? The play was due to begin any minute! Wasn’t it? But Angel had a feeling that the play wouldn’t begin until Sam was good and ready for it to begin. In fact, she had the sense that everything in the play house revolved around him.

  “Now then. What was it you accused me of? Let me see if I can remember the gist of it. You believe me to be evil, you believe that I command hostile takeovers and layoffs, that I force people to work long hours they don’t wish to work, and that I send them headlong into dangerous situations solely for the sake of news stories, rather than use my powers to stop said dangerous situations. You believe I would rather have the coverage than save lives. Is that not how you put it?”

  Angel felt stunned. That was almost how she’d put it word per word.

  He went on. “And… you believe I have manipulated, threatened, and otherwise used my abilities in evil ways to firmly plant myself on top of a world that is choking on its own misery.” He stopped and smiled. “That was wonderful phrasing, by the way. You could have been a poet.”

  He watched her steadily, his eyes taking everything in. Angel had no idea what to say or think. So she frankly did neither.

  The waiter came back to take their bottle of wine and replace it with another, colder one. Sam ignored him but for a nod of thanks, never taking his eyes from Angel’s. When the waiter left, he said, “Why don’t we address the issues one by one?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “No one in my companies is forced to work any hours they don’t wish to take on. My corporate overtime pay is fairly incredible, if I do say so myself, and many of my employees are night owls. I’ve found night owls tend to run to the creative side, and I enjoy employing them. You wouldn’t believe the ideas that come to the table after three in the morning.”

  She sat still as he went on.

  “As for hostile takeovers and layoffs, I can guarantee there are none of the latter. I do need people to run my businesses, after all, and good help is hard to find. The former, however, is a part of business. I can at least tell you that any company purchased by my corporation is bettered, not worsened, for the merger, and most absorbed employees find themselves the beneficiaries of better hours, more vacation time, and greater pay.”

  Sam stopped for a moment and poured them both fresh glasses of wine. The first was beginning to get to Angel. At least, she was fairly sure it was the wine. Being relatively new at mortality, she couldn’t be certain, but it felt similar to the numb, blissful rush she’d experienced after downing the beer at the ren faire.

  The waiter returned during this brief silence, and asked if they were ready to order their dinners. Angel hadn’t even given the food any thought, so she was beyond relieved when Sam ordered for them both.

  “Andre, will you please bring us the George sampler?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Lambent. Excellent choice.”

  Sam gently pulled her menu from her hands and handed them both to Andre, who half nodded, half bowed, and left their table.

  At this point, Angel was truly beginning to reel from everything he’d told her thus far, and maybe he could tell, and just maybe he felt some bit of compassion for her, because he temporarily changed the subject.

  “George Bernard Shaw was a consummate vegetarian. From what I can tell, you are as well?”

  She nodded numbly.

  “The sampler is a small portion of every dish they have on the menu, and each one is a gourmet version of a vegetarian ‘comfort’ food.” He grinned. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  Comfort food. That was something she could certainly use just then.

  But Sam’s compassion had a limit, it would seem, because just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he was doing an about-face to unrelentingly continue in his mild-mannered but hard-hitting defense. “Now where were we? Ah yes. Sending people headlong into dangerous situations that I could have prevented.” He grinned again, but this one was different, and Angel had that terrible feeling a mouse must get right before it knows the Cheshire cat is about to eat it.

  “Let me ask you something, Angel. How many tornadoes and earthquakes have struck the earth since you were cast out of the angel realm?”

  Countless. But she said nothing.

  “I see,” he said calmly. “How many people died in those events?”

  Again, the answer was countless. And she was beginning to feel a touch queasy.

  “But you were trying, weren’t you? Oh, I’d guarantee it. You gave it your all to save as many as possible, no doubt draining yourself to the point of danger in the process. It was simply that you could only do so much. People will always die. Even Superman could not save them all.”

  It was so true, all of it, that it was like an arrow through her heart. And Angel could only look away, tear her gaze from his, and reach for her newly filled wine glass. Fuck buzzed. She was going to get full-on drunk.

  “It’s a pity that when people died in those wars and disasters, there was no one there to record the history for posterity’s sake, to solidify the events as they occurred, and capture the lives and their losses in some lasting, tangible form so that generations to come might remember what had happened, might be more careful in their plans and negotiations, and might share a moment of respect and loss for all that transpired.”

  She gulped down her wine.

  “This is what I do, Angel.”

  She closed her eyes and touched her forehead. So, he recorded history. And if he wasn’t bold-faced lying to her, then he did it for the right reasons. But that didn’t change the fact that no one had ever seen Sam helping any of the victims in those situations. And it didn’t change the fact that he was sending people into that danger to do the recording. Did they have a choice?

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” she said.

  She wasn’t sure whether she really had to or not, but she needed to process everything. And she needed to get away from Sam. From his eyes. From his smooth, low voice. She needed space to breathe.

  “Of course.”

  She rose. Across from her, Samael stood as well. Almost at once, the maître d’ was at her side.

  “Miss Angel, if you will follow me, I will be happy to show you to the facilities.”

  That was fast. Everything was moving so fast.

  She nodded politely, and followed him through more of the play house. Around the right side of the stage, the cave continued. In this hall, stalactites that were wrapped with more miniature glowing lights clung tightly to the ceiling. Windows in the cavern hallway
revealed views into even more beautiful, mystical, and impossible worlds. One was an under-water reef, ripe with vibrant colors and sea creatures she’d never before seen, probably because they didn’t exist on this planet.

  Another revealed a vast horizon of nothing but space. Galaxies spun, constellations shimmered, and planets that were not nearly as far away as they were in her own solar system sported rings and moons seemingly close enough to touch.

  At last, they reached a deep black polished oak door with an equally polished gold knob. The maître d’ stood beside the door and nodded. “Here we are, miss. You will find everything you need for your comfort inside. If by some chance, you do not, you need only alert the staff.”

  She thanked him, feeling extremely overwhelmed by the majesty of this cave that was a play house that was also, it would seem, a mid-way point between countless realms. He nodded, smiled, and left.

  Angel half expected there to be a bathroom assistant waiting inside, which was something that hadn’t been the norm for many years now. But she was alone in the enormous space. A literal pond took up the center of the cavern, which was natural, smooth carved marble just like the rest of the play house. In the pond swam fish that resembled koi, but with rainbow colors rather than the typical orange, white, and black she was accustomed to.

  There were benches around the pond, and bird feeders had been set up in-between them with what she recognized as fish food to feed the fish. Along the left wall, there was a long counter with sinks of marble in the shape of clam shells. Above them were large individual mirrors bordered in ornate gold frames. Upon the marble counters were intricately woven baskets filled with all shapes, sizes, and colors of soaps. In separate bowls of glass were lotion bars, beeswax bars, and miniature tubes of varying perfumed creams. Thick, plush embroidered hand towels were folded in neat piles in between each of the sinks.