by T. R. Hamby
He shuffled his feet, bracing himself. “Maybe I could…”
“You could what?” Michael asked, instantly angry, his dark eyes flashing. “I don’t need your pity, Mel.”
“I don’t pity you,” Mel replied coldly. “I’ve never pitied you.”
“Keep out of my business,” Michael said. “I don’t need you bothering me Up There, too.”
He felt a spark of anger, but pushed it down. He knew now that Michael was just deflecting.
They were quiet again, Michael glowering at the floor. Mel cast around for something, anything to say.
Finally, “Do you still have that ring I made you?”
He wasn’t sure why he chose that question--just that it was something he always wondered about.
Michael frowned, and shifted on his feet. “Yes. At Home.”
He nodded. “I thought you...might have gotten rid of it.”
“I’m surprised you even made me one in the first place,” Michael said grumpily, raising an eyebrow.
Mel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was a mess.
“You never wore it,” he said, though he was sure that wasn’t going to help things.
He rolled his eyes. “You made our sisters and all your little friends necklaces and I got a fucking--”
“You didn’t want a necklace! I asked you.”
“You were always jealous,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Why make me anything in the first place?”
Mel fixed him with a dark look. “Why do you think? You mattered to me.”
Michael stared at him for a small moment. He seemed both taken aback at Mel’s statement, and angry that he had said it. Perhaps they had both grown too comfortable saying nothing.
He shrugged, letting his hands drop at his sides. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Mel was quiet; he wasn’t sure how to answer that question.
“Right,” he said, nodding angrily. “Did you think that would fix things? That we’d forget everything that’s happened?”
Now Mel was angry, as Lilith flashed through his mind. “I’m trying to forget. Believe me,” he hissed.
“But you won’t. You can’t. Just like I can’t. Ever. It’s always there, fucking haunting me. I hear your--”
But Mel wasn’t listening anymore. A horrible pain was erupting in his chest, right where his scar was, and it was so strong that he stumbled, gripping the table before collapsing to the floor. He writhed, grunting, struggling to breathe. The pain was so unbearable he couldn’t speak, could hardly think.
In a flash Michael was hovering over him, gripping his arm.
“No, you can’t go now,” he said, shaking his head.
Mel clutched his chest. His breathing was ragged, and his heart was racing, desperate. He struggled, his nails scraping the floor, and Michael reached out and grasped his hand.
He couldn’t breathe anymore. His heart pounded painfully, and he thought of Nora…
His vision was clouded. The pain overwhelmed him; he was barely aware of his surroundings now, of Michael’s rough hand gripping his.
“I’ll look after her,” Michael said. “She’ll be safe. You’ll see her soon.”
He could barely hear him now. His heart was slowing. Soon there was only darkness, and his heart gave one last beat.
Michael
Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.
Michael sat in Nora’s apartment. It was still dark, and she was still asleep in her bedroom. He had no idea what to do--wake her? Or let her sleep, and tell her in the morning? She had another one of those shows tonight. He didn’t want to distract her--although she would know instantly that Mel was gone, when he didn’t greet her.
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. What a fucking disaster. Mel had been trying to talk, actually talk to him, for the first time in millennia, and Michael had pushed him away. He had been angry; he hadn’t wanted to hear it.
He was still angry. What did Mel think he was going to accomplish, anyway? Reconciliation? And then what--friendship? As if Mel could ever be friends with the Angel who killed his first love.
He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering that day. The Woman had been so small, so vulnerable. And he had had Agatha dragged, kicking and screaming, to stand before her. To kill her.
And Mel thought he could somehow fix it.
He heard movement coming from the master bedroom, and he jumped to his feet, his heart racing. After a moment, a drowsy Nora emerged from her room, frowning. She was wearing one of Mel’s T-shirts, which somehow made the whole thing even worse.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He cast around for something to say.
He couldn’t tell her. He just couldn’t.
“Did I wake you?”
She studied him, still frowning, and looked around. “Where’s Mel?”
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Michael?” she asked, her voice firm. He opened his eyes; she looked almost angry. “Where is he?”
Just say it. Get it over with.
“He Regenerated, Nora,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
At first it didn’t seem to register. She stared at him for a long moment. Then her eyes grew wide; she let out a breath, and tears flooded her eyes.
“No,” she moaned, pressing a hand over her mouth. “No.”
Michael ached for her, watching as she began to cry.
“No, Michael,” she moaned again, taking some steps forward, until she was right in front of him.
He was entirely out of his element. All he could think to do was touch her arm. This seemed to be what convinced her, and she burst into tears, drawing close and burying her head into his chest.
He was tense at first. He didn’t think Mel would like it. But then he remembered--Mel wasn’t here right now, and she needed someone. Anyone. So he wrapped his arms around her and let her cry.
“He can’t be gone...we just met...I can’t wait a whole year, I can’t…”
“I know.”
“Is he scared? Does it hurt?”
“He’ll be sleeping,” he said gently. “He won’t notice anything.”
She let out another sob. “He’s my best friend,” she moaned, her shoulders shaking. “I can’t live without him.”
“It’s for one year--give or take,” he said soothingly. “You have to.”
She was taking steadying breaths. After a moment she pulled away.
“I’m going to bed,” she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. He supposed she wanted to cry alone.
“I should--” he began, hesitating, “--I’ll stay. I promised him I would...look after you.”
She didn’t look like she really heard him. She went back to her bedroom, and he heard her start to sob again. He stood there, swearing.
God, Mel. Hurry up and come back.
Nora
She had felt pain like this before, when her father died. It had been so sudden that it had taken her a couple days to accept it--after the psychosis cleared. And then when she had, she had cried for weeks and weeks, spiraling into that terrible unwellness she was so accustomed to now.
Mel was gone. He wasn’t dead--she would see him in about a year. She knew that. But they couldn’t text, couldn’t write. Mel was dead to the world, sleeping while his body refreshed itself, and Nora was left alone, without the man she loved.
He would have wanted her to keep going, to continue as if nothing had happened. And she tried. She cried herself to sleep that night, and then cried off and on for most of the day, ignoring Michael’s awkward presence. But then she went to the performance that night, and to the one after that, and the one after that. Her work was still important.
But it didn’t help. Mel was constantly on her mind, and she worried about him, obsessed over him. Was he still sleeping? Was he cold? He always said it was cold Down There. Was he in pain?
She could barely eat, and she was tired. She started sleeping mo
re. Life became a dance between sleeping and performing at the show.
“You’re depressed,” Michael said one day, about three weeks later.
Nora looked up. She had been sipping some tea, and playing around on her laptop, trying to distract herself. She had actually forgotten that Michael was there, even though he had been visiting frequently.
She felt herself flush. “I get like this sometimes.”
“Do you take meds?”
She fixed him with a firm look. “I don’t think Mel asked you to pry.”
He didn’t look fazed. “I told him I would look after you. And you look in bad shape. Do you want him to kick my ass when he comes back and sees you like this?”
“Kind of,” she muttered under her breath.
“Being depressed isn’t going to bring Mel back sooner.”
“I didn’t just decide to be depressed, Michael,” she shot back, furious. “Why do you care about what Mel wants, anyway?”
It was a low blow, but she was too angry to care. Michael’s face twitched, but he was patient.
“Go to the doctor, then,” he said quietly. “Get your medication adjusted. And when you do, you can help me with something.”
She paused, grinding her teeth together. Finally she asked, “With what?”
“Another killer,” he said. “I need help finding him.”
“Just use the Dark Web. You don’t need me.”
“The victim was Antonia Romero’s lover.”
She stared, shocked. Antonia had been out sick the past couple of weeks...but she had no idea…
She shook her head, confused. “But what can I do? We aren’t exactly close.”
“She’ll talk to you, though, won’t she? Maybe meet you somewhere,” he said. “I just need a name. A suspicion. Anything. She already talked to the polizia, but gave them nothing. I just need to be sure.”
Nora sipped her tea, giving herself time to think. It would be nice to help. She knew Michael was trying to distract her, to cheer her up. Maybe she should play along. After all, she didn’t like being depressed any more than he liked seeing her this way.
She let out a sigh. “All right, fine.”
Michael nodded, and returned to his laptop.
She frowned at him. She was curious now. “What happened to him? Her lover?”
“Eduardo Marino, thirty-eight, beaten to death with a blunt instrument,” Michael said automatically, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Worked as a talent agent for fifteen years. Single, no children. No enemies.”
She stirred her tea, absorbing this information. “It seems almost small, compared to Alessandro.”
“The attack was brutal,” he explained, looking at her. “The body was unidentifiable, the head was so mutilated.”
She felt a chill, and shook herself. “So--anger. Maybe a crime of passion? Someone just snapped?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, returning to his laptop and frowning. “He had to have been bludgeoned around twenty or thirty times. It’s excessive--overkill. Even for a passionate crime.”
Now she was intrigued. “So what does that leave?”
Michael took a deep breath. “Well, it might not be random. Maybe revenge. Or we have another prick who likes to kill--then it would be random.”
“Bezi--my friend--is Antonia’s niece,” she said. “She said Antonia and her husband cheat on each other all the time. But maybe this time her husband got angry, killed her lover?”
He shrugged. “Possible.”
She nodded. “I’ll see if Antonia shows up to the performance tonight,” she said. “See if I can invite her for coffee--actually,” she said, suddenly remembering, “she’s supposed to be throwing an after party after Friday’s show. I almost forgot. I’ll try to corner her then.”
“Don’t be obvious,” Michael said, and she rolled her eyes at him.
It was nice, though. As depressed as she was, she didn’t need coddling right now. Michael’s gruffness was almost welcome--though she wasn’t going to tell him that.
It was still hard to get out of bed--still hard not to think about Mel. Even the scar on her finger reminded her of him. She wore the necklace he had given her constantly, except during the show. Sometimes, when Michael wasn’t around, she went upstairs to Mel’s apartment and curled up in his bed. It smelled like him, and it had good memories.
His lawyer, Claire, called her Friday morning.
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” she said in an English accent. “He had always warned me that this would happen in my lifetime.”
Nora felt a little awkward. “I don’t know,” she murmured honestly.
“I wish there was something I could say. But the everything is still yours, and will run as usual,” she replied. “The jewelry business will be run by his senior associate until he...gets back. I’m not expecting anything to go wrong finance-wise. So all you have to worry about is yourself.”
She felt tears sting her eyes, and she swallowed back a large lump in her throat.
“Oh, by the way,” Claire continued, “he asked me to forward you the contact information for a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes...a Dr. Oscar Nilsson. He’s a Swedish psychiatrist,” she explained. “He works by phone for higher-end clients.”
She let out a breath. Mel must have known she would have a difficult time adjusting. She did have her own doctor, but he was like any other psychiatrist--difficult to talk to, difficult to see. Mel must have thought this Dr. Nilsson would be better.
She smiled, tears rolling down her face. If he had been there now, she would have socked him in the arm for being so presumptuous. But god, she appreciated it.
She was able to speak with Dr. Nilsson right away, who actually took the time to listen to her complaints. He adjusted her medication, which she picked up later that day.
On Friday she packed a dress to wear to the after party; she would change right at the theater and go straight to the club where it was being held.
Michael appeared before she left.
“Should I come with you?” he asked cautiously, and she frowned at him.
“Why?”
“If her husband is there, I could talk to him.”
She considered this. “I don’t know if he’ll be there. I’ve never met him before,” she said.
“It’s worth a try,” he replied, shrugging. “I could be your date.”
“But Bezi knows Mel and I are together.”
“What did you tell her?”
She sighed. “That he had to go overseas for business for a few months.”
He looked a little impatient. “Just tell everyone the truth. I’m his brother, and I offered to escort you to the party.”
She still hesitated; she preferred she go alone.
Michael gave her a look. “Do you want to catch this killer, or not?”
She sighed again. “All right, fine. But don’t embarrass me.”
“How would I embarrass you?”
“I’m sure you’d find a way,” she said dryly.
So after the performance they met up at the club. It was a rooftop party, and formal, so Nora wore her knee-length black dress and heels. Michael had cleaned up nicely, wearing a suit and a tie. The suit accentuated just how big his muscles were, how broad he was compared to Mel. She could see why he was the strongest Angel.
“If he’s here, we have to separate them,” he whispered in the elevator. “I suggest alcohol.”
“Antonia is a big drinker at parties,” she replied. “Shouldn’t be hard.”
“But don’t do anything stupid,” he said quickly, looking at her. “If you suspect something, just tell me. Don’t play hero.”
“All right, Michael.”
They ran into Bezi first, whose eyes bugged out of her head.
“Ciao,” she greeted, staring obviously at Michael. “Nora, who is this?”
Nora could tell Bezi had pre-gamed, which was quite the accomplishment, s
ince the show had ended just an hour ago.
“This is Mel King’s brother, Michael,” she said, putting on her most convincing smile. “He was nice enough to be my date for the night.”
“Really. How...generous,” Bezi said, raising an eyebrow. She looked at Michael. “How does your girlfriend feel about this?” she asked flirtatiously.
Nora braced herself for an awkward exchange. But Michael smiled and said, “She’s at home with the baby. Didn’t feel like coming out.”
“Oh,” Bezi said, deflating a little.
“Where’s Antonia?” Nora asked, wearing a genuine smile of amusement now.
Bezi rolled her eyes. “She should be out soon. Gio is giving her shit for being hungover--her husband,” she clarified.
“I brought her Bellini,” Nora said, holding up a bottle.
“I’ll go find her…” And she drifted off, still looking a little put-out.
Nora and Michael looked at each other, smiling.
“Very smooth,” she admitted.
“I do talk to humans on occasion,” Michael replied. “And longer than you’ve been alive.”
“All right, Grandpa,” she muttered under her breath. She glanced at him curiously. “So that’s what you do? Chat people up, until they give you a lead?”
He shrugged. “Usually. Sometimes I have to blackmail them, which takes more time.”
“I bet you learned your charm from Mel.”
It was a sentence he hadn’t been expecting. He looked at her, frowning.
“Yes,” he said after a moment, “Mel can charm anyone.”
She knew she had gotten under his skin, but she wasn’t bothered. There was a small part of her, though, that wondered, again, if she was being too harsh. After all, he was just trying to watch over her, and cheer her up, too. He was doing much more than was expected of him.
Antonia emerged then, wearing a brilliant blue gown, with her blonde hair twisted up in a knot. She looked tired, and her eyes were red. Beside her must have been her husband Gio, a tall man with salt and pepper hair.
Antonia smiled at Nora, accepting the bottle of Bellini.
“Grazie, Nora,” she said in Italian. She gestured at Gio. “This is my husband, Giovanni.”
