The steely eyes staring back at him from the frozen apparition made him swallow hard and hate cloud his vision. His appearance had changed a lot, but those eyes were exactly the same; there was no mistake.
Reggie had never looked so good.
He didn’t know what he was looking at, but when he tried to open his eyes they were stuck.
“Hello, young fellow.”
Keenan about jumped out of his skin when the old man moved. The fellow leaned on a stick and crossed to stand in front of him.
“I’m here to tell you a story.”
“Who the hell are you?” Keenan asked, but his mouth didn’t seem to be moving.
“My name is Amos. I am an angel.”
Something bumped into Keenan’s memory and he had to shake his head to get it out. “Wait a minute. Amos. The succubus’s Amos?”
When a grin curled the warm old face, Keenan fought not to return it. He had decided to hang onto his annoyance; afraid if he didn’t he’d lose himself.
“Well, I am a friend to Dabria, if that is what you mean.”
“Whatever,” Keenan replied irritably. “What’s going on? Is Thompson ok? Where’s the entity? Where did you come from? What’s Reggie doing here? How come…”
Amos lifted his hand and Keenan couldn’t go on. The last words wedged in his throat.
“You ask a lot of questions, young man. If you will allow me a smattering of patience, I think I can appease your curiosity. That would make this much easier. I need you to understand quickly. He sent me to bring you back. There isn’t much time…”
Keenan revved up his nerve and blurted out, “Who sent you? That… cloud thing?”
Amos’s laughter filled the air. “I am that cloud thing, Keenan. He turned me into that when he captured me.”
“You? Then why did you threaten me? What are you going to do to them?”
The angel shook his head and touched Keenan’s arm. A flash flood of comfort soaked Keenan’s senses and he went quiet. “Not me, son, him,” he said nodding to the figure of Reggie in the tabloid.
Putting a finger to his lips, Amos closed his eyes and the scene around them changed completely.
Keenan suddenly found himself in Florence…fifteenth century Florence. He was walking down a dirty cobbled street, the woman and Amos in front of him. It was like watching a movie, only from the inside of one of the character’s heads. Keenan’s disbelief dissolved under the heat of the sunshine, and he felt like one of his ghosts looking out at the world. Settling back, he decided to let it play out… as if he had a choice.
Chapter Fifteen
The Ghost of Dabria’s Past
Amos breathed deeply. The smell of baking meat pies and heady herbs poured from the villas as they passed, preparations for a noble man’s lunch, most likely. The streets were crowded with the masses; from peasant to the elite, humanity merged their experience, their existence, and their scent like spice markets in the East. Amos pulled the smells into his lungs until they were full. He loved the humans more than what was probably healthy, but he didn’t mind. They had entertained him for centuries.
“So who is this young fellow? Why have we been sent…”
“Quiet, child.” Amos scowled at the charming creature walking beside him.
“Forgive me, master,” she said, folding her hands and bowing her head. “This is my first divine request…I wish to please Him.”
“As do we all, my dear.” Amos adjusted his heavenly glow and winked out a cloud that had formed above their heads. “The young man is an artist…”
“Oh, I love artists. When I was a Muse, I used to visit…”
“Please, Dabria,” he said lifting his hands.
A hot red flush of heat colored her cheeks making her even more beautiful. Her aura shimmered yellow, then gold, and Amos smiled at her impudence.
He toyed with the idea of calming her, but thought better of it; he did not want to rob her of the thrill of her first divine request.
Amos had selected Dabria specifically for this mission because she had been a Muse. She had just arrived from her final duties and was very inexperienced in anything else. Training her to be a guardian would take time, but Amos was very patient. After this one stop, he would return her to heaven so she could study her new craft. Amos loved mentoring and, as a rule, he had little opportunity for it.
“Suffice it to say we are being sent to guide the young man,” he said. “He is painting frescos in the grand cathedral but it pleases Him to make certain he inspires another.”
“Who will he inspire, master?” Her voice took on a demure obedience Amos appreciated but knew was a strain for her. Dabria had always been a wild spirit. It was what made her an excellent Muse. It had also made it impossible for her to reach her angel status for centuries; free will, over enthusiasm, and creative thinking were not always desired traits in an angel. They were there to obey.
“A young boy named Michelangelo. He will be a great artist one day.”
“But what of our charge, master. Forgive me, but I wish to learn as much as I can. Knowledge will aid me in guiding him, will it not?”
Amos snorted an acknowledgement and motioned to a half-built cathedral. “We will see, little one. This way.”
As they entered the busy construction project, workmen nearly ran them over as the men bustled back and forth, shoring up beams, laying stone, and carving great slabs of marble. All of them were half-naked, their sweat glistening in the spotted sunlight shining through the open ceilings. The handsome men were excellent examples of God’s best work.
“Oh.” The erotic noise escaped Dabria’s lips and she touched them with her fingers to stop it.
Amos scowled at her but appreciated the conflict. As a Muse, Dabria had spent centuries learning the joys, pleasures, emotions, and dreams of her subjects. It had been her calling to read these things and find the spark that ignited the fire of their imaginations. Inspiration was not necessarily always revelation; it often came during an intimate moment, a quiet whisper in the ear, or the touch of a lover. The barrier between inspiration and sexuality was paper-thin. Pleasure was as much an influence as divine intervention at times; these were humans, after all.
At the back of the cathedral, sheets of paper hung from ceiling to floor. Amos led Dabria there and opened a slit in the paper so they could enter.
A handsome young man stripping off a painter’s gown was arguing with a workman and did not notice them when they came in. He shouted above the noise.
“…for the love of God, man. How am I supposed to paint in all this chaos? There is marble dust in everything…my paint is ruined. These conditions are impossible. Tell your employer it is 1485, not 1285. When he can give me leave to paint without these outrageous conditions, I will return!”
When he turned angrily, he ran into Dabria. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms about her to keep her from falling.
For several heartbeats, he stopped breathing, as did Dabria. It was as if they had both turned to stone. Amos cleared his throat and bowed low.
“Signore Moretti, may I introduce my niece, Dabria?”
The artist did not let her go immediately and seemed to be having problems finding his voice. “My immeasurable pleasure, Signorina,” finally tumbled out of his mouth. He then realized she was still in his arms and let her go abruptly. “My pardon, Signore DeMarche, Signorina. I was startled…”
“It is not an issue, sir. Dabria, this is Signore Luciano Moretti, the artist I am attempting to woo to our project. Dabria is a fan of your work, sir. She aspires to be an artist herself one day.”
Ignoring protestations by the man at his back, Luciano took Dabria’s hand and laced it around his arm to escort her from the building. “Really? I have never taught a female student, but it would be my pleasure to start with you, if I may be so bold. If you would like me to look at your work and give you some advice…”
Dabria touched his arm with an expertise that made Amos blush. “You flatt
er me, sir.” She lowered retiring eyes and allowed the young artist to lead her from the noisy building. “It would honor my uncle and me if you could find it in your heart to appraise my work. But I am fearful it will disappoint you and diminish us in your view. My uncle’s need is quite urgent. We desire your genius to paint our modest devotion to God. But I am afraid we impose dreadfully. Had I known you were already engaged, I would have insisted my uncle find another…”
“Nonsense. I now find myself between projects. It would be my great pleasure to service you…and your uncle.” The force of his words apparently startled him since his mouth hung open a moment and Dabria blushed.
Amos had to smile to himself. In the span of seconds, Dabria’s charms had already won the artist over. The ten-year-old Michelangelo had only recently started to loiter in the small church, awed by the sculptors. Amos thought it would be weeks before he would be able to get the two together. His mission was beginning nicely.
“Would you both dine with me tonight at my father’s villa?” Luciano asked. “We have a passable cook and some nice wines. We can discuss the project and make arrangements to send my crew to the chapel to inspect it.”
“It would be our pleasure, sir,” Amos replied, bowing deferentially.
Luciano took Dabria’s hand, turned it, and touched the palm lightly. “The pleasure is all mine, sir. Tonight.” He bowed to them and rushed up the street, turning around several times to wave, singing and laughing as he went.
Amos was very pleased with the outcome of their brief visit, and delighted they would be able to return to heaven soon. He had been on a mission among the humans for years and it would be good to go home. Dabria would accompany him back to begin her training. Not a day too soon, as far as Amos was concerned. A Muse can inspire genius in men…but this Muse was inspiring more than that, he was sure. The sooner he got her out of here, the better.
He turned to walk to their temporary home at the chapel and Dabria followed him silently.
“You are suddenly so quiet, child. What troubles you?”
“Hmm?” She came out of her reverie and took his arm. “Nothing to fret about, Amos. That young man…he is very interesting, is he not?”
“He is a gift from God to the future, little one. His work will inspire many.”
“Of course,” she replied. “It is just…”
“What, child?”
“He is very talented, I am certain, but does his wife not suffer from loneliness when he is out upon projects all day?”
That question set off bells in Amos’s head. “He is not married. Why do you ask?”
“For no reason, master. I am merely curious.”
Amos grunted and led her to their rooms in the chapel.
* * * *
That night the dinner went splendidly. The food was excellent, as was the company, and before dessert reached the table they had their commission, their commitment, and their artist. Amos could not have been more pleased. They made plans to have Luciano start first thing in the morning.
The painter’s father asked Amos to join him on the balcony for news from Rome. Amos was reluctant to agree, fearing to leave the two young people alone with one another. He had seen the spark at dinner, the covert glimpses, could feel the ardent flames rising. When Luciano’s mother insisted on taking Dabria for a tour of her son’s works in the house, Amos thought it would be safe enough. He left with Luciano’s father.
The man turned out to be a brilliant conversationalist. Amos found himself entranced by him for several hours. When he looked to the skies, he was amazed at how late it was.
Excusing himself, he sought out a servant to show him where his niece was. After searching for several minutes, he dismissed the man and headed for the garden. He knew at once that something was not right.
Off in the distance, he could hear voices and laughter lilting through the tangled foliage. The scent of sage and thyme permeated the air. As he approached, he stopped at once, spotting them through hanging olive branches.
“Kiss me, sweet angel,” Luciano was saying, holding Dabria tightly in his arms. “One kiss. If you reject me, then I will become a priest. No other kiss will ever satisfy me again.”
“You are too bold, sir,” Dabria whispered, but her voice was breathless and wonton. The sleeves of her gown were down around her shoulders and moisture glistened on the top of her half exposed breasts. “I will not surrender to your advances. You will steal the kiss then leave me to boast to your friends.”
“Never,” Luciano whispered and pressed his lips tenderly to hers. Dabria responded with resistance at first then passion, entangling her hands in his hair.
Amos was shocked and would have jumped through the branches immediately had a thought not stopped him.
What if he were to break this up now, embarrassing the young artist? Would Luciano not refuse the commission out of mortification? Would Dabria be less than useless to Amos, rejecting Luciano out of her sense of duty and devotion? She could not fight her nature, no more than the young man could fight his desires. Amos would find a way to end this without jeopardizing his mission. There was nothing more important. Without Luciano’s commission, the young Michelangelo would not move on to greater accomplishments.
He backed away slowly, mindful not to make a sound. When he was well away from the couple, he cupped his hands and shouted, “Dabria? Are you out here? It is very late, we must return to the chapel.”
A moment later, he heard her reply. “Yes, Uncle. I am coming.”
When he saw her next, Dabria had taken care of her state of disarray and looked as she had when they arrived. Neither she nor Luciano could hide the blush of love that brightened their faces, but they did well to keep their expressions solemn and proper. They were very civil to each other, but Amos could read their eyes.
During the next several months, the relationship that had flared between Dabria and Luciano apparently dwindled with time and Amos was content. Dabria was the perfect lady and barely spoke with Luciano when he was present. Amos sensed even a little animosity between them. His heart breathed a sigh of relief.
On the night before they were to leave for Rome, a great party had been put together to celebrate the dedication of the church, Luciano’s brilliant artwork, and the departure of Amos and Dabria.
Amos fussed with the preparations for hours but had not seen Dabria even once. He sent a servant to fetch her, but when he returned he told Amos the lady had left the house. Thinking Dabria went to the market for last minute provisions, Amos threw himself into the arrangements, and the time flew by. When she did not appear by the time the guests began to arrive, he sent his servant to find her in the town.
At the end of the evening, the guests started thinning out and Amos made curt goodbyes. His mind filled with a dread that grew with each passing moment. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
As he said goodbye to the chapel priest, Amos’s man ran up to the house, panting fiercely.
“Please sir,” he said catching his breath, “you must come. She has aligned herself with the painter.”
The man tugged on Amos’s arm and the angel found himself running through the night-darkened streets of Florence. He had to fight the instinct to use his powers to expedite their arrival. The world seemed to cave in around him as they ran.
At the center of town was the grand cathedral Luciano had been working on the day they met. Amos’s stomach turned to knots when the now finished building loomed as they approached. The servant pulled him through an open door, along a corridor, and into a small sanctuary at the end of it.
On a bench, looking up at them, sat Dabria. Her face had changed. Dark circles marred her beautiful eyes. The angelic glow that normally radiated from every pore was gone. Tears stained her face in the muted light and Amos gasped. Muses did not weep.
Amos fell to his knees and his heart broke.
Next to Dabria, looking stern and deliberate, Luciano stood like a stoic statue, holding her hand nex
t to his heart. Behind them was the cathedral priest.
“What have you done?” Amos whispered from the ground, knowing the sin would be more than he could bear.
“Forgive me, Amos.” Dabria’s voice was a harsh hush and more tears drenched her cheeks. “But I love him. More than anything…more than my immortal soul. We have consummated that love, taken vows to protect it, and on this night were joined in marriage. We are husband and wife.”
“I wanted to tell you, sir…” Luciano protested, but Dabria stopped his voice with a glance.
Amos could not believe his ears. She had married a man. She was mortal. The punishment for her action was banishment and expulsion from heaven. The gap in his heart widened. He had to excommunicate her at once and condemn her to hell.
“Out!” he shouted, rising to his feet and confronting the priest and the painter. “Out of here, now!”
Luciano tried to raise his voice to object, but the servant and the priest wrapped their arms around him and forced him through the door. The priest’s hands shook as he closed it behind him.
Brightness spilled from Amos’s hands and feet, lightning burst with a loud clap from his mouth. The room grew small around him, the ceiling closer. He knew the angel he had become would terrify the young Muse; she had no experience with the vengeful hand of heaven. Amos had no choice.
But Dabria was not terrified. Indeed, she went to her knees before him and bowed her head. The pool of her gown made her appear to melt into the stone floor.
“You must do this, Amos,” she whispered, her sobs getting the best of her voice. “I will not resist you; I go gladly, peacefully. Please know that I love you, Amos, but I could no more resist the pull of my love for Luciano than you could resist the pull of God. He completes me, fills me to the brink with joy. Except for this tragedy, I could finish my existence here and have no misgivings. I do not ask for your forgiveness, for I know what that would cost you. I only ask that you make this swift. I have no regrets.”
A Ghost of a Chance Page 13
