by Anna Windsor
Greeeeaaat.
Even better - I still wanted to kiss the crazy son of a bitch.
I so needed to lose my licence over this.
“You are an angel.” Shant folded those sexy arms over his to-die-for chest. “Take me to your parents. I’ll prove it to you.”
“My parents are dead,” I shot back, then clamped my mouth shut.
Oh.
Oh God.
The image of my mother’s face hovered in my mind, as ethereal and beautiful as ever. And I saw Amberd, the fortress in the clouds, with its round, ruined stone towers.
Shaddai. That’s what my mother had said on our journey up the mountain. Come here to call them. They’ll hear you if you truly need them.
My legs instantly went rubbery, and I made my way to the couch and sat down, staring open-mouthed at Shant. My skin felt hot and cold at the same time, and my voice sounded shaky and weird when I found enough of my wits to speak.
“Amberd. I didn’t ... I didn’t call you. My mother said I could go up the mountain, to the fortress in the clouds, but I didn’t do it. So how did you find me?”
Shant touched his chest with his palm, and for a moment I saw the outline of the phoenix wounds that had so upset me when I first saw him at Riverview.
This time, the effect was different. It felt like some sort of answer, or maybe a clarification.
“I answered a debt of honour,” Shant explained in a tone that suggested sorrow and new understanding. “When an angel dies on Earth, they can use their essence to send a message to us, their protectors who failed them, and we are bound to respect their dying request.” He lowered his gorgeous head as I processed that my mother hadn’t been killed by a knife-wielding maniac, but by some loony fire-demon instead. Those marks on her chest when I found her - she had carved them herself before she died.
The message.
A communique to the Shaddai.
That’s why Shant had shown up in my admissions office, bearing the same marks, or, more accurately, the memory of them. Of that message. He must have submitted to the police and emergency room staff because he wasn’t certain exactly who he was supposed to protect, only the general area where I was.
“Someone bound me to you long ago, Dutch Brennan.” Shant’s eyes were so intoxicating I could hardly stand to look at him. “Someone wished for you to be protected, should the Raah ever come to know of your existence, and your life on Earth be threatened.” He kept looking at me, those green eyes swimming with a thousand emotions I couldn’t name. “Your birthday. When the Raah could sense you, so could we, and I answered the debt. Tell me - do you know who offered you such a gift?”
My throat clenched, and I had to rub my jaws to make them work enough to say, “My mother.”
In the long, quiet moments that followed, I was able to tell Shant what she looked like, and the Armenian name she used -and how she died, beaten and bruised, neck broken, with the phoenix carved over her heart.
He nodded, eyes closed. “The Raah dispatched her many years ago. I remember the pain all Shaddai felt at her loss when we received her dying message. She had long been quiet on the face of Earth, and we had been wondering what became of her — then the tragedy.”
I got to my feet, feeling unsteady, but I just couldn’t sit still any longer. “But how could my mother be an angel? Did she die? Come back down from heaven?”
Shant’s eyes caressed my face as if he wanted to offer me comfort and support as I struggled to understand all this. “Angels are not dead humans, Dutch. Angels are their own race, long-lived, even immortal, if not attacked or wounded too grievously.”
I wished he would come closer to me, and he seemed to hear my thoughts. He took a step, lifted his arms as if to reach out, then caught himself and moved back. My insides actually ached from wanting to touch him, like that would make everything real and OK and sane, like anything in my life would ever be completely sane again.
“Many angels did not return to the sky in older days, when the world of men and the world of Heaven separated,” he continued, gazing steadily at me and making heat rise all the way to my forehead. “We, my people, the Shaddai, it became our sacred duty to guard those gentle beings who remained on Earth, as best we could.”
So far, so good. I was getting it, even if I wasn’t having any success yet at understanding him, or luring him back into my arms. “Is it allowed, humans and angels, getting together?”
As soon as I asked the question, I realized how it sounded, then decided I didn’t care. I was so far past coherent, rational thoughts and actions, it wasn’t even funny.
“It’s outside the natural order, but it happens.” Shant’s gaze heated up even more, burning me like he was secretly one of those fire-monsters. “Attraction and love can be unexpected -and sudden. Love at first sight, as humans would say.”
No kidding.
He was coming towards me again, quietly closing in on me, and the glow from his skin eased to the brightness of a light, silvery candle flame. That stern-warrior persona slipped away, and I could see him as a man then.
A great big glowing man -
But a man.
God, what a man.
I had a sensation like melting into a puddle, but once more, he stopped, staying just out of my reach.
Is it OK to use God’s name, if I’m actually part angel?
I really am losing my mind.
“Unlike Shaddai and other races, angels are not outcast if they intermingle,” Shant said, as if suddenly remembering that little tidbit, and being pleased by it.
“And the fire-things?” I asked, more to keep myself from babbling or begging than anything else. “The Raah? What exactly are they?”
“The Raah: demons who once served the will of the creator, hunt angels for their own sport.” The lines of his face tightened, and he shifted back towards stern-warrior mode so fast I wanted to scream. “Which is why, for your own safety, I must summon you another protector from Amberd, to serve you through your time on Earth.”
My hands went to my hips, and I leaned forwards, not certain I heard him correctly. “Another protector? I thought you were the Shaddai bound to me.”
“I ... I cannot continue in that role.” Shant looked away from me. I couldn’t tell in the strange light rising off his skin, but I thought he might be blushing. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?” I yelled, without feeling the least bit embarrassed.
My volume startled him, and he looked directly at me.
And I saw the answer in his face.
He wanted me.
My belly tied itself in a tight, hot knot.
For whatever reason, he thought his desire wasn’t OK.
But he wanted me.
Maybe Shaddai had oaths and ethics, like psychiatrists had about patients. Maybe there was some other reason, something deep and mystical, or even scary.
Right that second, I didn’t give a damn.
“I cannot stay with you, Dutch,” he said, but I was moving towards him, and he wasn’t backing away.
“To hell with that.”
Before he could argue with me, I threw my arms around his neck, and I kissed him.
And kissed him.
And kept right on kissing him.
Now this —
Angel or no angel, 306-year-old winged guys, and all the demons in the universe aside -
This was Heaven.
He tasted like clean water, fresh air and toasted cinnamon. He felt like warmth and muscle and everything I had always wanted to touch, to stroke, to hold.
Shant kissed me back with a power and passion I had dreamed about, but never expected. The strength of his embrace, the way his mouth joined with mine as he tasted me right back, rumbling his pleasure so deeply I felt it in my throat, my chest. His hands caressed my waist, then my hips, then lower, pressing me against him, letting me feel exactly what he wanted, and how much he wanted it.
Every inch of my body responded to him, tin
gling, then burning, then throbbing with the force of my own need.
He pulled back long enough to press his lips to my ears and whisper, “You change everything.”
I struggled to breathe, finally succeeded, and could think of nothing to say but, “I’m glad.”
His smile was hungry and happy and sad all at the same time. My heart ached as I memorized each line and dimple on his face, and hoped I could remember that expression every minute of my life, forever.
When he picked me up, I felt like I was flying again, to my bedroom, to my bed.
Then we flew to places I never imagined I would go.
Six
Nothing. Ever. Changes.
I woke up alone.
Naked.
Sweetly sore.
Satisfied.
But alone.
Except for the tall, red-headed Amazonian-looking woman with the sword, sitting on a chair near my bedroom door. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and, when she turned away from me to sheath her blade, I could see the tall ridges of flesh on her back, outlined by the white cotton.
“I’m Houri,” she said in a voice that sounded like a female Terminator from those Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. A bored female Terminator. “I’ve come to protect you. I’m—”
“Shaddai,” I finished for her, then turned over and pulled the cover over my head.
Damn straight nothing ever changes — and crazy definitely doesn’t change. I got cold all over and started to shake. Then I wanted to cry.
No. I wanted to scream. Demand that she take me to Shant.
But even as I pressed my face into my pillow and ground my teeth together, I worried.
What exactly would happen to him, for breaking the rules of his people? Had he said something about being an outcast? God, I really was a selfish bitch, wasn’t I? A selfish bitch who was about to sob until she puked.
Stop it. Stop it, stop it.
My phone was ringing. Probably Riverview. Or the police. ‘ Or both. I ignored it, rolled over, and pushed myself into a sitting position, careful to keep my sheet under my chin. “Hey, robot girl. You up for a good fight?”
Houri blinked at me. Her android-ish expression said, Does not compute. Then she went back to looking bored.
I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans and my own T-shirt - this one black - and pushed past Houri into my sparse living room. I had gym mats on most of the floor instead of carpet, and I crossed to the centre of the padded blue vinyl. When I turned back to face Terminator Girl, I settled into a classic Sayokan stance, arms up, legs wide, and beckoned to her.
The edges of Houri’s mouth curled into a smile. She stopped looking bored.
Then she kicked my ass all over the apartment.
Five or six times. Maybe seven.
I lost count somewhere between the separated shoulder and needing stitches in my chin because I wouldn’t let her heal me.
She wasn’t touching me.
Nobody was touching me again.
Except Shant.
If I ever saw him again.
And assuming I didn’t kill him instantly for making me believe in love at first sight, then disappearing like a sweet dream before I woke.
Seven
My life became a blur of sparring with Houri (and trying to keep all my teeth) - my version of pining away for my lost love. The more bones I risked or broke, the better I felt. For about five minutes.
Then there were all the statements I had to give to the police, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security and a bunch of other alphabet acronyms I didn’t know about the “terrorist bombing attack” on Riverview. Oh, and trying to convince the administration that the patient who had been present when the admissions office blew up had just run away, unharmed.
Yeah.
And not to my bed.
It took a month for the admissions office to get repaired and functional again, but when it was, I was stupid enough to go back to work even though my Shaddai protector assured me they could keep me in enough gold to rent a penthouse if I wanted one. Houri got passed off as a private bodyguard hired by my (non-existent) family following the terrorist attack.
To Terminator Girl’s credit, she taught me about my angel abilities: enhanced fighting skills, the ability to briefly repel fire if I willed it, speed, empathy, insight and attracting demons. Woo-hoo. Not a great lot of powers to inherit from Mom, but I figured I should be grateful for whatever advantage I might have, should one of the Raah show up again.
“What are you thinking about?” Houri asked me as I drank my 3 a.m. Starbucks Verona one Wednesday night, about four months after my encounter with the Raah - and with Shant. She was ensconced in her usual seat just outside my office door, wearing her hospital-issued nametag, her jeans and a red T-shirt which almost matched her hair. The secretary had retired and not been replaced yet, and the night nurse and patient aide had been called upstairs for an emergency, so we were alone.
“What am I thinking about?” I tasted the delicious chocolate coffee and made myself look her in the eye. “I’m thinking about an asshole.”
“A man,” she said, sounding definite, a little more human, like she had learned to be in her weeks with me.
I glared at her and didn’t answer.
“Was this man a boyfriend?” Houri looked almost amused, like we might be playing a game. “Did he tell you he loved you?”
My glare deepened, and I sank further into my creaky office chair. “No.”
Houri shrugged. “Well, did he tell you that you were a good lover?”
I wanted to slap her, but that would just start a sparring match and get a lot of furniture broken. “No.”
“What did he tell you then, to make you call him an asshole?”
I picked up my coffee again and sipped at it, letting the heavy chocolate flavour slide through my mouth, as in my mind I replayed as much of that night as I dared. Like I had done a thousand times. Maybe ten thousand. Every word. Every ach-ingly hot, sensual movement.
When I thought I could speak, I looked her in the eye. “He said . . . He said I change everything.”
Houri’s expression shifted from amused to stunned. She got up from her chair, walked straight into my office, and put both hands on my desk, knocking papers in every direction.
“Shant,” she whispered. Before I could deny it, she added, “You should have told me, Dutch.”
I looked away from her. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re protecting him.”
My turn to shrug.
“If you love him, you should tell him.” Houri sounded definite and, when I glanced in her direction, she looked adamant too.
I wanted to beat her up again - only, I’d never quite succeeded in that pursuit. “I’m not protecting anything,” I grumbled, going back to my paperwork. “It’s wrong. Talking to him again would be crazy.” Then, quieter, and definitely more honest: “I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”
Houri cocked her head like she was trying to process information, which of course made her look totally like a robot Terminator all over again. “And being with you, Dutch Brennan - what makes you think that would be bad?”
Eight
“This is a rotten idea, Houri.” I pulled the collar of my leather jacket tight against my neck and cheeks to fend off the major mountain breeze making my eyes water. “If he does this, he’ll never be able to come here again. And I have no idea if things would even work out between us.”
The wind didn’t seem to be bothering Terminator Girl at all. She wasn’t even wearing a coat over her sleeveless tank, and her biceps flexed when she crossed her arms. “There are worse fates than banishment. Like facing eternity without the one who has claimed your heart.”
Even though my own heart did a little dance in response to what she said, I rolled my eyes. “We spent a night together. I haven’t claimed anything.”
Houri laughed at me.
I thought about throwing a punch, but decided if Shant
really did come through the sanctuary portal that Houri assured me was located in the Amberd ruins, I’d rather not have a black eye.
The journey to Armenia had taken us almost a week, her flying me, us resting on various islands, then cities, then towns. It was a major feat that we hadn’t killed each other.
Mount Aragats was much as I remembered from my childhood: volcanic and full of pits and pocks and craters. Vegetation was sparse this time of year, and a wicked cold breeze whistled between the flat stretch of rocks and grass where we stood and the ruins we had come to see. Sunlight flooded Amberd, and in the background clouds drifted against a crystalline sky. It really was a postcard-perfect scene, and my breath caught as I so clearly remembered standing in the same spot with my beautiful - my angelic — mother.
Shaddai. Come here to call them. They’ll hear you if you truly need them.
“Shant,” I whispered, heart aching so fiercely I had to fight sobs as I stared at the ruins of the rounded towers. Part of me wished he’d burst out of the tumbledown rocks and come striding towards me, but the better half of my soul hoped he wouldn’t.
Houri said that, by coming, he’d be giving up the right to return to Amberd and to function as a protector — though I had no doubt he would protect me with every ounce of strength he possessed. But he’d be losing so much: his culture, his history, his identity. On just a chance, a whisper of possibility. Nothing was set between us, or definite. For all I knew, he’d take one look at me with morning bed head tomorrow morning and fly off into the sunrise screaming.
I shook my head, blinking to keep back the tears. “I’m not worth that kind of sacrifice.”
“That, I believe, is Shant’s decision.” Houri sounded distant, almost distracted. “His sense of honour would have forced him to allow you to make the first move towards permanence, but now you have. You are half-angel, Dutch. You will have a very long life. You and Shant could share many, many beautiful years together.”
“He won’t come.” I studied every nuance and crack in the fallen towers. “He shouldn’t come.”
When I couldn’t stand the lump in my throat any longer, I turned away from Houri to cry in peace. She caught me by the waist, and I wheeled around, arm swinging to get in the first blow.
