by C. Gockel
“Fix yourself,” Gregory commanded, pushing me to sit on the ground beside the car while he reached in and finished whatever he was doing to the cop. I was pretty sure the cop was dead. I wondered if he was sticking angel wings on his forehead too. Covering this one up and making it look like the cop had it coming. So much for benevolent messengers of the gods.
I had scrapes down the front from my slide across the gravel; my face was raw, bloody, and was bruised and swollen from his blow. My wrists hurt from the handcuffs, my shoulders ached from being held at that impossible angle, and the bite still burned and throbbed in an enjoyable kind of pain. I was a fucking mess. I wasn’t sure I could fix myself right now, I was shaking so badly. Why wasn’t I dead? And why did he bite me like that? What the fuck was that about?
Gregory put some finishing touches on the cop, who appeared to be asleep in his squad car, then turned to me. He looked me over and shook his head, his face still grim but no longer glowing with pointy teeth and huge black eyes.
“Fine. I really don’t care what you look like, or if you bleed all over your seats. You will get in your car with me, and you will drive to Waynesboro. You will obey all the human traffic laws or I will destroy your vehicle and slowly break every bone in your body. Repeatedly. Over the course of several days. Do you understand?”
I nodded. And we drove to Waynesboro in silence. No singing. Fifty five the whole way.
Chapter 15
We sat outside in the parking lot of some local restaurant called The Lamb waiting for Wyatt and Candy. I was hoping from the name that they had Greek food, but it didn’t have the usual décor of a Greek restaurant. Maybe they did English food and specialized in mutton? I was starving and we’d been waiting here for quite a while. Candy must drive like a ninety year old lady on her way to church because there had been no sign of them. I thought about calling Wyatt on my cell phone, but was trying to be subdued and careful around Gregory. Just in case he was wondering whether to finish chewing my arm off.
“Fix yourself, or you’re not going in,” the angel commanded again.
Back home, it was typical to see those of my kind looking like they’d had the shit beat out of them. It was a point of pride. When someone higher up the hierarchy chose you for a fun romp, they conveyed their status on the energy signature in your wounds. Displaying them showed your peers that you’d been found worthy of someone higher up the food chain, and that you were tough enough to survive it. The more battered you were the better. Limbs dangling by a tendon, chunks of flesh burned off; all that revealed that you were tough and powerful. Leaving a significant sexual encounter with just a few flesh wounds was embarrassing. It meant that you’d been found to be uninteresting, or too fragile to enjoy properly.
Here though, looking beat up just marked you as a victim. Especially if you were female. A guy could pull it off by implying that the other participant was just as damaged, or claiming to have been in some kind of vehicle accident. No one believed the lies if you were female, though; everyone knew you were covering up domestic violence. Going into The Lamb looking like I did would probably result in the police being called and Gregory taken in for questioning. I liked the idea, but given our last encounter I didn’t think it would turn out well. Gregory didn’t seem to have any problem taking out civilians when necessary. He’d proven that he wouldn’t shy away from murder when it came to thwarting an escape attempt.
I sat there as if all the spirit had been crushed out of me; channeling the submissive, obedient servant. It wasn’t easy. I didn’t own any submissive people, I liked the fight and challenge too much and submissive humans were boring. Slowly, I fixed myself, taking some time to do it as if I barely could manage even this. It was painful, repairing my wounds this slowly, but definitely in keeping with the wounded, broken spirit I was trying to portray.
“Do your clothes, too,” he ordered. “They’re torn, dirty, and covered in blood. You’re not going in looking like that. It will cause too much attention, and I’ve got enough to think about without having to enthrall all the humans in the restaurant.”
My shirt was a disaster. The jeans weren’t too bad, especially since torn and tattered jeans were in style right now.
“I can’t do clothes,” I told him truthfully.
He stared in disbelief. “What do you mean you can’t do clothes? That should be ridiculously simple for you. Even I can do clothes.”
Implying that he couldn’t do much else beyond clothing? So angels weren’t good at matter conversion? They were legendary at energy conversion, and they had unparalleled skill when it came to manipulating dimensions and creating gates. I knew they couldn’t do the physical form conversion to the extent we did. From what I’d seen so far, their human form was pretty pathetic. I’d just assumed that converting inanimate objects would be a skill they would have. Perhaps that wasn’t where their talents lay.
“We don’t wear cloth back home,” I replied. “If we’re cold, we just make ourselves furry or up our metabolism. If we have a humanoid form at the time, it’s always naked. We do sometimes skin another creature and wear it like a trophy, but we don’t create cloth. Here, it’s just easier and quicker to buy it than learn to make it. Especially these weird blends with altered petroleum molecules in the fibers.” I looked at my tattered poly blend shirt fondly. Humans were actually pretty clever. I predicted amazing things from them in another hundred thousand years. If they didn’t manage to wipe themselves out before then.
He made a motion as if he were going to take his shirt off and give it to me. I wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that maneuver in the confines of my car. That I wanted to see. And I did want to see him without his shirt on. Crap, I bet he was ripped beyond belief. Yes, crazy me. The guy pummels me to bits and vows to kill me and I’m all revved up to see him semi–clad. Of course, the shirt wouldn’t come close to fitting. It would be huge on me; bigger than Tinkerbell, even.
“They won’t let you in the place without a shirt on,” I told him reluctantly. “It says there right on the sign.”
He paused and looked around the car as if he expected a shirt to appear out of nowhere. Nope, none in the glove box or under the seat either.
“Put on a shirt from the bags you had back at the hotel.”
“They’re all in Candy’s car,” I told him. “My trunk is really small and full of beer, so we put them all in hers.”
He sat for a moment contemplating his options, then opened his door. “There’s a gift shop in there, they’ve got to have some novelty t–shirts for sale. Stay here.” He got out then paused. “In the car,” he added, leaning in to look at me sternly. “And the car stays right here in this spot in the parking lot. You and the car don’t move.”
I had to bite back a smile. He learned quick, this angel did. To hide my amusement, I trembled a bit and tried to look properly cowed. I even tried to squeeze out a tear from big soulful eyes. Gregory frowned at me. “Do you feel sick? Do you need some crackers or something?”
I shook my head at him. So much for my acting skills.
While the angel was doing his shopping, Candy and Wyatt finally pulled up and parked beside the Corvette. Wyatt practically launched himself from the car, running around my car to pull open my door and inspect me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his face tight with worry. “You’re shirt is torn and bloody, what did he do to you?”
“We had an incident,” I said vaguely. “I’m okay, though,” I lied. I was reluctant to let Wyatt know all the details. My arm still stung from the bite, and it was in a place where I couldn’t really see it without a mirror. I was glad it was my right arm, and Wyatt couldn’t see it from where he stood. I really wanted to get a look at it first. When I fixed myself, it hadn’t repaired. I could feel the red purple strands of it snaked throughout my body down deep into my personal energy. It worried me. I didn’t want to check it out with Gregory in the car, but I was desperate to see what the fuck was up. What had he done to me?
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“She drives so slow,” Wyatt said, looking at Candy with frustration. “You took off, and I knew something was going on. I kept trying to get her to drive faster and she wouldn’t.”
“She’s smart,” I told him. “No sense in you both getting yourselves killed in the crossfire.”
Wyatt reached in the car and brushed my hair back from my face. I appreciated the gesture.
“Come on, get out of the car,” he said gently, as if I were a child or an invalid.
“I can’t,” I told him. “I have to stay here, in the car, and the car needs to remain right here in this spot in the parking lot.”
“What has he done to you?” Wyatt asked. I sensed his agitation.
“Wyatt, you need to get out of here,” I told him. “I’m going to give you my car keys. Sneak out when we’re in the restaurant and get as far away from here as you can. I mean it. Things are getting really bad, and I want you to be safe.” He had to know it was bad if I was willing to let him drive my car.
He glared at me. “I’m not leaving you, Sam. I won’t abandon you like that.”
“You are way out of your league, here,” I told him as gently as I could. “Fuck, I’m out of my league, here. I’m trying to get away as soon as I can manage it, and I’m really worried that if I slip out of his grasp, he’ll take it out on you. I’ve seen what he can do. He will hurt you, Wyatt. He won’t lose any sleep over killing you.”
At that time, Gregory came back out of the restaurant with a little bag. I quickly slipped my car keys into Wyatt’s hand, and tried to resume my subdued mien. The angel nodded at Candy and Wyatt and seemed pleased to see me with my butt rooted to the seat of the car as when he had left me. I yanked my torn shirt off as he tossed me the bag.
It was a small pink tank top. Really small. You’d think he would have had a better idea of my size from crushing me against a building. I snapped the tag off and unfolded it, pausing a moment when I saw the design. A stylized geometric angel in gold with a triangle body, triangle wings, circle head and a halo was featured prominently on the front, filling the shirt from neckline to waist. I hadn’t realized Gregory had a sense of humor. I had to force myself not to laugh as I pulled it over my head. Submissive, meek, obedient, I chanted to myself in my head.
The shirt was outrageously tight. It molded against my breasts and the outlines of my abs. My cleavage burst above the neckline like my boobs were trying to escape the confines of the shirt. I looked less like an angel and more like a Hooters’ waitress. Wyatt’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the effect, and he glared at Gregory in suspicion and jealousy. Jealousy? Now that was funny.
When we walked into The Lamb, I saw the reason for Gregory’s fashion choice. And the reason for the name. The whole gift shop was awash in angel and Christian religious items. I was actually grateful he hadn’t gotten me a “Jesus is my co–pilot” shirt, or the one with the blond, blue eyed, Germanic Jesus praying to what would have been my left boob if I’d had the shirt on.
The hostess sat us near the buffet, casting adoring glances at Gregory the whole time. There were crosses on the walls, and scripture verses on the placemats. I wondered if I should oblige them and burst into flames or something. None of the employees seemed to notice the irony of my presence here. It would have been great fun to have Wyatt pretend to exorcise me, but I doubted this was the appropriate time for those kinds of antics. Maybe we’d come back in a week or two. If I was still alive then.
Wyatt and Candy began telling Gregory what they’d discovered on Wyatt’s tablet. They’d found a campground nearby and snagged us a cabin; not easy to do since we were at the height of the summer holiday season. Candy placidly avoided looking at me, while Wyatt shot furious glances back and forth between me and Gregory. Great. All I needed now was Wyatt to get testosterone filled and start a cock fight over me. If a .50 caliber bullet didn’t harm the angel, I doubted Wyatt’s fists would do much except piss off Gregory enough to snap his neck.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I announced. Gregory hardly gave me a glance, and the others ignored my statement.
I actually did use the bathroom, mainly to delay looking at my arm. Finally, I could avoid it no longer. I took a breath and pulled the armhole of the overly small tank top down, raising my arm to the mirror. Fuck. The tattoos of angels’ wings on the werewolf victims were small and tan. They looked like tiny birthmarks, or skin discolorations from too much sun and too little sunscreen. You wouldn’t even notice them if you weren’t looking for them. This was over three inches long, in black and deep red purple. It was vivid and clear; a sword with detailed angel wings curving up as guards from the hilt. Gregory’s sword, tattooed in his color. Surrounding it was a round area of reddened raised skin. Like a hickey. I wondered why I hadn’t been able to fix the hickey? I wondered if I exploded myself out and recreated my whole flesh from the DNA pattern if the tattoo and the hickey would go away? I doubted it. Besides, a burst that big would bring a furious Gregory barreling into the women’s room to beat my ass.
I carefully ran a finger along the hickey mark and the tattoo, feeling with my energy as well as my skin, and just about dropped to my knees. Lust poured through me and I shook with desire. Great. Just touch it and I was ready to hump the sink faucets. I felt it more gently, trying to explore it without triggering the sexual stimulation. The tattoo, the very color of it, thrummed and vibrated within me. I ran my finger over the hickey and felt the same humming, although it was more flesh centered and not as deep. The hickey mark seemed to have a direct line to my genitals, where the tattoo poured its red purple streaks down into my personal energy. The tattoo was just as much a sexual stimulation as the hickey mark, only different in that it turned on the non–human, non–corporeal part of myself.
Well, this was just splendid. I now had a super sensitive erogenous zone on the under part of my arm. No need to get in my pants, just run your fingers up my arm and watch me melt. Or lick it. I envisioned for a moment how that would feel, and my whole body trembled. Mmmm. Maybe I could ignore my hunger for food and just lock myself in the bathroom, drive myself to ecstasy for a few hours.
Tempting as that was, I lowered my arm and concentrated on trying to explore the weird red purple stuff that had invaded my very core. It was like a network of roots, of tiny little hairs driven deep into my personal energy. It was solid, cold, impersonal. I tried to probe it, to feel it out, to determine what it did and how it operated, but couldn’t discover anything. It resisted all my attempts to explore it.
Next, I tried to push it out, to gather it together into a manageable mass, or even cut it into sections, to no avail. It just sat there like an uncomfortable alien presence imbedded inside me. I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever get it out. I doubted I’d be able to absorb it or neutralize it, and it seemed to resist any attempt at removal. Maybe Gregory could get it out. Not that he’d care. He’d stuck it there and the only way it was probably going to leave was with my death. Which would no doubt be soon.
Pulling myself back to more constructive thoughts, I wondered what the purpose was of the tattoo and the hickey. I didn’t think Gregory intended to put a sexual brand on me. He was furious when he’d done it, not remotely in an amorous mood. I couldn’t imagine what it did beyond turn me into even more of a horn dog than I had been before. Common sense would lead me to believe that this was either some kind of punishment or a method to track, find, and control me. I doubted even the most ignorant angel would think sexual stimulation would be punishment to a demon, so it must be the latter. Strange, because I really didn’t feel like I was under his or anyone else’s’ control.
Unable to withstand my hunger any longer, I walked out of the bathroom and grabbed some food from the buffet on my way back. It was typical country fare, and I loved fried chicken, backfat green beans, and corn casserole.
Candy remained her placid self at the table, picking at her country ham, but Gregory looked furious. He was practically grinding his teeth and had his napk
in balled up tight in a fist. I looked at Wyatt in alarm. Wyatt looked back and shook his head. He clearly didn’t know what was going on either. I sat down and scooted my chair a few inches away. Gregory took a deep breath as I sat down, and let it slowly out. I felt him glare at me as he struggled to relax. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? I told him I was going to the bathroom. I didn’t sneak out the window, I didn’t use any energy, did no conversions. Why was he so mad at me?
“What is your problem?” I asked, unable to resist confronting him. He’d smacked me around, chewed up my arm, stuck a bunch of his whatever into me and added to my already heightened libido. He had no reason to be so pissed at me. “I didn’t try to get away, I didn’t kill anyone. I was just in the damned bathroom. Why the fuck are you so pissed off?”
Candy kicked me under the table and mouthed “shut up” at me in desperation.
“She doesn’t need to shut up,” Wyatt snapped at her, coming to my defense. “It’s your fault. You and your stupid werewolf problems. And you,” he said turning to Gregory. “She’s not hurting anyone. Your angel buddy is the one who attacked us. You have no right to treat her this way.”
Now I was alarmed. Gregory looked at Wyatt as if he were barely restraining himself from killing him right here in the busy restaurant with everyone looking on.
“I have every right, you miserable demon toy. This is not any of your business. You shouldn’t presume to interfere in the affairs of higher life forms.”
