by Amy Vansant
“Save it.”
Michael shrugged and fell silent.
“So, I don’t really have to tell you my conclusion on the grave, right?”
Michael stretched his back, reaching his clasped hands behind his head, and nodded. His pectoral muscles strained his shirt as he did so. Anne looked away.
“I could tell by the subtle way you were staring angry laser holes through me that you suspected a Perfidian had something to do with it.”
“Underground gravesite with no obvious entrance other than teleportation, bones with an excess of osteonecrosis, Arch Angel summons me here…” Anne trailed. “I’m sure you already knew it had to be a Perfidian. It doesn’t take a genius.”
“Clearly.”
Anne took another step and then stopped.
“Very funny.”
Michael chuckled.
“So, do you already know which one of your rogue Angels is stashing bodies at Brice House?”
“No,” Michael said, thrusting his hands in his pants pockets and watching a passing car. “I don’t know who it is yet.”
“So we have nothing to go on, but stacks of life-tapped bones?”
“So far. I have people on it.”
“But you definitely have a Perfidian on your hands, killing humans, undetected, for what appears to be hundreds of years. That’s unprecedented in my experience; it usually only takes ten to fifty years to identify and reap a Perfidian, from their first transgression to the last. Unless…other Sentinels have different experiences?”
“No, that would be the norm. And that’s why you are here. Once we identify the Perfidian, you’ll dispatch him.”
Obviously. That’s what I do. So why is he pointing it out?
Michael started walking again and Anne stared at his back, anger rising in her breast. She broke into a trot to catch up to him.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded, grabbing his arm.
Michael stopped and turned. Anne studied his face for clues. He seemed relaxed, open and honest. From this, Anne could only draw one conclusion.
He’s hiding something.
“We’re close to identifying him,” Michael said, placing his hand reassuringly on her shoulder.
“So you know it’s a him?”
“No. Not for sure,” admitted Michael. “Either way, we’ll need you soon.”
Anne slowly shook her head. “Something feels very different about this assignment.”
Michael stepped closer to Anne. She could feel the electricity move between them. His natural urge to pull energy from her, counteracted by her own ability to draw energy from him, was becoming irresistible.
“You’re here to help with the grave,” Michael said after a moment. He reached up and brushed an errant strand of hair from Anne’s eyes. The touch of his hand against her cheek compelled Anne to draw a breath, not unlike Dani’s gasp on the ladder. Angry to find herself manipulated by his power, she pulled a little harder at his energy, catching him off guard. He flinched and protected himself by stepping back.
“Evil woman,” he grumbled, but Anne caught the flash of a smile.
“You’re trying to distract me, and it isn’t going to work.”
“You’re paranoid.” Michael dismissed her suspicions with a flick of his wrist. “Everything is fine.”
Anne sighed. “I think I’ll walk back to the hotel.”
She had a strong urge to process the day’s events alone. She did not intend to offer her rapt attention while someone lied to her, even by omission. Her life had taught her to spot a liar, and she knew the longer someone threw lies at her, the better chance one might hurt her.
“No sense getting into the car to drive three blocks. Let me chew on this and see if I can think of anything to help you with your investigation,” Anne added.
“All right.”
From his jacket, Michael pulled a toe bone that he had stolen from the gravesite and rolled it between his fingers as he stared at Anne. She waited for him to finish his thought.
“Do you want me to walk with you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Anne turned and started down the street towards her hotel.
Chapter Eleven
It was a gray day in Annapolis, Maryland, overcast and cooler than Anne had expected. She was eager to return to the hotel and sort through what she had seen at the Brice House gravesite. She had never seen a Perfidian dumping ground that large, and she worried about its implications. Plus, Michael’s cloak and dagger act had her even more concerned than the oversized pile of bones.
Entering an alley that would lead her back to her hotel on Main Street, lost in thought, Anne found herself surprised by a violent yank on her left arm. She heard her shoulder pop, and yelped as a bolt of pain shot across her clavicle. Tossed against the wall of the narrow passage, Anne felt her skull crack against the brickwork with a dull thud.
Lights and color swam before Anne’s eyes, and it took all her strength and concentration to keep from losing consciousness. Passing out was not an option; she knew if her attacker was a Perfidian, it would drain her of her energy and she would never awaken. The locals would find her lifeless in the alley, cause of death “unknown.”
Or would they? She had never seen a Sentinel die.
After living for nearly three hundred years, would they find her body in this alley, gray and vaguely mummified like the human bodies of Perfidian victims? Or would she just disappear in a flash of light like a defeated Perfidian, leaving Con, Jeffrey and Michael unsure of her fate and unable to avenge her? Would she end up a ghost, conscious, but bodiless, like Con?
Anne felt emotion welling in her breast as she imagined the people and dogs she’d leave behind, and took several deep breaths to clear her head. There was no time for maudlin thoughts.
She had to fight back or consider her fate sealed.
Still woozy from the attack, Anne put her hands against the brick wall of the alley to steady herself. Knowing no human had the strength to smash her against the wall with such force, the attacker had to be a Perfidian. She crabbed her way deeper into the alley hoping to use the small space to avoid attacks.
Anne felt her body spasm as something gripped her arm. Weakness robbed her legs of their strength and her muscles ached. It felt as if her veins flowed with gasoline and her assailant had thrown her a match. The pain made it nearly impossible to concentrate. Her vision went white.
Anne scrambled to catch hold of the villain by reaching where she felt his tight grip on her arm. Her fingers wrapped around what felt like a wrist, and Anne did her best to pull energy back from her foe, desperate for the cooling sensation she knew would follow. She felt a moment of relief, and then the wrist in her grasp disappeared. She clawed to find it again, but found nothing but empty air.
Anne couldn’t focus long enough to identify the demonic blur surrounding her. While vaguely human in shape, its outline remained wild and indefinable. She could discern no features. The beast fought Anne’s attempts to drain it, all the while continuing to drain her. She felt utterly enveloped, as if smothered by a swarm of energy-sucking insects. A buzzing, like the roar of a million bees, squelched all other sounds. Escape was impossible. Every attempt to run met with resistance, regardless of direction. The chaos of it made Anne slash blindly in a desperate attempt to flee the pain.
Somewhere in the middle of the attack, Anne felt an almost imperceptible amount of the demon’s energy flow into her, helping to replenish what she had lost. With dimming hope, she knew the head start the monster had on her might be insurmountable. Shaking with adrenaline and strain, Anne balled herself on the ground, trying to become as small a target as possible. She felt like a hedgehog.
She needed a hedgehog’s spines.
Anne used her own dwindling life force to create her energy swords, much the way the Angeli extended their wing-like appendages. Her energy blades, unlike the metal kni
ves Michael had once mocked, drained energy from the Perfidia. The ability to create the blades was unique to her. She’d first noticed the ability to project her energy in Philadelphia in the mid-eighteenth century. For months, she’d had nothing more than a nail-file-sized bolt of energy for a weapon, but she’d continued working, willing it to extend, until finally she’d created energy swords two feet long in either hand.
From her defensive fetal position, Anne willed her blades into existence. Through squinted eyes, she saw an orange haze appear around her balled fists, followed by a network of glowing threads extending and weaving together until they formed the shape of two flat blades extending from her fists. She slashed at her attacker, head still tucked, her body pressed against the alley wall in an attempt to still her quaking body.
Anne’s first cut caught the creature off-guard. The pain in her body ceased, as if someone had pulled a plug.
“Fascinating,” said a low, garbled voice.
Anne leapt to her feet and squared off against her amorphous foe. She aimed a second thrust at her attacker’s midsection. He dodged easily, and moved in, hands quickly finding her exposed throat. Anne lost the energy she’d been using to support her blades. Calling forth the swords became like trying to flick a wet lighter. With her last burst of strength, she broke the chokehold and scrambled down the alley, only to feel hands on her ankles as the monster dragged her back toward the pain.
Something changed. Anne still felt disoriented, but she had begun to move. She tumbled down the alley like a ragdoll thrown by a petulant child. Her arm snapped like a breadstick as she tried to catch her fall. Rolling towards the brick wall of the alley, she braced for impact, only to find herself still moving through open air. Colors swirled and wind whistled around her. Anne couldn’t move, couldn’t orient herself, and felt nothing. No pain, no suffering, no shaking.
It finished with me and tossed me away.
I’m dead.
Again.
Chapter Twelve
Anne cracked open her eyes and saw only sky.
With great effort, she turned her neck to the left and found a dark, blurry form hovering above her. She yelped and tried to twist away from the figure.
“It’s me, be still.”
The voice was familiar and soothing. Anne blinked, her eyes beginning to focus.
The blurry figure was Michael, staring down at her, his face filled with concern. She lay cradled in his arms.
Michael had rescued her. Memories of the attack bounced around Anne’s skull like a loose marble. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. She felt nauseated and shut her mouth hoping the feeling would pass. Vomiting directly into Michael’s face and having it land back on her own wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone involved. She chuckled to herself, stopping when she felt the pain. Several of her ribs were broken and still healing; she couldn’t have been unconscious for long.
“Why the hell are you laughing? You were nearly killed.”
Anne swallowed to suppress her nausea. “You don’t want to know,” she croaked.
Finding the world dizzying, Anne closed one eye and peered about herself with the other, noting little apart from sky, asphalt and industrial-sized vents. She could only assume Michael had transformed into his energy state to fly her onto a rooftop for safety, which explained her disorientation.
“Give it a second,” said Michael. He was sitting on an air conditioning unit, holding her in his lap. His hand rested on her cheek and his thumb wiped a tear as it rolled from the side of her left eye. Michael stared at this single tear of frustration, pain and relief for a moment, and then leaned in to kiss her. As he did, he let his own energy flow into Anne.
The queasiness immediately left Anne’s body. She felt a wave of warmth engulf her from head to toe. Even the aching in her cracked skull, ribs and arm, dulled to a manageable level.
Anne melted into Michael. She tried not to be greedy and pull too hard from the energy he fed her, but it was difficult not to revel in the solace of his power. Nothing in her long-ago, fully-human life could compare to it.
Anne reached forward with her better arm and pulled Michael closer. He kissed her more deeply, kissed her mouth, her cheek, her neck. His impossibly strong hands ran down her body and lifted her easily as a feather to position her straddled on his lap. He pushed her tightly against his hips. Their energy connection made Anne feel as if she was melting into him.
Michael had transformed her from broken ragdoll to the embodiment of pure ecstasy in a matter of moments.
And then, just as quickly as his passion began, Michael’s Angelus cool returned. For a moment, he held her, but no longer responded to her kisses. Then, he gently pushed her upper body away from his own.
“Stop. Stop, please, Anne. I have to keep my own strength in case it comes back. I can’t—”
Michael lifted her again and sat her on the air unit as he stood. He ran his hands through his dark hair, and though he did so with some vigor, Anne watched as every lock fell perfectly back into place. Michael turned and walked a few paces away from her.
Anne stared at the retreating Michael, catching her breath. She felt as if she was crashing after a drug high, and the effect was miserable. All her aches and pains once again made their presence known, if less intensely than before. Her arm throbbed, and she remembered it breaking in the alley. Anne reached with her opposite hand to be sure the broken bone aligned well for healing. Her left shoulder had already popped back into place.
Michael stared into the distance as if there was something of great interest on one of the other rooftops. Anne tried to straighten to see, but found herself still too weak to stand.
“Michael?”
“I’m here,” Michael said, turning to face her.
Anne stared, quiet, unsure of what to say.
Michael fidgeted with his hands, rubbing them together.
“I fixed your shoulder while you were out. Your arm was,” Michael paused and chewed at his lower lip. “Well, let’s just say people parts aren’t supposed to look like that.”
Anne nodded. The crease of Michael’s laugh line, the one she’d found so irresistible that morning, had disappeared.
“Your laugh line is gone,” she croaked.
Michael raised a hand to his face. When he removed it, the line had returned. If she didn’t know better, Anne would have said he appeared embarrassed.
“I added that for you.”
“That’s really, really weird.”
Michael shrugged. “I just thought you’d like it. You’d mentioned liking them before.”
“Oh, it was a romantic gesture. Mortal men bring flowers, Angeli add physical features.” Anne took a deep breath to test her ribs.
“Don’t be an ass.” He shook his head and turned his back to her. “You know, you’re the only Sentinel I’ve ever felt this way about,” he said more softly. “I don’t know how to do this thing.”
Anne blanched. She’d expected him to call her an ass. The frank confession of his feelings proved a surprise.
“Thank you, I guess.”
Michael turned and his shirt fell open where the buttons had been torn away by her over-eager need to touch his flesh. Anne could see the dark hair on Michael’s chest and his breast rising and falling, faster than she expected from someone who didn’t need to breathe. She felt her blood warm again and looked away to save herself the frustration and embarrassment.
“Is this, this...relationship we have, against the rules?” She’d always been terrified to ask him the question directly, but now, broken on a rooftop, it seemed the appropriate time.
Michael flopped his arms to his sides. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emitted.
“Look, you’re right, never mind,” said Anne. “I don’t want to talk about this now, either. Just help me up.”
Michael remained motionless.
“Michael please, just help me up.”
Michael stepped forward, held out a hand and helped
her stand.
“So fragile,” he mumbled.
Anne took a moment to be sure of her balance. She rubbed the back of her skull where it had hit the bricks.
“I’m sorry,” Anne said, lacking the energy to be any louder. “I guess I am fragile. But I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m still human, even if I am different. You should understand. Your whole race plays human.”
A pained look flashed across Michael’s face. He stared at her, mute and smoldering.
“Con,” he said his jaw tight.
“What?”
“This relationship we have is impossible because of many things, particularly Con. And he can’t even perform his duties as a Sentinel without losing his body.”
“Without...?” Anne’s recoiled, shocked at the venom with which Michael made his accusations.
“That isn’t fair!” Anne thrust a finger at Michael and then winced as her arm throbbed. “You know Con was hurt protecting me. I’m responsible for his condition.”
“His condition isn’t your fault,” Michael said with a disgusted snort. “I just saved you without compromising my own safety. He should have been able to do the same.”
“He sacrificed himself for me!”
“So that is your only feeling for him? Appreciation? Guilt?”
Anne froze, mouth still open. She was so angry, a strange stillness swept over her. She tried to compose herself by concentrating on straightening her tattered clothing.
“You know what, Michael?” she said without looking at him. “It’s none of your business.”
Michael put his hands on his hips, bit his top lip and looked off into the distance. After a moment, he turned back to Anne.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. This is ridiculous. You must be tired. We need to get you back to your room where you can rest.”
Anne held his gaze for a beat and then sighed.
“I am tired. What attacked me?” she asked, tacitly agreeing to change the subject.
Why should we accomplish anything? Why should it ever be different between us?
Michael shook his head slowly. He moved to Anne and let her lean against him, placing his arm around her shoulder. “I don’t know.”
