An Angel's Touch

by Susan D. Kalior

  “johnny!” she cried, clutching my hair, pulling hard.

  “Pull harder,” I said, “so I can feel it.”

  She hurled her flesh against me. My back crashed on the wood floor, a pleasant thump. I wanted more. She ripped open my shirt with both hands. Buttons flew. Yeah!

  I’d charged her more than usual. Had to. Needed what she could bestow. All of it. No more classical. It was time for rock and roll.

  She nipped my shoulder with her teeth.

  “Harder!” I said.

  Her teeth dented my shoulder, not breaking skin. I wanted her to taste my blood. She never had. It was time.

  “Oh johnny, johnny, johnny. Mmmm.” She kneaded my arms, as her breasts heaved against my chest. Her tongue climbed sensuously up my throat. Teeth. I wanted teeth.

  I commanded, “Bite.”

  “I can’t hurt you!” she gasped.

  “You hurt me all the time.” And she did, miracle that it was.

  Her flushed face lifted, hair tousled about her desire-drowned expression. “I can’t do it on purpose.”

  She needed additional fire. My Tazmark form appeared slightly as I blew flameless fire over her face, arousing her body with a mega dose of passion, more than I’d ever given her before. I took her to the brink, annihilating her restraint.

  “johnny!” she shrieked, “what are you doing to me!” Her skin glowed cherry red. Her azure eyes burned blue flames. She straddled me, pushing my organ inside her in a raw, mating pose. She snatched my thick arms, digging in nails, scratching, not enough for blood, not yet.

  “Harder!” I said.

  She dug in harder. The skin on my arms broke. Her mouth flew to my shoulder. Teeth bore down, but her human teeth did not pierce smoothly.

  I manifested a razor blade and slit the base of my neck. “There,” I said, “put your mouth there.” Blood oozed. Sweet blood. Because I was not supernaturally scratched or cut, the pain was nominal. The wounds would heal quickly, so I did not care what she did.

  My salacious voice beckoned, “Drink my blood,”

  She lifted her face. “I’m afraid!”

  “Do it.”

  She clutched a tuft of my long hair and rubbed it over the blood and then her lips, as if contemplating my proposal.

  I sent her one final dose of exploding volcanic energy.

  She moaned on the verge of a scream.

  “Put your mouth to the wound. Partake of my power.”

  Her lips flew to the base of my neck and she sucked while undulating her pelvis up, down, and around. Ah, heavenly hell!

  She sucked, moved, and moaned in ways I’d never seen or heard before, eliciting an unsurpassed carnal fever in me. I had brought her across into the darkness. I couldn’t help it. Probably not too romantic for her, but then she didn’t seem to care. She sat up, moving like a whirlpool, drawing my seminal fluid into her, screaming her pleasure, while I screamed mine. And I don’t scream. But I did. And when the screaming was over, she fell into a heap on my body.

  Just when I was about to deepen my commitment to her for touching my world a bit, she started sobbing. “I’m evil. I’m so evil. I deserve death!”

  My mood changed. I was possessed with an urge to kill her. Her call for pain was loud and my Tazmark form took hold. I rolled her over abruptly and straddled her thighs with my palms on the floor framing her head, and my dragonman face pushed down to hers. “Do not . . . put out . . . the call.” I forced myself to calm a little, and said, “I might answer.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut.

  The blood on her lips made me want to bite her. My body trembled hard as I will myself to resume human form. It was not easy. My desire to kill her subsided, but it was far from extinguished.

  Her chest huffed hysterically beneath me. She thrashed her head. “What have I done! What have I done!”

  “You did what I empowered you to do.”

  She continued thrashing her head. “Why! Why! Why!”

  I cupped her temples to still her. “Didn’t you like it?”

  She looked at me with eyes that reprimanded herself. “I liked it and that’s what’s wrong.”

  “You liked it, and that’s what’s right. I’ve waited long for you to partake of my fire with pleasure.”

  “I drank . . . your blood!”

  “Now you can know me better.”

  “I injured you . . . on purpose!”

  “Look,” I pointed to the base of my neck and showed her my arms. “The wounds are already healing.”

  “We didn’t even make love! We just had sex sex sex.”

  “So?”

  “So it was satanic sex, because you are Satan! And I succumbed to your evil ways. Now I must die.”

  My jaw tensed. I climbed off her, forcing restraint. I stood up and turned away from her looking out the window. There was such a big world out there, and I was in here, with this . . . zealot.

  I turned my head back to her. She was sitting, hugging her knees in a pose of shame.

  I sighed hard and long. “When will you release religious terminology to define me? When will you release religious terminology to define you? When will you fucking get beyond religion? There are great and miraculous energies out there,” I pointed outside, “and in here.” My palm covered my heart. “You are missing it.”

  Her face was in a little girl pout. She looked about two years old. Then her head bowed, accusation changing to apology. Tears dripped.

  I didn’t wish to upset her. Only love could keep her. I had to remember that. I did love her more for what she had just done, even though she loved herself less. I squatted and lifted her chin with my finger. I licked the blood off her mouth affectionately. “I have taken care of you, and helped you flourish. I have given you love, and desired your love in return. Does that sound like Satan?”

  She shook her head solemnly. “No, but you do other things.”

  Then it was I who shook my head solemnly, spiced with frustration.

  “I know, I know,” she said, “why you do, what you do, is a different story than the story of Satan.”

  I said, “Just as your Angel powers are motivated by love and compassion for others, rather than for a supreme being. We are expressions of love and chaos, Jen. That is all.”

  She nodded, sliding her knees to the floor and to the side. “Yes, that makes sense. Maybe you aren’t quite the worst sort on earth.”

  I smiled faintly. Fight over. I sat back with elbows on raised knees.

  She scrunched her face. “But you are pretty bad, johnny.”

  “I’m bad Jen . . . so bad I’m good. And you’re so good, you’re bad. What do you think about that?”

  She stared at me, in me, searching for sense to replace non sense. Her breasts were still red from the aftermath of our act, talisman hanging ever faithfully between the mounds. I didn’t wish to clothe her, still mystified after all these centuries about how diverse the female body was from the male body, but she needed comfort. So, I manifested a simple black silk, long-sleeved nightgown on her with no shape to it at all—her style, but my color.

  She rubbed her fingers on the silk over her heart. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  I manifested black silk pajama pants on me. “Nor I.” I reached over and took her hands, drawing her upwards until we were both standing. “Isn’t that exciting?” My embrace swallowed her. She hugged me back, shivering. The cold had found her body again. In the heat of passion, I must have broken the warm air pocket spell.

  I cast it again, encasing her in warmth.

  I took her hand and led her to the wood table. On the table, I manifested: tsamba (a barley bread), curd pastry, and steaming Chang tea in a brownstone cup.

  She gasped a little at the appetizing display. I pulled out a chair and she sat.

  She glanced at me warmly. “Thanks.”

  I sat in the other chair and manifested a bottle of scotch and a lit cigarette. I drank and smoked, watching her explore the new taste of the local
food. I think she tried not to enjoy the flavor because she hadn’t quite forgiven herself yet. But she savored each bite despite her need for penance. A Tazmark could always feel the base pleasure in others. That was easy.

  When she finished eating, she looked at me with a weighted pause. “About Russia.”

  I glared back harshly. “Forget Russia.”

  “Why?”

  I rose with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “I—need it the way it is.” I stared at her hard, wondering if she could take the truth. If she . . . would take the truth.

  She looked at me quizzically, uneasy, close to shattering again. Guess not. She wasn’t ready for the truth, so I said, “The tragedy calms me somehow. I don’t understand why, but that’s the way it is.” I took a drag, and walked past her toward the fireplace, burning only embers now.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” Even though I wasn’t looking at her, I could tell she held her breath. She needed me to say no, wanting to hear that I didn’t do it, even if it was a lie. I took a swig of scotch and turned around to face her.

  “No. I didn’t do it.”

  “Your mother then?”

  “Maybe.”

  Her face relaxed a little, but the quizzical expression remained.

  She was still asking for the truth, though she didn’t want it. I wasn’t ready to tell her anyway. She liked to pretend, which was the same as asking me to lie.

  “johnny, let me heal Russia. That’s all I want.”

  My teeth grated. Pa—tience. “That’s all you can’t have.”

  “But—”

  “No Russia.”

  She huffed and walked toward the window with head tall and arms knotted across her chest with a bit of superiority.

  I took another drag. If she healed Russia, it would kill me. Except for the female Taz, and the gangs I’d just taken, they were my only sustenance—not to mention I was trying to create Gankors. Talk about taking food out of my mouth.

  She turned to me and snapped, “Unless you did it johnny, why would you forbid me going there?”

  Teeth grating again. Again, pa—tience. “Russia could not have been hit unless it called for a hit.”

  She rebutted, “And it can’t be healed unless it calls to be healed, and it’s calling. I can feel it twisting my heart. I must go there.”

  I made my cigarette and scotch disappear, and walked over to her. I cupped my hands over her shoulders. “You need rest. Just a night or two here, all right? Just to throw off our enemies for a while, then we’ll talk about Russia.”

  Of course my plan was to distract her long enough to seal the deal on Russia, to embed the spirits so deeply that no matter what she did, she couldn’t steal from me. Unless of course, she did it from Cyrus, but she didn’t know how to get there.

  She cocked her head and sighed as if trying to decide.

  My hand wanted to fly up from her shoulder and slap her face, but I pressed it down harder instead and tried to remember I loved her. This guise of allowing her to give approval for what I could and could not do, maddened me. I never needed approval for my acts. I took what I wanted, did what I pleased—always. But now I had this conscience to deal with. Quen-tan didn’t seem angered by my sudden bout of morality with her. In fact, it seemed I was up for promotion. A sinister scheme was in play. I wished that didn’t thrill me for Jen’s sake, but it did.

  She sighed, “All right, I’m all confused anyway. I should slow down and try to digest all that has transpired. She glanced down nervously, then rolled her eyes up with a sigh. “Anyway, now that I know I can change the world—that I really can, and that I can, well—stop you,” she gulped watching my reaction closely, “I think I can accept what you are, you know—the mark of chaos.”

  I let her believe that fallacy for now, the part about her stopping me. ‘I’ stopped me. But she was happier not knowing that. And that meant I was too. It’s as they say, ‘Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war.’

  Her eyes clouded with softness. “Let’s pretend that everything’s all right between us,” she yawned, “that we are a man and woman in love,” her eyes grew sleepy, “and that’s all.”

  I nodded. I needed a break too.

  I guided her to the bed and helped her get under the batik cover. I crawled in beside her, and said, “Sleep ma chère, you’ve had a long, rough day.”

  She rolled over and draped her arm across me. She murmured sleepily, “You’ll help me raise our baby, right?”

  “Right,” I replied, though I knew I would have nothing to do with the twins, except to encourage their destructive propensity, or pawn them off on some other supernatural mother type.

  “You love me, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If I work on getting tougher, you’ll work on getting softer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Everyone will forget about us if we hide for a while, right?”

  She was stretching it, but I said, “Right.”

  “And from here on out we will know only joy.”

  I wanted to answer, yeah and pigs can fucking fly, but I said, “ri-ight.”

  Now that we had made our bed of lies, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spent the next few days healing our bombarded relationship. I took her to the high mountains and arranged for her to meditate with the few hundred Buddhists. I wanted her to see that spirituality did have a day before the one who made the crucifix famous. She needed to experience this and acquire the strength to, what I would term, ‘get off the cross.’

  At night I sailed into her past lives and rescued her over and over again, ending each feat with love, emotional and physical. All of her selves carried the same heart, and made love with the cosmic hail of star showers flowing like mother’s milk over me. Afterwards I’d bring her healed past self back into her present—into her.

  She was changing, more carefree than I’d ever seen her. She’d even adopted wearing the orange robe, which suited her growing belly quite well. Using Shen power, she conversed with Buddhist monks and nuns in their language, sharing philosophies and hearts. She was even tolerant of concepts that directly opposed her religion. Now that was a miracle.

  She seemed to have forgotten about Russia, and many days passed. She healed the locals and gave spiritual direction to wayfarers, and since the High Lama Khandro (who was also a Shen) endorsed her, many people began traveling from their homes at great distances to see her. Her smile kindled in them the desire to turn inward and listen to their own heartbeat, and adhere to their own inner guidance. Shen, oh Shen, this is how it was meant to be.

  I didn’t have the urge to kill the locals. They were attuned to life’s flow, emitting no call to suffer or to cause suffering. I even decided not to play my favorite games with the High Lama Khandro, mostly for Jen’s sake. I could have perhaps egged him into abasement, maybe, perhaps forcing him to call. However, he seemed too balanced for that. Anyway, this was Jen’s day, her limelight.

  Days stretched into two months. She seemed happy here until a radiation victim from Russia found his way to her. She was surprised that when she laid her hands upon him, he healed, given I’d told her she couldn’t heal radiation victims. And I felt him yanked from me. One less Gankor. I convinced her though that I had not lied, but merely underestimated her abilities.

  After that, she was incessant about returning to France, collecting Angel Boy, and going to Russia. I couldn’t permit it. Not only would she find no André, but I still needed the power derived from that act. And I needed to consume more, despite the darkened state of the earth. But Tazmarks had rendered so much damage, there just wasn’t much more I could do without turning the earth beyond the point of saving. But the people kept calling for tragedy and I was bound to answer. Visions of world wars brewed.

  Victory would be most empowering. But I needed Jen empowered too. She must replenish the depleted and polluted planet, and inspire f
aith in a world that had fallen too much under my spell. Humans were easy to control and manipulate. Maybe I’d outgrown earth. Maybe that’s why Quen-tan had made direct contact.

  Well, Jen delayed Russia in a way not too eloquent for her. She was stricken with an awful bout of morning sickness, and in a state of constant exhaustion. And try as she might, she could not heal herself with her Angel powers.

  She kept saying, “Tomorrow, we’ll go, tomorrow.” Of course, tomorrow was always deferred. Our cottage was filled with candles and incense from those that had come to care for her. As her belly grew, so did her illness. And November’s bitter chill didn’t help.

  One night, something odd happened. I was flying to a call in China, when I was seized by something like a vacuum that took me away from earth. I’d never left earth before. And given I thought one must be a level ten do so, this was most exciting. I shot into outer space in what felt like a tube, but I was insulated somehow from the unstable energy particles within it. I had a sense that when I exited the tube, insulating myself in that environment would be up to me. The only way I knew to do this was to concentrate on blending my energy with whatever I might contact. This way I would not destruct. I hoped.

  I shot out the end of the tube into space. I merged with the hydrogen plasma, electromagnetic radiation, and dark matter. But then, a current of sorts swept me into its flow. I felt like I was being taken somewhere, or guided into something. This part of space felt familiar, and I suspected I was in the Draco constellation.

  Deeply awed, I sailed through nebulas of reds and blues. Such a treat compared to ordinary earth planes and dimensions. I saw a white comet with a long, blue tail. I was intrigued with the ball of ice speeding along at high velocity on a celestial journey to nowhere. I wondered if I could affect its gravitational field with my eighth level power.

  This current that I was in pulled me toward a world—a small, small world that emanated such high-pitched tones, my ears hurt. The sound waves were unusual, but since the tones incited my compulsion to destroy, I decided it was indeed a call for chaos. And as I entered the world’s atmosphere, I understood why. It was at such peace, boredom was rampant.