Luce took the stairs two at a time, all the way down to the street. He dodged through the dopey office workers who evidently needed a coffee more than he did, unable to stop grinning as they stared. They'd probably never seen muscles like his in the flesh, hence why they kept their flabby bits under their buttoned-to-the-collar shirts.
He darted across the road to the first coffee shop he saw and ordered his usual to take away, which he did, five toe-tapping minutes later, along with a box of pastries that he figured he'd share with Mel.
Barely out of breath by the time he reached Patrick's building, Luce decided to take the lift so he wouldn't spill his coffee. The doors slid open and he swept across the hall to Patrick's front door and up the final flight of stairs to the flat. He arrived just in time to see Mel set two plates on the table. Patrick was squeezing some sort of sauce onto his rolls in the kitchen.
They all sat down and silence reigned until every plate was empty.
"Thank you, Mel meum," Patrick murmured, kissing Mel's cheek as he stood to clear the plates.
The translated Latin clicked in Luce's head: My Mel. Luce's jealousy boiled over at the sight of Mel's answering smile. "You're his? You let him call you his?"
Patrick met his angry gaze with placid calm. "It's a pun, or play on words. Mel is honey in Latin, and you can't deny Mel's a sweet angel. She's as much mine as she is yours, bond notwithstanding. No man owns Lady Muriel and you'd be crazy to think you could. I don't jump down your throat when you call her Melody, though I know she can't stand the nickname. Haven't you noticed the way she winces when you say Melody Angel?"
"What?" Luce stared at Mel. "You never told me that!"
Mel's eyes dropped to the table. "I don't like being called Melody Angel. It sounds like a cartoon character and it was only meant as a joke – a name Raphael put on my resume when I applied for the job at the HELL Corporation. But the way you say Melody, your voice caressing every letter as if you wished it was my body and not just a name…I…I can't help but like it."
"I'm sorry, Mel." Patrick beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen with the dirty dishes.
"It's fine," she replied in what Luce thought was the closest she'd ever come to lying.
Did that mean he was corrupting her, despite how impossible she said it would be? Asking her to admit her innermost desires and then taking pleasure in granting them? Or was it her exhaustion that was allowing him to taint her like this? He shouldn't…couldn't…do this to Mel.
Fine. He wouldn't call her Melody ever again.
"Say it," Mel said.
"What?"
"Go on. Say my name. The way you always have."
He fixed his eyes on her. At the slightest sign of the wincing Patrick had referred to, he'd call her nothing but Lady Muriel until the world ended. "Melody," he breathed.
She closed her eyes as her blissful smile spread wide. "I love you, Luce. And to you, I will always be your Melody." Her eyes snapped open. "But Patrick is my dearest friend. I understand that you may feel some jealousy over a friendship we've shared for more than a thousand years. Since the day I apologised to a traveller for having nothing to soften the stale bread that was all I had to share, and he said my smile was honey enough for him. You're going to have to learn to control it, like any other desire. It's part of being an angel." She nodded to Patrick, who tilted the teapot to fill her mug. "Patrick sees me sharing a bed with you every night and he's been nothing but kind to you from the moment we arrived. Tell Luce what you're hiding behind your easy grin, Patrick."
"Only for you, Mel." Patrick sprawled on the sofa with his steaming mug of tea. "I may be a saint, but when I see that bedroom door closed and I know she's chosen you over me for another night, part of me wants you to slip up and disappoint her. To revert to your old, dark ways just like you're worried you might. And then I could destroy you, put you out of your misery for breaking Mel's heart." His grin turned rueful. "I'd try to make the end as painless and quick as I could, because I wouldn't enjoy your suffering, however righteous it might be. But then I hear the joy in Mel's voice and I know you make her happy. She's been lonely for a long time and nothing I can do will help fill that gaping hole for her, no matter how much I'd like to. And if you're what the angel I love needs to be happy, then I hope to God you have the strength to be everything she needs you to be and never disappoint her." He gulped his tea. "Now, we can all sit around and discuss our feelings and finish off with a big old sob and a hug, or I can tell you what I've found out about Mel's cousin Persephone and her adventures in Ireland."
Luce jumped to his feet. "You've been hunting that damned nephilim, too?"
Patrick waved his hand airily. "Mel called me to ask if I'd seen or spoken to Persi lately, because your personal assistant – a demon, but we won't hold that against her – seemed to think I'd been calling her at your office. It's been years since I saw or spoke to little Miss Persi, so I did some investigating. Turns out she's been visiting one of my favourite haunts – a place I found when I was still human."
Mel emerged from the kitchen with a mug in each hand. "You're a wonder, Patrick. Let's take this to the lounge room where we can be more comfortable." She carefully linked one arm through Luce's and towed him down the hall to the room where early morning sunlight streamed through the windows. Setting both mugs on the coffee table, she sank onto the sofa, gesturing for Luce to do the same. "That cup's yours, Luce. Tea, not instant coffee."
Luce nodded and took the tea as Patrick strode to an armchair. Setting his back to the sun, the saint faced them. "Story time," he said.
Mel cuddled up to his side as Luce relaxed. If Patrick could save him from having to see Persephone again, he'd give the saint all the attention he wanted.
"Right, so Mel called me, asking if Persi was here with me, because Persi had said something about me calling her. First up, I said it must have been some other bloke called Patrick. It's a popular name, after all. And when Mel said Persi was in Ireland, the odds went up. Every year hundreds of new parents here call their son Patrick. And then Mel says the girl's missing. All I had to go on was the day she arrived in Heathrow and went shopping in Omagh. And a mention of someone called Patrick."
Patrick took a sip of his tea. "I could have looked up every motorcycle club and armed IRA group in both countries, asking if they had a member called Patrick and a recently arrived, tattooed girl who called herself Persephone."
Luce snorted. It sounded like a good way for the saint to get himself killed. A plan only some Heaven-cloistered angel could come up with. No wonder Mel preferred him to the naïve saint.
"Not as crazy as it sounds. I have contacts everywhere. I could have looked them up, I said, but I didn't. She wouldn't fly halfway round the world for some biker without telling Mel. Not even Persi's that stupid."
Luce suppressed another snort. Yes, the nephilim girl was stupid enough to do anything.
"And Omagh isn't exactly the place she'd go for that, either. So I called a friend who works security at the City of Derry Airport. And he had this funny story about a security scare a few weeks ago. It was a Ryanair flight and the baggage handlers called him because, when they were unloading the suitcases, one of them was buzzing. Standard protocol and everything, though there's usually no danger. Someone's shaver turning on. Those buttons are very sensitive, he tells me. So he and a couple of other fellows take the suitcase away from the plane and the terminal buildings, figuring they'll open it and switch the shaver off and everything will be fine. There's these three kitted-up blokes standing around a purple, glittery suitcase and one gingerly pops the lid. The buzzing gets louder, but nothing blows up, so the bloke nearest to it starts rifling through the suitcase so he can switch the bloody thing off. Anyway, he pulls out the buzzing shaver, takes one look and drops it on the tarmac. Now all three of them can see it – a vibrator with an enormous, black dildo on the end, knocked half off when it hit the ground, slapping the surface like it's spanking it.
"They just piss
themselves laughing and no one knows what to do. Finally, my friend picks the thing up and switches it off, but not before he notices the dildo's got a name written down the side. Must be the model name or something – he didn't know. Anyway, this one was called Beelzebub.
"Now, standard procedure is that they have to check through the luggage for any other dangerous devices, so the third bloke who hasn't gotten his hands on Beelzebub's vibrator draws the short straw and it's his turn. He finds a case hidden under all the shoes and it's full of…oh Hell, you'll never guess. More of the things, all different shapes and sizes, each with a demon name on it. Satan, Pluto, Mephistopheles…and one weird-looking thing the bloke told me he found out was something you put up your arse. I mean, who sticks things up their arse? That one was the littlest, he said, and the tiny letters on it said it was called Lucifer."
Mel smothered her laughter. "Oh, my love, I'm sorry, but you have to admit it's funny."
Lucifer the butt plug. Funny as Hell. He wasn't laughing. Right now, he'd like to shove all of Persi's toys up her back passage at the same time and see how she liked being tormented.
"Anyway, after finding nothing more dangerous than sex toys and stilettos, they had to pack the whole thing back up again and take it into the terminal. My friend was curious, wondering what sort of girl would need all that equipment, so he volunteered. And when he got to the luggage counter, there's this skinny little brunette in a skirt that barely covers her backside, and boots on stilts, bemoaning the loss of her luggage. So when he gets there with the glittery purple thing, the girl squeals and throws herself at my friend. She's kissing him and he's trying to push her away, because he has a wife and kids and the last thing he needs is her purple lipstick on his shirt collar for the rest of the work day or when he gets home, and he sees the attendant at the luggage desk choking. So he manages to peel the crazy suitcase girl off him and goes to help the other woman. Turns out she's choking because when the girl was trying to climb him like some sort of crazed monkey, the woman saw the girl had nothing but a tattoo under her skirt. He said it was like a painting on a church ceiling, except on her arse. What a place to put it, eh?"
Luce thought he was going to be physically sick all over Patrick's timber floors. Just the thought of the nephilim's Hellish tattoo was enough to make him lose his bacon sandwiches.
"It's all right, my love," Mel soothed. The nausea disappeared under her stroking fingers. She sighed. "Yes, that sounds like Persi."
Luce could feel Patrick's eyes on him but he didn't look up. He kept his gaze on Mel's hands. It was one thing to admit weakness to her, another entirely to let some saint see it.
"Why are you looking for her, anyway?" Patrick asked. "Shouldn't you delegate that to Raphael or someone else who can do the legwork? Surely you have better things to do."
Mel swallowed. "She's disappeared, but before she did…she made Luce's life a living Hell. As his PA, she messed up every task he gave her until I made her call me from wherever they were, every day, to make sure she did her job. She developed an unhealthy obsession for poor Luce where she demanded he sleep with her, despite his frequent refusals."
Please don't mention the time I gave in to temptation and let her touch me, Luce prayed. He'd had flashbacks that ended with her biting it off.
Mel's hand squeezed his. "When I…when Luce and I first bonded, she came after him again. Spread lies to her mother and Michael and Raphael, saying he'd done things that he hadn't. She even tried to keep him out of Heaven. When he retreated into Hell instead, she followed him. I don't know how. We all know no angel's been far into Hell and come out the same…well, except me, of course." She laughed shakily. "But she tormented him in his lair. Turned up at odd times and entered the place when no one else could. And then she just disappeared. Raphael can't get hold of her and he was desperate enough to ask for my help, because he knows that Persi will always see me, no matter what she's done." Mel's voice dropped lower. "And I need to see her. To make her leave Luce alone. I should never have agreed to let her take over my position, so I bear some of the responsibility for her mistakes."
"The Hell you do!" Luce growled. "That nephilim bitch wasn't obeying your orders when she was taunting me in Hell, telling me you'd never love someone like me, or telling tales of rape to any angel who'd listen. Lying through her damn teeth!"
After a few moments' silence, Patrick cleared his throat. "Ah, okay." More silence, followed by, "Do you want to hear the rest of this? Or should I just give you the rough summary?"
"I'd like to hear the rest, please," Mel said softly. "But…could you leave out the descriptions of Persi? We all know what she looks like."
"Sure." Patrick nodded and continued, "Anyway, she dragged her luggage over to the hire car desk and he didn't see her again. That's all my friend told me. Now, it's only an hour or so's drive from there to Omagh, so I figured I needed to go to Asda, too. I wandered around, grabbed a few things, and then went up the sweets aisle. The Toffee Crisps were on special and I remember you saying they don't have those things in Australia, so I thought I'd see if I could get a box for you to take home, because I know how much you like them. There were only a couple left on the shelf, so I asked one of the staff if they had a box out in the storeroom. The girl laughed and asked me if I was going to Purgatory, too."
Mel nodded knowingly, but Luce was lost. "You need chocolate to bribe your way into Purgatory?"
"She was talking about St Patrick's Purgatory," Patrick explained, which left Luce more confused than ever. Before he could demand more explanation, Patrick went on. "The Sanctuary of St Patrick is an old monastery on Station Island in Loch Dearg in Ireland. About half an hour's drive from Omagh, a few miles past the border. I remember it as a remote island in the middle of the lake. I'd take a curach – ah, that's a little boat – out there, where I'd live in a cave and catch fish in the lake. I only did it once when I was alive, but when I returned here on Mel's orders it became a regular retreat. Mel called it a sabbatical and said I was entitled to it, much as she was to hers, but it truly was just a holiday. I thought it was my secret, but a local farmer spotted me sitting in front of a campfire, cooking my catch, and hopped in his own little boat for a look-see. When I returned a few years later, there were stories in the local village about how the apparition of St Patrick had been seen on the island, praying to protect them from the fires of Hell in the cave. My island had a dozen pilgrims on it, making a Hell of a racket, loudly praying for a visitation of their own. Their Latin was terrible. I must have made some comment about it being Hell and Purgatory for the poor saint, seeing as I couldn't sleep a wink that trip. Centuries later, someone got it into his head to build a monastery on the spot to plug the hole to Hell and it's been slowly expanding ever since. The monastery, not the hole. They probably filled the cave in when they built over the top of it.
"With Mel's permission, I visit the place every year if I can. But I had to promise no miracles." Patrick laughed. "Anyway, now the place is called St Patrick's Purgatory or the Sanctuary of St Patrick, though it's a far cry from the little slice of Heaven I had all to myself all those years ago. And once with Mel."
Mel burst out laughing. "That's the first time you've ever referred to that trip in the same breath as Heaven. I still remember that storm. I said I wished I had a cup of milk to help me sleep so I wouldn't keep waking up with every roll of thunder. You dragged your boat out to the lake and insisted you'd be back with my milk." She glanced at Luce. "You know what he did? Two hours later, he returned with a goat. A live nanny goat. I don't know what he traded for her, but it cost us most of our clothing before we left the island and returned her to the farmer Patrick had bought her off. She ate everything we weren't wearing and then she'd start nibbling on my skirt when I wasn't looking. I tried tying her up with my last spare stocking and she ate that too!"
"I'd forgotten about the goat," Patrick admitted.
Luce fought down the jealous demon trying to claw its way out of his gut. He
needed to take Mel on a holiday with just the two of them, he decided. One where they could have hilarious hijinks with farm animals. He could be the hero who persuaded Mel to slip her stockings off to use as restraints. No goat necessary…
"I know that look, my love, and I'd love to know what's inspiring it. Later," Mel murmured in Luce's ear, pausing to kiss his cheek before she raised her voice. "Sorry, Patrick. Now Luce is up to speed on why there's a monastery named after you, can we continue with what you've found out about Persi?"
"Sure," Patrick replied. He tilted his mug, but it was empty. "Can we take a quick tea break? I might have some biscuits somewhere."
"I bought some cakes with my coffee," Luce offered. "There should be enough for all of us to share." He glanced down in surprise to find he'd finished his tea, too.
Patrick took the empty mugs to the kitchen, promising he'd return with tea and cakes to continue the story.
Luce wasn't fussed. Mel was a warm weight beside him and he was happy just to be with her. To Hell with nephilim, goats and monasteries.
Patrick's polite cough intruded and Mel ended the passionate kiss, to Luce's chagrin. "Later," she whispered before turning her attention to the platter in Patrick's hands. "Ooh, an almond croissant. Can I take it? Do you mind?" She looked from Patrick to Luce as her hand hovered over the pastry.
Both men shrugged in synchrony. There was no way Luce would deny her the pleasure of eating her treat, or himself the pleasure of watching her as she enjoyed herself.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake." Mel seized the croissant and bit into it, closing her eyes as she hummed happily. After she swallowed, she said, "There is nothing erotic about me eating cake." She took an exaggeratedly large bite and Patrick turned red. Luce just chuckled.
Patrick coughed. "There's…um, there's a couple of Toffee Crisps, too." He pointed at the orange-wrapped chocolate bars Luce hadn't noticed until now. "The shop assistant found a box for me and it's in the kitchen. Make sure I remember to give it to you before you leave."
To Hell and Back (Mel Goes to Hell Series Book 4) Page 9
