The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  She put on her business voice; it came as easily as slipping into a pair of old tennis shoes. “Let’s take your temperature.”

  “Who’s a pretty boy?”

  “Don’t let me forget to call Bart Aberdeen about that damned bird.” She rummaged through a drawer for the digital thermometer. She found it, turned, and froze.

  Alejandro’s wounds were gone. Under the shining coat of greasy ointment, his skin was as smooth and unblemished as it had been before his battle with the rosebush.

  Pirate polished his beak along Alejandro’s jaw and Alejandro stroked the parrot’s bright feathers, oblivious to the phenomenon - unconcerned that his body had just performed a miracle.

  Mr. Jones

  The stained glass windows filtered the gray morning light, giving St. Agatha’s a welcoming glow - an atmosphere of reverence. But Olivia LeBlatte was not reverent. She was rushing to get the place presentable. First, she’d set up in the sacristy - putting on a pot of coffee and wiping down the table. That finished, she returned to the nave and did a quick dusting of the front pews and statues, polished the old organ, and wiped down a stand of candle votives the Catholics left behind. With help from her own candles, citrus-scented spray, and the cleaning supplies she kept in her Volvo’s trunk, the church no longer smelled of dust and mildew, but instead, of lemon, pine, and chemical cleanliness - with just a hint of underlying rot.

  She was on the chancel now, giving the altar a quick, thorough dusting and wishing like hell she’d been given a little more warning. The place was in no condition to show. Had she thought for a moment that someone might take an interest in the building, she would’ve hired a cleaning service, but in the years since Father Thomas Wainwright had abandoned the property, she’d scarcely set foot in the old church - no one had. And it was no wonder. St. Agatha’s was a creepy place.

  But the altar and pulpit shone like beacons now, and she was pleased.

  With her back to the pews, she stared up at the massive wooden crucifix that hung on the rear wall - And just how the hell am I supposed to dust that thing? Absently, she polished a silver chalice Father Thomas had left behind - he’d left a lot behind, as if he’d been chased out by demons. Olivia heard the jingle of tiny bells - and a surge of chills shuddered up her spine like icy sparks.

  And she knew she was no longer alone.

  She whirled and saw a man standing just inside the heavy wooden doors. She gasped, nearly dropping the chalice.

  The man’s low, easy chuckle echoed through the vast church.

  “Mr. Jones?” Olivia raised a hand to her chest to slow her pounding heart.

  “Indeed I am.” He sauntered down the aisle toward her with the graceful gait of a prowling panther.

  She was mesmerized. This was not the elderly Mr. Jones she’d envisioned.

  “I do hope you’ll forgive me for startling you. The door was open.” His resonant voice reminded her of fire - smoky and crackling. A well-cut, three-piece charcoal suit complimented wide shoulders and a tapered waist. He removed a satin top hat and his slicked-back hair gleamed onyx, matching his polished black shoes, dark sunglasses, briefcase, and the walking stick tucked under his arm. The only deviance of color was his tie, a deep shade of cardinal that, from a distance, looked like a mortal wound.

  He mounted the few steps onto the marble-floored chancel and when he extended his hand, she took an involuntary step back.

  “Gremory Jones, at your service.”

  She accepted his hand. His touch was charged with something she couldn’t identify, something dark and sensual. “Olivia LeBlatte.”

  Instead of shaking it, he held her hand in both of his. She saw her own wide-eyed reflection in the limousine-black lenses of his glasses.

  “P-pleased to meet you.”

  He smirked. His face was an arresting composite of powerful male features - all handsome angles with a blunt jaw, pointed chin, high cheekbones, and heavy brows - but there was more to his face than she could have described. It was the kind of face that caused women to fall in love - and immediately regret it. It was a face that inspired lust … and fear. It was cruelly beautiful, diabolically handsome. She wanted nothing more than to touch that face, to kiss it - and these unexpected thoughts embarrassed her.

  She felt the warmth of him through his charcoal suit. On that heat rode a rugged scent - rich and smoky, with something sulfurous, almost burnt, underlying it.

  “Charmed.” The word was a growl.

  “I’ve brewed some coffee, if you’d care for some.” She swallowed. “Or we could do the tour first if you’d prefer.”

  “The tour won’t be necessary. I’d like to get down to business if it’s all the same to you.”

  “This way, please.” Olivia withdrew her hand and gestured toward the sacristy at the rear of the chancel.

  Gremory Jones walked ahead, and Olivia realized that his hair was pulled into a short, low ponytail. It was a flattering look that made her want to see it loose. Her eyes moved down his body, her heart pounding out a song of primal lust. Mr. Jones’ easy stride broke when he paused to stare at a forgotten saint statue standing in a recessed alcove.

  “That’s St. Luke, I believe.” Olivia stared at the robed statue with the heavenward gaze. “Surely, Father Thomas left it behind because it works so perfectly in this church. It’s rather beautiful, don’t you think? The detailing is impeccable.”

  Mr. Jones gazed at the statue a long moment then made a hmm noise. Apparently, he did not approve and Olivia realized she hadn’t gotten around to dusting that particular piece.

  “I apologize for the dust, Mr. Jones. I didn’t expect you so soon.” She held the sacristy door for him.

  He smiled and Olivia’s knees threatened to buckle. “Yes. I make it a habit to always be early.” He took the door and gestured her in. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, but felt his gaze slither down her backside as she slid past him. The feeling was part terrifying and part erotic.

  “Please. Have a seat.” She nodded at a chair in front of a long folding table and turned to pour him a cup of coffee.

  Mr. Jones sat and Olivia thought she heard the tinkle of bells again. She hadn’t realized just how tall and well built he was; the chair looked like a toy beneath him. He set his shiny briefcase on the table, removed his glasses.

  His eyes startled Olivia. They were empty. So empty it seemed he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. But they were also strangely beautiful - the color of burnt amber, a shade that reminded her of firelight dancing on a dark wall. “Black, please,” he said, and Olivia realized she was staring.

  “Of course.” Her hands trembled as she poured. I’m a shark! She reminded herself, but it wasn’t working. The cup rattled as she set it on the table in front of him. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go! Olivia LeBlatte was a professional. A shark! And now, she was acting less the predator and more the prey.

  She sat and took a slow breath, then sipped her coffee.

  Mr. Jones did not take his eyes - those strange and fascinating eyes - off of her; he just stared, the ghost of a smile haunting the corners of his lips. She tried to remember the pitch she’d rehearsed to make the sale, but her mind refused to entertain anything but the powerful body beneath the Armani suit.

  “It’s a magnificent structure.” His words startled her.

  “What? Oh, yes. Of course.” She put her mug down with a clank. “Very well built. It began as a hotel in-”

  “1882,” he said. “Mr. Joseph Willard converted it to a church in 1918.” His smile was vulpine, carnivorous. “I’ve done my homework.”

  “I see.” Olivia’s lips had developed a nervous tic. “What brings you to Prominence?”

  He smiled wide, revealing straight, white teeth that would have given Anthony Robbins a run for his money. Olivia resisted an overpowering urge to grab his ears, and play those flawless choppers like piano keys with her tongue.

  “Business, I’m afraid. Though I do hope I might find s
ome pleasure here as well.” One of his heavy brows curved into a mischievous arch and a suggestive glint sparked in one dark amber eye.

  Olivia gulped hot coffee and tugged her skirt down, crossing her legs beneath the table. “You … you aren’t a priest, are you?”

  His laughter was hearty, booming, and masculine. Olivia felt it in her bones. And in other places. “Nothing of the sort,” he said.

  Unaccountably happy, she stole a glance at his black briefcase. “So I guess you’re not carrying bibles in that?”

  “No.” He placed a large hand over the case. His fingers were long, neatly groomed and powerful looking. “I am a salesman.”

  She leaned forward, waiting for more, but he just sat there, one corner of his mouth upturned. “And what do you sell?” she asked.

  “That depends on who you are.” He drummed his long fingers on the black case. The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic, like the tap of rain on a window. “I sell whatever you cannot live without.” He leaned in, his eyes boring into hers before he asked, “What is it, at this very moment, that you cannot live without, Ms. LeBlatte?”

  Heat blossomed on Olivia’s chest, her throat, her cheeks. Her nipples hardened as her body broke out in gooseflesh. She pushed her knees together, trying to calm the insistent hum between her legs. She wet her lips in search of words.

  Mr. Jones pulled the briefcase closer, then propped his elbows on it. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands and smiled. “Give it some thought. In the meantime, I’m ready to buy.”

  “Buy?” Her mind raced.

  “I’ve already discussed the asking price with Draven Willard and I’m willing to pay it. Willing, and eager.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She spoke quickly.

  The chair creaked under his weight as Mr. Jones reached into his breast pocket. “We just need you to draw up the papers.”

  With trembling hands, Olivia took the check he offered.

  And it was all she could do not to gasp at the figure. Surely, St. Agatha’s wasn’t worth this much. Her six percent commission alone would fund her retirement. “I see.”

  “There’s only one matter I’d like to address before I sign.”

  “Anything, Mr. Jones.”

  “I’ll be doing some serious remodeling - this will no longer be a church - and I’d like to get a feel for what kind of work will need to be done. Would you mind escorting me back to the chancel, please?”

  “Of course.”

  They stood and the man placed a hand at the small of her back as they left the office. Even through her suit, she felt the heat of his touch, and worried she might melt into a puddle right on the marble floor.

  Mr. Jones glanced around the nave. “It will need a lot of work, indeed.” He faced her, his strange eyes looking not into her, but through her. “You can arrange for local contractors to handle my needs, I trust?” He moved closer, his hand still pressed against her lower back.

  “Of course.” Sweat kissed her upper lip.

  “First off, we’ll need better lighting.”

  As if by magic or some powerful wind, the heavy wooden double doors at the other end of the church blew open.

  Olivia gasped as light flooded the room.

  “Much better.” He glanced up at the dark crossbeams on the high ceiling. His hand slid lower, just a little. “But I do think it will be a magnificent conversion.”

  Olivia closed her eyes, willing his hand lower. She wanted this man and she wanted him now. Her heart pounded, her body sang. She was aroused and terrified, enchanted and aghast. The emotional swing had her trembling like a junkie in withdrawal … yet she’d never felt so alive.

  He urged her toward the altar and ran a slow hand along the glossy finish. “This is a beautiful piece of hardwood. Mahogany?”

  Her cheeks burned. “I, uh, yes, it is.”

  His hand slipped lower, his fingers wandering, stroking slow circles at the top of her buttocks. “I imagine it’s quite strong, too.” He walked around her, pressing himself against her back as he reached to knock on the wood. She jumped as the sudden raps echoed with startling clarity through the silent room.

  “Of course,” he went on, “I won’t be needing it for my purposes.”

  She swallowed hard as his hot breath grazed her ear, then warmed the back of her neck. “And what are your purposes, Mr. Jones?”

  He chuckled. “To build a palace of pleasure, if I have my way.” He pressed into her and her breath caught when she felt his rigid arousal, hot and thick against her backside. “And I always get my way.” Her stance widened and she pushed back. She closed her eyes and exhaled a shuddery breath.

  “Though I don’t see any reason to let such a beautiful piece go entirely to waste, do you?”

  “No.” Her voice strangled on the word. “Of course not.”

  His hands snaked around her torso and cupped her breasts, squeezing them.

  She tossed her head back and took a sharp breath as his grip tightened. It was painful - and exquisite.

  “Yes.” His whisper danced on her ear as he ground into her. “Yes. I think we can find something useful to do with it.”

  He let go of her breasts and palmed the back of her head, pushing her forward, bending her over the altar. She barely noticed the scent of lemon polish as she pressed her buttocks against his hardness, writhing, squirming against him, aching for him.

  His hands slapped her outer thighs hard, then moved slowly upward, lingering at the hem of her skirt before yanking it up to her waist.

  Olivia gasped, staring out the church’s open doors at Killakee Road, watching as the wind kicked up dry leaves and spun them in dizzying circles. Anyone might pass and though she was terrified of being seen, she was too aroused, too possessed by carnal need to do anything but grind herself against him, panting, begging him to end her suffering.

  A hard slap to her behind brought a sharp cry from her lips just as thunder cracked and rolled overhead. The pain was burning and stinging, and made her eyes tear up, but it - like the other discomforts he’d inflicted - was delicious, divine even. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. Now.”

  “Indeed, Ms. LeBlatte. Indeed.” His deep masculine voice sent shuddering chills of ecstasy through her and dark sparks floated and popped across her vision. For a moment, she worried she might lose consciousness, but the fear was fleeting. She could have died and that would have been just fine.

  She gasped as Mr. Jones jerked her hips back and wrenched her panties away in one ripping, splitting, rough tug. There was nothing between them now except his own trousers and when she reached a quaking, hungry hand behind her to unsheathe him, she found that Mr. Jones was already a step ahead. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d made it a habit to always arrive early. She only hoped that he liked to stay a long, long time.

  * * *

  Beverly Simon sat in her easy chair near the fireplace in her cozy living room. The light of the blue shell Tiffany lamp on her maple end table cast a soft, hazy shade of azure. In her lap was a book about Mono Lake by Christopher O’Riley.

  O’Riley had been an archaeologist and explorer, a Prominence local who’d died in an accident at Mono Lake many years ago. She would have loved to have met the man - she had so many questions about the history of the area and the town. The townspeople of Prominence were pretty tight-lipped about the town’s past and from what information she’d gathered from libraries and internet searches, she understood why. The town’s founder, Joseph Willard, was a shady character, and the citizens chose not to remember him for his misdeeds. This was where meeting someone like Christopher O’Riley would have been handy. The man did not mince his words, and when it came to history, he stated the facts as they were, not as he had wished them to be.

  Beverly had stocked the shelves of her shop downstairs with all of his books, but noticed early on that only out-of-towners purchased them. The locals seemed positively disgusted by the man’s work - and that was a shame.

  Only a few shops
down from hers was O’Riley’s Rocks, which was now run by his daughter. Beverly hadn’t met her yet but intended to stop by and introduce herself.

  Thunder grumbled and Beverly stood to look out the window. The sky was pewter, thick with swirling dark clouds, and soon, rain would begin. The room grew suddenly cold, and Beverly moved to the hearth to light a fire.

  Once she had it blazing, she returned to her chair to finish the book. It wasn’t the first time she’d read it but there was nothing she enjoyed more on her days off than cozying up with some good history.

  Though the fire burned bright, it did nothing to warm the room. Beverly retrieved a shawl from the back of her chair and wrapped herself in it.

  But the unnatural cold would not relent.

  * * *

  “Holy crap.” Madison stared at the thermometer, shook it, and stared some more. “This can’t be right.”

  Alejandro, now in his Winkie the Golden Hedgehog hoodie and a pair of dark blue sweats, looked up at her. She’d led him to the couch and put on a rerun of Tomorrow’s Singing Stars. He seemed to like the music.

  “Who’s a pretty boy?” Perched on the back of the couch, the green parrot picked gently at Alejandro’s head and nibbled the tops of his ears.

  “I think we need to try this again,” Madison said. “This can’t be right.”

  Without removing his gaze from the television, where a young man with a military haircut belted out Unchained Melody with impressive precision, Alejandro opened his mouth, and Madison replaced the thermometer.

  She stared at the spot near his temple where only moments ago angry scratches had marred his skin. The wounds had vanished and Madison still hadn’t come up with an explanation.

  Because there is none.

  On the television, the crowd erupted in applause and gave Military Guy a standing ovation.

  Pirate the Parrot squawked and rubbed his face behind Alejandro’s ear.

  The digital thermometer beeped and Madison removed it again. This can’t be right.