by Alisa Woods
With Beatrice Bellingham, I’ve had all these thoughts. And more.
In just three days.
But Lust is only a whisper in my ear, not an action I’ll take. I tell myself that I stay because Beatrice is a thorough Temptation, and if I can withstand her allures, then I should be well-proven in my Virtue and well-justified in my return to Markos’s Dominion.
I tell myself this, and it’s a reasonable thought… but it’s not even close to Truth.
I stay because I cannot leave. I am drawn by irresistible curiosity as to what she’ll do next. My fascination with her movements and sweet temperament is something I scarce can understand, but it holds power over me nonetheless.
A power that tempts me more each day to reveal myself. To discover the softness of her skin. To bask in the Kindness I have no doubt she’ll show, even though I’m a stranger to her. It’s her way and what draws me in. Each day I don’t do these things, the tension inside me builds, hot and tight and low in my belly like I’m bound in a Penance room, paying for my Sins with confinement and pain, building Patience and Humility.
I didn’t expect the stirrings of Lust to have such a sweet, tormented pain.
It’s one more revelation Beatrice brings.
I happened upon her in my first hours in the human realm. Her beacon of a soul drew me from halfway across Chicago, a compact but bustling city next to a lake. With a dizzying array of trains and piers and boats, I was unprepared for the frenzy of industry. The towering stone buildings rise inspiringly high, their newness gleaming. I had no idea the humans had progressed so rapidly in their technology with these new “skyscrapers.” The men in hats and women in skirts rush across the walks and the streets, carefully avoiding the trolleys and black automobiles with their loud clanging of bells and horns. Beatrice leaves her apartment each day to navigate these crowded streets, then she arrives at her vocation, where she teaches young children all manner of things. She peels off her overcoat and hangs it by the door, then she gathers the small ones around her seat on a small stool. She teaches them lessons, sings songs, and generally shines with the best that humanity has to offer. Her soul is as bright as their newly-formed ones, fresh off God’s creation and pure as any beings on earth.
I could scarce look away after that.
I’m not officially Guarding her—that’s a duty only angels can assign—but it would be easier if I were. Then I would have the restrictions of Guardianship to keep me from becoming entangled, drawn in by Beatrice’s beautiful soul and relentless charm.
All of angelkind—angels and angelings alike—have tremendous love for humanity. It is our purpose: we were created to love and protect them. At least, that is the purpose of angels. Halflings like myself are perpetually reminded that we must struggle for the Virtues. We will never hold a perfect love for humanity, always struggling against the Sin of Lust, given we are part human ourselves. And while the humans are blessed with God’s favor, they also have a darker side. They’re not inhabited by demons, per se, but their Sins can be many and manifold. And angelings are no different—except that we pay for our Sins by Falling into shadow. There is a reason angelings constantly strive for the perfection of the Virtues… it is the only thing that will save us. In ancient times, when demons roamed the earth, angelings found their redemption there. I’ve never slayed a demon—nor even encountered one, in Truth—so the best that can be hoped for is to Guard a human and find redemption through the constant perfection of one’s Virtues. These things are only obtainable under the guidance of an angel to which one has made one’s vows. Which is why I must endure Beatrice’s temptations, but I must not succumb.
Therein lies my only hope.
So I wait, lurking in the corner of her classroom, while she shines with Kindness and Patience and Humility. The joy that vibrates through the small ones, her students, is a wash of pure energy against me. My wings are stowed in my back, or that energy would rustle my feathers with its righteous magic.
This is the fourth day.
On the close of the fifth, I can return to Markos and pledge myself to him. Knowing I’m already past the halfway mark makes me hum with happiness, a small angelsong vibrating deep inside my chest.
One of the children turns. I shift my cloaking to mask sound as well as sight.
I must be more careful.
Finally, the school day draws to a close, and the children are sent on their way, scampering across crowded streets back to their homes. Beatrice moves slowly, gathering up slates and chalk, stowing books, and turning chairs right. The joy has fled her face, and I find myself drawn near, desperate to restore that smile that seemed to grace it so effortlessly before. She takes a seat at the wooden desk up front, hands in her lap. She draws in two, deep and slow breaths. She stares at the desk, but she’s unseeing.
I’m perplexed. Why the sudden sadness? It’s as if her mood has been pulled down by an inescapable gravity. Then slowly, slowly she opens a slender drawer. There is nothing inside but a single piece of paper, folded. She draws it out, takes another breath, then unfolds it.
I keep my footfalls silent as I move behind her to read over her shoulder.
Miss Beatrice Bellingham,
I regret to inform you…
Oh no. I skim faster through the letter, and if the words hadn’t told me, the slumping of her shoulders and the quiet sobs would. The young man whose death is announced in the letter was to be her husband. Some war in some far-off land stole his life, and now she has a piece of paper and nothing more. I’m weeping for her before I can stop myself. The temptation to uncloak, to reveal myself and wipe away her tears, is so profound I have to take a physical step back. And then another. And a third… until I’m backed up against the blackboard. I don’t realize my wings have come out until they brush the precisely drawn letters, causing a snowfall of chalk that mirrors the tears silently falling from Beatrice’s face.
I stare, trapped by my own need, unable to move.
She sits silently for a moment longer, then carefully folds the letter and places it back in the drawer. Only then does she wipe the tears and stand. I can see the weariness—the pain—fighting to keep hold of her face, but she’s as strong of will as filled with Virtue.
Then she quickly turns and marches straight at me.
I jolt, startled, and scramble away. But she wasn’t coming for me at all. She’s taken up a dusty rag to vigorously wipe at the board, cleaning it of the day’s lessons. One hand on with the rag, the other wiping chalky tears from her face, she methodically works through her task. When she’s done, she dusts her hands and wipes her face, and except for the tell-tale redness rimming her eyes, there’s no sign of the grief. No hint of the pain locked deep beneath the smile she’s painted on.
Then I feel it—love. Not the kind that brings humans to mate, but the pure angelic love that my kind has for humanity. The immortal impulse to erase pain, heal the wounded, and serve the righteous. Beatrice is an opportunity for all those things, and I love her for it. All Lustful thoughts are banished, and I think of extending my time, if only to heal Beatrice of her grief before I return to my Dominion. It would be of no danger to me—not now—and it’s everything a Guardian would do, if allowed.
While I’m lost in my own thoughts, Beatrice has snatched up her overcoat and headed for the door. I quickly follow, but she beats me to it, closing the door behind her. I twist through space, traveling just a short hop until I’m by her side again on the street. It’s crowded—too much for an angeling who must remain hidden—so I go aloft, rising on wings and magic to float above the bustling street, following Beatrice and her determined strides. Only she’s not taking the path back to her father’s apartment, nor to the small grocer on the way home, but rather deeper into the city, along dirty cobbled roads that turn as broken and chipped as the buildings beside them. I’m no expert on human affairs, but this part of the city appears lost and forgotten. Boarded-up windows… weeds growing through cracked walks… they speak of an absen
ce of care. The street traffic has thinned to nothing, and the foot traffic is likewise sparse. And those who travel here keep the collars of their coats up and their hats down, hurrying as if crossing a forbidden zone before they are caught.
I settle on the walk behind Beatrice, following her more closely now. I sense a wide range of humans in the area, all shining with their human-bright souls, but many are tarnished, their souls carrying the burden of their deeds. Some petty, some vile. Just as I’m debating whisking Beatrice away from this place, even if it means revealing myself to her, she veers suddenly into a darkened alley.
My concern zooms to panic. I automatically go aloft, wings spread. They brush the edges of the narrow red-bricked alley. Beatrice hurries deeper, and a man stands at the end next to a wooden-slated gate that towers over him and blocks the rest of the way.
“Do you have it?” Beatrice asks, her voice breathy but loud enough to echo down the alley. It’s empty except for the two of them.
And me.
I draw my blade. Whatever this man’s purpose, it definitely involves a Sin… or three.
“How about you keep it down, doll?” The man’s voice is rough, and his face rougher. He’s not wearing a hat, and his coat is dark. He strides forward and meets her in the middle of the alley.
Too close.
I have to restrain myself from simply hurling him against the wall. The sudden surge of Wrath is disorienting, and I have to step back and shake my head to clear it.
“Do you have the money?” he asks, harsh and demanding.
“I told you, I only have—”
“No money, no deal.” The man’s words are half growl. I step forward again, ready for anything, but I don’t sense demon on him. And the growl in his voice is just intemperance—he’s not shifter or vampire or any of the other half-immortals that lurk in human cities.
“Please, I need this,” Beatrice says, holding her ground. “It’s for my father. The doctor’s cures aren’t—”
“That’s not my problem.” The man steps closer and glares at her. “You said you’d have the money.”
My wings bristle.
“I… I…” Beatrice’s voice is aflutter with panic. I don’t think she fears the man so much as the withholding of whatever cure he offers. If only she knew I could provide far better than whatever weak-magic charm the man is peddling. “Please. I get my salary next week. I can—”
The man cuts her off by stepping right up to her. His roaming gaze across her body speaks of ill intent. “Maybe we can work a trade.” Then he smiles.
I’ve never seen so loathsome a thing in my life.
Then he reaches for her—
I lurch forward, wrench his hand from her shoulder, and regret I didn’t react sooner. Still, the man is shoved to the ground, held under my foot, unharmed but immobile, before he can frighten her any further.
“What the hell—” He’s cut off by my foot pressing all the air from his lungs. He’s flailing and gasping, but my greater concern is the horror on Beatrice’s face and the way she’s backing away from us, unguarded and alone should she bolt.
Then I remember: I’m still cloaked.
I drop the glamour that shields me and appear in the alley, wings spread, white toga draped. Unfortunately, I still have my blade in my hand.
Beatrice shrieks and covers her mouth with both hands. Her eyes are large and round, and she’s struggling for breath, but fortunately, the shock has locked her into place, gaping at the angeling who just appeared out of thin air to trounce her would-be attacker under foot.
“Fear not,” I say, using the standard words we’ve trained for, should we ever have to expose ourselves to humanity. “I mean you no harm.”
“Wha… What are you…?” But she knows what I am—I can see it in her eyes. Angel. Not entirely correct, but not entirely wrong, either.
I choose to misunderstand her. “I am your Guardian. I’m stopping this man with his ill intent—”
Her eyes go even wider, and her gaze drops to my blade, still clenched in my hand and humming with energy. She puts her hands out, taking a lurching step toward me. “No, please! Don’t hurt him.”
I frown. “I have no intent to…” But my stance—a victor’s pose, blade raised—belies that. The man, for his part, is twisting his head to gape up at me in terror. I sheath my blade, sigh, and step back, releasing him. “You may go,” I say to him. Then I realize the only way out of the alley is past Beatrice. As the man scrambles away on all fours, putting distance between himself and the terrifying angel in the alleyway, I beckon Beatrice to my side. I’ll go to her, if I must, to protect her from his retreat. But the shaking of his hands says he’s a threat to no one now.
Still, Beatrice scuffles to my side, gaze flicking between my extended wings and her fleeing attacker. She’s shaking as badly as the man, who’s now pounding the cobblestones in retreat, slipping out of view. She frowns in his direction, and I see the regret for a deal that leaves her with no “cure” to soothe her father’s ills.
“Do not worry.” I reach for Beatrice’s hand to reassure her before I think about what that means. Then suddenly, we are face-to-face, her hand in mine, and my curiosity is sated—her skin is as soft as feathers, only warmer—while her touch sparks a thousand questions in my body. The surge in Lust momentarily chokes me. I fight through it to say, “I will help your father.” Before the hope in her eyes gets too bright, I add, “But I cannot cure him. What ails him is time, and there’s no cure for that. But I can ease his suffering.”
Her mouth drops open, and she just blinks. Dark brown eyes. Luminescent pale skin. Hair like a cascade of midnight. And a soul that shines like the sun.
We are touching.
A twitch goes through my wings, a shudder at what this contact is doing to me. Before I can find a reason to let go that won’t be taken as unkindness, she moves closer. Then she reaches up on tiptoes to press her lips to my cheek.
A kiss.
She lingers, close, having delivered her kiss but breathing her soft, warm air on my face as if… as if she’s not entirely finished.
Breath is trapped in my chest, but I know the right thing to do is step back. I know this and yet… I have to force my legs to move before I choose Sin over Righteousness. The flash of disappointment on her face pains me as if it’s a strike against my own heart.
“I’m not… I cannot…” Words fail me in this.
“No, of course not.” She’s retreating, dropping her gaze, scowling in a way that I’m sure is directed internally—at herself, not me. I can easily see her fleeing into her stories again. She doesn’t know I’ve seen her do that.
A flush of shame has me wishing for the Penance room. Anything to purge this feeling of guilt. For spying on her. For not offering assistance for her father sooner. For this awkward moment, this chaste kiss that my inexperience allowed to happen. The tight crossing of her arms across her chest… the way she won’t look at me now... I am certain that I’m the first she’s kissed—perhaps even desired to kiss—since she received that letter, the one saying her beloved was forever gone. And now I’ve complicated that in a way I’m sure I don’t fully understand, not being human.
Not fully human.
For angelings are never fully anything—angel or human—and therein lies our curse. And the strongest reason to pledge to Chastity faction that I’ve yet to conjure. Because a Fall to Lust, a plunge into shadow, has one inevitable outcome—the production of more angelings. No child is created accidentally—an angeling is always produced intentionally—but those in shadow do not care for the eternal conflict suffered by angelings of light. The impossibility of ever truly being Virtuous. The constant struggle for redemption. Angelings can never be as fully righteous as an angel or as fully human as a child of God. They are forever stuck between, or they simply Fall and are monstrous.
I was born in Sin. But I need not choose Sin.
I dip my head to catch Beatrice’s attention. “Let us return to
your home. I’ll give what comfort I can to your father.”
She peers up and shakily nods, but then her gaze flicks to my wings.
That will be a problem. I’ll need to stow them, don some kind of glamour, perhaps pass as a common man, at least until—
The air pops, and I feel the overpressure against my wings. My body jolts in recognition. An immortal is here. I whip my head around—an angeling. Not only that… one in shadow.
I twist fully around, flexing my wings to protect Beatrice behind me. My blade is out a fraction of an instant later, but I hold my protective stance. The shadow angeling before me just smirks and makes no move toward us, although her obsidian blade is drawn and her inky dark wings are flexed. She’s dressed for combat—black leather strapped across her chest and rugged boots below, but only the barest skirt riding low on her hips—yet she stands still, not advancing.
“I’ll not let you pass,” I say to her, torn between attacking first so I can transport this fight to the roof of the nearby building and holding my ground to protect Beatrice that way. But shadowkind aren’t the only menace here. I stay in place.
The shadow angeling flicks her blade casually between reverse and forward grips. Her skin is pale, making the pink of her lips stand out as she stretches them into a wider smile. “I’m not after your human, sweet thing. I’m after you.”
A pulse of fear leaves my skin cold. “I have no quarrel with—” But my words die as a dozen flashes of light and pops of the air announce more shadow angelings. Holy angels of light. I twist to throw a command back to Beatrice. “Run!” Then I leap into the air, blade raised, and make a swooping rush to attack the first angeling, the female who is now laughing at how hopelessly outnumbered I am. If only I can draw them away from Beatrice, long enough for her to escape… but I cannot even make it halfway down the alley. Wings and feet and blades beat at me… then hands seize hold of me… I’m suspended in the air by a dozen dark angelings’ hold, fighting and thrashing, but I’m already disarmed. One of them has taken my blade. In my fight, I glimpse Beatrice fleeing around the corner of the alley.
