by Elise Marion
They tumbled to the floor, rolling until he landed on top. Pinning her to the dusty floorboards, he wrapped his massive hands around her slender wrists. She couldn’t move, even with all the anger she possessed fueling her strength. He really was stronger than anything else she’d ever encountered. That revelation reminded her that Micah wasn’t as harmless as he pretended to be. He wasn’t just a big redneck with hams for fists, but a calculating and skilled fighter who didn’t let his anger control him. Instead, he seemed to use it as fuel. He controlled it; it did not control him.
What must that be like?
Panting from the exertion, he gazed down at her, his jaw clenched. She could hear the sickening sound of his teeth grinding together.
“Try that again, and I’ll forget what my mama taught me about not hittin’ girls.”
As he released her and stood, she gazed up into his eyes and saw the truth.
When he’d first discovered her with Jack’s dead body, his expression had been one of shock and dismay. Then, he’d seemed to pity her for having to witness his murder.
However, as the details of what happened that night had been related to him and Reniel, she’d sensed a change in him.
He knew the truth as well she did, and he hated her for it.
Standing, she avoided his gaze and rushed toward Jack’s room—hers now, she supposed. Throwing the door closed behind her, she sank onto her knees on the rug and fought for air.
The truth rose up to choke her, suffocating, causing a burning sensation in her chest. Her breath came out on a sob and she clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.
She’d been trying to avoid the truth, but it always came screaming back at her when she allowed her mind to travel back to the night she’d lost the only man who’d ever loved her.
Jack’s death had been entirely her fault. Not only did Micah blame her for it, she blamed herself, as well.
Now that she’d found solitude, she could hold it back no longer.
Realizing that she hated herself as much, if not more, than Micah did, she allowed self-loathing to have its day.
Without restraint, Addison lowered her head and began to weep.
Chapter Two: I Dreamed a Dream
Rain fell all around them in a steady staccato, drumming against the ground and the tops of open umbrellas with relentless insistence. The black parasols hovered over them like one mass—a canopy as dark as the hole Jack Bennett’s coffin would soon be lowered into.
The gathering was small, consisting only of Jack’s father, Jackson Bennett Sr. and his stepmother, Sarah. Their daughter, Cassandra, stood between them. At Jackson’s side hunched Vivian, Jack’s elderly great-grandmother. Across from them, with the chasm of an open grave between them, stood the others who had come to grieve. Nathaniel and Carmen Rodriguez, their son, Elian, and family friend, the angel Reniel.
Standing beside the massive Angel of War, Addison kept her eyes lowered and tried to resist the urge to throw herself in after the wooden box that held Jack’s body. What else did she have to live for? Just when she’d been given a ray of hope—the only one she’d ever had in her otherwise bleak existence—it had been snatched cruelly away from her.
What kind of God did something like that?
Yet, she had signed up to serve Him, to be one of His chosen Guardians. The mark tattooed just beneath her collarbone served as a constant reminder.
She trembled, despite the humidity of the afternoon. The rain had only turned the heat into an almost unbearable mugginess. Even so, she felt cold. The frigidness had sunk as deep as her very soul, and she couldn’t seem to shake it off.
If Jack had stood here, she might have leaned against him, absorbing his warmth. She might have turned her face up to his and found comfort in his steel-gray gaze. It had always been steady and constant, with an almost uncanny sort of confidence. When he’d looked at her, that gaze had seemed to say ‘everything’s all right, because I’m here.’ And it had been. With him, she hadn’t had to face her dark past or the horrible things she’d done. It had all seemed washed away by the knowledge that she had someone to love.
Stealing a glance at Reniel, shock rippled through her to find tears glistening in his eyes. She supposed angels had feelings, after all. Remembering that the warrior angel had played a role in raising Jack, she felt nothing but sympathy for him. Reniel had known him far longer than she had.
So had all these people standing around her. She had no right to sink into despair when Jack’s sister stood across from her, sobbing, her little shoulders shaking with grief that seemed far too large to be contained in such a little body. Not when his stepmother looked as if she’d aged ten years since he’d died one week ago. Not when Jackson Sr. had sunk to his knees, arms wrapped around himself as he tried to muffle his own sobs. A former soldier who had seen his fair share of death—brought to his knees by the loss of his only son.
She’d had no right to him at all. He’d barely been hers for the span of a few weeks. Yet, she felt as if her heart had been ripped from her chest. Only a black hole remained, and she’d gone numb.
She had no tears left to cry, and her throat could conjure not a sound. It had all been poured out on the sidewalk where Jack had lain dead in her arms, his blood staining her hands.
She simply stood, silent, watching while the coffin containing his body crept lower and lower into the six-foot hole. Addison couldn’t bring herself to look anyone in the eye, because then, they would know the truth.
Jack was dead because of her.
By the time they left the cemetery, the rain had ceased and the sun had appeared from behind the clouds. It cast an eerie sort of brightness, an unwelcome burst of cheer on a day that felt gloomy for a reason.
They returned to the townhouse where Jack’s family lived for dinner, though no one ate. The amount of food that had been dropped off had been ridiculous. On every available surface in the kitchen sat casserole dishes—comfort food brought over by neighbors and friends. And here Addison had thought this was only something they did in the South. It would seem that cooking food for the grieving was a basic human instinct, the one thing people did when they didn’t know what else to do.
She sat in the living room holding a paper plate loaded with casseroles that Vivian had forced onto her and stared off into space. Somewhere in this house, Micah—the selfish bastard who hadn’t even had the courage to come to his best friend’s funeral—had probably passed out drunk. She couldn’t allow herself to feel anger over that, unless she wanted to turn into a demonic tornado of rage in front of Jack’s family.
Instead, she poked at her food and tried to decide what to do with her life. The Seal of Solomon—the ring she’d been entrusted with—remained in Micah’s care. He’d picked it up off the ground that night and placed it in his pocket. When he’d tried to give it back to her, she’d told him to keep it. She never wanted to lay eyes on it again.
Yet, deep down, the knowledge burned that this wasn’t something she could pass on to someone else. She’d been chosen for some reason. Even if she still didn’t know what that reason could be, she could not outrun her destiny. If Mammon had come for her because of the Seal, then other demons would, too. Eligos’ ten wouldn’t rest until she was dead, which meant she had no choice but to fight back.
“How are you holding up?”
Sarah’s voice broke her train of thought, and she glanced up into the piercing gaze of the former angel. She always wondered if her past as an angel had anything to do with why her stare felt so intrusive. Sarah looked as if she could read minds, even though Addison knew for a fact that she no longer possessed any supernatural abilities.
She forced a smile. “Okay, I guess.”
A lie. She was dying inside by degrees.
Sarah patted her knee, taking a seat on the couch beside her. Around the room, conversation continued at a low buzz over dinner.
“I know you and Micah have to go back to New Orleans tomorrow, but I wish you
could stay,” she said. “I would want all our family together during a time like this, but I know you have a mission to carry out.”
Addison couldn’t help the frown that wrinkled her brow. “You still think of me as your family?”
Even after I got your son killed?
She didn’t say it aloud, but she couldn’t drive the thought from her mind.
Sarah gave her a genuine smile, though her eyes remained haunted and sad. “Of course I do, Addison. I loved Jack like he was my own son. And he loved you.”
Had Jack told his parents that? Or had they been perceptive enough to see it?
“He shouldn’t have,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. “I didn’t deserve it.”
“That’s the amazing thing about love. We rarely deserve it. The fact that we’re capable of giving and receiving it anyway is what makes it so beautiful. Jack loved you, and because of that, so do I. You will always be part of our family.”
A tear spilled over the rim of one eyelid, and Addison swiped it away, muttering a curse. She hadn’t known she had more tears to cry.
Then, she’d done something she hadn’t planned on. She’d made Jack’s stepmother a promise.
“I won’t let you guys down,” she said. “Those demons will pay for what they did to Jack, I swear it. I am going to win this fight against them.”
Sarah nodded, tears gleaming in her eyes, as well. “Yes. I believe you will.”
The rest of the afternoon had passed in an odd sort of tranquility. After changing out of their funeral clothes, everyone had gotten comfortable and spent the day in each other’s company. The strangest thing Addison had ever come across, but it had to be due to her own experiences, or rather, lack thereof. Belonging to a real family would take some getting used to.
The morning before their flight back to New Orleans, Addison came downstairs to find Jackson Sr. already in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. She faltered in the entrance, her heart slamming down into her gut when she encountered his gunmetal gray stare. He looked so much like Jack, it hurt to lay eyes on him. Even his voice, when he spoke, sounded eerily like his son’s.
“Would you like some coffee?” he offered.
Shaking off her visceral reaction, she nodded and stepped into the room. “Yes, thank you.”
He made the cups in silence, stirring sugar and cream into them both before offering her one. They took seats on the stools pushed up against the long, high island in the kitchen’s center.
After a few minutes of silent sipping, he spoke again.
“Are you ready to go back?”
Addison hesitated to answer his question. Somehow, she’d sensed he wasn’t asking about her flight, or whether she’d packed everything. His question held far more meaning.
Staring down into her mug, she shook her head.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” she replied.
He nodded. “I know that feeling. After Iraq, I didn’t think I’d be ready to face the things I’d done there, or the lives that had been lost because of me.”
At her shocked expression, he smiled.
“A long story for another time. The short version is, I made some choices that led me and my men into an ambush. When the smoke cleared, I was the only one that survived.”
She couldn’t imagine the depth of his pain. Here, she’d only caused the death of one person, and she felt as she’d never recover from the guilt and shame that made her feel.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Because, honestly, what else could she say?
“The thing about not being ready to face something,” he said, “is that you never will be. I learned that the hard way. I ran from it for years, but it eventually caught up with me. You can never outrun it. The only way to get through is to face it. The sooner, the better.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. Still, how could she go back to New Orleans, to the apartment where they’d shared their first kiss and held hands over cups of coffee? How could she face the rest of her life without him when they’d been so full of plans for the things they’d do and see once it was all over?
“We are here for you,” he said when she didn’t respond. “For anything you need. I hope you’ll call us sometime. We’d like to keep up with how you’re doing.”
She gazed up into his smoky eyes and choked back a sob. “Why are you being so nice to me? Don’t you know that I’m the reason he’s dead? You should hate me, you and Sarah both. But you’re being so nice to me. Why are you being so nice?”
Brow creased in anguish, his mouth tightened at the corners. He looked as if he would cry, too, but fought to control it. His eyes welled with tears that never spilled.
One of his hands came up to her shoulder and he squeezed, his gaze never wavering from hers.
“When I got home, I had to face Mr. and Mrs. Reedly, a couple who had trusted me to look after their eighteen-year-old son,” he said. “I had promised them I would bring him home, and I had to stand there and tell them their son had died in my care, because of one split-second decision I made that had put him in danger. Do you want to know what they said to me?”
She nodded, unable to speak when she was choking down cries of anguish.
“The same thing I’m about to say to you,” he replied. “I forgive you.”
The sobs could no longer be contained. She let one out, and hot tears splashed her face yet again.
“I bear no ill will against you for what happened,” he continued, “and I know that you did everything you could to save him. Sometimes, we cannot understand the reason something has happened, but it’s all part of a greater plan. My son served as a Guardian with honor, and he died in the line of duty like any other soldier. I couldn’t be prouder of him for that, and I know that he’s in a better place. I forgive you, Addison, and I know Sarah does, too. The only thing you have to do now is forgive yourself.”
Addison came awake, her eyelashes wet with tears. Lying in a bed that smelled like Jack didn’t help with the memories. They assaulted her every night while she lay between his sheets and slept on his pillow.
Reaching up to her throat, she found the chain hanging around her neck and traced it down toward the ring, cold and hard against her sternum. She’d finally taken it back from Micah after returning home and had resumed wearing it. Touching it reminded her of reality. This moment, no matter how bitter, was real.
Memories of the day they’d buried him always hit her hard—remembering Sarah’s haggard face and Cassandra’s tear-filled eyes. Other memories were even harder to endure—the feel of his lips against hers, his hands touching her in places that set her on fire, his voice in her ear saying every beautiful thing she’d ever imagined a man saying to her.
Waking up in his bed without him only exacerbated the pain the dreams had caused. Even the smell of coffee creeping beneath her door couldn’t entice her from beneath the blankets. Burrowing her head under the pillow, she gave herself over to the idea of staying in bed with her grief for the rest of the day.
The sun had decided to make an appearance, but as far as the lone man standing on the edge of a freshly dug grave was concerned, it might as well have not even bothered. The misty, gray, damp fog had suited the mood of this day, shrouding him better than any black suit could have.
He’d worn the suit, anyway. Jack’s parents had found it just for him—no easy feat considering his size.
Waking up hours before everyone else, he’d taken pains with his appearance, putting on the suit, knotting his tie, and brushing his curls into some semblance of order. He’d sat on the edge of his bed and waited for the rest of the house to come awake, for the sound of talk, laughter, and percolating coffee to fill the cozy house. Then, he would go down to meet them, joining them in the vehicles heading to the cemetery for the intimate burial of the best friend he’d ever had.
He hadn’t been able to go through with it.
Before another soul stirred, he’d left, alone. He’d discovered the nasty weather the
moment he came out on the street, but hadn’t had the courage to go back into the house for an umbrella. Someone might see him and ask him where he was headed. He didn’t want to tell them he couldn’t face this day—or the reality of Jack Bennett’s death.
He’d wandered Brooklyn for hours, rambling with an aimless restlessness that he couldn’t seem to shake.
Yet, at some point, his feet had brought him here, thus his place at the foot of Jack’s grave.
Clenching his jaw, he inhaled a deep breath and let it out on a noisy sigh. His damp suit clung to his skin, his hair stuck to his face and neck in a mess no comb could have sorted.
“Well, podna,” he said conversationally, as if Jack stood right in front of him. “I always thought it would be me.”
He laughed out loud at that. The irony was far too much. If either of them should have died, it should have been him. The hard-headed one. The one who never followed the rules. The one who always got them into trouble.
Who would get him out of that trouble now that Jack was gone?
“Ah, well, I suppose it fits in with the pattern of my life. My parents, my sister, and now you … gone. If this is supposed to be some kinda joke, I wish someone would let me in on the punchline, ’cause I don’t get it.”
He shook his head, lowering his eyes to the dirt.
“It should have been me with you, not that girl. But you had to go and get all tangled up with her. Maybe if I’d been with you instead of her, you’d be standin’ here, and I’d be the one gettin’ buried for worm food. It should have been me.”
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he found the flask he’d filled that morning. The smell of Bourbon stung his nostrils and he took a swig, gritting his teeth as it burned a path downward from his throat to his stomach.
“You were the best of us, podna, that’s for damn sure. You were the best man I knew. I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at the world without you in it. If the best of us is gone, what else is there to hope for?”
No answer, of course. From God, or the dead corpse in the ground. Then again, he hadn’t expected any. God had always been silent with Micah, especially when he became full of questions.
