The Forsaken

by Renee Pace

  Speaking scripture, Nat started his prayer. “I beg thy guidance, Almighty father. I am a mere servant of yours, wishing to fulfill thy task. I seek help in mind, body, and soul. Lend thy light.”

  Nat thought he must have said the formal prayer a dozen times before he heard the soft answer of the Mistress.

  “Nathanael, first born of the House of Raphael, thou asked for this task. Thou hast petitioned for this honor.”

  Careful to keep his voice neutral, Nat didn’t dare raise his eyes. He felt more than saw the Mistress’s cloaked form hovering near him.

  “Yes, Mistress, but they…the Cherub who is to be my heavenly wife, she is not…” Nathanael paused, his gut tightened. He didn’t dare use the word that had jumped into his mind. The Mistress favored Cherubs. To call his soul mate impure would offend and the word felt wrong, even to him.

  “They have been exiled for ten years.”

  “Your point, Nathanael?” asked the Mistress.

  Ticked that she didn’t seem to care for their Earthly circumstances, he barely refrained from looking up. Instead, taking a calming breath as his father had taught, he continued, “I mean no disrespect.”

  “None so far taken, Sere.”

  He nodded. “Could there have been a mistake?”

  Fire ripped through his right shoulder the minute the Mistress laid a hand on him. “Art thou questioning the Almighty?”

  “No…no, I would never.” But I question you.

  The Mistress removed her hand, healing light taking away the burning sting of her contact.

  “I shall speak plainly. These times on Earth are troubled, Nathanael. The Almighty tests all his children. Some more than others, but there is always a reason. Isabella is your b’iã.”

  She doesn’t want to be.

  “What she wants is irrelevant in the greater scheme of the Almighty’s wishes. She is your heavenly wife, bound by the blessed holy laws. She is the other half of your soul.”

  “She’s not like a Cherub,” blurted Nathanael. Not at all the type of Cherub I want or desire.

  “You dare say one of my Cherub’s hearts is not pure? Her soul not a beacon to thy own? Thou must look unto thyself, Nathanael. Perfection is a holy word we all ascribe to attain. What is best for us might be the flaws we find together to mend us whole. This is thy task. This is Isabella’s task. My daughter is more Cherub than thee have yet discovered. Love her like you were meant. Accept her for who she is, not some fanciful notion you have been taught. Accept my forgiveness and go forth with a blessed soul.”

  The minute the Mistress departed, the cold of the empty synagogue settled around him like a mantle. Stiffly he moved from his prone position to stand, bowing four times—once to the east, south, north, and west, as was angel custom when leaving the Prayer House.

  Knocking gently on the rabbi’s door, Nathanael waited a heartbeat to be welcomed into his sanctuary.

  “Ah, my son, did praying help?”

  Sort of. Nat took the offered chair. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Woman trouble, right? By the way—we never did introduce ourselves. I am the rabbi here, but feel free to call me Joe.”

  “Joe?”

  “As in your average Joe, but if you like, Joseph.”

  Nat smiled. “I am Nathanael…” He paused, almost launching into his formal title, knowing that would open a floodgate of questions. “Feel free to call me Nat.”

  “Well, Nat, am I right? Woman troubles?”

  Nat nodded.

  Joe took a sip of what had to be cold coffee. He leaned back in his wooden chair and assessed Nat. “Normally I’d launch into a talk about youth, lust, and giving it time, but I sense the seriousness in you. Why don’t you explain? Maybe I can offer some sage advice.” He grinned as he stroked his long beard thoughtfully.

  “The woman I am supposed to be with isn’t at all like I thought.”

  “Ah, an arranged marriage we are talking about? Had one of those myself, so I can sympathize. But let me tell you my story. Maybe that will help.”

  Nat settled into his chair, enjoying the rumbling, soft cadence of Joe’s tale. The wisdom he learned from the rabbi’s story touched him greatly, even more so than the Mistress’s forgiveness or tangled words of wisdom.

  Listening to Joe talk, he tried to imagine how Isabella must have felt—exiled from her home for so long, forced to adapt to mankind’s culture with the added burden of leading her fellow Cherub sisters. She had courage. Then he remembered her sheer determination, her bravery facing down the demons in the alley, and something sparked to life within him.

  A vision of her softly singing a healing chant to soothe the male, Gareth, also stole through him. Doing only what she’d been taught, he realized. Cherubs healed with their voices and Gareth needed mending. Shocked to discover a male in her sanctuary, Nathanael had invaded the man’s mind, instantly soaking up his sorrow and the guilt eating away at his soul. The death of his fellow warriors was a plague scourging through all of him. He’d taken to alcohol to ease the burden of living. Isabella offered him comfort through her healing voice and while Nat didn’t like her hands-on approach with Gareth, he did admire her strength of character. She might not dress like a Cherub but inside, she was that and more: warrior, leader, healer, and mother. She embodied unique Cherub qualities; some he liked and some he found unsettling, but that didn’t mean he found her lacking.

  But no way would his future wife bear arms. She must give up this life. That wasn’t up for negotiation. If need be, he’d bind her to him, without her consent. The notion made bile rise in his throat. He had vowed never to do such a thing, having promised his own Cherub mother he wouldn’t, after discovering how his father had treated her. His mother accepted her position with quiet dignity but Nat knew her loneliness. His father only called for her when the breeding necessitated. The holy binding ensured neither could take another. That was the Cherub-Seraphim way.

  Once the blessed binding words were said, they could only have sex with each other. Nathanael wouldn’t be able to relieve his physical ache with any other. The reason for joining was to produce heavenly offspring. He’d become a Sera—a full-fledged Seraphim warrior, and move up the ranks to lead a heavenly army. He’d slay the dark stain of evil that continued to threaten the heavenly realm, one that more and more knocked with a loud bang on the heavenly gates.

  His mother always said: live a life with purpose to serve the greater good and the Almighty’s path of light. To become all she wanted, he would have to do something she would hate.

  Chapter Five

  Izzy liked to boldly display some of her flesh when singing in the band. Why? Because it went totally beyond what she’d been taught. While they didn’t wear some of the more tantalizing clothing a lot of teens did, some in the band did wear short skirts and most, like her, wore halter tops on stage. If her own mother could have seen her, she’d have certainly drop dead. Thanks to the demons and the last heavenly war, she didn’t worry about that. Her mother, like Meredith’s, had been killed trying to save her and the other Cherubs clustered together for evening prayer. Izzy had vowed that day, watching her mother use her body as a shield to save her, she would learn to fight. No one else would ever sacrifice their life for her.

  She looked over at Anya, who had the unique distinction of being the youngest Cherub kicked out of the heavens. Forced out at the tender age of sixteen, like the rest of them, she hadn’t aged a day in a decade. Showcasing flesh was a rebellious act and went against everything they had been taught as Cherubs. But that was why they did it.

  Still, every night when Izzy forced herself to appear happy and relaxed in her stage outfit, she never felt at ease. She might wish to be brazen and admire the carefree attitude of the girls who dressed in skimpy attire at the recreation center, but deep down her teachings and her upbringing reared their ugly heads. As uncomfortable as she was in the spotlight, their singing voices quite literally paid for everything in their lives now and she never forg
ot how they had to make their living.

  Sunday night, and the recreational center owned by Michael Hughes, known simply as Mike, to them and his closest friends, filled with the usual. Once again, Izzy thanked the heavens he’d found her. During those first awful days, which turned to bitter, cold months when her faith in herself and what she’d fought for had been most severely tested, she truly understood loneliness. Izzy wasn’t sure what she would have done if he hadn’t of found her. She tried not to think of the alternative, but seeing the teens using their bodies for quick cash left her no doubt what she would have had to do to secure food and shelter for her sisters. His kind offer of help with no strings attached truly touched her to this day. When Izzy had to quickly acclimatize to Earth, she’d learned the hard way that not all humans were nice or caring. With nowhere to go, she’d taken to singing for her supper on the streets. Humans called it begging but it had never felt degrading to Izzy. Not that it was fun, of course.

  Michael had discovered her a month after she’d left the caring hands of humans who tried to heal her. It had been a cold, drizzly day and she’d feared her voice might give out. He had walked up to her, while she’d been busking and handed her a business card. Their hands had touched briefly, but it was all Izzy needed to grasp the intel she’d needed. Michael wanted to help teens. He’d suffered his own loss and when the heavens opened up that night with a heavy downpour, Izzy took him up on his offer of help.

  Over the years the center had changed, with her help and that of her sisters she’d rescued. Luckily, Michael never once said no to her. He had inherited what he called “old money,” and thoroughly liked trying to make a difference. She knew he had hopes of setting her and the band up with a “lucrative” record deal. Izzy wanted none of that. In exchange for the brownstone he and her sisters had helped refurbish, they sang and did other chores as needed for the center.

  Izzy liked performing on Sunday nights. The crowds were less interested in scoring sex or looking tough. Most of the kids crossing Michael’s door were like her—in need. Sunday nights was more a night out with friends, a last hurrah before the week of school called them forth.

  Tonight Izzy knew she showed a lot more flesh than usual. She’d discarded her normal high-top sneakers for the military-styled boots she wore when fighting demons and that should have told her something. She wasn’t feeling her usual calm, in-control self, and it was all Nathanael’s fault.

  “Everything okay, Izzy?” asked Mike the minute she moved up behind him at the bar. He handed her a glass of her usual—ice-cold water.

  “You bet. Why?”

  “Seemed like there was a bit of trouble the other night. Care to explain all that?”

  No, not really. Izzy took a sip of water. Mike wouldn’t let her leave until she said something. “Old friend showed up unexpectedly. No biggie.”

  He made a move to touch her arm. She tensed, her body instinctively moving out of reach. She, like all of her sisters, was an empath. While she’d touched him a few times over the years, she’d always tried to avoid it. If touched, they could find themselves choking on a sudden rush of human emotions. Izzy had learned to dull the effect by staying out of reach or instantly humming a healing chant to her soul.

  Anya had yet to master turning off the tangible rush of human emotions. Tonight, like most nights, she lay quietly in her bed reading poetry. Currently, she was engrossed in Josephine Balmer’s Sappho Poems and Fragments. Izzy knew eventually she’d have to get the novice to face the real world. She’d tried in the past to get Anya to sing, knowing evoking her musical voice would bless her. Anya refused. We all have our coping mechanisms.

  Mike stopped himself from touching her and instead leaned his head closer to hers. “If he becomes a biggie,” said Mike, looking over at the table near the back of the bar where Nathanael sat, “I can deal with him.”

  Oh no, you can’t. “Thanks, Mike. Seriously, all’s fine. He’ll behave.” I’ll behave.

  “By the way, nice outfit,” said Mike, giving her a friendly wink.

  “Daring, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s just not your typical attire. You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Things are just blessedly great.” Before he could pop quiz her more, she turned away from him to make her way back stage.

  “You’re wearing that to annoy him,” said Meredith, as she handed out the bells to each of the sisters.

  For a second, Isabelle thought of asking who she meant, but why play stupid? All of them scented the Seraphim the minute his heavenly presence crossed the threshold. He smelled of soap mixed with steel. She wished he smelled like the overripe boys who frequented the establishment; they doused themselves in so much cologne it made her gag. Not Nathanael. He didn’t need to enhance what the Almighty had blessed him with. He was Seraphim.

  Izzy leaned closer to Meredith. “You bet I am. Maybe he’ll realize I’m not the perfect Cherub, and certainly not wife material, and fly back to the heavens.” She made a mocking flying motion with her hands and laughed bitterly.

  “I wouldn’t tease him. He just might decide to pounce for real,” teased Shea, picking up her small gold harp.

  The harp had been a gift from Mike. Shea always played it on Sundays for him. Shea thought of Mike as a friend, but Izzy suspected their twenty-two-year old benefactor, who was six years Shea’s senior, thought of the Cherub in a different way. She wondered when he’d clue in on the fact that none of them aged.

  Izzy watched as five of her sisters positioned themselves on the stage. The velvet curtain kept their movements hidden from the excited crowd. Even without touching humans, Izzy felt their emotions. One in particular thrummed through her. That edgy, daring feeling invaded her mind and body, but she vowed not to let Nathanael’s anger rub her wrong.

  Izzy wore a white leather bra underneath a black-mesh shirt that barely reached her navel. The netting covered the scars on her back. Tonight she’d forgone the short skirt. Her legs, kept hidden in the tight white leather pants, hid the Rashi script inked into her flesh without her consent. Izzy knew she looked sexy. Pissed to the core, she showed more flesh than a Cherub should to any other than her mate. She wanted Nathanael to get her message loud and clear. I’m not a perfect Cherub. I’ll dress any way I choose. I’ll wear what I think is appropriate. You will never dictate to me.

  Taking her place center stage, Izzy prepared to sing her heart out. When the curtain ascended, her stomach pitched. Her gaze immediately sought him. She hated herself for that and for the fact she’d had little sleep since last night. His mere presence had disturbed the calm equilibrium she’d established. No one, especially not the son of the angel who had ripped off her wings, was going to get away with that.

  * * *

  Fury uncoiled in a swift bolt through Nathanael. He couldn’t believe his eyes. What by the blessed scribes is she thinking? His gut told him she knew exactly what she was doing—taunting him. He clenched his jaw so hard his mouth began to hurt.

  Anger ripped through him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found himself levitating—the one heavenly power he’d kept in this realm. Thankful now that the Mistress, in her wisdom, had removed his wings as a temporary measure, Nat knew if he’d had his wings, he’d fly to the stage and sweep her away. Rational, Seraphim common sense flew to the heavens the minute he’d spied his Isabella, and make no mistake, she was and would be his.

  First, she’d had the nerve to cozy up to the manager—the same cursed human who had given him that unholy drink the other night. Nat felt his teeth gnash together again while his fist clenched tightly. He didn’t like how comfortable she appeared to be with the man. The only thing that had saved Isabella from him making a scene had been her sidestep away from the human the minute the male tried to touch her. If one finger from that man touched her velvet-soft skin, Nat was seriously going to be pissed.

  To add insult, Isabella had sung a blatant Cherub lover’s song. Nat knew he was being put in his place by her voice,
which totally disarmed him. Feeling edgy, he’d made his way from the table he’d been sitting at to stand against the wall, more in the shadow so he could observe her while also reclaiming his body’s dignity. The jeans he wore felt even more restrictive than the other night. Watching her and her bandmates work the crowd he saw pure pleasure sail across Isabella’s face. The way she smiled, carefree, made him realize that was how he wanted her to look at him.

  Nat realized, he like every other male in the room, wasn’t immune to her sensual voice. But the humans were lucky. They didn’t understand the graphic words that had rolled off her tongue. For once in his life, he wished he’d been absent for the class on classic ballads and their meaning. At first when Isabella had teased him with her attire, he’d been shocked. She stepped over the line, playing and flirting with him through her songs. Tonight he’d give her his idea of fun. She probably wouldn’t like it, but tough.

  Let’s see who wins this round.

  Marching upstairs, he was at Isabella’s door and about to knock when Meredith approached.

  “She’s upset.”

  “Really,” said Nathanael with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

  “She doesn’t usually act like that.”

  That pleased him but he didn’t speak his thoughts out loud. “I need to speak with her.”

  “I’d wait until she’s calmed down,” said Meredith, speaking her mind with more ease than she had before.

  “I’m not waiting.”

  “As you wish,” said Meredith, backing away, allowing him to grace Isabella’s door with a hard knock.

  When no one responded he knocked louder. Waiting a few more minutes only served to heighted his temper. Through the wooden door he heard Isabella’s controlled voice.

  “I’m busy. Leave me alone.”

  Leave her alone. Any sane Seraphim might have heeded her but Nathanael had been pushed enough for one day. He opened the door and almost got knocked on his ass. Isabella wore a white, belted bathrobe, but her leg had clearly come into direct contact with his chest.