Angel

by Merrow, JL;

  Angel

  By JL Merrow

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 JL Merrow

  ISBN 9781634863377

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  NOTE: This book was previously published by Dreamspinner Press.

  * * * *

  Angel

  By JL Merrow

  Nearly Twenty Years Ago

  “I’m not allowed to go to church.” The new kid said it matter-of-factly, like he didn’t even think it was weird.

  Donnie gave him a blank look. “Not allowed to?” In his ten-year-old experience, parents only got annoyed about missing church services. Suddenly, understanding dawned. “Oh—you’re Jewish? Or, uh, Muslim or something?”

  The new kid—Michael, they’d been told by Mrs. Shriver when he’d joined their class that morning—shrugged bony shoulders. “No. We’re not anything, far as I know. I’m just not allowed, that’s all.”

  “Why?” Donnie kicked at a Coke can lying, crumpled, on the ground by the school gates, then glanced around guiltily, relieved to find there were no teachers outside to yell at him. School had finished a while ago and most everyone had gone, but instead of running home like he usually did, Donnie had stayed to walk with the new kid. Michael didn’t seem to have made any friends yet. He’d hung back when everyone else rushed out at the end of the day, talking and kidding around. Donnie thought that was sad.

  “I dunno. Mom’s never said. Just that I can’t go in a church. I’ve never been inside one, not even once.”

  Donnie tried to imagine that. “We have to go to Mass every week. Twice, sometimes. It’s cool, though. I want to be a priest when I grow up,” he added in a burst of enthusiasm, then blushed. He didn’t want Michael to make fun of him for being so religious.

  Michael just looked interested. “Yeah? What’s it like?”

  Donnie launched into a description of a typical Mass—the incense, the ritual, the surplice he got to wear as an altar boy. He wasn’t sure Michael really got the idea of the Host, but he didn’t make jokes about it or anything, so that was cool. Actually, he seemed kind of sad. Donnie had the strangest urge to put an arm around those thin shoulders, maybe even stroke the thick dark hair that fell over his collar and made him look wild and exciting.

  “I could take you to my church, if you like,” Donnie blurted. “Just for a visit, I mean. To see what it’s like. Father Thomas always leaves it open in the afternoons.”

  “I’m not sure…Mom doesn’t like me to be late home,” Michael said doubtfully. He looked like he wanted to be persuaded, though.

  “It’s only just around the corner. Come on!” Donnie urged, in his excitement actually taking Michael by the hand without thinking.

  Michael smiled suddenly. “Well…all right. But just to see it.”

  They ran down the street, still holding hands because Donnie didn’t want to let go. There weren’t any other kids around to laugh at them.

  “Here we are,” he said as they reached the old red brick building with its narrow, arched windows and stubby, mismatched towers, one housing the church bell that rang for Mass and the other with a statue of St. Peter on top.

  Donnie pushed open the heavy wooden door into the church and held it for Michael to go in first, because his mom liked him to be polite.

  “I don’t think I like it here,” Michael said softly as they walked into the cool, quiet, scented air of the church. “I feel sick.”

  “That’s just the incense. You’ll get used to it,” Donnie told him. It felt good, showing Michael his world. Knowing things Michael didn’t, and sharing them. “Look, you see this? This is Holy Water. You have to get some on your fingers and make the sign of the cross—like this.”

  Michael didn’t move. “I don’t think—”

  “Come on! It’s only water!” Daringly, Donnie scooped up some more water and flicked it at Michael like he’d seen some of the other altar boys do when Father Thomas wasn’t around.

  Michael flinched as the droplets struck his face—and then he screamed. Loud and high, his cries echoed through the church.

  “Stop it!” Donnie hissed, horrified. “Father Thomas will hear you!”

  “It’s burning me!” Michael sobbed, his hands clapped to his eyes.

  Donnie pulled at them, desperately trying to hush him. “Cut it out! This isn’t funny!”

  Michael’s cries only got louder and more shrill. “It hurts, it hurts, make it stop!”

  “You’ve got to be quiet!”

  “Boys, boys, what in the Lord’s name is going on here?” Father Thomas’ deep tones cut through Donnie’s panic.

  “Father! He says it hurt him, but it’s only Holy Water, how can it hurt him, it can’t, can it?”

  Father Thomas frowned. “Young man, I think the joke has worn a little thin.” He pulled at Michael’s hands, getting them away from his face.

  The skin was reddened, blisters already forming, and bloody tears fell from his eyes. Donnie stared in shock.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God…” Father Thomas gasped. His face changed, twisted. Donnie backed away in unconscious fear as the priest carried on in a terrible voice. “I adjure thee, thou most foul spirit, every appearance, every inroad of Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth…”

  A strange, inhuman cry came out of Michael’s throat. His reddened gaze fixed on Father Thomas, he began to back away towards the door.

  “Go out, thou seducer, full of deceit and wile, thou enemy of virtue! I adjure thee, that thou depart from the House of God!”

  A great wind seemed to sweep through the church, and Donnie watched in horror as the doors to the street opened of their own accord and Michael, his blistered, bloody face distorted by terror, was hurled outside, the doors slamming shut behind him.

  * * * *

  Now

  “Got a new one for you, Don.” Marty threw a file across the desk. “Manslaughter case, gets out tomorrow.” He grinned. “Bit of a kinky one. Killed his lover during risky sex. The guy asphyxiated right in the middle of things.”

  “Yeah?” Don asked, reminding himself not to judge. At least until he’d actually read the file. “How long’s he been inside?”

  “Three years. Yeah, I know, doesn’t sound long, but if you ask me, a better lawyer and the guy wouldn’t even have gotten time. The creep he was doing was known for pushing things to the edge. Anyhow, looks like he kept his nose clean while he was inside. Reprimanded once for being disrespectful to the prison chaplain, but that’s all.”

  Don’s lips tightened. He didn’t have a lot of time for anyone who mocked his religion. He flicked open
the file and looked at the mugshot. The guy’s name was Michael Andras. He stared at the camera with a blank, sullen expression and the coldest pair of eyes Don had ever seen. His hair was straight and black, falling almost to his shoulders. His face was…not attractive, exactly, but certainly compelling.

  A rush of sympathy shot through him. Don wondered what it must have done to the man, to find out he’d inadvertently killed his lover. And then to go to jail, and have everyone knowing he was queer. Still, the face in the photograph seemed to give off definite “don’t mess with me” vibes, so maybe he’d been okay.

  In any case, as the man’s parole officer, it was Don’s duty to put aside whatever personal feelings he might have toward the guy.

  * * * *

  The new guy was running out of time to hit his twenty-four hour reporting deadline. Don drummed his fingers on his desk. He hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a no-show. He was about to make a note on the file when the door opened without warning and a slender figure slouched in, his face half-hidden by long, raven hair.

  “Michael Andras?” Don asked, and the guy looked up at him. The hair was longer, but the man’s looks were distinctive enough that Don could easily recognize him from the mugshot on the file.

  Shockingly cold blue eyes regarded him intently, making Don uncomfortable, although he couldn’t have said why. A surprisingly full mouth quirked up at one side as Andras continued to stare at him in silence. Don swallowed, remembering the man was gay. Tall, blond, and well built, Don was used to being checked out by guys and could handle it okay when he was on his own time, but here in his office it seemed like an intrusion.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Andras said at last. He laughed, a short, dry sound without much humour in it. “Must be nearly twenty years ago, now. But I remember you, Donnie.” He paused. “Not the sort of thing I’d ever forget, is it? The day I found out I’m a demon.”

  Don froze. No one had called him Donnie in years…It all came flooding back—the cloying scent of the incense, the panic he’d felt at the kid’s cries. He heard his chair clatter to the floor, and realized he’d stood up, leaning over his desk to stare at Andras. When he looked closely, he could see faint patches of scarring on Andras’ face, the skin there a slightly paler tone. “You—where did you go?” Don asked at last, feeling like a coward, straying away from the real issues into more comfortable territory. “I never saw you again. Where did you go?”

  Again the mouth quirked. “Oh, we went lots of places. Didn’t go to church again, though.”

  “My parents had me in therapy for a year after that,” Don said numbly. “And made an official complaint about Father Thomas for ‘encouraging my delusions’.”

  “Well, you didn’t expect them to believe you, did you?”

  “I—” It had never even occurred to Don back then that his parents would doubt what he said. He wasn’t sure he’d ever gotten over that feeling of betrayal.

  “I see you never made it to the priesthood.”

  Don fought down the defensive feelings that rose up in him. It had sounded like a challenge, though. “No. I’m no longer a member of the Catholic Church, as it happens. I attend a non-denominational church downtown. I find they’re more accepting.”

  Andras’ eyebrow raised slightly. “Have a lot to accept, do you?”

  Don’s lips tightened. “I’m gay.”

  There was a definite smile, now. “Oh? I’m guessing you’re never short of a date on Saturday night.” Andras pulled out the chair on his side of the desk and sat down unbidden. “You know I used to think you were an angel? After we left Clarkson, I got books on all that stuff. Used to hide them under the bed so Mom wouldn’t see. You looked just like the pictures of the angels—all blond hair and pretty face, the light of God shining in those heavenly blue eyes of yours.”

  Don flushed. Recollecting himself, he picked up his chair and sat down again, the desk a comforting barrier between them. “I don’t think looks have anything to do with holiness.”

  “I think I could change your mind, there,” Andras told him, a bitter twist to his mouth.

  Don realised his own lips had tightened in unconscious parody, and with an effort, smoothed his expression back to neutral. “We should get back to business. Details of your parole, that kind of thing. You’re looking for work?”

  “Found a job.”

  “Already?”

  “Maybe I used my evil demon influence on the guy.”

  Don took a deep breath before speaking. “So what job have you found?”

  “Short-order cook in a diner on Fourth Street. Nick’s Place. I guess we demons have a natural affinity for grilling and frying things.”

  “Do you talk like this all the time?” Don snapped. “Because I really can’t see that job lasting if you do.”

  Andras gave him a serious look. “No. You’re the only one who knows. I guess the prison chaplain might have suspected, but since he didn’t have faith worth shit he wouldn’t have believed I was a demon if I’d started spouting fire and brimstone right up his skinny ass.”

  Don shivered despite himself as those frost-bitten eyes pierced him again.

  “But you believe, don’t you, Donnie?” Andras said.

  It sounded like a taunt, but those pale, lonely eyes seemed to tell a different story. “I—yes,” Don told him haltingly. “But I’m not sure I know what it means.”

  * * * *

  Around a week or so after his meeting—his reunion—with Michael Andras, Don jerked awake in bed, gasping. He looked down. There was a broad wet stain spreading across the crotch of his pajama trousers. Don cursed softly. Again.

  A strange thing, dreams. If you struggled upon waking to recall their details, they slipped away from you like sand through an hourglass. But these dreams—the ones he would rather forget—they came back to him at unwelcome moments throughout the day. A sound, a half-glimpsed face in the street would be all it took to send him into memories of dark hair and darker desires.

  He’d been distracted at work. People had begun to notice.

  During the days that had followed their first interview, Don had found his mind endlessly returning to the strange, dark man who so casually described himself as a demon. Was that really what Andras was? And if he wasn’t, how could the traumatic experience of their childhood be explained? The power of the mind, maybe? Andras had expected the Holy Water to burn, and so it had burned?

  But the boy Don remembered hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t been frightened, exactly—he’d just been uncomfortable in the strange surroundings of the church. But at first he’d been curious, almost eager to follow Don there. Don could still remember how he’d felt before it all went wrong. Happy to be showing his new friend around. Proud of his role as teacher. “You need to be needed,” his therapist had told him, and Don found he couldn’t muster any argument to that.

  Don struggled to see any trace of that boy in the man Andras had become. And yet…perhaps it was just his memory at fault? Had his mind’s eye painted the boy’s picture with features more beautiful, more terrible, less human?

  Don had dreamed about him often, in the months following the incident. In some of his dreams, the boy was a spitting fiend who burst into flame at Father Thomas’ admonishments. In others, Don had acted, had saved his new friend from himself and brought him back to the path of Light in scenes embarrassingly reminiscent of some low-budget Christian TV channel. In yet others—well, Don hadn’t understood those dreams until he’d been a few years older. And by that time, he’d had a whole new set of problems to deal with—coming out to his deeply traditional parents, leaving the Catholic Church—small wonder he hadn’t thought of Michael Andras in more than a decade.

  And now, it seemed, Michael Andras was all he could think of.

  He’d studied the man’s file until he knew it by heart. Had read reports of his trial and conviction. He’d even looked up erotic asphyxia on the internet and found out a great deal more about risky sex tha
n he’d ever thought he’d want to know.

  The one thing he hadn’t done was pray, and the guilt dragged at him like an anchor around his heart. Surely the right, the Christian thing to do was to pray for Andras’ soul? But if Holy Water burned him, might not prayer do even worse?

  * * * *

  It was almost midnight the following Friday, a weary drizzle falling, when Don found himself on Fourth Street. He’d taken to walking in the evenings, hoping to stave off the dreams with exhaustion.

  After a lot of soul-searching, he’d handed over responsibility for Andras to a co-worker, on the grounds he’d known Michael as a child and couldn’t be objective. He’d expected to feel relieved, even comforted for doing the right thing, but instead he felt worse than ever—wasn’t this just another abandonment? Another failure to help the man?

  There was more than one diner on Fourth Street, but Don didn’t feel the urge for coffee until he was passing Nick’s Place. Had Andras chosen it simply for the name? Don fought down the chuckle that threatened to break out. He must be more tired than he’d thought, if he was finding that sort of thing amusing. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  “We’re closing,” the waitress snapped. She had dark circles under her eyes and her roots were showing.

  Don flushed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Celeste, he’s a friend.” Andras’ rough voice cut jaggedly across the atmosphere of exhaustion that pervaded the diner. “Why don’t you get on home, I’ll close up.”

  She looked at him for a moment—maybe the owner wouldn’t be too keen on the ex-con being left alone to lock up the takings—and then she shrugged. Not her problem. “Okay, Mike, I’m outta here. See ya tomorrow, if I don’t get lucky and drop dead first.”

  Glacial eyes watched her go, apron slung over her shoulder, and then turned to Don. “This an official visit? Because it’s a little late for office hours.”

  “I—no. I was just passing.”

  “Thought you’d check I wasn’t grinding up the customers for burgers?”

  Don’s teeth clenched at the sound of amusement in Andras’ voice. “Thought I’d see how you’re getting on. Everything going well?”