Séptima Luna

by Gabbo De la Parra

  “Rest of my life” sounded like a lot of commitment, and (strangely) the concept brightened even more Angel’s mood, dismissing the shooting comment. He hopped onto the bed and scooted, practically burrowing into Malachi’s side. “Okay.”

  Staring ahead, Malachi spoke while Angel let the movement of those lips hypnotize him. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “Sure. Seems like a good thing, to have the opportunity to come back and do things in a different way and evolve.”

  Still looking at any place but at Angel, Malachi let the bomb fall. “What if I tell you that in your previous life you were Antinous, Hadrian’s revered lover?”

  Angel chuckled. “I’ll tell you to stop shitting me and fuck me again.”

  Malachi’s eyes settled on Angel, a convulsed ocean would have been (a looooot) clearer. “That’s why those people want you. It’s always been about you.”

  Slowly, Angel shifted to sit cross-legged facing Malachi. “Let’s say I believe this nonsense for half a second. That knowledge is inconsequential.” He shrugged. “I am not Shirley MacLaine.”

  Stern, Malachi shook his head. “This is not a joke, Angel. You’re the living embodiment of a god.”

  “Wow.” Angel snorted. “That explains so many things.”

  “How so?” Malachi caressed his cheek, his hand big and calloused and oh so tender.

  “Well, that little bitch must have been a total number, and that is why I had such a fucked up childhood. My dad must have been some other lover Hadrian ditched for Antinous, and that’s why he felt the compulsive need to make my life as miserable as possible.”

  It was Malachi turn to snort. “You’re taking this from the wrong angle.”

  “Nope, we’re still in that half second moment, and I’m positive this information doesn’t make any difference in my life. That’s why it’s called a previous life, because it happened already, a.k.a. Gone.”

  Looking mutinous, Malachi grated, “You wanna hear the rest of it?”

  “Sure, why not?” Angel stretched, his hands clasped over his head. This was such a pile of dung, it didn’t deserve even an eye roll.

  “Three gates exist in different parts of the world, and they can only be opened by living embodiments of gods.”

  “Indiana Jones.” Angel put his palm out. “Don’t you dare tell me where they are. I don’t wanna know.”

  “This is serious.”

  The growl reminded Angel of a pissed off coyote. Soon he’d discover that Malachi was also a shifter, or an angelic warrior, or something.

  Yeah, right.

  “Darlin’, it isn’t serious ‘til I believe it’s true, and that’s not happening.” Nonetheless, Angel couldn’t say the archaeologist in him wasn’t somewhat interested (just a teensy bit).

  Thick fingers massaged Malachi’s temple; the fire seemed gone, and the empty shell was truly shocking. Angel gave in, anything to take away that lifeless look from Malachi. “Alright, Kemo Sabe, what’s the purpose of the gates?”

  “To bring an army to life.”

  Angel could swear Malachi pouted, and it was so cute he wanted to jump and kiss him. He needed to learn how to kiss-fuck like the astronomer.

  Hold your horses, an army?

  “Sweet baby Jesus drowning in the Mighty Mississippi, why does it always have to be some blasted thing to bring destruction and shit? Why is it never for the unicorns to populate Earth again, or unleash something to eradicate all illness, or oh fuck.” He did it; he rolled his eyes.

  “Why do you think you picked up Latin and Greek so easily?”

  “What does it have to do with anything? Do I have to speak those languages to open the darn gates?”

  “I don’t know. They’re ancient. I guess. I was saying because of who you were.”

  “That I was Antinous is within the realm of possibility. I’m not conflicted by such a notion. It’s the shit-smearing army thing that’s getting on my nerves.”

  “I’m sorry.” Malachi took Angel’s hands and stroked his fingers.

  “No, baby. I’m sorry they tortured you because of me.” Angel moved and straddled Malachi’s lap, raining kisses over his face. “My poor baldy suffering for a long dead concubine,” he crooned.

  “Would this be a fucked up moment to say I’m falling in love with you?” Solemn didn’t look right on Malachi’s sexy features.

  Angel stared at Malachi for a long moment. “I don’t know about falling, but something underneath me is going up, and I like it.”

  Four rounds later, when Angel had Malachi exhausted and muted, he pondered this insane turn of events as the man beside him snored. He didn’t know if having psycho fanatics chasing him was a good thing (that wasn’t a good thing in anyone’s book, duh). What he knew is that he was in Merbha, at so many, many thousand miles from his normal life, with a dreamy bald astronomer who just said he was falling in love with him.

  They had a lot of euros in their wallets, and free time to enjoy his cue-ball until the fanatics found him again.

  Bad omen, his ass; there must be a reason for this path ahead of him. How many times would he have to come back if he didn’t learn to truly stand up for himself in this life? Perhaps something good could come out of this shitload, he needed to learn more about this supposed army. What if the army in question were used to stop all current wars?

  He snorted; Malachi mumbled in his sleep.

  Yeah, Angel Green, savior of mankind.

  He could almost see the headlines, BOY FROM MISSISSIPPI IS A GOD, HOW ABOUT THAT?

  And he saw the protesters too, there were always protests, because everybody else had the only truth, and anyone else’s was just a hoax. Didn’t he watch on TV some women with signs saying HARRY POTTER IS EVIL, a fucking fictional kid?

  Oh, and when the media exploited the totally juicy details that he was gay and a go-go boy and occasional escort: well (grind my cock and make some burgers), all Hell would totally break loose.

  Darn Hadrian had to make people worship his darn lover.

  Although, the romanticism of the situation was undeniable, a love so great, it had to become a cult. Angel pursed his lips, studying the ceiling. What would it be like to live such a love story?

  Whatever this thing growing between Malachi and him was, would it be at least a smidge of that?

  No reason to be driving down this cotton-candy-clouds road, they were two men who happened to be in the right place at the right time. That happened all the time, in every city and in many forms. Nothing special about his run of the mill romance. At least, if he was a little person (yeah, fun size) and the astronomer slash warrior a seven-foot-tall gladiator that would be some kind of messed up opposites attract worthy of a TV movie.

  Time to stand up for himself. They were going to continue as planned, make the psychos work for his ass; he was not going to put it in a platter for them.

  Tomorrow they’d take the train to Pozzallo, from there the many connections to Messina, take the frigging ferry and cross to mainland. If the Goddess and Destiny weren’t shooting craps with their fate, they’d find sanctuary with Malachi’s cousins in Rome in less than seventy-two hours.

  Hate was a verb he used sparingly, but these fuckers were truly pushing him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ANGEL GREEN

  10-27-89 (06:55 a.m.)

  Solar sign: Scorpio

  Language: English, Latin & Greek

  Place of birth: Greenville, Mississippi

  Height: 5’ 11”

  Weight: 190 lbs.

  Body & Ethnics: Athletic, Caucasian

  Hair: Short and Black

  Body Hair: Natural, no beard

  Eyes: Blue

  Piercings: No

  Tattoos: No

  Smoker: No

  Position: Bottom

  Tau couldn’t read anymore. “What is this, a Gay-trap dot com profile?” She hurled the folder, pages flying in all directions.

  Her assistant rushed to collect them. �
��No, countess. It’s the standard procedure when one of the targets is gay so we can assign a proper shadow.”

  This was her starring moment, the thing she’d been waiting for her whole life, and this pile of incompetents acted as if she was going to romance the little whore. “I want sensible information, i.e. a physiological profile perhaps, to know how to approach him when he is finally in our hands. I’m not going to fuck him. I don’t think he’s happy around lady parts.”

  “Here is the profile Sir Neun prepared, countess.” Still on the floor, the assistant raised a hand offering two pages.

  She snatched them, almost crunching the paper, and paced, reading rapidly.

  Beneath a controlled, cool exterior beats a deeply intense heart. Passionate, penetrating, and determined, the target will probe until he reaches the truth. He may not speak volumes or show emotions readily, yet rest assured there is an enormous amount of activity happening beneath the surface. Could be an excellent leader, and seems always aware. When it comes to resourcefulness, he comes out ahead.

  “I don’t like this.” She read a few more paragraphs and crumpled the annoying white sheet. “Where is Neun?”

  “He hasn’t reported in a while, countess. Do you want me to contact Kovak to find out?”

  “Yes, find out what’s going on and to what gate they’re guiding this boy. And if Kovak wishes to speak with me, I’m busy. Confirm all units are prepared to converge at the different gates within ten minutes, and have my jet at the ready. I have a bad feeling about Mr. Green.”

  “At once, countess.” the assistant scurried out of her office.

  Tau tapped her long crimson nail on her bared teeth, something she only did when she was truly miffed. None of the other operative LE’s was as available as Nine’s target; too engaged in political and public activities to disappear without a fuss. And they would need to wait at least two more years for the oldest of the inoperative to be of use.

  They were so close, she could taste it. If she had to hold up the operation for another twenty-four months (until the next LE was operative), she would start shooting people just by looking at her the wrong way.

  Even if you couldn’t tell it was a wig, Angel had to admit that as much as he’d bitched during their first encounter about the baldness and the fedora-wearing, Malachi wasn’t the same if Angel couldn’t fantasize about riding that shaved cranium.

  None would be the wiser, and Malachi looked fashionably dapper with the dark brown, neck-length falsie, aviator sunglasses, unassuming white polo shirt, caramel cargos, around-the-world rucksack and esoteric sandals. He was any other globetrotter exiting a train.

  A group of Belgians had animatedly surrounded them during the trip from Jannar to Pazzollo, and compared to the monsters (competing with fridges) they each carried on their backs, Angel and Malachi’s bags were mere lunchboxes.

  They said their good-byes to the cheerful group and turned in the opposite direction to find the next train for their connection. As they approached the changing timetables Angel noticed three men who were staring at them with a bit more enthusiasm than needed. Wouldn’t be his luck if they reached their next stop without an incident.

  “I think I found our tail.” Angel elbowed Malachi, who browsed the departures on the board.

  “Fuck. Where?”

  “The three scarecrows at my four.” Angel covered his mouth moving to his side. “What do we do?”

  Malachi did a quick inspection of the crowded, unknown area. He nodded toward the Belgians loitering around the vending machines and a row of seats. “Let’s go join the wanderers. They’d not try anything with so many people talking to us.”

  With a nonchalant gait, Angel ambled until he greeted their train companions, Malachi close on his heels. He situated himself in a way that left most of the group blocking him from their tails’ direct line of view. He chatted using his hands and rolling his eyes, bitching about delays and swarming train stations, and the nomads laughed aloud, readjusting their traveling humps.

  Their shadows moved closer in a failed attempt of surreptitiousness. Malachi asked him if he wanted a soda and (without waiting for an answer) hurried to the vending machine. Angel started playing with one of the girls' braided blond hair, and she teased back about his bleaching job. You can’t fool a European natural blond (No offense, Jessica).

  They all laughed more, and, suddenly, everybody was touching everyone else one way or another. The problem with that was, if they needed to bolt—such tangling was not a good idea. Malachi came shaking the cans of soda, and, as the tails closed in, he opened both with swift fingers and sprayed the contents on two of their followers.

  Hell broke loose.

  Monumental duffel-bag-sausages swayed in all directions, pushing the blinded goons. The third one went face first as the stampede of nomads kicked and babbled. Malachi latched to Angel’s wrist and ran.

  Women shrieked, children cried, men cursed, and Malachi and Angel fled the scene of the soda crime, dodging and ducking and elbowing people aside. Angel turned to see where the tails were and found them, ties flying, guns drawn, and leaving passengers scattered in their wake like bowling pins.

  “Guns, Malachi!” They hopped down a flight of stairs and crossed the street avoiding bumpers and rears and aiming to escape between two buildings. The long, stinky corridor wasn’t especially narrow; yet it seemed so thanks to the four thousand ginormous trash containers along both walls, making them zigzag so much Angel felt he might just add his breakfast to the stench-fest.

  “There.” Malachi pointed to his left as soon as they exited the alley. A cat yowled; Angel turned to look back, regardless of the possibility of morphing into a pile of salt or the angry faces he’d see on their pursuers.

  Something like a firecracker whooshed past them and exploded on the stupidly large dumpster at the entry of the alley identical to an egg in a microwave (don’t ask). All kinds of waste flew left, right and center, stopping their tails with loud smacks of putrid randomness. Like watching a car wreck, Angel couldn’t take his eyes of the men while they cursed and yelled, and more rotten debris rained over them, the walls, and the parked cars. Passersby fled, cursing and resembling startled seagulls.

  Angel almost tripped as they gained the entrance of the docks and ran, still linked by the firm grip of Malachi’s to his wrist, steering him to an unknown destination. “Do we have a plan?” he yelled.

  “We need something moving” Malachi bellowed without looking at him.

  Then why didn’t they hijack a car when they were able and instead kept moving toward the darn ocean? Did Malachi even know how to pilot a frigging boat, if his plan was stealing one?

  Another whoosh and a car exploded in front of them, forcing them to crouch and veer toward a row of cars moving sluggishly into a ferry. Shouts and screams and car alarms roaring, Angel was breathless, and (for a second) he thought about stopping and surrendering, he didn’t sign for artillery aimed at them; a couple of mofos on their heels, okay—bazookas, no. He mentally slapped himself; didn’t he say he wanted them to work for his ass?

  Your fault for having Stephanie Plum delusions; enjoy your explosions now.

  Besides, again there were people getting hurt or worse, dead—thanks to their pursuers. One thing was to rain punches or break noses and jaws, and another to kill people (most of those scruples had gone through the window after what these fuckers did to Malachi, but still). Having the departure of innocent people from this world on his conscience didn’t sit right with him, not a bit.

  At the beginning of the line, Malachi opened the back door of a ridiculously minimal yellow car and pushed Angel in, then yanked the co-pilot door and sat beside what must have been the Italian version of a stoner. The guy yelped and parroted rapidly. Malachi shushed him, “English?”

  Pepperoni Stoner glared at him. “Yes. What is your problem?”

  Now Angel knew how people must feel in bad mob movies working as extras.

  “Did you hear that
explosion a minute ago? Some very bad guys are chasing us, and we need your help.”

  Dude arched an eyebrow. He seemed intelligent enough, or at least English-aware enough to understand the situation, and the car didn’t smell that much like pot. “How much you’re going to pay me?”

  Of course.

  “I’ll give you three hundred euros if you take us with you wherever it is you’re going.”

  “Three hundred, that’s all you have?”

  “Yes.” Malachi looked more menacing that imploring, having taken his aviators off. Angel had to accept it was giving him a hard-on.

  Well, as a scholar he finally understood why warriors always had a boner going to battle, the adrenaline rush was wonderful for an erection (this didn’t compare to wanting to jump Blond Hulk, this was the real deal). He just needed to find something to do with his hardened flesh before it waned. They’d divided the money in case they got separated so he had a couple of thousands on him. He was ready to offer a couple more hundred if dude let them fuck in the back of the car during the journey. Europeans were very open-minded; he’d probably enjoy the show (a lot).

  “Oka-ee,” dude shrugged and with his deep tortellini accent added, “give me money now.”

  The huge ramp slowly ascended, sealing their fate. Angel could still hear the sirens screaming at the top of their lungs back on the docks.

  “A hundred now. The rest when we land.” Malachi moved to retrieve the money, and dude gasped (in an uncannily girly way) with eyes like plates. Apparently, another Italian friend had been introduced. In other words, Mr. Beretta had been spotted.

  “One hundred is very fine for trip.”

  Yeah, stoners were lovers, not fighters.

  “I offered three hundred, and that’s what I’m gonna give you.” Malachi crossed his arms over his chest, settling more comfortably on his seat. “Some music would be nice.”

  Darn. So much for hootchy-kootchy in the back seat of a clown car.

  “And what part of Sicily are we going to, mister?” Angel asked.