Angeli: The Pirate, the Angel & the Irishman

by Amy Vansant

  The pair broke through the tree line into a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a deep pit, its sides chalky with the coral that composed most of the island. Anne walked to the rim and peered down at the crystal blue water forty feet below.

  “It’s known as a blue hole,” said Yuko. “Sit down.”

  Anne turned to find Yuko seated on the ground. She walked to the woman and sat across from her.

  “Tell me how you knew about the woman on the boat,” said Anne.

  “I am here to tell you everything. What do you remember about the woman?”

  Anne searched her memory. Much of that day on The Revenge remained foggy, but during her time in jail, bits and pieces had returned.

  “We found her adrift,” Anne began. “Then we were attacked. We were fighting, and I was stabbed...” she drifted off, recalling the pain in her belly.

  “Go on,” prompted Yuko.

  “I don't remember very much. The strange woman was near me, she whispered something. A prayer, I think. The next thing I remember I woke up, wrapped in burlap. The crew thought I was dead and were about to dump me in the sea. I screamed, and they freed me.”

  “Why do you say the woman said a prayer?”

  “I remember something about angels.”

  Yuko smiled. “Ah. Angeli.”

  “Yes!” Anne pointed at Yuko. “Angeli. That sounds right.”

  “I am Angeli,” said Yuko.

  “I thought you were ‘Yuko?’”

  “I am Yuko. But I am an Angelus. Not a human.”

  Anne stared at the tiny woman, unsure of what to say.

  “The Angeli watch over humans,” began Yuko. “We have done this since time began. Humans do not know about us. But many years ago, some of the Angeli became sick. Instead of helping humans, they began to kill humans.”

  Anne tried to process the idea of angels killing people and the fact that she was talking to an angel. It occurred to her that she had just followed a crazy woman into the jungle.

  “What did you do?” asked Anne.

  “Angeli cannot kill their own. They are made of the same energy. Not even an Arch Angel can kill another Angel.”

  “An Arch Angel? They're stronger?”

  “Oh, much stronger. There are twenty-one Arch Angels and one hundred twenty-three Guardian Angels. The Arch Angels command the Guardians to do what needs to be done.”

  “Are you an Arch Angel?”

  Yuko laughed. “No. I am a Guardian Angel.”

  “And Jia li? She was an Angel too?”

  “No. She was a Sentinel, like you.”

  Anne sighed. “I am lost again.”

  “When the Angeli fall ill they become Perfidia, traitors to the Angeli. We cannot kill them, but we cannot allow them to kill humans, so the Archs chose skilled humans to become Sentinels. The Archs lent some of their energy to the Sentinels, which empowered them to reap the Perfidia.”

  “Reap? You mean kill?”

  “They do not die. Cannot die. But the Sentinels can send the energy of a Perfidian away. The energy disperses. Over time, the energy finds its way back and the Angelus lives again, healed of Perfidia. He or she is cured and may begin again.”

  “And you're saying I am a Sentinel?”

  “Yes. It was Jia li's time to leave. She took the energy given to her and bestowed it to you, continuing the cycle.”

  “What do you mean it was her time to go?”

  “She had been a Sentinel for a thousand years.”

  Anne's eyes grew wide. “Are you telling me I am going to live for another thousand years?”

  “If you are lucky.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Reaping Perfidia is not easy,” said Yuko, her tone like that of a parent warning a child about the dangers of the world. “You may not survive. But I am here to train you.”

  “What if I don't want to kill Perfidia?”

  Yuko laughed.

  “Do you know something about my cuts and how they keep healing?”

  Yuko nodded. “Sentinels heal very rapidly. This enables you to protect yourself against the Perfidia. You are very hard to kill, but it is not impossible.”

  “What if I were stabbed?”

  “You would heal.”

  “Shot?”

  “You would heal.”

  Anne's stomach growled loudly.

  “What if I starved?”

  “You would grow very weak and perhaps fall unconscious if you did not eat for a very long time, but you would not die.”

  “Really?” Anne blinked. “I might. I get very hungry.”

  “No. Only the energy of a Perfidian will kill you. If a Perfidian drains you of your energy, it will be lost to you forever, and the Perfidian will be empowered. It may take two or three Sentinels to reap that Perfidian.”

  Anne rubbed her face and tried to absorb the new information.

  “What if I ran? What if I didn't want to reap Perfidia for a thousand years?”

  “We would find you and remove the power that saved your life when you were stabbed.”

  “And I would die.”

  “Yes.”

  Anne sighed and looked off into the distance for several minutes.

  “How do I know what you say is true?”

  Yuko stood and Anne leaned back, unsure if the little woman would again try to attack her. As she kept a wary eye on her, the Angel began to glow with a bright blue light. Her form receded into the glow until only the light remained, taking a humanoid shape that resembled Yuko in size.

  Anne gasped. Yuko was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  Yuko’s form rose until she hovered two feet from the ground. Wings woven from glowing webs of blue light stretched nearly seven feet on either side of her figure. When the wings moved, showers of light fell from the lower edges, giving them a feathery appearance. Anne could only compare the vision to how she might have imagined fairies as a child. Fairies, or, she realized, angels.

  “Do you believe me now?” Yuko’s voice emanated from the humanoid blue light floating before Anne.

  “I do,” said Anne. “I do.”

  Chapter Four

  New Orleans, 1745

  Anne popped the last peanut in her mouth, her eyes lazily surveying the squalid room around her. She wore a dingy gown, and sat perched on the edge of an equally filthy bed. She stretched and yawned in an exaggerated fashion, amusing herself by pantomiming her boredom for an invisible audience.

  Anne’s gaze fell on the small pile of empty peanut shells on the makeshift table beside her. Scooping them into her palm, she tossed them into the air, scattering them across the rough wooden floor. She pulled a small cloth bag from beneath the bed and dumped the contents, six coins, on the sheet beside her. Choosing one from the pile, she took a moment to aim, and then threw it with ferocious speed at a peanut shell sitting four feet from her seat. The coin stuck into the floor, pinning the shell to the ground. She smiled.

  “What is that?” said a man’s voice behind Anne.

  Anne whirled to face the intruder, grabbing another coin from the bed and flinging it in the direction of the voice as she turned. Her eyes focused in time to see a tall man snatch her coin from the air, seconds before it struck his throat. He opened his palm and Anne could see the coin embedded there, resting in a halo of blood.

  The man scowled at the bloody coin in his hand. The edges of the Dutch penny were filed down to form two sharp points. He looked at Anne.

  “You sharpened this coin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  Anne took a half step back. “Why are you here? Who are you?”

  “I asked first,” said the man. “Why did you do this?”

  Anne shrugged. “You surprised me.”

  The man huffed. “No, I know why you threw the coin. I ask why you sharpened it.”

  Anne held other coins in a balled fist behind her back. She maneuvered one between her index finger a
nd thumb, ready to throw it should she need it. She never missed twice.

  “It’s a hobby,” she said.

  “Interesting.” The man gazed at the coin in his palm. “Do you also round the corners off sharp things or just sharpen dull things?”

  Anne laughed before she could stop herself.

  “Just the latter.”

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  “What rest?”

  “Honestly, it’s like talking to a child,” sighed the man. “There were five coins on the bed when I entered and one in the peanut shell on the floor. One was flung at my throat—”

  “Your eye,” corrected Anne.

  “What’s that?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

  “I threw it at your eye, not your throat. But I rushed and you’re unusually tall.”

  Anne could tell the man was an Angelus. No mortal man could have snatched the coin from the air with this visitor’s speed. In addition, his aura glowed with a blue energy she had only seen radiating from her Angelus trainer, Yuko. Anne had become much more adept at identifying the auras of others, but while Yuko’s glow became more apparent to her over the time they worked together, it had never been as powerful as the light around the man now standing in her room.

  The Angelus plucked the coin from the flesh of his palm and laid it flat in his hand, which he then held out to Anne.

  “Either way, there were six in total. One is embedded in the floor, one I have here. The rest are behind your back. Give them to me.”

  Anne hesitated, clutching the coins more tightly.

  “I do not intend to be peppered with copper all evening,” the man added, the corner of his mouth twisting with disapproval.

  Anne presented her closed fist and then opened it to sprinkle the other coins in his open palm.

  The man slipped the pennies into his coat pocket. One of the sharp edges sliced him as he did so and he shot an angry look at his pocket as if it had bitten him.

  “Who are you?” asked Anne.

  “I am Michael,” he said, smoothing his pocket flap closed with his four uncut fingers. He put his sliced index finger to his lips to clean away the blood and then inspected it to be sure it was unmarked.

  “Michael,” echoed Anne.

  Since becoming a Sentinel, Anne had heard Michael’s name uttered many times by Yuko and fellow Sentinels, always with respect. Though never, she realized, with warmth.

  “I’ve heard of you,” Anne said, her eyes locking on his. “How did you sneak up on me?”

  Anne caught a flash of pride in Michael’s face.

  “I’m not like the Perfidia you hunt, Sentinel. I’m an Arch.”

  Anne considered this. “I’ve never met an Arch before.”

  Michael moved to take a seat and then, his lip rising in disgust at the disrepair of the only chair, reconsidered. He turned back to Anne.

  “Nor are you likely to meet another, Sentinel. We do not travel in the same circles. Sentinels only ever meet the Arch in charge of their legion, which, in your case, is me. Occasionally, a Sentinel may be called on to team with other Guardians for a particularly nasty job. Otherwise, you’ll only meet the corrupted.”

  “Perfidia,” confirmed Anne.

  “Naturally.”

  Anne smiled and looked down, tracing her toe across the floor in front of her.

  “From what I’ve been told, the first Guardian Angel fell to Perfidia in the year twelve and at that time, the Angeli created the Sentinels to conquer them,” she said, following the back and forth movement of her foot. “Before that, the Angels were thought to be incorruptible.”

  “Yes. You have a point?”

  Anne placed her outstretched leg back beneath her and raised her gaze to Michael’s. She held it a moment before speaking.

  “So isn’t it possible someday an Arch will need reaping, as well?”

  Michael made a noise in his throat as if he’d just swallowed a fly.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he said, his face flushing red with anger. “And rude.”

  “Rude? You’re the one who just came into my home, uninvited.”

  Michael stared at Anne, his body tense. He ran his tongue along his teeth until the silence became uncomfortable, his gaze sweeping the squalor of the room to show his distaste for her home.

  “I’m here to be sure you’re ready to reap the Perfidian Alexandre,” Michael said, his words slow and deliberate. “This is your first reaping without a partner, is it not?”

  Anne nodded and self-consciously straightened her ill-fitting gown. She had been working undercover as the runaway cousin of a prostitute and the clothing choices at her social level in this role were not expansive. The prostitute with whom she now lived worshipped a Perfidian named Alexandre, a former New Orleans-based Guardian Angel now posing as an ancient god. He had gathered a devoted following of ill-educated locals, who thought it their mission to provide him with live sacrifices for him to drain to empower himself.

  “Tonight is the night. They plan to sacrifice you to Alexandre this evening. You—” Michael stopped mid-sentence and glanced around the room, his lip again curling in disgust.

  “What is that smell?” he asked.

  Anne shrugged and sat on the edge of her bed.

  “I’ve stopped asking.”

  Michael pressed his jacket down with both palms, swiping them down his chest as if trying to rid them of dirt.

  “As I was saying, they’re coming tonight. You did a wonderful job inspiring your filthy host to sacrifice you.”

  “Thank you. Though I don’t believe I’m the first to inspire her that way.”

  Anne studied the imposing Angelus from her spot on the edge of the bed. Michael wore tan breeches and black boots, a clean linen shirt with a high collar, a perfectly tied cravat and a fine evergreen waistcoat. His hair was dark and short; some of the fancier men had abandoned their wigs in favor of a Roman-style short cut. He didn’t look as though he had ever worked a day in his life.

  “I have heard quite a bit about you, nearly all of it positive,” he said.

  He picked a piece of lint from his jacket, his eyes making a suspicious sweep of the room as he did so.

  Anne laughed aloud, covering her mouth to stifle her giggle.

  “Why do you laugh?” snapped Michael.

  “The room isn’t trying to make you dirty on purpose. You might even have gathered that piece of fluff from your own home.”

  “Doubtful,” Michael muttered. He brushed the front of his jacket again, an act that inspired another giggle

  “So,” Michael continued, a little too loudly. “Have you been siphoned yet?”

  Anne scowled. “By a Perfidian?”

  “No, by a local Creole.”

  “A joke!” said Anne, genuinely surprised.

  Michael pursed his lips.

  “Stand up, Sentinel.”

  Anne blanched at Michael’s imperious tone, but found herself standing before the idea of rebellion could gel.

  “Now, don’t fight me,” said Michael, stepping close to her. She braced as he reached for her and gently clasped her upper arm, just below the sleeve of her dress. Placing his other hand against the small of her back, he drew her toward him, as if they were about to dance.

  Michael stared down into Anne’s green eyes. She could feel the rise and fall of her own breathing against his hard, muscular body. Michael released his grip on her right arm and she felt his hand slide across her exposed back, his palm flat against her, inhumanly warm. He leaned in, his lips close to her ear and took a deep breath.

  “I’m going to siphon you,” he said in a low, soft voice. “I think it is important that you know what it feels like so you don’t panic if something starts to go wrong.”

  Nearly overcome by a rush of adrenaline, Anne cleared her throat and took a deep breath to regain control of her nerves.

  “Are you sure you’re not just hungry?” Anne’s voice cracked as she attempted the joke. She coul
d feel his energy clamoring for her own, the pull much greater than that of Yuko’s during her training.

  “This is for your own good,” Michael said, more sternly. “And so I don’t have to train a new Sentinel because you were killed. I am sure Yuko simulated siphoning, but Perfidia are unique. It would be difficult for a common Angel to recreate the experience. As an Arch, I am better equipped to prepare you for the intensity of a Perfidian attack.”

  Anne nodded and laid her head against Michael’s chest. Part of her wanted to run; the other part remained consumed with curiosity. She heard the sound of a heart beat beneath his breast.

  “You have a heart...”

  She looked up to meet Michael’s eyes in time to see him roll them.

  “Of course I do. My human form is a perfect human form, naturally.”

  Anne could find no argument.

  “Ready when you are.”

  Michael began to siphon energy from Anne. It wasn't unpleasant, as Anne had feared, but quite the contrary. She felt as if she was falling into a peaceful slumber. After a moment, the sensation became increasingly pleasurable. Sweet drowsiness gave way to arousal, her thighs and pelvis tingling with heat. Anne heard an involuntary moan escape from her lips.

  Anne reached with her left hand to grab Michael’s shoulder and pull his body closer. She wanted more. She felt powerless to stop her growing desire for the Angelus. Her right hand moved upward to stroke his cheek, his skin unusually warm to the touch. Anne stroked Michael’s hair as her long fingers pressed on the back of his skull, pulling his lips toward her own.

  A moment before their lips touched, pain shot through Anne’s veins like venom. Her eyes opened wide with shock as she tried to push away from Michael’s grasp. He held tight, seemingly oblivious to her torment.

  In growing distress, Anne used her left hand to grab for a small dagger she kept hidden in a pouch sewn to her dress. Not a moment too soon, she felt the metal of the blade slip into her palm.

  With one quick motion, Anne buried the knife in Michael’s side. Michael released his grip and stumbled back, taking with him one last powerful draw of energy that dropped Anne to her knees.

  Michael caught his balance and jerked open his jacket to inspect his wound. The silver blade protruded from above his pelvic bone. Wincing, he plucked the small knife from his side and dropped it clattering to the floor. A red stain crept across his crisp white shirt as he looked down at Anne.