Angeli: The Pirate, the Angel & the Irishman

by Amy Vansant

  “You’re doing quite well,” said Michael, looking around at the expensive furniture. “This is much nicer than the place I first met you in New Orleans.”

  “Just a little. Please sit. Can I get you something to drink? My servant seems to have abandoned me, but I’m sure we have something somewhere.”

  “No, thank you,” said Michael, sitting on a Queen Anne sofa with a high, arched back. The moment he touched the cushions, the three smaller dogs jumped up and sat beside him. Piddles put a paw on Michael’s leg, begging for a scratch.

  Michael offered the dog a tight smile and pushed the paw away.

  “So Seth was easily defeated? Nothing odd about him?” asked Michael. Piddles replaced his paw to its position on the Angelus’ leg.

  “No,” said Anne, sitting on her loveseat across from Michael. “Should there have been?”

  “No.”

  His hand resting on his thigh, Michael used his pinky finger to push the dog’s paw off his breeches. Piddles almost immediately stomped back into place.

  “You’ll never win that war.”

  “No,” Michael agreed, rubbing the dog’s ears. Piddles lay down and rested his head on Michael’s thigh. Michael looked up at Anne and shrugged, admitting defeat.

  “I need you for some work tonight,” said Michael.

  “Really? Another Perfidian? Here?”

  “No, this is different, another side of what we do. There’s a man we need to keep away from a brothel this evening. If he visits, he’ll contract a disease and die earlier than he should.”

  “You’re saving him from death? You change people’s fates?”

  “We changed yours, didn’t we?”

  “True. Why this man? Is he becoming a Sentinel as well?”

  “No. He’s just an important human. And I don’t know why. I just feel it.”

  “And you’re never wrong?”

  Michael laughed. “Not that I am aware.”

  Anne rolled her eyes. “All right, what do I need to do?”

  “He’ll be at the tavern just around the corner tonight at six. Just intercept him and keep him from heading right into the brothel next door.”

  “And how do you suppose I do that?”

  “Oh,” said Michael, his eyes lowering to the top of Anne’s cleavage. “I imagine you’ll think of something. I suppose you could just show up in your undergarments. That should work. And you’ll be so comfortable doing it.”

  “Very funny. What does he look like?”

  “He’s a portly man, late forties, his name is Benjamin Franklin. His friends call him Ben.”

  “I know him! Or, I’ve heard of him. We’ve never met. I hear he is the true author of Poor Richard’s Almanack. He’s quite witty.”

  “He is quite a character.”

  “Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright,” quoted Anne. “That’s his. I always liked that one.”

  “Miss Anne!”

  Anne and Michael turned to find Anne’s servant, Abigail, standing in the doorway of the reading room. She was stout and gray-haired. She glowered at Michael.

  Anne panicked.

  “Uh...this is my brother. Michael. Michael, this is Abigail.”

  Michael nodded to Abigail and the woman nodded back to him stiffly, her lips still pursed with disapproval.

  “Really Miss Anne,” the woman grumbled, turning and waddling away.

  Anne turned back to Michael. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Michael stood, dogs slipping from where they were propped against him onto the sofa with perturbed grunts.

  “Well,” said Michael with a furtive glance toward where the maidservant had been standing. “I guess I should be going. Be sure to take care of this for me tonight.”

  “Aye aye, captain. I’ll even get dressed.”

  Michael stopped at the front door, his hand resting on the knob as he turned back to Anne.

  “You might be more successful if you don’t,” he said, allowing a tiny smile to curl in the left corner of his mouth.

  * * *

  It was nine p.m. when Anne gasped and slapped her hand to her heart. She had been staring into space, thinking about Michael’s earlier visit when the man himself suddenly appeared in the room beside her.

  “You scared me!”

  Michael smoothed his hair.

  “Sorry about that. I thought it was rude to knock on your door at this hour.”

  “More rude than just appearing in my parlor?”

  “I see you were successful.”

  The furriest of Anne’s three smaller dogs lifted his head, barked once at the Angelus, and then snuggled back down into his spot.

  “They are ferocious protectors,” said Anne, nodding to the dogs, all of whom had made a bed either beside or on the fat man who now lay sprawled in the center of the room.

  “You’ve turned one of the greatest creative minds of this century into a dog bed.”

  “Well, I’d been hoping to spend some time talking to the man, but all he wanted to do was grope me. I barely made it here before I had to knock him out.”

  “You hit him with something? Please tell me you didn’t hit him with anything.”

  “No! I just gave him a little more energy than his body could handle, just as I was taught. A quick jolt and he passed out. Honestly, he was quite drunk. I’m sure this won’t be the first time he wakes up in a strange place.”

  “You have a guest room? I’ll move him to the bed for the evening before the dogs get too attached to him.”

  “Upstairs and to the left.”

  Michael leaned down and grasped Ben’s hand. The two of them disappeared, and the dogs fell several inches to the ground, startled to lose their cushion. Anne stood and walked the stairs to her second floor the old-fashioned way. She found Michael in the spare room, positioning the large man in the bed.

  Michael finished and left the room to meet Anne in the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “Your maidservant is here?”

  “No. I had her stay with her sister tonight, not wanting her to catch me bringing Mr. Frisky-hands Franklin home.”

  “Instead she thinks you’re here with me. She didn’t believe for a moment I was your brother.”

  “No?”

  Anne stared into Michael’s blue eyes. She could feel his power pulling at her own energy, just as she had back in New Orleans. Just as she did during every one of his visits.

  “I like your dress, by the way,” said Michael, leaning toward Anne and touching her shoulder. “It’s very fashionable. Surprisingly, you clean up quite nicely.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Anne took a step toward the Angelus.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked, barely audible.

  “You check in on me often,” said Anne, her voice soft.

  Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Anne sensed that she had him off guard.

  “Not...” Michael cleared his throat, as the words seemed to stick. “Not that often.”

  “Often,” repeated Anne. “More than you check in on other Sentinels.”

  “No...”

  “Yes.”

  Michael’s breath began to rise and fall more rapidly as Anne placed both hands on his pectorals.

  “Maybe,” he whispered.

  “I like that you do,” said Anne. “I like it when you visit.”

  Anne slid her hands up Michael’s broad chest and cupped his face, her eyes never leaving his. Michael reached forward, resting his hands on either side of her trim waist. She could feel him pulling her towards him.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes?” said Michael. His eyelids fluttered as Anne’s thumb brushed his lips. “Yes what?”

  “Yes...please.”

  With fevered movement, Michael bent and swept Anne into his arms, his mouth finding h
ers as he carried her into her bedroom. He lay her down on the large poster bed and kissed her neck, his hands running over her petticoat as he searched for a way to remove it. Unable to make quick work of it, he ripped it from her body and tossed it behind him, leaving her upper torso naked. The sudden feel of his hands on her bare flesh sent a shiver through Anne.

  Overwhelmed with passion, Anne tore at Michael’s waistcoat and shirt until she felt his naked chest against hers.

  “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he said, his words muffled as he kissed Anne from her neck to her belly.

  Anne could only moan until the energy exchange between them became unbearable and she finally found her voice.

  “Now, please now,” she begged.

  And as if granted a wish, the rest of their clothes disappeared and Michael moved forward.

  * * *

  Anne awoke to the sound of a clatter in the hallway outside her room. She took a moment to orient herself. She was alone. Michael was no longer in her bed. She jumped and grabbed a robe to cover her naked body.

  Another bang echoed from the hallway and Anne heard someone curse. She flung open her door to find Benjamin, steadying the small table he had just kicked in the dark. By the pale moonlight shining through her foyer windows, she could see the portly man look up, startled to find her watching.

  “My dear,” he said. “I seem to have overstayed my welcome.”

  “You’re quite welcome Mr. Franklin,” said Anne, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself. “But it’s nearly five a.m. You should be heading home.”

  “Oh I am, I am. I trust we had a good night!”

  He winked at her.

  “You passed out.”

  Ben chuckled. “I usually do.”

  He started down the stairs. “I think the evening has inspired me though,” he called back to her as he reached the lower floor. “I have an idea. I have an idea!”

  “About what?” Anne asked following him a few steps down. She was fascinated that, sober and full of ideas, the letch didn’t even seem to notice her state of undress.

  “Electricity!” Ben shouted, raising his hand above his head, his index finger pointed to the sky. “Last night must have been electric!”

  Ben left and shut the door behind him, two of the four dogs positioning themselves just behind the closed door, too late to escort him out.

  “Electric,” Anne whispered to herself. She ran her hand down her neck and rested it on her chest, remembering the feel of Michael’s touch.

  “It certainly was.”

  Chapter Six

  Barbados, 1880

  Con rushed through the busy wharf, searching for a ship to commandeer. He could still make out his target, a small sloop, as it sailed away from the docks. The Perfidian had to be onboard. Con needed a small, fast vessel capable of closing the gap. Packed with sailors and rogues plying Barbados’ busy sugar trade, someone on the crowded docks had to have a boat for hire.

  “You!” Con called out to a deeply tanned man aboard an otherwise empty sloop.

  The man squinted up at Con, crow’s feet creased into the leathery skin around his eyes. He continued working a thick line around his hand and elbow.

  “Do you know who went out on that ship?” Con asked, pointing to the sloop growing smaller in the distance.

  The man put down the wrapped line, put his hands on his hips, and turned toward the sea.

  “No,” he said, bending to gather another loose line. “But he must be mighty popular.”

  Con cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re the second person to ask about him in the last ten minutes.”

  “I am?”

  The man spat on the deck of the ship. “I’m guessing next you’re going to ask me if I can follow him on this ship?”

  “As a matter of fact I was. Did the other man who talked to you about that ship want yours as well?”

  “She did. And God as my witness, that lass had a better chance than you of talking me into it.”

  The man held his hands in front of his chest to pantomime large breasts and whistled. “I just about gave her the damn ship, all my gear and my first-born son.”

  Con scowled. “I’d love to hear about her, captain, but I’m in a terrible hurry. Is she still here, this vixen who asked you about that boat?”

  “Aye, but not for long. She found herself a vessel.”

  The man threw his hand in the general direction of another small ship moving slowly away from the wharf. He chuckled.

  “Captain Dennis there hasn’t had a woman in a year. He’d take her to the end of the earth if she asked.”

  “Shite,” spat Con. He dashed toward the retreating boat, nearly knocking a man to the ground as he weaved through the crowded wharf.

  Con sprinted to the end of the dock and leapt without pausing to think about the distance. He landed hard on the deck of the sailing ship and rolled to a stop.

  No ordinary man could have made the jump, but for a Sentinel, it had been a gamble worth taking. Con hoped no one had seen him, but had no time to regret the decision. At any given moment, half the sailors on the wharf were drunk and wouldn’t believe their eyes.

  Con felt the heel of a boot against his back. Spinning, he grabbed the boot, forcing the knee to bend with the back of his elbow and throwing the boot’s owner to the ground beside him.

  Con froze.

  The tip of a knife rested lightly against his throat.

  “You’re quite a jumper,” said a woman’s voice.

  Con locked eyes with the woman lying beside him. She wore men’s clothing, but more interestingly, held her dagger as if she knew how to use it. Smiling, she returned the knife to her side and stood. Con clambered to his feet and brushed himself off, keeping a wary eye on the girl.

  “I suspect you are quite the jumper yourself.”

  The young woman wore trousers, boots and a cotton shirt. Most seamen chose linen shirts over the more expensive cotton variety, so Con reasoned this woman had some money. She also had a leather dagger holster on her hip and another knife protruding from her boot. Con suspected the conspicuous weapon in her left boot served to distract from the one she had hidden in her right boot, the same side as her hip dagger. He had never seen such a beautiful woman strapped with so many weapons, and paused to imagine how much fun it might be to disarm her.

  Con could tell the woman was a Sentinel. He had only met a few others like himself, but their energy auras had been very similar. Since becoming a Sentinel, Con could see people’s auras, and the glow of color surrounding each person could offer clues as to their moods and dispositions. Other Sentinels had fiery orange-red auras, Angeli blue, Perfidia green, humans, yellow.

  There was no reason for them to discuss what they were; both had been trained to recognize other Sentinels and Con knew by the brightness of the young woman’s aura that she had been a Sentinel for longer than he had.

  She held out her hand. “Anne Bonny.”

  “Con Carey,” he responded. He took her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but she held fast and shook his hand with a firm grip. Con smirked, unable to hide his amusement.

  “I take it you’re after Robert the Perfidian as well?”

  Anne nodded, but her attention had already turned to the rigging. With one hand, she held her wind-blown locks away from her eyes, and then with a huff, slipped a string from around her wrist and tied her light copper hair into a long ponytail. Con recalled his young sisters doing something similar with their hair when they were very young, but had never seen a grown woman wear her hair that way in public.

  “If you could help me with these sails we should be able to catch him,” she said.

  Con looked around the boat for crew and found none.

  “Where’s the captain?”

  “The original Captain had trouble sticking to the work at hand. I have him tied below.”

  Con chuckled.

  “Thought you owed him a little ext
ra for the use of his boat, did he?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Wanted a poke for a boat, eh? A roll for a row?”

  Anne looked up at Con. She started to grin.

  “Some tail for a sail?” she said.

  “He’d help your hunt for some—”

  “Alright!” said Anne, cutting Con short. “I think we get it.”

  Con cleared his throat.

  “Sorry.”

  Too much. I never know when to quit.

  Anne went to work on the rigging and Con marveled at her prowess on the boat. She manipulated the Bermuda rig, setting the triangular mainsail and headsail like the daughter of Neptune. He reasoned this was not her first time on the deck of a ship, though he could not imagine where a woman would have gotten the practice. He had to admit he did like to watch her work. The sailor had been right, mimicking her curves with his hands. Though her cotton shirt was tucked into her trousers, as she reached and pulled on the ship’s lines the right side worked free and Con caught a glimpse of the smooth flesh of her taut waist where it flowed into the curve of her hip.

  Con realized Anne had caught him watching her and quickly looked away, pretending to check lines. He had learned at a young age that the worst way to seduce a woman was to let on that he fancied her; leering at Anne’s curves would only give her the upper hand.

  “I don’t think the Perfidian Robert is aware I’m after him,” said Anne. Sails in place, she tucked in her shirt. “Does he know about you?”

  “No. I was tasked with his reaping by the Angel Nathanial. Do you know him?”

  “Nathanial? No. I was trained by Yuko and I report to the Arch Michael.”

  Con scowled. His Guardian Angel trainer, Nathanial, had mentioned that Con’s legion commander was the Arch Angel Michael, but Con had not yet met him.

  “You talk directly to Michael?”

  Anne nodded. Con noticed her eyes dart away as she answered. She knew something about Michael he didn’t.

  Con whistled. “You must be something special, girly.”

  Anne offered a stiff smile.

  “You can call me Anne.”

  Con tipped an imaginary cap and offered a half bow.