by Dianna Hardy
Amy couldn’t see anything from the top of the stairs with the shaman in front of her, but the voice she heard sent her heart racing, her hope flaring and gave her back the fight she thought she’d lost.
“That was your cue to get your hands off her, moron.”
She didn’t wait for him to do that, but kneed him in the groin, careful to keep his liquified hand well away from her; then she punched him in the face when he was doubled over.
OUCH! CRAP! Way to break your hand…
She gave him a final, hard shove, ensuring he went down onto the floor, then leapt out of his reach and raced down the stairs towards the voice she knew too well.
She didn’t think twice about taking Paul’s outstretched hand, and as soon as hers was in his, they began reciting the Situalis Dissolutionis. It was the standard spell used on an opponent when he was down, to eradicate the immediate danger to all.
Their combined power ionised their surroundings, a warm, light glow igniting where their hands joined. They turned their free hands palm outwards, towards the shaman now sitting up, baffled and angry, on the floor.
The last line of the incantation left their lips.
The shaman, who looked like he was going to rupture a gut, snarled at Paul. “Who the fuck are you?”
Paul said nothing, but tightened his hold on Amy’s hand, and together, they sent the spell coursing out of their bodies, through their open palms, straight into the man who’d gotten to his feet and was now lunging at them. He disappeared, mid-air, in front of their eyes, followed by the five Dessec demons that decorated the floor.
They drew their power back into their bodies.
A heavy silence clung to the air.
Amy turned, and for the first time, with all her gazillion memories intact, took in the man whose hand she held. Paul looked young; as young as he had in 1956, and also as genuine and kind. But behind his eyes, the softness was gone, replaced by age, experience and the harshness of life. It wasn’t just Paul who stood in front of her, but Etienne too. This wasn’t just the man from 1956, but Paul and Etienne – the past and the present – combined.
And she was both Elizabeth and Amy.
It was at that precise moment that the totality of the truth she’d been hiding from sank in. It had been drumming around inside her ever since she’d come back; ever since the research she’d begun a week ago to find Elizabeth May’s marriage certificate; to find her divorce papers; to piece together the life that her burgeoning memories had forced her to relive…
She hadn’t been able to admit the truth – not to Pueblo, not to Elena, not even to herself – because to do so would have meant facing decisions that were so great, they dwarfed her. So, she’d secreted the inescapable reality behind the return of her memories; masked it with her hurt and sorrow. But it was now staring at her so blatantly in the face, she could no longer turn away from it.
She glanced at their hands. They had been clasped together in this same way on their wedding day.
Elizabeth May had no death certificate, because she had gone missing and no body had ever been found.
As a result, Paul May had never been widowed, nor filed for divorce, and once he’d become Etienne Green, he had never told anyone about his life as Paul. His marriage to his second wife, Eleanor, had been a Pagan handfasting ritual that required no legal documents. From what she’d managed to dig out of The Council’s archives, Eleanor had not wanted a civil ceremony, so no rummaging into his past had been necessary, and no one had been any the wiser.
There were no divorce papers.
Amy’s legs, which had so successfully held her up in the face of death, now gave way in the face of truth … and in the face of her husband. Because that’s who he was to her. It made not a scrap of difference that the world recognised her as Amy Langdon – she was also Elizabeth in her heart.
She collapsed in a tear-streaked heap on the floor, and didn’t pull away when his loving, familiar arms cradled her. Nor did she believe him, when he said everything was going to be all right.
Chapter Eleven
He thought he’d lived through everything. Only now did he realise he’d merely existed.
Over the past few hundred years, he’d given up hope of finding her. He didn’t like admitting it, but it was true. Even finding the pissing Holy Grail had been easier than finding her. To the point where, when she’d finally been staring him in the face, he’d refused to acknowledge it. His blindness had almost seen Mary torn from him again, but then, he couldn’t do anything right anyway. He was crap at being an angel. He was supposed to have been the most loyal one, the best one, the good son that did everything in the name of the father or whatever that saying was, but he’d been created wrong. Those voices in his head going on 24/7 never ceased to remind him of that – the world’s first schizo angel, ladies and gentlemen.
He was supposed to have been the last angel, but he hadn’t even gotten that right, for fuck’s sake.
Gwain turned onto his side, lightly rustling the black satin sheets on his king-size bed, and stared at Mary’s enticing back.
She’s here.
Resisting the urge to dance his fingers across her ivory skin – to follow the contours of her tantalising curves, and sink into her softness from behind like he had an hour ago – was akin to resisting a banquet laid out before him, when he had been fed crumbs all his life.
But resist he did, because he wanted her to sleep after everything she’d been through … and it’s not like they hadn’t just had mind-blowing sex over and over again for the past two hours.
It was a damn good thing he’d forgotten what it felt like to orgasm, ‘cause shit, he’d have found a way to decapitate himself by now if he’d remembered that was what he’d been missing.
Although, he thought, it wouldn’t have been mind-blowing with anyone else. Nope. It was her. She met him head on in every way, and yeah, there had been a couple of women in his ridiculously long past with a similar feistiness, but what Mary had went beyond that. She was powerful in an unearthly way. She just hadn’t awakened to it yet. He wondered how much of the old Ymari would be present when she woke up; if that ancient knowledge she wielded would be visible behind her eyes. She would know everything, anyway, now. She was part of him; entwined with him in every respect.
He reached out to her with his mind, to find her own mind deep in slumber, almost beyond his reach.
He smiled. “Good,” he whispered, and placed a light kiss on her shoulder. “Rest.”
Quietly, he slipped out from under the sheets, grabbed a roll-up and lighter from his nightstand, and made his way out of the bedroom. Stopping at the airing cupboard by the guest bathroom, he pulled out a pair of boxers and slipped them on, then continued towards the balcony. Before he slid open the glass door, he took the time to stretch his wings to their full length, letting his muscles preen the feathers with their movement alone.
He groaned. Stretching was gooooood – one of those physical luxuries Heaven’s angels didn’t have a clue about, and humans took for granted. There weren’t many private places roomy enough for him to have a good stretch. Thank fuck for penthouses.
Reluctantly closing his wings behind him so the outside world didn’t see them, he made his way out onto the veranda of the 47th floor, and into the blasting cold. It wasn’t that angels didn’t feel the cold, but they could tolerate temperatures well below freezing much better than sweltering heat. Although, clearly, Mary didn’t have the same problem with heat, and had almost frozen to death on their flight back here. Well done, Gwain. She must be so glad you finally found her.
He wondered if she’d still be sensitive to cold now her wings had emerged. There was so much he didn’t know – even now, she was still a mystery. He was looking forward to rediscovering every inch of her.
Lighting the end of his roll-up, he stared out over the River Thames and Canary Wharf from his top floor condo. He’d picked it because he liked to be as near the clouds as possible; he’d p
icked it because he liked to be able to see the world; he’d picked it because this was the closest to Heaven he’d ever be again.
On second thoughts, scrap that. Being inside Mary was the closest to Heaven he’d ever be.
The sound of wings coming in to land sounded from behind him, to his right.
He sighed when he heard booted feet hit his polished balcony floor, then bit back a curse when what could only be described as ‘archangel aura’ engulfed him and his immediate surroundings. “I thought I’d have just a little longer before you showed up,” he mumbled, turning to face the archangel. “Long time, no see.
“Gawaine.”
Of course, he’s got to speak my name the old way… tradition and courtesy before honesty, even when you despise the person you’re speaking to…
“Mikey.”
Michael stiffened at his casual greeting.
Gwain smirked. “Have I ruffled your feathers?”
“You’re an arrogant fool, and you’re in deep trouble.”
“So, what’s new? And I prefer overbearing arsehole, if you don’t mind.” He offered the angel the end of his half-smoked roll-up. “Would you like to suck on my butt?”
Mikey looked positively furious, and Gwain let out a little chuckle. He was an immature twat for riling him up, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“Where is she, Gawaine?”
“Out of your reach.”
“So it’s true.” Michael stated, softly. “She lives.”
Gwain said nothing. He took another lungful of tobacco instead, and eyed his opponent carefully – he was under no illusions that this was a friendly visit. The blond archangel was taller than him, bulkier too, and since he wasn’t completely corporeal, he was also probably faster. And he’d bet his last penny that Michael hadn’t spent the last few hours fighting an enemy to the death – or as close to death as possible – then flying against both gravity and pressure to escape, whilst carrying two people. Exhaustion flitted through his body at the thought, but he quickly steeled himself against it. No, the odds weren’t stacked in his favour, but nor had they been when he’d jumped into Hell and slaughtered the first angel. The thing was, he always fought better when Lady Luck flipped him her middle finger.
“You’ve known her, haven’t you? Ever since she first found her way into Heaven. All this time, and you’ve said nothing. You let us all think you fell for the sake of mankind, but in fact, you fell because of her. You hid her from us,” said Michael.
“I didn’t know she’d survived.”
“You’re hiding her from me now.”
“Because I know what you’ll do to her.”
“She shouldn’t exist!”
“Well, she does.”
Michael took a step towards Gwain. “You know the prophecy.”
“By her hand, yadda, yadda, yadda … yeah I do.”
“She’s the reason man will fall.”
Gwain laughed, and shook his head. “That’s not what you’re worried about – you’re worried you will fall. That Heaven will come crashing down the way Eden did.”
“She does not have the power to bring down Heaven.”
“Really? Does your bullshit smell sweeter up there amongst the clouds? Then why are you after her? You must know there are two translations of The Demon Bride prophecy.”
The archangel fell silent, his stare fixed on Gwain. “And what do you know of The Demon Bride?”
Gwain threw his expired cigarette to the floor, and grinned. “She gives one hell of a blow job.”
Metal and light came flying at him in the blink of an eye.
Gwain ducked and rolled, almost too late. Shit. What a stupid thing to say. Mary will skin you alive for that one. He’d seriously gone too long without fulfilling sex. Was it his fault that all he could think about the past couple of hours was Mary’s mouth around his dick, and how it felt to come inside her?
Focus!
He called his own sword forth. It materialised in his palm, and not a moment too soon.
The archangel threw himself at him, blade first.
Just as with God and Abaddon, there was no way to kill an angel that hadn’t fallen – the whole race was immortal in the truest sense of the word – but his weapon could be put out of commission. He held out his sword at the exact moment Michael’s one fell over him, and, as was always the case, Gwain’s blade cut through any and everything else, singing like a tuning fork as it did so.
Michael rolled away before he got speared, not that any blade could do much against a form that wasn’t entirely solid. His sword lay shimmering in two pieces on the floor of the balcony for a few seconds, before fading away into thin air. On his knees, Michael eyed Gwain’s weapon with disdain. “You still have that sword?”
“Yeah, so?”
“It’s folklore and myth!” he spat out.
“So are we.”
“You’ve been amongst humans too long. Smoking cigarettes?”
“It earths me.”
“Fighting alongside them? Aiding their search for—”
“Truth, Mikey. God may view them as his creation gone wrong, but they’re good people. And they’re at their best when they have nothing to lose. Whatever the apocalypse brings, humans may just surprise you … or maybe that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Michael stood back up to his full height and Gwain followed suit.
“As long as she’s alive, the apocalypse will come to pass, and your beloved humans will suffer. It doesn’t matter if she’s Abaddon’s ‘bride’ – or whatever ridiculous notion that lunatic angel has – or a mere human, or some chaotic entity from the land that time forgot—”
“There are two translations. It might not be her.”
“It will be because of her! My job is to avert the fall of mankind. I don’t want to shed blood doing it.”
“And you think I do? I don’t want mankind to fall any more than you do, but—”
“But you won’t let us kill her.”
Gwain fell silent.
“You’ve made your choice – you made it a very long time ago. I didn’t come here to waste my time making blind fools see. Give me the Pen.”
He blanked his thoughts of the Witching Pen, and hardened his mind. “You writing a sonnet?”
“You know as well as I do that only the Shanka Witch can write futures with that Pen now.”
“God and Abaddon can still write with it, and they’re the only ones that can destroy it – that’s the way the angels were instructed to make it: so that he and the first angel would have total control. Will God destroy the Pen, Michael?”
The angel hesitated. “No. But he will be able write an end to those prophecies Lokoli wrote.”
“He’ll write Mary dead, and use the Pen to control man’s actions so they don’t bring Heaven down again. He’s never forgiven the fall of Eden… And people think the Greek Gods held grudges…”
“She doesn’t have to die. Maybe he’ll write her human again, wipe her slate clean, give her the upbringing she never had – the wealth, the loving family—”
“Christ, you’ve done you’re research, haven’t you.”
“Maybe he’ll even give you a mortal life so you can be with her.”
He hated himself in that second for indulging in the possibility. After thousands of years of immortality, to live and die without knowing any better was a seductive proposal. But they’d be living under an invisible rule, controlled by strings they couldn’t see, just like everyone else. “You would have me believe that such a threat to the Kingdom of Heaven will be allowed to live? You really do think I’m a fool.”
“That ‘demon bride’—”
“She’s an angel, like us – not a demon.”
“She was made from the essence of darkness – from all that was outcast – without the aid of God’s light. That makes her a demon.”
“That darkness was a living, breathing entity in its own right before it was split in half and remoulded.”
<
br /> Michael scoffed. “It was nothing. She was nothing. She didn’t have form until Abaddon gave her one.” His eyes darkened, and he planted his face right into Gwain’s, who tightened his hold on his sword. “You were nothing. I told God not to create you the way that he did, but he wanted a connection with his beloved first angel after casting him out. So what did he do? After giving Abaddon half of the nucleus of chaos, he kept the other half and imbued it with light, his plan being to create one last angel. But the very centre of darkness required more light than he could give, so he injected it with a portion of his own will – his own conscience – and created you.”
Gwain actually staggered back a step – that little bit of information floored him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he shivered. That was why he’d had an inner-voice. Because God had given him a part of his will … and they’d never bloody told him.
Oh yeah, and his soul had been moulded from the nucleus of chaotic matter. The same nucleus that Mary was made from.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
No wonder he’d always felt at peace on the other side of The Boundary. No wonder he couldn’t resist her the first time he saw her there, nor she, him. That must have been why she was able to leave Abaddon behind. She was a part of him – no, not just a part of him – she was his other half … literally. And they’d been ripped apart more than once.
Anger coiled in him, but more than that, a deep sense of hurt he wished wasn’t there. Because he had loved God. He had loved Heaven. Because ever since his creation he’d been wandering around lost, not quite feeling as if he belonged. And even when fallen, even when consumed by his need to find Mary, even after he’d grown to love and help the humans he lived amongst, he’d still tried so damn hard to be the good angel he was supposed to be – to fit in.
They’d never told him.
He would have wasted less time watching brown grass grow.
Oh, no. He went cold inside. He’d bonded with Mary without knowing any of this – would this affect their mergence? Had he put her in danger?
“God thought his will placed in you would enable him to control the darkness in you that he couldn’t eradicate – after all, that’s what he wanted – to conquer darkness; to master the unknown. But he only succeeded in creating a wildling. An angel misaligned to God’s purpose. You always selfishly did what you wanted. Look at yourself. You have the will of God inside you, and you’ve sided with lesser beings.”
