by Dianna Hardy
Michael walked forwards, pulling the boar with him. “You will remain ‘my Lord’. There is no other.”
God stared at him, his expression unreadable. It was so strange to see him in human guise. All angels had taken on human form since they’d fallen, their wings – or fangs, if the bloodlust took over – the only way to tell them apart from the lesser beings, but he hadn’t expected God himself to look so … mortal. He had all but become corporeal, talking on shape and form as any other angel had. However, unlike angels, his physical form had not exactly completed itself: he existed in a suspended state, trapped in this world, mostly a ghost that Michael feared would grow weaker given time. He was able to will himself solid when necessary in order to touch and feel, but that was all.
Still, Michael hadn’t expected him to take on physical form at all, after all, he was not an angel – he was above them all.
He looked an awful lot like the last angel he’d created, with the same brown hair and grey eyes, although his facial features were smoother and less angular; more effeminate. It made sense, he supposed – the last angel had been formed using more of God’s essence than any of the angels that had come before … not that that fact had done any of them any good.
God looked away once more. “Where are we, Michael?”
Michael’s heart swelled with hope. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks and he finally wants to know… “The mountains west of Beijing. It’s safe. Not easy for any human to get to, and demons and angels will not look here as there is little in the way of food … or … anything, actually.” He dumped the boar by God’s left side and gestured at it. “Blood is a necessity for us now that we’ve fallen – temporarily at least.” He crouched down beside him on the large rock. “It will nurture your physical body and your brain. Your cells need this.” And, secretly, he hoped that the blood would encourage his form to grow stronger and solid.
He looked at the creature, and then at Michael once more. “Have you fed, Michael?”
He hesitated. Truth was, the thought of the taste of blood alone made him want to retch. And the thought of such a base act tainting his soul…
“Need it, do we, Michael?”
Michael’s fingers tightened their grip on the warm, coarse fur of the animal. He tampered down the panic that flared in his chest. No. No, he could not expect his Lord to damn himself, if he was not prepared to do the same.
With trembling hands he stroked the beast, and then cradled its head and turned it over. Its neck fell limply onto the other side. There – the blood would have pooled there.
Saliva filled his mouth at the promise of it, just as his mind and stomach churned in disgust. The debilitating hunger threatened to turn his insides out. Who was the one being eaten here? The hunger felt like a dark cavern about to swallow him whole. For no one else would he do this … but for Him…
He thought on it no longer – saving his Lord was worth the sacrifice. With a yearning whimper borne of need and defeat, he sank his fangs into the boar, careful to create a seal with his lips so no blood escaped. He could not take too much – God would need his strength.
He tugged and sucked deeply at the wound, because the blood was no longer flowing, so he had to do most of the work, but by the Heavens, this tasted divine.
The potent liquid rushed straight to his head, and it took a while before he realised he was moaning with abandon at the ecstasy flooding his system. With concerted effort, he forced his mind back to his surroundings, ignored the heaviness that now clung to his being, weighing his heart down, and drew his canines in. Conscious of his appearance, he wiped away the drop of blood he could feel beginning to slide down the corner of his mouth, then looked up at God and held the boar’s neck out to him in offering.
God continued to stare at him in that perplexing, expressionless way he seemed to have mastered since the worlds merged. He had not been this way as an ethereal being – there had been warmth and thought and conviction. Now…
“My Lord?”
The Almighty rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off his most loyal of angels, perhaps only second to Abaddon – he had never gotten over losing Abaddon… “I’m not hungry, Michael.” And then he turned and made his way off the rock and into the recesses of the cave.
Michael trembled all over, three weeks worth of fight and failure finally leaving him bereft. A wretched sound echoed throughout the cave and he realised it was coming from him – from his own bloodied soul that lay kneeling and corrupted.
The light shimmered briefly on the water, before disappearing completely as the moon faded behind a cloud, plunging everything into darkness.
Chapter Two
Norolf stood at the edge of the River Thames, where it curved into the deepest ‘U’, and stared at the two tall buildings a short distance away known as Pan Towers.
They were in there somewhere, he was sure of it, although he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain because of the protective shield that coated the structures; magic strumming off the glass, concrete and metal exterior to anyone who knew how to see it – which would be quite a few people by now. Humans learnt fast when they had to.
Most of London’s buildings had endured the earthquakes that had persisted over the past three weeks. Some had been affected, but the bulk of the ones that had fallen had done so at the hands of men and demons alike, and even some angels – those of them too detached, too disorientated by the new world to understand either it or themselves.
Riots were rife across the planet, but nothing that hadn’t been seen before whether fuelled by political or religious agendas. This time it was more widespread, but it was survivable. Anything was survivable, even if events were more shocking than any were used to.
“Are you positive?” he asked the Lagool standing beside him. The male was skittish to say the least, but who could blame him? Demons had been thrust into the new world partially castrated – magically, anyway. It probably didn’t help that Norolf was a human who was scaring the shit out of him.
“As much as I can be. My vision has faded since the Bleeding – the Lagool have suffered.”
The Bleeding. A term given to the apocalypse that came straight from some prophecy he cared not an iota about – something about dimensions bleeding into one. It had never been his focus. But what an odd euphemism when the apocalypse itself had been relatively painless, all things considered. Well, painless for humans. “All demons have suffered, my friend.”
He looked at him, all murky eyes, shiny skin and gills, clearly unconvinced of their ‘friendship’. “Yes, we have. Nevertheless, I see the Dragon rising here.” He gestured at the river.
To be birthed through the life-giving water made sense, the Thames itself, the umbilical cord connecting the north and south of the country. From his studies, he believed that dragons had always roosted and birthed near home, wherever that home was. He’d bet his last penny it had something to do the magically protected Pan Towers he was looking at, and wherever the Dragon was, would be where he found the baby. The new Messiah. But he had to be sure. Life was suddenly too unpredictable to go chasing theories. “What else do you see?” he pressed the demon.
Those odd, fish-like eyes focused back on the two tall towers. “A sword.” He frowned in concentration. “One that cuts deep. An angel in pain. Magic – great magic.”
“That’ll be the succubus – the thirteenth witch.”
“The angel,” he repeated. “He’s in great pain.”
Norolf made a sort of derivative sound at the back of his throat. Angels. In the name of Freya, they were always in pain. What was one more suffering angel to him?
“Tell me … do you see a child? A baby?”
His brow descended even further. “It’s so unclear. I … no. It’s cloudy. The magic is too strong.”
He regarded the Lagool with cold calculation. “If you’re deceiving me…”
He looked at him, shocked. “Of course not! I have no reason to. My tribe are only looking to s
urvive the coming years – we care not for the Dragon, or the fay, or whoever ‘rules’ the new world. We just want to be left alone with our clarity of sight – what’s left of it, anyway.” Remorse, with a hint of bitterness coated his words.
“Fine.” The information was better than none at all, and he had no reason to doubt the demon. “Here.” He handed him the small leather pouch he’d retrieved from his coat’s inside pocket.
The demon took it readily, hungrily, and hurriedly poured the contents out onto the palm of his slightly webbed hands.
Pearls.
Two of them – genuine, wild pearls. Rare. And they were the equivalent of superfoods for the Lagool – more than that, they nourished their blood and tissues, and increased their vision.
“There’ll be two more each time you help me – I may call on you again.”
The demon nodded.
“But if I find out that anything you’ve said is a lie, I am perfectly capable of contaminating the waters you need to survive.” To prove his point, he pulled the black glove off his right hand to reveal something that could have been straight out of a horror movie.
Where his hand should have been, was a deformed ‘blob’ of black, sticky tar.
The Lagool visibly gulped, then nodded more vigorously. “Our powers may have been diluted by the apocalypse, but what we do manage to see is still accurate. Our gift of sight is intact.”
Norolf roughly pulled the glove back onto his ‘hand’ and nodded once.
The Lagool took one step back, and then deftly turned and dived into the river from whence he’d come.
Norolf turned back to Pan Towers.
Modern architecture was something else, wasn’t it? All glass and reflections. Just smoke and mirrors really. Humans had never understood that, had they? That every single thing they have ever created was done so to try and find themselves in it – to see themselves more clearly. Maybe they would understand now – now that the veils had come down. Now that free will, with all its confusion, reigned. Now that sin had been absolved and the rose-tinted spectacles knocked off.
He didn’t have that problem. He had been walking between worlds since he could walk. As a shaman of the north, he was both revered and feared.
His Nordic blood thrummed with the anticipation of the fight ahead – the battle of wills. And another, more basic part of him thrummed at the memory of the blonde shifter-witch.
He chided himself for that.
Foolish.
Base reactions always got in the way of the crucial goal.
But oh, hadn’t she been something? Such a soft femininity about her, but also so powerful. You didn’t often see those two qualities together in this day and age. Women tried so hard to be like men now.
He tutted at his obvious weakness (how long had it been since he’d felt the comforting warmth of a woman’s touch?) and turned away from the multi-storey complex she was no doubt hiding in.
The goal was the baby.
The Dessec wanted it, but they were fearing fools that would see it dead because it ‘tainted’ their bloodline. He didn’t want the baby dead. He had his own agenda. It involved bringing it up to be the most powerful shaman the world had ever seen, and of course that power would flow towards him. Oh, and annihilate the fay. Yes – he knew the connection between the baby and the fay. How fitting for the child he would bring up to be the one to destroy their race, and in doing so, his curse.
The baby’s father – the Dessec tribe had referred to him as Pueblo, a time travelling, time-bending shapeshifter – had disappeared from the scene. That left Amy, the witch, alone with the succubus and one other male and female he could sense. The male was not completely human – an angel he guessed – and the female was another witch, possibly an older woman, for her energy was weaker. Unfortunately, that was all he could sense.
He couldn’t sense Amy herself, and he assumed it was because she was protected, but no doubt she was there with the succubus – who better to protect her than the most powerful witch in the world?
His thoughts stalled for a second as that other mystery man came to mind – the one who had astrally transported him out of the house he had almost captured Amy in last month. He still hadn’t been able to trace him, not even with the help of the spirits he’d called upon. All magic left footprints like any prey did. He was a good hunter – one of the best. But the man had eluded him, somehow. Something wasn’t quite right with him – it was as if he shouldn’t exist – but if he was shrouded with glamour or any kind of skilful illusion, he would have spotted it. He hated being outsmarted.
Oh, well. Another part of the challenge…
Norolf smiled as he teleported his way out of there, his mind lingering on whether he would kill the witch after the baby’s birth, or keep her.
~*~
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know, babe. I don’t want to go either.” His warm hand rested on her still flat belly, the both of them lying on the even warmer sand beneath them.
“You’ve got two babes now,” smiled Amy.
Pueblo laughed, rich and deep, sending delightful waves of pleasure all through her body. “As if you’re not enough to handle on your own.”
“Hey!”
“You know it’s true.”
“Would you have it any other way?”
“Not a chance.” His lips captured hers, and she relaxed into the feel of him, not quite managing to forget that it wasn’t quite as real as she’d like. She blinked back tears, refusing to cry in front of him – he’d seen too much of her crying recently. He was doing his best – no need for her to pile on the guilt.
He pulled away.
This isn’t enough! screamed her mind, but she kept her mouth shut. “Tell me about your training. Is it going well?”
“I don’t wanna talk work. I want to talk about you – us…”
“But I want to know you’re all right. You never tell me about what’s happening. Are you safe?”
“Always safe. I have a family to come back to.”
She almost lost the tear-free battle right then … almost. “Will I see you again tomorrow night?”
“Every night. Every night you dream, I’ll be here.”
“Do you ever…” She hesitated, not knowing if this was one of those guilt things she shouldn’t be laying on him.
“Tell me, Amy.”
She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “Do you ever worry this isn’t real? Do you ever wake up and think none of it happened? That we didn’t meet up and have these conversations?”
“No. Never.”
“Oh.” Fuck. Did that make her a bad girlfriend? “I’m a bad girlfriend.”
His smile widened, showing his rarely seen dimples, and her stomach flip-flopped at the sight.
“What’s so funny? You like bad girlfriends?”
“Say it again.”
“That I’m a bad girlfriend?”
“That you’re my girlfriend. ‘Cause that makes me your boyfriend. We’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
She rolled her eyes, but laughed at his boyishness. “We’re kinda beyond that, don’t you think? What, with being blood-bonded, and a baby on the way…”
“Yeah, but we’re still boyfriend and girlfriend. Come on, give me this – I ain’t ever had a girlfriend before, not in this way.”
A giggle escaped her at his jubilation, but she couldn’t help the thought that sprung up in her mind: So, in what way have you had girlfriends?
Damn the inner-voice – it came complete with a frown to boot. In a very real sense, she knew nothing about Pueblo. Not really. Yeah, they had the blood bond, and now the baby, and yes, she knew she loved him, no matter how sudden or unexpected it was … but she knew nothing about his personal history. Paul, on the other hand—
Shut up! she scolded herself, then gave herself a mental kick for good measure.
But it was too late. Paul’s face appeared sharp and clear in her mind, and the dream faded
a little.
“No,” she moaned. “I’m waking up.”
Pueblo held his grin in place, but the sadness shone through his eyes. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “There’s always tomorrow night.”
“No … Pueblo…” But she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t reveal the confusion she lived with day in and day out, partly because it wasn’t so easy to put into words. “I miss you too much,” she blurted out, and sod the guilt – why shouldn’t he feel guilty? He could come back if he wanted to; teleport back for just a day – what was so bloody wrong with that? What kind of training was he undergoing that meant he couldn’t even visit his pregnant girlfriend?
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he repeated.
“Are you listening to me? I miss you too much!”
And not enough…
“I’m your girlfriend…”
But not your wife…
“God damn it!” she cried.
“Hey … hey…” He pulled her disappearing body into his chest and held her there. “I’m here … I’m here. I’m here, baby … I’m here…”
Amy opened her eyes to the grey shadows that heralded morning’s first light.
“Fuck,” she whispered, and angrily swiped at a tear before it could fall. “Every night…”
It was perfect while it lasted; while she was there with him in the dream space that their bonding allowed … if it was even real. She had to believe it was.
But every time she woke up it almost killed her, and it was getting worse. It reminded her of the women she had known as a teenager – no, not in this life, but in the last one – in her life as Elizabeth. She had watched them hold it all together, or try to, as their husbands were drafted into the Second World War, with no word for weeks, or maybe months, or sometimes at all.
A crushing desperation had her gasping for breath and her stomach lurched.
Oh, God… This couldn’t be good for the baby.
Pushing away the guilt that engulfed her – and wasn’t that a lovely emotion that was always with her now – she reached under the pillow next to hers and brought out the shirt she’d stolen from Paul’s wardrobe four days ago, when this suffocating feeling had her pressing her legs to her chest so she wouldn’t pass out.
