“The temperature. In here it is warm, but outside it is cold. I can feel it. My skin … feels … everything.”
Daman leaned past her, closed the window and shut off the flow of air. “You’ll catch cold if you don’t keep warm.” His shoulder brushed hers when he moved. The heat from his body transferred to hers. Heat … and something else.
A moment of awareness. Of him. And her body’s rapid physical response.
Skin heating, senses tingling. Touch, but reaction in a different way. A split second that animated her body, contained the total of her mind, the whole of her awareness. A connection.
Intimacy.
She watched him straighten, saw the moment of confusion enter his eyes, perception, then just as quickly was blinked away as though it had never happened.
But she knew it had. She still felt it. That strange feeling that overtook her was somehow more familiar than the range of sensations that enveloped her new body. As though she knew what was in her mind, but it now sharpened and blossomed in her physical body.
His hand was at her shoulder. She watched as it settled there, long fingers curving, as though in slow motion. Pressure as his hand weighed on her shoulder. Pleasant. She looked again to his eyes. They were black, sharp. Changed. She went to place her hand on top of his; then before she could move, he said, “Your jacket’s wet. Let me take it.”
The moment was over. He took her jacket from her shoulders with clean efficiency and transferred it to the back of another kitchen chair, slinging it across the back next to his with weighted movements. He turned, went to drag his hands through his hair, stopped himself and plunged them into his pockets.
“I … errr … ”
She stepped toward him. It was an easy movement, one that came naturally to her. She sought to comfort, take him in her arms, ward off the dark feeling she knew lay behind the tough veneer. He went rigid. Just a little, but enough to make her hesitate and still.
“Shit.” The monosyllable was uttered under his breath, but still she heard.
He paused for a moment then bolted into the kitchen, opened an overhead cupboard and took down a bottle half empty with brown liquid that sloshed as he moved. He clutched it in both hands, fingers turning around the slender rim. His head dropped, shoulders set in a tense line before he pushed the bottle back into the cupboard, slapping the door shut. He faced her but didn’t look at her, instead dropping his eyes to the floor.
“I need a shower. I need to think. Can I … leave you here for a few minutes?” His voice was gruff, out of place. “When I come back, we’ll work out what we have to do to … get you back … where you came from.” He turned what he called the television on for her and told her to make herself comfortable in the sofa, before heading into the bedroom she’d woken in. The click of the door separated them.
It was clear he felt responsible for her being here, in flesh and blood. She could only sense that any fault, as such, lay with the both of them. He could not be the only reason she found herself without memory and in a breathing, feeling, human body.
Muted sounds of water falling began, then the sounds of him stepping under the heat. Water was such a cleansing tonic. Images of people swimming, bathing, soaking in water touched her mind. People making love in river streams, lost lagoons and private pools. Such intimate moments that the eyes of the unseen were privy too. But never fully understood.
But now, there was a tightness in her abdomen. A teasing urge to join him, to feel warm water slide over her skin. Watching it wash over his. To have it wash away his apprehension and her lost memory. She stepped toward the closed door, but the ball in her stomach tightened uncomfortably and started filling with knots. She put a hand over the area and stood still, waiting for the knots to loosen and unbunch.
It might not be such a good idea to join him. But still, she needed to know more about this environment. Daman’s living space.
She studied the room. It was distinctly ruffled, lived in. Things had a place, but they weren’t organized in any particular fashion. It was functional, more than anything else.
A gray guitar was set up on a stand shoved into the corner next to her. It was partially obscured by the open curtain. She pushed the material away to have a better look. It was the fluffy coating of dust that had made her think it was gray. She trailed the tip of her finger through the dust, leaving a shiny streak. The color beneath was warm honey, shiny despite the neglect. She strummed the wires and listened to the disharmonic mix of sound. She was sure this wasn’t the way it should sound. It should feel pleasant to listen to hear notes coming from these strings. She wasn’t sure how she knew that. She was also aware of a certainty that this instrument used to be played nearly every day, but had been abandoned long enough for the strings to loosen, to become dull and lifeless. She straightened, looking about the room.
She felt comfortable here. It was a space that drew her. The cushions on the couch were drooping and rumpled, in much need of re-stuffing, but it attracted her. The scatter cushions were stacked at one end; there was an indent in the stack, positioned so that a person would lie on the couch and watch television. A smile touched her mouth. She could sit on that couch and feel like she’d sat there a thousand times before. She drew her fingers along the back of the couch, feeling the cracked leather undulate beneath her fingers as she moved. She could picture Daman spread-eagled on the couch, so tall his feet would fall off the end, arms slung behind his head as he watched television. It was a comfort, the sense of coming … home.
She was calm at the thought. She could watch him for hours like that. Watch him, oversee, keep him safe until his dreams charged his mind, a place where spirit could meet spirit. She could wait for that time with infinite patience, lose herself in the peace that it provided. A special time. A time that would be calm, yet pull her from other things. Important things she had to do, but couldn’t bear to leave him to do. She could picture herself perched on the arm of the couch watching him so clearly in her mind.
Right a wrong.
She jolted, a frown pulling her brow. The thought had whispered from nowhere and it sunk to the pit of her stomach, swirling heavily, almost painfully. She felt the need to move, to shake the unsettledness the words brought to her.
She moved to the dusty sideboard that held a smattering of framed photos. They were a feminine touch, the photos in matching, rather chic silver frames. She picked one up, fingers running over the pattern in the frame.
She recognized Daman. He was arm in arm with a woman dressed in white. Their wedding day. A frown touched her forehead. She knew about weddings, and how people looked when they made their vows before God and their family. It was a happy occasion. Daman and the woman looked happy in the photograph. She smiled, tracing the woman’s gown. She was happy for them, joyous, but also wanting that for herself, knowing that could never be. Her finger touched the woman’s face.
Her frown deepened. The nagging feeling intensified. She could almost picture the woman in her mind, see her speaking to her, conversing. But that could never be. As an angel, there was no connection between them and the living. And yet … a picture snapped in her mind. An image of the woman’s face. She was very sad. She’d been crying, her eyes red and swollen.
An acute feeling of connection balled in her stomach, quickly followed by a stab of guilt. The sadness enveloped her, so intense it was suffocating. She dropped the frame and it clattered to the top of the sideboard, falling face forward. She couldn’t bring herself to right it. She staggered backward until her back pressed against the cold wall. Her hands trembled and she clutched them to her chest in an attempt to stop them.
With all certainty, she knew the woman in the photograph. Knew the connection she felt with Daman extend to the three of them. There was sadness involved, guilt — whose she didn’t know — remorse, and … love. They mingled, pressed on her, made her chest c
ompress and stopped her breathing.
She didn’t like these emotions, didn’t like how her body followed so closely to them. She had to find calm, peace, but didn’t know what she should do. Her body overpowered her ability to conquer the impact of these darker emotions. She tried to scream, but a strangled, wordless sound was all that escaped her mouth. Tried to draw breath, but her lungs had seized.
She staggered to the light-filled living space. She wobbled on unsteady legs, leaned an arm out to steady herself, tipping the sideboard. The photographs clattered over, landing with a series of loud slaps onto the top. One fell to the floor, the glass shattered on the floorboards, a tinkling of screams at her feet.
At the loud sound, her voice loosened and a low moan escaped her mouth. All she could draw into her lungs were small gasps of air, her throat was still too tight to breathe properly. Her vision swam as she fought to remain upright. She had to get to Daman, he would know what to do. She pressed her shoulder to the wall, using it to prop herself as she moved. Strangulated, gasping sounds escaped her mouth. She had her hand to her neck, as though that could help her loosen the grip inside.
She reached the corner as her vision swam in tear-filled eyes, her legs now too weak to carry her. She dropped to one knee, falling heavily to the floor. She propped a hand to stop her sinking all the way to the ground.
The door to the bedroom swung open. She made out Daman’s blurry face, contorting to open-mouthed shock. “Angel!” His voice punched the air.
She held her hand out to him. He fell to his knees beside her, gaze searching her body, hands on her arms, shoulders, everywhere.
“What’s wrong?” He cupped her face in his palms, gaze tearing into her soul.
His touch let her throat loosen and she dragged in enough air to fill her lungs. Her senses stopped swimming and her vision cleared as she lay panting, resting her head against his chest. He enveloped her in his arms, wrapping them around her, pressing her close. The steady thump of his heart calmed her, his skin warmed hers. She placed her hand over one of his, hooked her fingers in his, stayed there until her heart kept pace with his and his body’s heat saturated her senses. She closed her eyes, feeling peace saturate her mind.
She felt so right to be in his arms. As though she’d waited a long time to feel them around her, and now the moment was finally here, she’d found a peace which sunk to her core. She drank in his freshly washed scent, mixed by clean skin and tangy soap. She could stay here forever, wanted the moment to be eternal, but knew in this world, nothing was forever. There was no such certainty.
“Are you feeling better?” His voice was a deep rumble from within his chest. The warm feeling enveloped her again and her lips curled into a smile. It was new to her, hearing a voice sounding from within the body and she found she liked it.
She nodded. He released her so that she had to move against him so that he could see her.
“What happened to you?”
A shiver stole through her; she was still coping with how her body had reacted. “The woman in the photo. I think I know her. She’s familiar to me.” She gripped Daman’s upper arms, “I see her face in my mind. I know she’s very sad, but there’s nothing I can do.” Her fingers tightened. “But I can’t remember why. Or how I know this.”
Daman’s mouth thinned into a straight tense line. His eyes led to the photographs that were smashed on the ground. “You know the woman in those photographs?”
She nodded, swallowed hard knowing she was telling him something that would hurt. It was a pain she also felt, but couldn’t hold it back knowing how important it might be to him. “Who is she?”
He stared at the broken frames. The moment stretched. He leaned and picked a corner from the rabble of glass shards. He’d picked the one with his arm slung around the woman’s shoulder. The one where he’d looked the happiest.
“Michelle. My wife.” His voice was hard and dry. There was so much pain in that low tone she wanted so desperately to wipe away. But there was no way she could.
“You’re with her,” she said.
He nodded. “This was taken in much better times. Happier times.”
“You knew her very well.”
His eyes glazed. For a moment, he was in a different world, a different time. The lines eased from his face. In an instant, the hard edges snapped back, but the pain remained.
“I didn’t mean to tip them from the table. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe. I leaned and they fell,” she offered.
“I loved her very much” he said the words on a breath, “But she’s gone and she’s not coming back.” She pressed her fingers into his forearm, wishing with all her strength she could help him, wanting to with such urgency she felt the weight of it press within her chest. “I wish I could help. I wish I could tell you how I feel the things I do.”
His eyes landed on her, cleared. He was drawn back to the present and she felt the full weight of his presence. “I wish you could tell me, but you can’t. This tells me more than anything that you shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong to this world.” He breathed out hard through his nostrils. “There’s someone I know that might be able to help. I haven’t seen him in a long time, but he’s the only person I can think of that might know how to return you.”
She knew with all certainty she didn’t want to go, that being here was a gift, but it only brought things up for him that were buried. Her being here only hurt him. She didn’t know how much more she would remember, and how much more pain he could take. If only to save him, she would go. She would leave to give him peace.
She nodded, rallying against falling into his arms again just to be in his embrace. She was on the verge of awakening, feeling more than she ever had in, it seemed like, an eternity. Her body that was so new, feeling things, both good and bad, was fascinating. What she felt in her mind had a definite physical effect to her body. She wanted to be with him, touch him, immerse herself with his thoughts, his conversation, his body … his presence.
But with gut-wrenching reality, she knew it would never be. She gazed at his face, drinking in the sight of him, committing it to memory so she could remember at any time she chose. “All right,” she whispered.
“We’ll go there tonight.”
She let him gently help her to stand, felt the cool air reclaim her skin the moment they no longer touched. She could remember that also, his touch, the way it made her skin tingle and her insides coil as though everything was wound tight. She would commit everything to memory because when the forgotten came to claim her again, she could reach out with her mind and satisfy herself that she had been here, she had existed. She had been human.
For a split second, she had become part of a reality with Daman.
And she liked it.
Chapter Six
The bell tolled, reverberating through him, long and low like a death march. Five times. Six. He peeled his hands from the steering wheel, dropped them in his lap. The windows had fogged and it still rained. Heavy drops splattered over the windows and pelted the roof. It was almost too loud to talk even in this confided space. So he didn’t.
It had been a long time since he’d been here. Three years to be exact. He hadn’t been back since that black day God took his life away. The day all that was good was taken away from him. It had never come back.
She had never come back.
He’d been punished for all his faults, his sins and misdeeds. A day didn’t go past when he didn’t remember her. His wife. The years had passed and guilt had come to overshadow his love.
The bell tolled twenty-four times that day. One for each year of her too-young life.
Each day since he’d lived to see revenge taken for the life that never should have been. The police psychiatrist had tried to have a go at him. Make him right. She’d tried for quite a time, making him her cause. Save someone wh
o couldn’t be saved. He thought she’d breathed a sigh of relief when she transferred interstate. The definition of revenge in her book didn’t extend to the kind he had in mind.
In a way, it would have been a relief to have died last night. If he still believed in that sort of stuff, that life goes on and all the hype that had been stuffed down his throat as a kid and Michelle was in a better place.
If there had been a God, then Michelle would never have been taken from him in the first place. She was the one who had deserved to live. She’d done nothing wrong except love him. If he could go back in time, he’d gladly stop himself meeting her again, if only she could have her life back. That she never would meet him. That was the only justice that could be done.
She’d paid the ultimate price for him.
It didn’t stack up. The life of a scumbag was no equal substitute for Michelle’s life.
Angel stirred in the seat next to him. He forcibly shook the desolate thoughts from his head. He was surprised to find it had gotten cold in the car, the heat long given way to the winter night outside.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was so cold in here?” he asked.
“I … you looked … lost in your thoughts.”
Damn. He sighed. He touched her hand and found it was cold as ice. “You’re freezing. Let’s go into the church. I hope the Father has the heat going.”
Daman flipped up his jacket collar against the rain and jogged up the church steps, holding Angel’s hand. They took shelter in the doorway while he grabbed the large gilded knocker and slammed it against the door. The booming knocks sounded hollow in the cavern beyond.
Angel held the edges of her jacket tightly under her chin. He maneuvered her so that she was sheltered against most of the rain, while he knocked again.
“What were you thinking of?” she asked. Her breath condensed in the frigid air. Her lips were turning blue and she tried to stop her teeth from chattering.
“Nothing,” he said shortly.
Daman's Angel (Crimson Romance) Page 4
