The old priest nodded. “I can see your concern. There’s an old text in the archives behind the altar. There’s a chapter dedicated to angels. Let’s go out there. I’m sure there’s something in it that can help.”
Cold immediately stabbed his bones as they were led back into the main church hall. It was eerily quiet. Their footsteps echoed off the ancient stone walls of St Patrick’s Cathedral. The set of tarnished brass keys the Father had located before they left his warm, comfortable sitting room clanked and jangled as he moved.
Bottomless shadows hid the many crevices between the oak pews. The sky outside of the windows was black. The colored stained glasswork was blackened by winter’s stark night. The priest located a light switch and a halo of yellow light made the altar glow. He went beyond the altar to the bluestone steps leading to a polished marble platform. Four symbolic mosaics decorated the front of the steps.
Daman thought the priest was settling down for a prayer when he knelt on his knees before the mosaics, but he moved to the side, reaching at the bottom at the wall. There was a faint click. The priest grunted as he wobbled back on his knees. He pressed the mosaic describing the tale of Luke and it swung soundlessly open. Hidden behind the mosaic, Daman saw several shelves. Father Joseph reached into the cavern and started to wiggle something out. Daman saw the end of a large, heavy-looking book.
“Hidden in plain view,” Daman murmured.
Angel drew alongside him. She shuddered with the cold. He took her hand in his. Not ready for the electric warmth that zapped through his fingers, he nearly dropped her hand. He turned to look to see if she felt the same current, but she was distracted by the priest. Heat continued to permeate his hand. His skin tingled, as though charged with millions on ions, jostling and weaving up his arm and through his body.
His awareness was locked on her. Expanding, exploring. Her mind was open to him. He sensed her essence, all that she was. Generosity, honesty. Innate goodness. Love. Warmth. It was a place he could happily curl up and live in. The emotions harmonized, drawing him close so he could feel them grow stronger within him. He hadn’t tasted those emotions in a long time and he found he was thirsty for them. His mind, his world narrowed to her and him, minds interlocking, combined.
She turned her head to look at him and he was drawn into pure blue, blinded by the beauty he felt there. The dark slid back, making space for this new lightness of being. He clung tightly to her hand. Eyes catching, locking.
Something nudged with pure emotion. A question. A need.
Curiosity. Confusion.
A want to be here, liking the space they shared.
A flare of desire. Deeply felt.
Knowledge that there is more to him than she remembers. Old strangers. Known to each other, yet not known.
“Here it is.” The priest spoke.
An abrupt wall. Impassable. The connection broke.
Daman dropped her hand, feeling the lightness dissolve into the cold. “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She put her fingertips to her forehead. Her eyes were wide, bottomless.
“You felt it too?”
“A connection,” she whispered.
Their minds, working as one. He’d not known anything like it. He read people, could guess what they felt, what their reactions would be, that was his job, but this … he knew what she felt. Knew it with certainty.
He’d felt the desire, the need. Physical merging with the emotional. The intensity. His mouth went dry, couldn’t peel his eyes from her. He dropped her hand so that she wouldn’t feel him shaking, nearly laughing at himself. The big, bad cop teetering on the edge of sanity because an Angel wanted him so powerfully, he couldn’t imagine the depth of emotion it took to feel like that. He hadn’t missed it. It had been crystal clear. There. Real. Even if she couldn’t name the feeling, he knew what it was.
And he was unhinged because of it.
He licked dry lips. “What does that mean?”
Angel shook her head, her gaze roamed his face.
“Have I missed something?” Father Joseph asked.
“What have you found, Father?” Daman changed the subject.
The priest held an old book made from a thick mass of paper. The pages were gilt-edged, the cover brown leather, cracked on the edges and down the spine, dry with age. It smelled musty. Daman took the book from Father Joseph. He made a space for it on the altar and set it on the white cloth.
He studied the picture on the cover. Angels overlooked hoards of people fighting. A war. Some angels held the departed souls in their arms, lifting them to heaven as their dead bodies lay bloody and broken on the ground. Gold-edged clouds with rays on sunshine reached for the angels as they flew upward to the light beyond. Redemption.
The light he’d been searching for.
“Looks like you’ve found the right book, Father,” Daman murmured.
“I keep all my precious books in that place. Away and safe from unwanted eyes and hands. Too many secrets here to be let bandied about,” Father Joseph said.
The priest balanced some thick eyeglasses on his nose and opened the book. The smell of mustiness increased. Dankness stung his nostrils. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, but Daman ignored it and bent next to the Father to see the pages. It was handwritten in perfect calligraphy. The penmanship was neat and particular. Lines and lines of it had been written in the middle of fanciful frames of green and gold. It was nonsensical, being written in the ancient English script of centuries before.
“I hope you can make sense of it, Father,” Daman said.
“Oh, that’s easy to read.”
Daman, turned, surprised to find Angel pouring over the contents of the page. She traced her finger beneath the lines and translated as she read. “It says here that Father Sebastian had a visitation of an angel on his deathbed. He spoke of it to a nun in his care in his final hours. The angel spoke to him of a kingdom beyond, a life beyond this life, assuring him that death was a peaceful experience. A part of life. The greatest part of life.” Angel raised her gaze to look at Daman. “It greatly relieved the priest who was able to die peacefully and not worry about his sins in his life.”
“How can you read … ?” Daman started, then. “Never mind. Can you find anything that might help you become an angel again?”
Angel flipped through the fragile pages of the book. Although the parchment was thick, it was very old. Each turn had the binding cracking and straining. Daman became lost in the page of artwork that appeared mixed between unreadable paragraphs. A master hand had painted each detailed scene that spoke of countless hours of work. There were people on their deathbeds, surrounded by mourning families, with angels coming through the thatched roof of their hut seen only by the person in the bed who reached upwards for them as they died.
Angel continued to read detailed accounts of visitations of angels and spirits throughout the ages. Account added to account. Some pieces of writing were so old, the ink was a mere shadow on the browned parchment.
“Why hasn’t a document like this been published, or rewritten?” Daman asked.
“We have been trying to tell people for years, my son,” the priest said.
“Sometimes you can’t rely on faith alone,” Daman replied.
“It is faith that makes you stronger. There is one book that has been published that is all the truth people need.”
Angel turned a page and instantly recoiled. Daman looked to see what had made her so distressed. There was an image of a red being. Rough horns grew from its head, its eyes bulged from its eye sockets. In the illustration, the evil being pulled a soul from a man. The soul was trying to keep hold of its body, while at the same time, the body was murdering a helpless child. The man was so gleeful that it didn’t realize its soul was being stolen from his body. “This is bad,” she
whispered. Her voice shook. Daman took her away, pulling her into his arms.
“You’re not one of those. That thing is not an angel,” Daman said.
Angel shook her head. “That is a nothing. God didn’t create it. Man did, but it is evil. It takes souls away where they can’t see the light. The souls can’t come to us and we can’t get to them. They are lost.”
Angel turned from the book and into Daman’s arms. He went rigid, then relaxed, bringing her body into the embrace of his arms. He liked the feel of her pressing against him. She fit so well in his arms, her softness melted into him, gently thawing. Reclaiming the frozen blackness bit by bit.
Daman rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in fresh earth and flowers. She was remembering. Parts coming together, whether she realized it or not. Pieces of the puzzle fitting together.
He wondered how long he’d have with her.
He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her huddled against him, ignoring the desperate pull in his gut that screamed more, more , more, before setting her back. “Let’s keep on looking, but let’s skip this section.”
He turned past the chapter, then it was his turn to freeze. He pointed to an image of an angel coming from the clouds of heaven to embrace an old woman into her arm, ignoring that his hand shook. “Angel. That’s … you,” he gasped.
The resemblance was unmistakable. Cascading waves of blonde-silver hair blew in an invisible breeze. The look on her face was serene, beautiful. She reached for the old woman’s hand with absolute compassion to take her gently from her body and into her embrace. Her silver gown streamed behind her, melting with the sunshine of heaven. There were groups of angels behind her, smiling and watching from the warmth of radiant golden rays that cast downwards onto the dying woman.
The old woman had seen her and was reaching to touch her hand. Her fingers extending as much as she could, eager for the embrace.
Angel traced the image of her painted face with her fingertip, spellbound by her image. “If we touch, they can come.” Her voice was dreamy.
“Death Angels,” the priest murmured. “They are the ones that come to release the soul from the body and take them to the next life. They are the deliverers, the caretakers, the compassionate ones.”
Daman stared at her image. She’d been a Death Angel for a long, long time. She was ageless, timeless.
She’d come for him last night. She’d taken countless others.
He should be dead.
“She must be returned,” Father Joseph said. “The longer she remains flesh and blood, she will eventually be trapped on earth to live and die as a human. That cannot happen. This creature of God cannot be kept on earth.”
They were on borrowed time. But he didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want to release her, even though he knew how important it was that she should.
“How … ” his voice caught. He cleared his throat, concentrated on the words he forced from his mouth. “How do we return her, Father?”
The priest read. He pointed to an indecipherable section. “Here.” He leaned over the text and slowly read. “Flesh and blood can make an Angel of this Earth. Only flesh and blood can release their essence to heaven.”
“A sacrifice,” Daman said.
His death was imminent. It was he that trapped Angel here and it would be he that returned her. Then she could fulfill her job and take him to the next life, wherever that may be.
He would give her his flesh and his blood. Give back what he’d taken.
But not before other blood was spilled. Bad blood. He would make sure the blood that had taken his wife away from him would be extinguished from this earth.
And he knew with all certainty it would be the last thing he would do.
Chapter Eight
“Father, I will need your help to do this, to return Angel back to heaven,” Daman said.
“Are you asking me to kill you?”
“I’m already dead.”
“Daman. No!” Angel clutched his arm. “You cannot do that for me.”
Daman placed his hand over hers. He absorbed the heat that transferred from her to him.
Concern. He felt it exuding from her. The feeling came to him quickly.
“I’m doing what’s right. You came for me. I’m going to let you take me and release you. It will be the only good thing I’ve done for anyone in the past three years. Angel, you will be my salvation.”
“Life is precious. You can’t throw yours away.”
Daman placed his hands on her cheeks. His gaze roamed her face, centering on her eyes. It was right. It was the only thing he could do for her. He’d lived his life, and was on borrowed time. Feelings merged and fused. If he could feel what she felt, then it was a two way street.
She sobbed, a gut-wrenching sound that echoed through the church, her eyes shining and wild. “Daman … ”
“It is the right thing to do. Let me leave this life knowing I’ve done at least one good thing.”
He faced the priest. “I’ll need some time to … tie up some loose ends. Then I’ll be back. Can you help me? Us?”
“I’ll need to prepare. But yes, to return one of God’s creatures, I will help you.” The priest turned watery eyes on Daman. “But first, I’ll provide you with absolution for your sins.”
Daman chuckled, the dry sound low and flat. “You’ll need a year to do that. I’ll give you a day or so. Let you know when I’m finished here. It won’t be long.”
The priest placed his hand on Damans shoulder. “God be with you.”
“Father, God left me three years ago and he hasn’t been back.”
“God is with you. Always.”
“He sure has a hell of a way of showing it,” Daman said. He clasped the priest’s hand between his. “Thank you, Father. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
“Go in peace. I’ll be expecting you. But not until you’re ready,” Father Joseph said.
Daman nodded to the priest, took Angel’s hand and led her from the church. The aura of the street slapped him in the face. Frigid cold, exhaust fumes and bleak darkness surrounded him. He turned to check that Angel was warm enough in his jacket. The collar hung open, so he zipped it to the top. Her hair spilled over her shoulders a striking contrast to the worn, brown leather. The collar went ridiculously high above her ears, but it was the look in her eye, twin luminescent pools of wretchedness, that had his hands stilling on the metal zipper, caught in a moment he couldn’t pull from.
“I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself,” she said.
“There’s no other way.”
“You’re a good man, Daman.”
His finger hooked her chin. “You’re an angel. You see things that others can’t.”
She tilted her head. His gaze fell to a mouth he could welcome with his own, igniting a desire that was impossible to deny; a connection that both knew was real and true. He ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. Her mouth opened. He saw the hint of her white teeth.
He shouldn’t.
Mustn’t.
And yet, didn’t care what the outcome may be. He had a one-way ticket to hell. He couldn’t make it any worse than that. Lines blurred.
He leaned toward her. Needing. Craving. Surrendering.
No right or wrong.
Just this. Just them. His hand went to her nape, fingers entwining in her hair.
He touched his lips to hers, felt her relax against his hand, lean toward him. Accepting. Him.
An invitation he couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t find it in himself to reason that he should.
Her hands came over his shoulders, wove around his neck. Her fingers against his skin. Tingles raced into his veins, hit his gut with a lurch. There was simply no way he could deny himself. He neede
d to taste, feel. Forget how he was, what he was. What he was going to do.
Just for a little while, let this unquenchable thirst be satiated.
She clung to him like he meant something. With his surrender, there was this amazing connection. Captivation. Curiosity. Burgeoning hunger for something she couldn’t name.
Complete trust that this was so right. No fear that acting on her desire was a wrong thing to do.
He forgot she was one of God’s hand-made creatures. She was a woman. In his arms. Both offering comfort. Longing for a long sought-after nameless emotion that only they could offer each other.
No wrong. No right.
Just now.
He deepened their kiss. His tongue moved inside her mouth and stroked. Asking. Accepting. She inclined her head just so that she could meet him, touch for erotic touch. Inexperienced, but not shy. Knowing what she wanted and taking what he offered.
Willingly.
With a groan, he slanted his mouth tighter against hers. Wound his arms about her waist, crushed her against him, feeling her soft breasts cushioning against the hard planes of his chest. He stepped her backward, resting her against the wall of the church doorframe. There was no option but to feel the luscious, burning length of her against him.
Primal need scoured his veins, igniting his groin. He wound his leg next to hers, feeling her soft outer thigh molded with his inner leg. Her hip rubbed his groin. He hardened. His hand dropped to her bottom, kneading her softness, bringing it to meet him.
She gripped his hair, pulling it as she clasped it between her fingers. She moaned a sweet surrender, this time entering his mouth with her tongue. She delved deeply. Erotically. Sliding her tongue against his, slipping hot and wet. Marking her need.
Scorched him with it.
He felt the full force of it hit him in his mind, his heart, his sense of knowing.
He flattened his hand against the wall by her head. She was sandwiched between the hard wall and his pulsing body, alive and singing with a fiery, desperate desire.
Daman's Angel (Crimson Romance) Page 6
