She pulled away, pretending she didn’t hear him.
“This thing has the potential of getting out of hand,” Demetria said. “We really need your help.”
Dylan wrapped her arms over her chest as she looked at each of the faces in the room, her eyes lingering on Demetria and Donna. Again Stiles moved up behind her, wanting to wrap her in the safety of his arms, wanting to infuse her with so much of his healing power that she would never feel pain again. But he knew she wouldn’t want that, so he just stayed close by in case she needed him.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Dylan said. “But, at this point, we don’t even know what’s happening. It could just be a result of isolation. You said these victims were living in small groups. Maybe they simply suffered psychological effects of being too close to the same few people.”
Demetria shook her head. “I don’t think it’s anything as simple as that. I mean, yes, it’s only been small groups, but its progressing logically north. Soon it will hit bigger communities. And then…it could get bad, Dylan.”
Dylan didn’t respond. She simply stood there, the tension in her shoulders so intense that Stiles could feel it as though it were in his shoulders. He touched her arm lightly.
“We’ll keep an eye out and interfere where necessary, if you’ll keep us updated.”
Demetria nodded. “Thank you.”
A minute later, Stiles pulled Dylan with him back to the safety of her kitchen, his hand tucked into hers like a teenager from times long gone.
She pulled away the moment she realized where she was, tucking herself into a chair like she was a child being punished by a beloved parent.
“What’s going on with you?”
She stared out the window as though he’d never spoken, as though he wasn’t even there.
“Dylan, I know something’s going on. Is it about Wyatt?”
She brushed a tear from her cheek, her porcelain skin glistening from the moisture.
“I need some time, Stiles,” she said softly.
“Dylan—”
“I believe she’s asking you to leave.”
Stiles looked up as Wyatt walked into the room, a bag slung over his shoulder. Dylan brushed past him to greet her husband, sliding into his arms as though they were both still young. But watching them—watching the stiff way in which Wyatt held his body because of the arthritis that was attacking his aging joints—Stiles could see what Rebecca had been so conscious of in the last few years of their own relationship.
It was just odd watching that old man kiss beautiful, youthful Dylan.
Dylan pulled back and ran her hands slowly over Wyatt’s shoulder and his neck, the glow of her healing gifts visible only to Stiles. Wyatt sat in one of the kitchen chairs with a sigh.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, gripping Dylan’s wrist and pushing her hand away.
There was a little hurt in Dylan’s eyes as she glanced at Stiles.
He held up his hand. “I’m going. But we need to talk later.”
Dylan inclined her head slightly.
Later…
***
Stiles walked for a while, his concern for Dylan stronger than his usual penchant for self-reflection. He worried about her, worried that the end of this life, this existence she’s shared with Wyatt, was going to be much harder for her than it should be. She’d only lived sixty years. Immortality was a new thing for her. Outliving those she loved…
Stiles wasn’t sure she would survive it.
But, again, he wasn’t sure he had, either.
Stiles found himself standing outside of Harry’s house. His son was sitting on the porch swing, drinking a cup of tea with his lovely wife, Abigail. When they saw Stiles, they both stood, gesturing for him to join them.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Abigail said. “I have a lovely sweet cake in the oven.”
“Sounds nice,” Stiles said, all those lectures about kindness from Rebecca showing through.
Abigail smiled, gesturing for Stiles to take her seat as she headed into the house.
Stiles set his hand on Harry’s knee as he sat, squeezing it lightly. “She’s a lovely woman. You’re very lucky.”
Harry was still watching the spot where Abigail had disappeared a moment ago. “I know.” And then he focused on Stiles. “How are you? Anything new going on in your life?”
“Have there been any unusual things going on at the hospital? People coming in with injuries?”
Harry leaned back a little, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling of the narrow porch. “Not that I can think of. Just a couple of broken arms among the children—Brian fell out of a tree last week and Asia tripped while chasing her little brother through the park.”
Stiles half nodded. “But no violence?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he focused on his father once again. “Is there something I should know?”
Stiles dragged his fingers through his short, red hair. “The gargoyles informed us that there have been some unusual episodes of violence in the south.”
“There’s nothing like that up here. Everything has been very peaceful since the disease was eradicated.”
“Good. You’ll let me know if anything changes?”
“Of course.”
They were silent for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. Harry leaned forward to set his teacup on the small table beside the porch swing.
“I’ve heard a rumor you should probably know about, if you don’t already.”
“Yeah?”
Harry leaned forward again, his gaze moving over the front windows on the house as though checking to make sure Abigail wasn’t on her way back out. He sighed, leaning back again.
“I heard that the council is debating the merits of keeping the angels around.”
“Is that right?”
“A majority of people feel that you and Dylan did us a great service, but we don’t really need you around anymore. That by allowing angels to remain on Earth, we’re inviting the same sort of trouble that caused the war in the first place.”
Stiles had already heard these rumors. Rumblings of them had been around for thirty-five years, but they’d grown stronger in the past few years. He thought that maybe the reemergence of the angel disease had caused it. Despite the fact that it was a human who modified the disease and made it so dangerous for the people, some blamed angels for it. It was ironic, really. Dylan was created to save humanity, yet humanity was pushing her away, arrogantly deciding they no longer needed her. It was selfish.
“Do you agree?” Stiles asked Harry.
“No,” Harry said quickly, his eyes moving back to the large window behind which his wife was, somewhere, waiting for their conversation to end. “I think they’re making a mistake.”
“It’s also a little unrealistic. Where do they think they can send us? If God wanted us back in heaven, we would be there.”
Harry’s eyes flicked over his father’s face. “Is that why you’re still here?”
“I have no freewill, remember?”
“But Dylan does.”
Stiles inclined his head slightly. “She’s unique to my kind. We’re still learning things about her abilities.”
Harry crossed his arms over his chest as he sat back. “Wyatt is fighting to appoint a liaison between the angels and the humans. He wants humanity to always be aware of what the angels are up to in case things become as dark as they once were.” Harry cleared his throat. “But…I’ve heard that it’s just a cover. I’ve heard he’s really on the side of those who believe you should go.”
Stiles saw the way Wyatt had looked at him when he walked into his own house a short time ago and had found Stiles there with Dylan. They’d never really gotten along, not since their first meeting when Wyatt thought Stiles was out to hurt Dylan. But he thought things had changed over the years…that Wyatt had learned to tolerate him. But, maybe not.
“What about Dylan?”
“This friend whose been telling me all t
his says that he’s made a deal with your detractors to allow her to remain until Josephine’s death. And then they’ll banish her from the city.”
Stiles stood up, the emotional roil in his soul too heavy to sit still. He paced the length of the porch and paused, rubbing his face with the heels of his hands. Dylan would be devastated if she knew Wyatt was conspiring behind her back in this way. He didn’t understand why Wyatt would do such a thing. To him, yes, but to Dylan? They’d been together for more than forty years. Who devotes that much time to someone and then arranges for her to be abandoned and deserted upon the death of their child?
“I thought you should know. The two of you…”
Stiles glanced at Harry. “I think she knows. At least part of it.”
Harry looked away, shame coloring his face as though he was part of this conspiracy, too.
“It’s ridiculous, really. They’re children to think they have control over such things. Sending away the angels and the gargoyles…it’ll just force us into hiding. It’ll put things back to the way they were before. Did you know that the humans were aware of Lucifer and his legion early in their tenure here? Did you know that they, too, decided that they no longer needed the protection of the angels and that’s why they were unaware of their presence when the war began?” Stiles shook his head, his thoughts dancing with such urgency that the movement was almost calming. “Humanity is simply repeating the same mistakes. And if they repeat enough of them, there’s no guarantee that won’t, once again, bring about their own destruction.”
“But you and Dylan would never conspire to take over the Earth.”
“No. But it’s quite possible that in several millennia those who supported Lucifer’s actions could come back and lead the charge against humanity again.”
Harry stood up so quickly the swing hit the porch railing with a distinctive pop. “You can’t let that happen.”
“How can I stop it if they kick us out, if they make it impossible for us to protect them?”
“You’re an angel. Can’t you protect them anyway?”
“Sure. But humanity has to take some responsibility in their own salvation. Don’t you see, Harry? Dylan and I can fight until God decides it’s our time to return home. But if humanity doesn’t fight with us, if they don’t change their ways and resist the patterns that led to the war in the first place, all that fighting will be for nothing.”
“Then we have to change their minds.”
Stiles looked away, a heaviness settling on his shoulders. “That would be great. But if Dylan’s husband—the one person who should really understand our purpose—is against us, then what chance do we have of convincing those who don’t understand?”
“I understand. I can talk to them.”
Stiles crossed to his son, his sixty-one year old son, and pulled him gently into his arms. He could never express how grateful he was that they had finally found equal footing, that they could finally build a mutually respectful relationship. He knew Rebecca would be pleased if she could see them now. But it didn’t change anything. Harry would be gone in a few years, another person Stiles would grieve, and he would still be this young, struggling angel, stuck on Earth until God saw fit to bring him home.
He kissed the top of Harry’s head and moved around him, wondering if maybe living in obscurity with no one the wiser to his true nature would really be so bad. Maybe then he wouldn’t make these connections, he wouldn’t have to watch those he loved grow old and die.
Chapter 4
Dylan felt stung when Wyatt moved her hand away from him, stopping her from healing the pain of his arthritis. It felt like he was rejecting her. Or maybe it was only her nature he was rejecting.
The moment Stiles was gone, she went to the stove to heat water for tea.
“I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days.”
“Debates stalled in the council room, so we decided to call a recess for the time being.”
“What were you discussing? More about the scientific community?”
Wyatt didn’t answer and when she glanced over at him, he was studying his hands as though the most interesting literature in the world was printed lightly on his palms.
He didn’t want to talk about it. And she knew why.
Dylan poured his tea and joined him at the table. His hands shook a little as he wrapped them around the warm mug. It was strange to her to see Wyatt’s big, strong hands becoming thin and wrinkled—the hands of an old man. It was strange to look up and see his dark hair changed to white and thinning on top so that his pale scalp peeked through. His blue eyes were no longer the deep, cobalt blue they once were, but something a little milkier. But, to her, he would always be that young man she’d first met on the shores of a river.
She ran the back of her fingers over the back of his hand.
“I love you.”
He pulled away under the pretext of sipping his tea.
“Why was Stiles here?”
“We went to see the gargoyles. There’ve been a few issues among the more solitary groups down south.”
“What sort of issues?”
“Violence.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Human on human violence, or something else?”
“What else would it be?”
He shrugged. “Why hasn’t the council been made aware?”
“Because no one knows what’s causing it yet.”
“Not even you?”
Dylan stood and busied herself straightening the kitchen. She did know what it was—or thought she knew—but she wasn’t ready to talk to Wyatt about it yet. If it was what she believed, it would mean a fight. He wasn’t up to such a fight anymore.
“You and Stiles can’t keep secrets from the government. This isn’t the old days. You don’t have to protect us from these things.”
“I’m not protecting anyone from anything. I simply don’t know what’s going on. The gargoyles have only just now told us about it.”
“It’s just…you know people are talking about you. Worried that you know things you aren’t saying.”
“Is that why they want us gone?”
Wyatt was silent except for the slight shake of his hands that rattled his cup on its thin saucer. He let it go and the silence was complete for several minutes.
“How do you know about that? Have you been sneaking around again?”
“There have been rumors ever since the illness began to spread.”
“And you’ve heard them.”
“I’m not deaf.”
Wyatt got up and came to her. “I never thought you were.” He touched the small of her back, his movements hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure how she would respond. Forty years they’d been together and he was suddenly unsure of her.
She was the one to pull away this time.
“Do they really think turning us away will change anything? That forcing us to hide our true nature will make them feel safer?”
“They believe they can protect themselves from anything that might come their way.”
“And you agree?”
“I don’t disagree.”
Dylan studied her husband’s face and felt for the first time that she didn’t know him.
“What if Lucifer’s loyal legion returns? What if they manipulate humanity into another war? Do you think you can defend yourselves then?”
“What if Stiles decides he’s had enough of fighting for us? What if he decides he wants what Lucifer wanted, the earth as his private paradise?”
Dylan laughed. “Stiles? Are we talking about the same angel?”
“People change.”
“Angels who don’t have freewill don’t.”
“You have freewill.”
“You think I’d want to get rid of humanity? That the people I made a choice for—the people I fought to save—that I would get tired of them and wish them all away?”
“Of course not.” Wyatt reached for her, but she stepped back, holding up her hands to ward of
f another attempt. He turned away, clasping his hands in front of him as he stood with his back against the kitchen counter. “But, if you have freewill, isn’t it possible God would grant it to Stiles?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. So that he could become your soul mate?”
“Don’t be stupid, Wyatt. That’s not the way these things work and you know it.”
“Do I? Do you?” He glanced at her, his eyes darker, almost like they were when he was young. “We don’t even know what you are—let alone what you’re capable of. These past thirty years, you haven’t needed your abilities, so you haven’t worked to improve them. What if you were capable of giving Stiles freewill? What if you were capable of changing the nature of people, of plants, or animals? What if you could destroy humanity with just a thought or a flick of your finger?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Haven’t you ever thought about it?”
Dylan crossed the room, done with this discussion. Her heart was already torn from what she’d seen that morning. To have Wyatt question her this way, it only added insult to injury.
“The people are tired of living with the unknown, of having to worry about what might happen if the angels came back or you, God forbid, were to turn on us. And Stiles…few people have ever truly trusted him. We don’t understand why he’s still here, or why he tries to pretend he’s just like us.”
“Just like you?” Dylan laughed a bitter, dark laugh. “You never wanted any of this. You hated knowing your mother was an angel. You refused to admit that your father was Nephilim. When your powers manifested, you fought every effort I made to get you to use them. The only time you used them willingly was at the Battle of Genero. You grew up hating angels and I thought…” She shook her head, tears rolling thickly down her cheeks. “I thought your mind had opened and you were accepting of me, of what I am. But you weren’t. You were relieved when our connection broke.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. I can read your thoughts, Wyatt. I can see your emotions written in the aura around you like words in a book.”
Shame washed over his face, but he didn’t look away.
“I love you,” he said softly. “I’ve always loved you. But I won’t pretend that I understand what you are. And after the reemergence of the angel disease, after all those people died, it frightened people. It frightened me.”
DARK SOULS (Angels and Demons Book 2) Page 2
