Angelique Rising (23 page)

             
"Why do you say that? She lived with you for two years."

             
"You are her lover. Have you not discovered
talents
in
that
area?"

             
Wyatt stared at the nun not believing what he was hearing.

             
"Don't be shocked, Wyatt. Angelique is not the first and the Church is old, we have many archives. We know quite a bit of what Angelique is capable of, what you are experiencing with her. I believe the male locker room response would be 'you lucky dog.'"

             
"You know... why... what she is?"

             
"And what you are as well. You are her protector. You have been helping her, protecting her, haven't you?"

             
For some strange reason he thought back to his singing at the university, how Angelique had told him what it had done for her. And now, he couldn't really remember
why
he had been so compelled to go into that rehearsal room and sing those three nights. He had never done it any other time.

             
"And you have been rewarded, Wyatt, no?"

             
Instantly he thought about Cory, his anguish at the child's impending death until he'd brought Angelique and she'd saved him. And George hitting it big in Vegas. And him getting a billion dollar port deal he'd thought was lost.

             
"But you nuns protected her too. For two years."

             
"And now, in our hour of need, five million dollars shows up at our doorstep."

             
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me what she
is."

             
The nun paused reflectively before finally answering.

             
"She is a fallen angel, Wyatt."

             
"A
what?"

             
"A spirit. A spirit who has fallen back to Earth and is now earthbound. The Church has seven other recorded cases in its archives. I have not been allowed to see them but Father Wadzniak was, and he was kind enough to tell me. In confidence I'm afraid. The Church guards its secrets and
especially
its secrets that those who would use to ridicule us with."

             
"I don't get it. An
angel?
Kicked out of Heaven? Is that what you're telling me?"

             
"No, Wyatt. The cases appear to be more in the realm of
mistake.
Or good intentions gone awry."

             
"And Angelique? What were her
good intentions gone awry?"

             
"She has never spoken to us, or I believe to anyone, about her origins, Wyatt. But over time and with the help of Church archivists we discerned certain things. Have you seen the medical records? A child, broken, lifeless, in a hospital. What if an angel particularly sympathetic to a dying child were to want to help, to prevent the death,
interfere
with the death?
What do you think the penalty, or even just the unfortunate ramification of that action could be? Do the math, Wyatt. When we asked her outright, never an habituée of full disclosure, she refused to confirm --but neither did she deny. As I recall her exact response was
angel, schmangel, up the meds M.S."

             
"I know that when she woke up she had no memory of... her life."

             
"You mean of the child's life. How could she?"

             
"She saved Johnson's son's life. In a hospital. I watched her do it."

             
"Ah, it appears our little fallen angel has not yet learned her lesson. But that is the way about May-May with most things, haven't you discovered? It takes a few tries with her. You will need much patience, Protector."

             
"Why do you call me that? I'm her
husband
.
"

             
"Wyatt, the recorded cases are varied but they have a similar theme, even going back to the first case which is from more than fifteen hundred years ago. It may be difficult for you to hear. Have you found that Angelique has brought light and joy into your life but... has attracted other things as well? Dark things. Evil things."

             
Ira Silverberg. Rashid.

             
"What are you saying?"

             
"Think about it. An angel. Here on Earth. Unprotected. Vulnerable. What would happen? What would be attracted to her? What would want to
feast
on her? And what would she need to fend that off?"

             
"A
protector?"

             
"Who would be well rewarded for his efforts."

             
"But..."

             
"Why
you?
I've no idea. Why us?"

             
"And these... angels. What happened to them?"

             
A shadow crossed her face.

             
No. Oh no. OH NO! NOT ANGELIQUE! NOT MY ANGELIQUE!

*****

              As Wyatt heard what Angelique was, quite a distance away Lexa heard a buzzing. Insistent. Her body begging for continued oblivion, she vaguely dragged herself back up into consciousness. She didn't want to open her eyes, from the pain that had led her way back she knew what she would see. But the buzzing was irritating, demanding, finally she opened her eyes to see sunlight pouring in through the large window. The buzzing, she realized, was coming from inside the wooden slot panel in the wall by the door. In misery she stood, one of her towels falling off. She tried to ignore the buzzing but finally she walked to the panel and in a gesture of desolation touched it. Instantly it slid sideways into the wall exposing behind it a small inner cupboard. The buzzing ceased. In the cupboard was a tray with hot steaming food, and folded beside the tray were clean sheets and towels. Mechanically she placed the items on the floor. The slot door quietly slid closed. All she could think of was that the slot was not large enough for her to get her body through.

             
Lexa knew the devil incarnate monster would return. She went to the closet rifling through the clothes. She put on the new ones, they fit, and over them she put on the wrinkled too big ones. By the time she was finished she was wearing six layers of clothes. It wasn't much, it wasn't anything, but it was something. She went into the bathroom, Christ, her face was a mess. Her entire eye area was bluish purple. She opened the vanity drawer, there was plenty of concealer in there. She didn't touch it. The clicking and whirring noise she'd heard before that had heralded the monster's arrival came from behind her and turning, there he was, the door slowly closing behind him.

             
"Good morning, Lexa," Malcolm said implacably, "I hope you slept well. Come out here."

             
What was the point, she shriveled, so she walked out of the bathroom.

             
"Interesting fashion choice," he laughed, "though probably a bit warm. Why have you left your breakfast on the floor? You must be hungry, you ate nothing last night." He picked it up and placed the tray on the table. "I see you have not made your bed yet." His expression was of pure sinister menace.

             
"Go to hell," she croaked, fear rumbling deep within her.

             
"Oh Lexa," he sneered capriciously, "wrong thing to say."

             
When he finally stopped, she was on the floor, twitching. Trying to breathe. His violence had been controlled, he'd only used his fists, and his fingers, but it had been torture. But strange too and she realized it was to prevent bruising. The twisting, folding, pushing, pulling,
forcing,
he'd done to her arms, her legs, her neck and head, all of her, had been agony but she doubted it would leave bruises. Not on the outside anyway. On the inside her internal organs were shrieking.

             
"Clean yourself up, especially that face. Get properly dressed and make your bed. If you do, we will have lunch on the terrace together, it is a glorious summer day." He left.

             
Outside? He was going to bring her outside?
Through the door?
It was probably a trick but it was all she had. She climbed to her knees and rested. Even if she was outside, in the condition she was in, would she have the strength to run? Hell, she'd
find
it. She did as he asked, all of it, and sat in an overstuffed chair waiting for him. Finally the clicking and whirring noise returned and the door opened. She waited for him to appear, but standing there was Margret.

             
"Come," she beckoned Lexa in a voice from which any trace of sympathy or contrition had been carefully extinguished.

             
Lexa rushed to her feet and shot past Margret out the open door, blundering smack into Donald, that mountain of a man, who grabbed and steadied her.

             
"Careful, Miss," he leered, his voice a goad, "you wouldn't want to hurt yourself." He took her tightly by her elbow and marched her down both flights of stairs, ignoring it when she stumbled, he just dragged her, unconcerned, depositing her out on a backyard terrace where the monster was sitting at a table smiling at her.

             
It didn't make sense, she could dash for it and she did. And screamed as her shoes hit the lawn which wasn't just lawn but also some kind of embedded green plastic mesh. Electrified plastic mesh. She managed to pitch her body back onto the terrace where she rolled, still screaming in incredible pain.

             
"Now that we've got that rumpus out of the way, come join me, Lexa," Malcolm demanded with a contemptuous sniff. "Margret has made her best soufflé in honor of your arrival."

             
Lexa rolled onto her back on the flagstones and looked into the house. Donald was standing behind sliding glass doors scoffing at her, Margret behind him pushing a trolley cart full of dishes. He opened the glass door for her and she walked through pushing the trolley up to the patio table Malcolm was seated at.

             
Lexa just lay on the ground, unmoving.

             
"Well, when you're ready," Malcolm said. "I have your consent papers here. And there will be a matter of a video, I like to get your consent in that fashion as well. This soufflé really is delicious, you are truly missing out. Don't try my patience too long."

             
She had to say something,
something,
to get through to him.

             
"Malcolm," she gasped sitting up, uncertainly using his name for the first time, "this is wrong. You can have any woman you want, women who would know how to please you. If you let me go, I won't say anything. It'll be like it never happened. I give you my word."

             
"You
do
know what would please me. I've told you. Give me your consent, Lexa."

             
"
Why?"
she almost howled, the despair escaping her.

             
He could not explain that to her because he did not fully understand it himself and even if he did why would he talk to her about it? He was
not
a rapist (well, not anymore). His father had called him that.
You filthy rapist
. It had stung him, hurt him more than he had ever thought he could hurt. So now he did not rape. He offered deals.

             
Sign the consent and I don't hurt you. Until I do.

             
It made sense to him. If his father was alive, the man could
not
legitimately call him a rapist. His guests did not have to consent. It was their choice. But he needed what he needed and he had a right to take it. He was
Malcolm Cochran
. He was special. What were they? Aspiring nobodies. They should be
honored
he was giving them his precious time not to mention attention.

             
Lexa had managed to get to her feet, swaying.

             
"Sit," he said, and she did because she could feel herself about to collapse. Margret was suddenly there, at her elbow, putting a plate before her and spooning food onto it. Lexa looked up at her, into Margret's eyes, imploring her. Margret ignored it by averting her own eyes, showing neither embarrassment nor pity. Lexa looked at the sliding glass window, Donald was still behind it, seated now. So that's how it would be. She would be taken from the room but always under Donald's control and only brought to secured places. And it would be her "reward." She felt the bile rise in her, the odor of the food before her sickening, the revolting monster across the table petrifying. "The consent papers," Malcolm said placing some paperwork on the table before her. "And there are some consent videos you will watch tonight, give you a better idea of what I expect from you in yours."