Angels of Darkness (40 page)

“That's obscene,” I panted. “Reuel Harth was a murderer.”

“But you don't deny the secondary charge,” he purred. “So you
were
an angel-seeker—either before or after you had your adventures at the Manadavvi compound.”

“Oh, no, I wasn't,” I spat out at him. “I find you all worthless and weak, despite the fact you think you're gifts straight from Jovah's hands. Until I met you, I never wanted to
speak
to one of you, let alone take one as a lover—”

“And now that you've met me?” he whispered. “You want me as a lover?”

“That's
not
what I meant to say—”

But it didn't matter what I meant to say. He jerked me even closer, wrapped his other arm around my shoulders, and covered my mouth with a hard kiss. My skin went up in a blaze of heat; my bones melted against his body. I felt his wings settle around me, caging me, trapping me, exciting me with their delicate, whispering touch. I wrenched my head back to gulp for air, and then lunged forward again, locking my lips to his. Somehow I had gotten my right hand free, or he had released me, because now I had both of my arms around his waist, under his shirt, and I began sliding my palms up and down his hot skin. My fingers reached the ridged, muscular juncture where his wings met his shoulder blades, and I rubbed my thumbs across the roughened skin. He moaned with pleasure and shuddered in my grip.

“If you've never slept with an angel,” he murmured, “how did you know to do
that
?”

“Instinct,” I laughed against his mouth. “Anything that seems too private to touch—should be touched. In circumstances like this.”

He kissed me again. “I thought you didn't come here so you could take me as a lover.”

“I came here to drag you out of your bitterness and isolation. If seducing you is the only way to do it, well, I'm prepared to make the sacrifice.”

Now he laughed, but the sound was shaky. “I can't—I'm not—I'm not thinking clearly right now and any decisions I make—any choices—might not be rational—”

I deliberately leaned in to rub myself against him. It was immediately clear other parts of his body were also responding to my touch. My fingers tiptoed up his spine again to caress the hard mass of tissue guarding the muscles of his wings. Again he gasped, then he drew me so close that I was lifted off my feet.

“Let's not be rational,” I suggested. “Let's do things that will embarrass both of us in the morning.”

He did not bother answering that. He merely carried me across the cluttered room to a door that led to an equally messy bedroom, kissing me the entire way.

 

 

I
f you've never made love to an angel, I highly recommend the experience.

There was no light, or only what little seeped in from my lonely lamp, yet that seedy, cramped room seemed lit with fey radiance. I writhed beneath him, my arms twined around his neck, his wings reared up over both our heads like a divine canopy. I felt sheltered, protected, free to open myself to him completely because no danger could make it past the haven of his wings. My hands explored his ribs and hips while his body worked above mine, driving me to frenzy and then to satisfaction. When he cried out and collapsed upon me, gasping for breath, I kissed his cheek and murmured into his hair.

“Oh, I think you've definitely found your purpose in life. No need for all this trauma and despair.”

He laughed into my ear. “I don't think you can be sure yet,” he whispered. “We'll need to experiment a few more times.”

And we did.

W
hen I woke up the next morning, my first thought was that I was glad the angel was blind. Sweet Jovah singing himself into laughing hysteria, I must look like a mad street beggar, my hair in tangles, my lips puffy from too many kisses, my face pale from lack of sleep. But, oh, the angel curled up beside me, his cheek still resting on my naked shoulder—he looked sublimely serene. I could not remember the last time I had seen Corban's face so peaceful. He still bore traces of neglect from four days of wretchedness, but they just served to add a scoundrel's charm to his everyday symmetrical beauty. I felt his whiskers scratch my bare skin, and I couldn't help smiling as I gently combed a finger through his knotted hair.

My second thought was that it wasn't exactly morning.

I frowned as I glanced at the boarded-up window, which nonetheless allowed a few rays of energetic sunlight to muscle in. It had to be well past noon, and it seemed odd that Alma had not come upstairs before this to check on the angel. If she had heard me creep in during the night, she might have realized that I was still on the premises and decided not to intrude on us. But surely she had become alarmed by now and wondered if she might have missed my exit later. She knew how fragile Corban was. She would not leave him alone too long.

No one at the school would expect me to make an appearance for another hour or two; I was safe from inquiry there. But Alma's absence was troubling.

I kissed Corban on the top of his head and gently disentangled myself. After pausing for five minutes to clean myself up, I ran downstairs. I didn't catch the sounds or scents of cooking as I stepped into the kitchen. “Alma? Are you here?”

No—and she hadn't been any time this morning. The room looked exactly as it had the night before when I had paused to light my lamp. There was no pot on the stove, no fire in the oven. The place looked clean, but deserted.

“Alma?” I headed directly to her bedroom, the one that opened off the kitchen, and knocked impatiently on the closed door. “Are you in there?”

I heard a sound—a muffled word, or perhaps a pillow falling to the floor. “I'm coming in,” I said and pushed the door open.

Alma lay coiled at the edge of the mattress, one hand trailing over the side to be able to make a quick grab for a bucket nearby. The room smelled of vomit and she looked like death. “Oh, you poor thing,” I exclaimed. “You've caught that wretched sickness!”

I took a half hour to clean her up, fetch fresh water, change her nightgown, and try to make her comfortable. She was grateful but listless, and her skin was hotter than an angel's to the touch. My apprehension grew.

“I'm just going to put together a quick meal for Corban, then I'll see if there are any drugs left at the school,” I told her. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

She nodded and shut her eyes. I threw together a tray of food and dashed upstairs. Corban was just emerging from the bedroom, his hair wet from a quick cleansing, his face lit with a private smile.

“So you didn't abandon me in the middle of the night,” he said. “When I woke up and you were gone, I was afraid you were ashamed or sorry.”

I set down the tray and went straight over to put my arms around him, lifting my face for a kiss. He responded with alacrity; apparently he didn't have too many regrets, either. “Not sorry, not for a minute,” I said, leaning briefly against him. “But I went downstairs to find Alma, and she's seriously ill, so I've been taking care of her.”

He was immediately concerned. “Ill? What's wrong?”

“Same stomach disorder that swept through the school earlier in the week, I think, but it looks like it hit her hard.” I hesitated. “I'm not very good in a sickroom. I might need to bring someone else in to nurse her.”

He considered for only a moment. “Of course. I suppose everyone already knows—” He gestured.
About me.

“They know there's an angel here, but they don't know your story.” I grinned. “I am very good at
not
sharing information when I want.”

He kissed me and pushed me toward the door. “I'm aware. Go take care of Alma.”

I lingered a moment, my palm centered on his chest. “I'm sorry for the things I said last night,” I said. “Well, the meaner things. But it frightened me to see you so lost. And I sound cruel when I'm afraid.”

“Just don't apologize for the kinder things you said—later,” he replied. “I like to delude myself that you meant them.”

I laughed, pressed my fingers against his lips, and departed.

Downstairs, I checked on Alma again. She was either asleep or in a dead faint; she didn't wake when I shook her. By the time I left the house, I was running.

 

 

I
t was harder than I expected to lure Judith from the school to the Great House. Alma was not the only one who had fallen deathly ill overnight. The old handyman David was comatose, three more teachers had become violently sick, and the effort of caring for them all had left Judith pale and exhausted. And fearful.

“There's nothing I can do for any of them,” she told me as we stood outside Alma's room after Judith had made a quick examination. We had roused Alma enough to make her swallow a pill, but it was the last one in the infirmary. “All that's left is broth and kindness.”

My own worry was intensifying to the point of panic. “We have to raise a plague flag,” I said.

She nodded somberly. “We did that last night. But the Gloria is tomorrow. Angels aren't likely to be flying this way again for another few days.”

“So they'll arrive in a day or two and pray for medicine then.”

Her face was pinched. “It might be too late. For Alma—for all of them.”

I felt as if she'd punched me.
“What?”

“When fevers run so high, sometimes people don't recover. Or if they do, they're seriously damaged. It's as if such a hot temperature burns the body out and leaves only a shell behind. I've seen it more than once.”

I stared at her for a moment, then bolted for the stairs.

Corban was seated in the cutaway chair, his back to the door and the cello between his knees. He was picking at the strings very softly, creating a melody that sounded like raindrops dancing on platters of bronze. It was a merry sound; I took a moment to be surprised that Corban was capable of something so lighthearted. If he was feeling a surge of genuine happiness, might I be in any way responsible?

No time to ask. “Corban,” I panted, breathless from my run. “You have to go aloft and pray.”

He spun around in his chair, his face registering surprise closely followed by dread. “I can't,” he said.

I crossed the room and knelt before him. “You have to. Judith—she's from the school—she says Alma could die. And there are others down at the school. They're all sick. They're all in danger. Their fevers are too high, and their bodies won't recover. And we have no drugs left.”

“A plague flag—”

“Tomorrow is the Gloria.”

He winced at that, no doubt thinking that if times were different, he would be assembling on the Plain of Sharon with all the other angels. He turned away, carefully leaning the cello against the wall. “I can't do it,” he said.

I reached for his nearest hand and cradled it between both of mine. “I'll help you,” I whispered. “I know that the best way to catch Jovah's attention is to fly very high, but I'll come with you. I don't care how cold it gets. I don't care how far off the ground it is. I won't make you go alone and I won't let you get lost.”

He tore his hand away and jumped to his feet. “It's not just the flying, it's the singing,” he said, gesturing in agitation. “I haven't—Moriah, the last time I prayed to the god, he sent a thunderbolt! He blinded me!”

I rose more slowly. “You didn't sing that prayer. It was that boy.”

He turned away and began pacing, unerringly avoiding chairs and tables but tripping on discarded shoes and clothes that lay in his path. “Yes, but Jovah sent the thunderbolt anyway! He must have known I was in the room! He could have chosen not to strike me!”

“You think he would send lightning again? Even if you pray for medicines?”

He whirled around in my direction. “I think I cannot bring myself to ask for anything from a god I cannot trust. I cannot pray, I cannot
supplicate
. I am too angry to ask him for anything.”

Oh, sweet Jovah, this was not a complication I had anticipated. I had thought I could talk him through his fear, but what he felt was fury for a god who had betrayed him. “I understand, I think,” I said, my voice halting. “I don't think it would have mattered who was about to die. I wouldn't have been able to ask Reuel Harth for help to save them.”

Corban caught his breath at the comparison, but he didn't speak.

“But Jovah didn't harm me,” I went on in a low voice. “Can you teach me the song? Can you carry me up toward the heavens so I can sing it to him? Can you let
me
ask him, if you can't do it yourself?”

It seemed like an hour that we stood there, facing each other, both of us so tense that our hands clenched and our shoulders hunched and our faces were creased with concentration. I didn't know if a mortal could sing the holy songs. I didn't know if I could learn them. I didn't know if Corban could forgive his god even enough to let me try. But I knew I would keep pleading until I heard Judith's weary steps on the stairs as she climbed up to tell us the terrible news.

At last Corban took another shuddering breath and pressed his hand to his forehead, as if pushing all his rioting thoughts back inside. “I won't sing to the god,” he said in a quiet voice, “but I'll sing to
you.
Put on a coat. It'll be very cold.”

 

 

N
othing—not three sweaters, my coat, Alma's coat, and a pair of the headmistress's boots I found in her closet—could keep me warm as Corban hovered so high above the ground that I could no longer make out landmarks below. I felt ice at the edges of my eyes where the tears leaked out. My cheeks felt ready to crack from cold. It wasn't just that the temperature was so bitter, but that the wind was so strong. I couldn't imagine how Corban held himself relatively steady against its incessant buffeting, but in fact, he seemed to be riding the merciless currents without effort; clearly his body remembered this particular skill.