by N. D. Jones
“She grieves for her son…her only child.” Issa wondered how much empathy had played a role in Serwa’s decision to cure Evlin O’Leary.
“Ethan O’Leary was a horrible person, but he was her son. No mother should have to bury her own child.”
Issa agreed. He’d made sure to return O’Leary’s body to Richmond, leaving him at a demon-owned funeral home so Evlin O’Leary could, at least, give her son a proper burial. Once dragged from their burning village, Issa and Serwa had never seen their children again--alive or dead. Faded memories were all they had.
“You made the right choice. A human choice. No matter what, you’re a Healer at heart. If you healed her, I’m sure there was something of Evlin O’Leary worth saving.”
Serwa sighed, turned and wrapped her lean arms around his neck. Her sentimental eyes clouded with unspoken words. The desire to coat him in her healing magic was palpable in her loving gaze. But the woman had her pride. That, too, shone in her remarkable eyes. She wouldn’t ask again. Why should she? He’d spurned her offer as many times as he’d given his shirt, belt, and shoes to some unfortunate homeless man—normally a veteran suffering from PTSD.
The realization that she didn’t intend to extend her offer one more time was a mallet to his heart He had been the one to leave, to refuse her or anyone else’s assistance. And he’d achieved his goal. Ethan O’Leary was dead. So why did Issa feel like he’d gained little in his relentless pursuit of revenge and redemption?
Serwa’s fingers began a slow, erotic massage at the nape of his neck. “Maybe we should take a shower. I’m sweaty from my flight from D.C. to Virginia.”
Issa smiled at his diplomatic wife. True, he was a bit ripe to the nostrils. Before Serwa arrived, he’d tracked and dispensed with two earth demon drug dealers and run down and scared the shit out of five teenagers who preferred breaking and entering to curriculum and instruction. His wife, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit tart. In fact, she smelled of lilac and brown sugar. Perhaps she simply looked like brown sugar, Issa amended, the succulent granules always melting so deliciously in his mouth. And damn, if he didn’t want to taste her, see how she compared to the confection, thinking she would be even sweeter.
Issa laughed. “Is that your way of saying I stink, sweetheart? That you refuse to share a bed with your foul-smelling husband no matter how long it’s been?”
Serwa’s eyes twinkled and her lips quirked up at the corners. “I would be glad to wash your wings for you.”
“Hmm, I’m sure you would.” Issa forced himself to release his wife and move back, his black and red African Peace graphic tee indeed sticking to his moist back and chest. “But I don’t think we can both fit in my tiny shower. Besides”—he winked at her—“you know as well as I do that if we take a shower together the last thing either one of us will do is wash up.”
“True. You go take a shower and I’ll be here when you get out.”
Reluctantly, Issa moved to his bedroom, feeling incredibly aroused despite the fog of depression that threatened to consume him. He pushed against it, refusing to allow it to dampen his spirits. He would take advantage and enjoy every minute of his time with his wife, knowing she would soon return to Araceli, leaving him alone just as he’d requested.
What a sobering, depressing thought.
Fifteen minutes later Issa emerged from the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered, his green wings wet but not dripping. The cascade of warm water had worked miracles on his tense muscles, but had done nothing to soothe the growing, impatient throb in his loins. It had simply been too long.
A bronze-finish nightstand lamp illuminated his small but quaint bedroom. Admittedly, he’d added a few touches on his way to the shower. A queen-size bed with rose wine—Serwa’s favorite color—duvet replaced the metal framed futon and mattress he normally slept on. The ceiling fan’s three sweeping blades created a charming visual effect when the fan was in motion, like it was now. Its candelabra bulbs, while currently off, were an improved sight over the white ceiling cloud that came standard with the unit.
Serwa was reclined on the window seat, eyes closed, head propped against the beige wall, legs pulled to her chest. Issa’s heart leapt at the sight. Skin tightened, manhood twitched with admiration and undisguised interest. Serwa had removed her black heels and thigh-high lace top stockings, leaving her sexy feet and legs bare. All that remained was the black one-shoulder evening dress. A silver embroidered floral design began at the right shoulder, curved sensually between her breasts and ended at the pleated waist. The dress’s enticing slit went from ankle to thigh, revealing one delectable leg.
Noticing his presence, she looked up at him. Her eyes traveled his body, starting with his eyes and moving languidly down to his neck, chest, and legs. Then those approving eyes glided back up to that part of him that was showing off and begging for her attention.
Issa hadn’t bothered to put anything on after his shower, not even the towel he’d used to dry himself off with. What was the point? They both knew what Serwa wanted when she’d shown up at his apartment. Issa wanted it, too, arctic showers and a lubricated hand doing nothing to assuage his need. Issa’s sexy, Healer wife the only cure for his sexual tension. He loved the way her eyes devoured him, brown specks stroking him with a soft, penetrating gaze. Pink tongue peeked out to lick ruby lips, eyes once again dropping to that region that made him most male.
Even if he hadn’t possessed an angel’s enhanced sense of smell, Issa would still be able to detect Serwa’s unmistakable scent of arousal, the tantalizing aroma of the Niger River rising up and overflowing its banks. Ah, yes, she craved him, and he craved her. There was nothing standing between them. Not a rogue demon, nor Issa’s pride, or two realms, nothing but fifteen feet of hardwood flooring and an exquisite gown that had just dropped to the floor.
Then it was just the distance, which Serwa closed in the short time it took Issa to open his arms for her. She filled them, curvaceous body pressing, demanding.
Her lips slammed into his. Hard. Hungry. Relentless. Anger and frustration were there, too, biting, stinging, and drawing blood. Not much, but some and well-deserved.
He’d left her—physically and emotionally. While his wife could forgive much, he’d hurt her, unintentionally but nonetheless harmfully. And, no, asking Nathaniel to keep an eye on her while he was away was not enough to excuse his extended absence.
Issa met and matched Serwa’s passion, sucking and nibbling, catching that wily tongue of hers and toying with it like a cat with a ball. He enjoyed the way Serwa teased and tempted, caressed and pounced, soared and soothed.
Gasping on a moan, lightning flashed outside, altering the color of Serwa’s eyes. Not quite Healing purple, but not brown either. Those wonderfully angelic eyes stared at him, going wide when he lifted her by the hips, walked her to his bed, and lay her down with a gentleness that belied how desperately he needed to be inside her.
The animal pulse of his body ripped through him, urging Issa to claim Serwa now, to bury himself so deep in her that there would be no room for a husband’s guilt or an angel’s doubts. But Issa, the Guardian Angel, not his relentless Hunter alter ego was still in control. While he would have Serwa, and she him, he would do it right, take his time, make her scream and flow for him. She would do the same for him. Serwa always did.
God, she was enchanting, splayed like an offering on his bed. Long legs bent, chest rising with anticipation, eyes glossy and alert. Her damnably enticing tongue came out again, running over lips swollen from his ardent kisses. His dream. His wife who would be gone come morning.
Shaking off the unwanted thought, Issa bent and took an erect nipple into his mouth. Sucking with enough pressure to compel Serwa’s back to arch in pleasure, she crushed her ample bounty into his wet mouth.
Issa had been right. Serwa tasted better than brown sugar, sweeter than cinnamon, her body smoother than soft-serve ice cream on a steamy summer night. Delicious and delectable didn’t begin to d
escribe her. He had to have more. His tongue ached to lick every scrumptious inch of her, his mouth finding the southern route too tempting to resist.
So he didn’t.
Issa didn’t drink, had never been drunk, except when he was with her, giving Serwa oral pleasure, consuming her special intoxicating brew, making it flow heavy and heady for him.
She moaned, squirmed, rotating her hips, a belly dancer bent on seduction. His large hands were leis around her waist, holding, caressing her in slow, rhythmic strokes, making her cry out. Serwa screamed his name, drowning out the surge of lightning echoing their reunion.
Serwa pulled Issa up her panting body, legs wrapping around him as he—thank God—found his way home. It was home, as wet, warm, and welcoming as he’d remembered. But could he ever forget? Not this. Not her. Not ever.
This night was no unfulfilled wet dream. Serwa was there with him, in his bed, nails scoring his back with each of his powerful thrusts. Teeth bit into his shoulder and neck, marking him as hers. Yet there was no need for such primal claiming. He’d always been hers, since the first time he’d laid eyes on her—children too young to understand what life had in store for them.
Even now, as adults, they were still wading through emotional landmines, learning about themselves and where they fit into the complex world of right and wrong, good and evil, love and loss.
But, ah, Issa didn’t feel lost now, not while Serwa was in his arms. All he felt was an outpouring of contentment and joy. Neither of which he’d experienced in far too long. Such was the power of his wife…his Healer. And, yes, the way she took him in her body and made Issa want to pitch a tent and stay forever, was a part of the appeal. But only a small fraction, the body a mere shell, a dazzling prelude to a much deeper, forgiving, vibrant soul within.
Serwa’s lovingly supportive soul had made it easy and hard for him to be apart from her. But they would persevere. Issa knew it was more his cross to bear than hers but that she would gladly help him hold it aloft if he would accept the hand she’d so graciously—and repeatedly—offered.
Taking control, his wife flipped them over, straddling his body and taking him deep. Serwa was slick, his mlingoti covered in womanly wetness, sliding in and out as she swiveled those magnificent hips of hers, making him twitch and harden that much more. Then she did that amazing trick of hers, clenching his hardness with her inner muscles, sending raging urges through his body to pump harder, stroke longer, go impossibly deeper.
He did.
Mouth-watering breasts bounced as Serwa rode him, giving Issa an eyeful. There was much to behold, his wife’s body an artist’s muse. But he was the only person who had ever seen her like this. Issa had glimpsed Heaven in Serwa’s smiling, trusting eyes long before he’d known the real place existed.
She smiled down at him with lust and longing. He longed, too. Longed for this lovemaking to never end. Longed for what was taken from them. Longed to forever have her love.
The tumultuous thunderclaps mimicked the beating of their in-synch hearts. Finally, they were together. Issa covered and comforted by his wife’s body…presence. Her open need and uninhibited caresses and moans humbled him. He moaned too, his primal cries of release loud and freeing.
By the time the autumn thunderstorm moved north, making its way to Maryland and Pennsylvania, Serwa was in Issa’s arms, his body wrapped around her as she slept. The scent of lovemaking perfumed the air. The only aroma Issa liked better than that of his wife was the scent of the two of them combined. That was his ambrosia.
Six hours later, Issa didn’t need the light from the morning sun, beaming through opened blinds, to know Serwa was gone. He had felt the absence two hours ago, his heart tightening, knowing, even in slumber, when its other half was no longer within touching distance.
Issa sat up in bed, body naked and tingling from the long night of lovemaking. Sleeping, then waking, making love and cuddling. For hours, until sheer exhaustion forced them to call it a night.
Not once had they exchanged a single word. Beyond groans, moans, and cries of obscene pleasure, no words had passed between them. None was required. No more than Issa had needed a good-bye.
Serwa had spared them…spared him. He didn’t want to watch her fly away, see the repressed tears in her eyes, and feel his gut wrench when he let her go again.
Leaning to his right, Issa opened his nightstand drawer, shuffled a few inconsequential items around until he found and pulled out what he was looking for. It was a singular object, a feather as untarnished as polished onyx.
Serwa’s feather.
When Issa had left Araceli, he’d taken little with him. The shiny, soft petal of remembrance, feather of regret had become his most precious possession, and this was his morning ritual. He ran a sword-roughened finger over it, seeing Serwa in his mind’s eye, singing their girls a soothing lullaby. This routine had become a necessary preparation for another lonely day and an even lonelier night.
“It’s wasn’t your fault, neither the demon attack nor the slave raid that claimed our village and children. You can’t protect everyone, be everywhere, Issa. When will you learn to forgive yourself? Will you ever let your heart, mind, and soul heal?”
“I don’t know how,” Issa whispered to an empty room, the same reply he’d given Serwa every time she begged him to return home.
He was lost, had been for a long time. Issa needed help, the kind that couldn’t be found lurking in dark corners, waiting for and dispensing with rogue demons. How many had it been since that first? Issa had long since lost count. It was not the cure he needed, but the cure he’d sought, a placebo that was quickly fading into desolate numbness.
Issa did something he hadn’t in years. He dropped to his knees, hands and forehead going to the hardwood floor in supplication, and prayed.
And prayed.
And prayed.
Within minutes, darkness surrounded him, curled about his body, lifting him to his feet. The curtain of black angelic wings blocked out the morning sun with an even brighter light. The burning dark heat of a Healer Angel was upon him, around him, in him, and Issa breathed in her healing obsidian vapors—clary sage and myrrh.
More. More. More.
Nose flared. Skin tingled. Eyes watered with growing relief. God yes, more.
He’d called her name in his sorrow. He called it again, chanted it. “Serafina. Serafina. Serafina.”
Their eyes met. Purple healing orbs shimmered with tears. He said her angelic name again, pouring all his love and reverence into each syllable. “Serafina, Angel of Serenity. My. Serwa.”
More therapeutic heat pulsed through Issa, seeking and finding all that feasted on his caged soul—pride, guilt, anger—and purged it, blasting away until the only thing that remained was glorious darkness. For it is in darkness the truth shines the brightest. The light can distort true sight, whereas darkness rips away false securities and lies, leaving only open, naked wisdom.
Issa caressed the wings that held him close. The sweet scent of kola nuts permeated every pore of his body, sticking to him like morning dew. His angelic scent, the one he’d buried under grimy layers of guilt and heartache.
“You came,” he said, watching as Serwa’s eyes turned from Healer purple to winter brown.
“You prayed to me, called my name, husband, of course I came.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were raw and overdue.
She kissed him. Sweet. Understanding. Forgiving. “I know.”
“I love you.”
Another kiss. “I know. I’ve always known. And I love you, my warrior.”
Relieved, he sighed. She loved him still. At times, he didn’t believe he was worthy of such affections. But he was. Of course he was.
“Will you return home with me now?”
Home.
Yes, this apartment had never been home to Issa. Even the human realm was no longer his home.
He nodded.
Serwa smiled, reminding Issa of the last time she’d s
miled at him in just that way. A cat that got the cream kind of smile. Issa remembered it well, but it couldn’t be. Almost five hundred years had passed since he’d last seen her look at him in that way.
But the warming smile remained as she lifted them into the air, Serwa’s obsidian vapors pushing the ceiling aside, permitting them to exit.
A familiar twinkle in her eyes, Serwa placed Issa’s hand on her abdomen. “Nanyamka.”
Nanyamka? God’s gift.
A disbelieving “Are you sure?” slipped out hopeful lips.
Another breath-stealing smile was followed by a confident nod.
Issa, former chieftain, avenger, and would-be Hunter Angel also smiled, grinned, in fact, the sensation gratifying and too rare.
As they breached the dense clouds that led to Araceli, the refreshing air welcomed him home. Serwa whispered, “Efuru,” in his ear, and Issa’s heart fully healed.
“Efuru,” he repeated in amazement. “Efuru. Our own daughter of Heaven.”
Then Issa knew. It had never been about fire or fury, but faith. Yes, faith and a woman’s indomitable spirit and everlasting love.
THE END
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AUDIOBOOK
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SNEAK PEEK
“People aren’t always what they seem, Alastar,” Zora began. “Sometimes you think you know someone, but then they turn out to be just the opposite of what you believed them to be.” Zora leaned back, fingers idly playing with the straw in her drink, seeing the battered face of a woman in need of protection, but whose cries far too many ignored. “And when you finally see the truth, it’s often too late.”