by Dianna Hardy
“God thought his will placed in you would enable him to control the darkness in you that he couldn’t eradicate – after all, that’s what he wanted – to conquer darkness; to master the unknown. But he only succeeded in creating a wildling. An angel misaligned to God’s purpose. You always selfishly did what you wanted. Look at yourself. You have the will of God inside you, and you’ve sided with lesser beings.”
“Is that how you see the race you want to save from falling? Lesser beings?”
“They are. A hierarchy exists. It’s not a pondering, it’s a fact.”
“And you call yourself a commander. A good ruler knows he’d be nothing without those he rules over.”
Michael punched him hard in the chest, and he went catapulting back into his suite through the open glass doors. He landed on his coffee table which shattered under him. His sword went flying out of his hand.
“Gawaine, I’m giving you one last chance. Where is the Pen?”
Gwain sat up, seething.“That coffee table was an exclusive piece, you bastard.”
He came at him again, but Gwain rolled to the left, and Michael landed his punch on the hardwood floor. Crap. The neighbours downstairs were going to go ape-shit with the noise … and with the fist that just went through their ceiling. “You know what?” he directed at Michael.
The archangel crouched, preparing to pounce.
“The will of God wants you to fuck off.”
Michael leapt at him again.
Gwain flipped onto his hands and slammed his feet into Michael’s chest, sending the angel sailing backwards, until he opened his shimmering gold wings, which stopped him just short of hitting the wall.
Gwain’s own wings unfurled in response.
Michael’s next movement was so quick, he registered it too late: a flick of the wrist – the tiniest flick – saw a small dagger embedded in Gwain’s stomach.
He roared in pain, but it was the scream of fury from his left that froze both men to the spot.
Maybe it was the sight of Mary, naked and raging, that kept Michael rooted there – and he certainly looked bewildered – instead of jumping away from the sword that Mary had hurled. Gwain’s sword.
It sank into Michael’s chest, and even then, it seemed to take a moment for him to realise that it had hit him while he was in solid form, not least because his eyes were firmly glued on Mary. Had the guy never seen a naked woman before?
Although, he had to hand it to his newly transformed dark angel, she was a sight to behold. Her cuts, welts and bruises had all healed during her sleep, after her transformation. In fact, all her scars were gone, even the old ones she’d inflicted on herself years ago. Her huge black wings curled forwards in attack, a tempest brewed in the depths of those piercing eyes, and her long blue-black hair fell silkily against her flawless ivory skin, falling softly over the mounds of her breasts. She carried herself like an Amazonian Goddess.
His entire body went hard for her, completely oblivious to the inappropriate timing. Yeah, he could understand why Mikey might be having problems.
Gwain pulled the dagger from his torso with a grimace, and Mary hissed in pain.
That’s when he noticed her clutching her stomach, red seeping between her fingers. No, no, no… “Mary—”
“It’s fine. It’s already started healing … just as yours has.”
He made his way to her, and gently moved her hand. Her wound was identical to his. Down to the last detail.
“Jesus Christ,” mumbled Michael, still looking astounded.
That may have been the first time Gwain had ever heard him swear.
“You merged with her. You merged with her?”
Gwain met Mary’s eyes. He stroked her cheek. “This,” he nodded towards their twin wounds “Our mergence shouldn’t be physical; I didn’t know this would happen.”
She held his gaze, steady and sure. “I did.”
“You did?”
“Well, I didn’t know that I did at the time, but it’s happened once before. Just before the abyss took me, I scratched your face…”
The memory of it hit him clear as crystal, despite the fact that he never let himself go back to that point in time – it was so long ago, and too painful to bear thinking about, that he’d mostly blocked it out of his mind. With his finger he traced a line along her right cheek, and remembered the red gash that had appeared there, right after she’d torn into him; just before she was taken from him. At the time, he’d been so mortified, it hadn’t even registered.
“So you did,” he whispered. He bent down, and kissed the invisible scar.
Michael let out a small, strangled sound, and pointedly stared at her necklace. “The angel shall lay with the dragon…”
“Are you referring to me?” asked Mary, not in the least impressed. “Do I look like I have scales to you?”
“The dragon is the symbol of The Beast.”
“Only in some cultures,” she muttered.
“The blood of Abaddon lies within you.” He turned to Gwain. “And now in you, too.”
“The will of God and the blood of Abaddon. Must be my lucky day.” Gwain strode over to where the archangel stood stooped over his injury. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, and jerked it out of him.
Michael yelped in anguish, but it was momentary. Two seconds later, there wasn’t a single mark behind the bloody hole in his tunic.
“Go home. Tell God it’s begun.”
Michael looked from Gwain to Mary, then back again. The commander may be built for war, but Gwain didn’t think he was stupid. It would be a struggle to take on both Mary and himself, and even if his wound had closed up, it would have drained some of his energy. Besides, the guy was clearly wary of Mary, if not downright afraid.
“It won’t just be me next time,” he warned. “It’ll be an army at your heels, and they’ll be after both your heads.” He stared at Mary again. “This is the War in Heaven come to Earth. The angel shall lay with the dragon,” he repeated. “Your mergence – that’s the first portent of the apocalypse.”
Mary shot him a look. “I’m holding up my ‘no scales’ card one more time.”
Gwain took her hand. “I’m not familiar with these portents.”
“We hid them so no one would go triggering the apocalypse.”
“Is there a second portent?”
Michael’s dark gaze fixed on Gwain. “And he will take all sin from the world.”
Chapter Twelve
From her seat on the sofa, Amy stared up at the huge cracks in the ceiling that had been caused by Paul flinging five Dessec demons at it. And the only reason she could see them from here, was that they reached all the way into the living room from the hallway. Elena and Karl were going to have kittens.
“I’m sure there’s a roof repair spell I can dig out from somewhere,” said Paul from the doorway, a lop-sided smile gracing his features, although his brown eyes were guarded. He walked in with a cup of steaming tea for her, and placed it on the coffee table before sitting down next to her.
Oh … Chamomile. She wrinkled her nose. Was it a family tradition or something?
“Oh … is Chamomile okay? I thought it would be calming…”
She sighed. Maybe she should inject the stuff into her veins and be done with it. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The silence engulfed them. Paul was now the one studying the ceiling, so Amy studied him: his dark brown hair was neatly combed into place; the profile of his nose looked remarkably like Elena’s; his cleanly-shaved jaw reminded her of the scent of his Old Spice shaving soap, which had always filled the bathroom in the mornings…
“Why do you look like that?”
He turned to her. “Pardon?”
“You look young. But you’re not, are you? I can tell.”
“You’re right. I’m,” he paused, “Etienne.”
“No.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “You’ll never be E
tienne to me again.”
He simply nodded, seeming to understand what she meant, for which she was grateful, because she didn’t really fancy explaining it.
“It’s a conscious effort on my part – and a difficult one – to call you Amy. You’re very much Elizabeth to me…” He cleared his throat and shook himself out of the past, or wherever he’d gone, then continued. “I came by a fairy, or rather, she came by me. A fairy queen, no less. She gave me my strength back, and my youth, but that is all. I’m on borrowed time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m eighty-two, Amy. I’m dying. I probably already would be dead were it not for Morgana.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “As in, Morgan Le Fey?” She knew about fairies. She’d always wished she could see them.
“The very one. Imagine my shock when I saw her in the flesh.” But he didn’t look all too happy about it.
“Why did she give you your strength and youth back?”
This time when he looked at her, he hid nothing at all. His gaze held so much love for her, she flushed, and automatically hugged a cushion to her belly, as if the cotton and foam-stuffed shield would be able to save her from her own response.
“So that I could protect you. And I’m sorry, because I know I promised you’d never see me again. Please understand that the last thing I want is to cause you more pain, but—”
“Protect me from what?” Duh, Amy, how about crazy shamans, and murderous Dessec demons.
Paul faltered, and she swore she saw a trace of regret swim over his countenance. “Maybe we should wait until your Dessec is awake. He may want to hear—”
“No way!” she blurted out.
He stared at her in surprise.
Okay, she hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but carrying Paul’s broken body off the floor was not on her to-do list. No way in hell was she going to let Pueblo hear anything Paul had to say without knowing what it was first, so she could prepare herself for his reaction. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it would be better if I told him, rather than it coming from you.”
He seemed to struggle with some internal battle, then nodded. “You’re right, of course.” And then he was blinking back tears, although trying to look like he wasn’t.
Instinct – or maybe it was habit and familiarity – overrode shoulds and shouldn’ts, and Amy reached over and took his hand in hers. “Hey, it’s all right. What is it? Is it worse than the gooey-handed shaman?”
He barked out a laugh, then shook his head. “Although … you might think so.” He squeezed her hand back, then shifted in his seat so he was properly facing her. He looked so sad. He hadn’t always been that way. What must he have gone through after she’d jumped into that wormhole…
Her heart clenched in her chest. “I wish—”
“No,” he interrupted, placing a finger on her lips, before quickly removing it again. “No what-ifs and buts … no regrets.”
She couldn’t stop her voice from wavering. “I tried to move on, I really did, but … I somehow got all of my memories as Elizabeth. I don’t know how to move on from those.”
“That’s … I don’t know what to say. That’s unexpected.”
“Damn right it was.”
“But we do need to let go, Amy, at the very least of the past. The future … well, that’s a different story.”
His grave tone had her clutching the edge of the sofa as she tightened her grip on his hand. “What do you mean?”
He glanced at her as if to assess her potential reaction. “Do you love him?”
“Pueblo?”
He nodded.
She opened her mouth to tell him yes, but closed it again; the monumental sense she’d be betraying him, choking the word back down her throat.
He caught on to her discomfort. “I loved again after you left. Never in a million years did I think it would be possible, but Eleanor Simmons was a magnificent woman, and just as good a witch. I never forgot you. But for a while I moved on, or at least, afforded myself the illusion that I had. You must move on, Amy.”
“Why are you here?” she asked, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not ungrateful you saved my life, but how dare you sit there and tell me what I need to do, after everything you’ve done, after everything I’ve been through.” She ignored the hurt in his eyes. “You lost me fifty-five years ago; I lost you last week when all these memories and feelings came rushing back in. And yes, I love Pueblo, all right? I do love him. But that doesn’t make things easier; if anything it makes it harder. I’m sick of feeling guilty every time I think about either one of you, because of what I feel for the other. And now you’re here – you’re here – holding my hand, while you tell me to let go?” She snatched her hand back and rose from the couch. “If you want me to move on, you should have stayed away.”
She stopped by the front window, her haggard reflection bouncing off the pane, the darkness outside, reminding her that it must be about one in the morning. Did she even sleep anymore? Everything seemed like one giant nightmare.
Paul came up behind her, stopping short of touching her. She stared at him in the window, refusing to turn around. His breath tickled her hair. It startled her how familiar he felt, not least because he’d been nothing of the sort before these stupid memories invaded her. Two and a half weeks ago, she’d been praying to remember anything, and now she wondered if ignorance would have been better.
“Amy,” he whispered by her ear, and it was all she could do not to lean back into his frame, and she couldn’t deny that a part of her wanted to. But she didn’t. And he didn’t lean into her, not that he needed to … his words did it for him.
“If I thought for one second that there was even the smallest chance of you and I having any kind of future together, I would be fighting that demon tooth and nail to be by your side. If I thought you and I could have anything other than pain and complication, he’d have to kill me to tear me away from you, and I would die for you, Amy … I would die for you.”
She whirled around to face him, eyes burning hot, her anger practically palpable, and jabbed him in the chest with her finger, so hard he took a step back. “You hold my hand while you tell me to let go; you’ll die for me, but you won’t fight for me…” She grabbed the front of his shirt in two fists. “Why are you here?”
His hands settled around her arms, and he brought his forehead down to hers. It took every smidgen of self-restraint for the ‘Elizabeth’ in her to not reach out and kiss him. The part of her that was Amy wouldn’t – couldn’t – do that to Pueblo. Paul was obviously struggling with the same moral dilemma, and suddenly it was all too hard. She needed him to say something – anything… “Why?” she whispered.
“Amy … because…” he struggled to get the words out… “you’re pregnant.”
She stood that way for a long time, her hands frozen into balls and hanging onto him for dear life, because she was sure the ground had just disappeared from beneath her.
Eventually, some kind of sensation returned to her, and she could feel she was shaking her head from side to side… Pregnant? PREGNANT?
“No … it’s not … that’s … that’s—” the perfect explanation for your exhaustion, your nausea, the constant knot in your stomach, your irrational emotions and the fact that your period’s late.
Her insides lurched … again. Oh, shit, my period’s late! It hadn’t even occurred to her with everything going on, but now that she thought about it, it had been due just over two weeks ago.
“But…” she stammered, unable to finish the sentence.
Paul patiently massaged her fingers loose and removed them from his shirt, saying nothing, but clearly gauging her reaction.
When? When had this happened? She and Pueblo had been careful, and the likelihood of conceiving so close to her cycle should be next to none. So when—
Oooooh – there was that one time in the desert during their dream when they’d had the amazing and magical sex during their bonding, that had taken them o
ut of the dream… Ugh! Earth to Amy! If it took you out of the dream, then it was real wasn’t it? Plus, the magic… So that must have been when it happened…
Still in silence, Paul guided her back to the couch. Her legs automatically gave way when the back of her knees bumped the sofa. She tumbled heavily back onto the cushions … and that’s when she remembered the other dream.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit…
The hot fantasy lover dream! The one she hadn’t known was actually a dream-connection with Pueblo, but that had somehow turned into reality when she’d reached for the nearest warm body she could find to ease her burning ache – when she’d reached for Paul…
Oh, God! That had been just hours before the desert dream with Pueblo.
Amy stared at Paul in shock and trepidation, and caught the tightening of his jaw and the clench of his throat as he gulped.
Because he knows what I’m going to ask…
Her hand instinctively settled on her belly. Surprisingly, her voice was much steadier than she had expected. “Who’s the father?”
~*~
Michael had left half an hour ago. Gwain guessed they had under twelve hours before all hell broke loose – or in their case, all heaven.
Mary threw the last splintered leg from the coffee table onto the rest of the broken pieces that made up the pile by the bin, then looked at Gwain, amused.
“What?”
“You’re grimacing again. Every time I put a piece of that table on this pile, you grimace. Am I throwing it away wrong?”
His lip twitched slightly, but he didn’t smile. “I liked that coffee table.”
“Don’t be such a girl. You can get another one.”
“Not one like that I can’t. It belonged to Vincent van Gogh. After he lobbed his ear off and wrapped it up, he laid it on this table before heading out the door. You can still smell the blood on the wood if you find the right spot.”
“What?” She bent down and picked up the bit she’d just dropped, examining it. “Were you there?”
“Yes.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You weren’t the reason he lobbed off his ear, were you?”