by Ash Krafton
"You don't belong here, woman." He growled his words, his rancid breath causing her to twist her head away in disgust.
Her courage was that of a lioness. "I belong where I choose to belong."
"Then choose your proper place. On your back, or next to your kitchen fire. Not here, amongst men of the sea. Pretty faces are good for only one thing here, missy. And if pretty faces hang out long enough, they get what they're good for."
She responded with a slap, a strong swing that rocked him back a pace.
Zophiel felt the man's rage spill over and knew she was in trouble. But…what could he do besides watch?
Desperately he looked around. She needed help, an intervention. Only one other man was in the vicinity, an elder. He would not be much use.
Unless…he had divine help.
Zophiel came down behind the elder's body, hovering over him, closer, closer…then closed his eyes and pushed his way inside him.
He sucked a loud breath, the sensation dizzying and terrifying. He felt the body around him, his eyes only seeing as a mortal, his ears hearing only as a mortal. Yet for all the limitations, there was heat, there was blood, there was a stout heart that beat in his breast.
There was ground, beneath his feet.
He wanted to sing with it, to fly with exhilarated wings.
A cry brought him back to his senses. Luminea. He tried to fly to her. No wings. He ran, clumsy and knock-kneed, rounding the corner to where Burton had Luminea's hair bunched up in his grimy fist, her pale cheek reddening from a blow.
Zophiel descended like a madman, his anger slick and fast. He grabbed Burton by the shoulder and spun him around to face him.
Startled by the old man's sudden appearance, Burton released Luminea and she fell back against the wall.
Burton's face was a mixture of anger and astonishment. "Taylor," he said, a warning in his voice. "Best be along. This does not concern you."
Zophiel smiled, thin and menacing, and struck him.
It was a simple gesture, a quick extension of his arm, a balled fist, aimed for the center of the brute's face. A simple gesture, powered with the strength of an avenging angel.
Bone cracked beneath the impact, bright blood splashing over his flesh. Sound, color, wetness. So many sensations. Zophiel couldn't keep track of them all. Over the rush of sensory intake was the pounding of a human heart—the heart inside his chest—
Burton fell to the ground, keening, holding his face.
Zophiel stood over him, a titan.
"She does not concern you, little man. And if you ever cause her as much as a single thought of worry—" He leaned down, lowering his voice to a quiet menace. "I will know, and I will show you your place, which is very close to where you are lying now."
A long moment passed between them, disbelieving defiance etched in the deep lines of Burton's spattered face. Sullenly, the conquered man pushed to his feet and staggered off, without as much as a look in Luminea's direction.
Zophiel stood watching after him, not so much seeing as feeling the still-alien sensation of corporeal form. The sunlight on his skin was a prickly glow, true heat. The zephyrs from the harbor were a constant play upon his skin, moving his thin hair in a constant caress. Humans lived this, each moment, each day of their tiny lives. How did they stand it?
And then another sensation overwhelmed him, and his thoughts ceased. Luminea had flung her arms around him, hugging him and thanking him for his rescue.
Oh. Oh, that. Bliss, defined.
He closed his arms gently around her, lost in the embrace. This—this touch, her body, her scent. She had a scent! It was clean water and sweet flower, overlay with a slight pungency of the canvas she had carried. He could smell the sunlight on her hair, the faint wisp of perspiration that was a nectar to his brand new senses. It was intoxicating.
So much so, that he lost his grip on the man's body and was cast out.
Once more, an angel. Suddenly devoid of the marvelous riot of human senses. He was crushed by the loss.
He followed Luminea home, still clinging to the memory of her flesh against his, and venerated each step of her foot, waiting until the day he could repeat his venture.
He didn't wait long. He took the man's form again a few days later, this time only to chat. There was no embrace but there was a touch of her hand upon his arm as she thanked him again.
Mat Taylor was a widowed fisherman who seemed to pity the young mother and her struggles to earn a living in a world where men dominated. He admired her craft and felt she deserved a chance.
But he was elderly, and worn out from a hard life on the sea. Zophiel found it easy to take his body at will, even if only for a few moments in passing. He looked forward to her walk to the harbor each day, hoping for a few moments longer to feel the sun and wind, to catch the scent of her skin. He craved it to the point where he could think of nothing else.
Weeks passed in this fashion, a miracle in itself. Zophiel learned to tell the passage of time while spent in corporeal form. Time itself—another wonder to behold!
But time was not kind to mortals, especially not elderly mortals whose bodies had been weakened by the passage of time. Zophiel realized that, each time he took Taylor, the body was more frail than it had been the time before. His possession caused physical damage.
And one day, Zophiel found he could not enter the man at all. Taylor was simply too weak.
The next day, perhaps, he thought. He could go one day, let the man rest and heal and grow strong enough.
It would not be the next day. There was never another next day for Mat Taylor.
When they passed his cottage, Zophiel found only a black banner above the door, the sounds of weeping within. Taylor had passed away during the night.
Luminea wept, her sadness at losing so kind a friend nearly breaking her heart, and shattering his in the process.
He hovered over the tiny gathering at Taylor's grave, emanating blessings of Peace and Comfort down upon Taylor's family, upon Luminea and her daughter.
He, too, was distraught. His actions had shortened the life of a mortal. He'd gone against his Master's Will.
But he knew his desire to be with Luminea was greater than any guilt he felt about causing harm. He had crossed a line—and it was not a line an angel should even know existed.
Simon woke up in a ditch.
Literally, a ditch. And not a clean, comfortable one, either.
What the frick was digging into his back? He pushed himself upright and twisted to look behind him. A shoe. Jeez. It wasn't even his. Could have been worse, considering he was lying in a ditch with absolutely no idea how he got there.
What time was it? Oh, yeah. He wore a watch. Good for something more than holding a wand.
Wait. His wand. It wasn't there.
Simon was on his feet like he had springs in his ass, wildly patting himself down. A familiar shape in his back pocket. He swallowed his heartbeat down and forced himself to breathe.
Climbing out of the ditch, he scanned the area. Sounds of brisk, steady traffic. A highway. Must be I-83. He squinted and tried to read the green overhead sign.
"Wait a minute," he mumbled. Did that say Towson? As in ten miles outside Baltimore? "Gotta be fricken kidding."
How did he get here? Didn't remember. Last thing was that bangin' gang exorcism. Then, just memory mush.
Then a ditch and a shoe. Wow, he thought. This was rough, even for him.
He pulled a smoke and lipped it without lighting it, more out of habit than hunger.
Looked back at the signs again. Yep. It was 83, all right, and a lot farther from town than he liked to walk. He checked the rest of his pockets, finding a wad of crumpled bills. At least he came with cab fare.
He plucked the cig from his lips and tucked it back into the pack. The cigarette caught when he tried to slip it back in and nearly bent. Little buggers were a terror to put away. Not that he'd ever tried that before.
Wait. Did he just try
put a cigarette away?
He stared down at the half open pack in his hand, not quite believing even as the facts lined up and presented themselves for inspection. He hadn't had a decent smoke since he came back through the pool.
And he didn't want one now.
Oh, hell no. That son of a bitch of a Devil. He did this.
He frowned, feeling more put out than he'd ever felt in his life.
"Lucifer." A shudder went through him, one that gripped him in the gut and made him nauseous. He felt…violated. "You just don't mess with a man that way."
Well, this sucked. Amnesia and cigarettes that failed to quiet the hunger. Talk about being stranded. He clasped his hands and hung them over his head, at a nearly-complete loss, watching the traffic speed past.
A sudden sharp lance of pain in his left arm made him curse. He turned his arm over and stared, agape.
His tattoo. It had been altered.
A new ring had been added around the periphery, a Celtic knot that wrapped around the outermost ring. He turned his arm to the light and squinted. The detailing was exquisite. Actually kinda cool.
Kinda bad that he didn't recall being in a tattoo parlor. Was this why he woke up so far from his neighborhood? To get ink? And why would he alter this one instead of working on the sleeve he'd started on the other arm?
This runic tattoo had been a two-man job of Kent's design—and he hadn't met a second man worthy enough of the job in a very long time. Hopefully, whatever he did to it didn't screw it up.
He lifted his arm and peered closely at the knot work, whistling his admiration. Expertly done, he had to admit. The entire knot was made of a single line, patterned and twisting. There was only a single break where the two ends met. A snake's head, mouth open, jaws wide, tiny fangs ready to bite the tail.
He stroked the edge, noting the absence of redness or swelling that was the hallmark of fresh ink. As he ran his fingertip over his skin, a prickly sensation started, feeling like goosebumps on a sunburn. It bunched and pinched around the entire tattoo. But it wasn't the weird sensation that made his mouth hang open.
It was the way the ink moved.
The snake came to life beneath his touch, sliding and squeezing its knotted body around the edge of his tattoo. It encircled and ensnared—
And he knew—God help him, he knew. He knew where it came from and he knew that it was responsible for what he'd done. What he remembered doing, anyway. He had no idea what he'd done in absentia of his mental faculties but whatever it was, the tattoo was probably responsible for that, too.
There was only one guy responsible for the tattoo.
"Oh, Lucifer." His voice was low and ragged. "You son of a whore, you."
Was this the favor Lucifer had said he'd done? This ring of ink that took him to a whole new circle of power? The tattoo never had this kind of strength on its own, never. And he sure as hell wasn't a natural mage.
Just a purveyor of parlor tricks, petty charms, chants and prayers and the wishes of a man who believed in magic. That's what his power had been, right up to the point when the Devil picked up a needle and scarred his soul.
His magical power wasn't just boosted—it was augmented to new strength, new depth. And a tiny voice niggled at the back of his brain that the reason it had been such a snap to exorcise a gang of demons at once wasn't because he was more powerful.
It was because he was different.
Before, he had to fight to make them abandon their hosts. He had to overwhelm them with surprise and magic and faith. But this last time—he just told them what to do. Those demons had recognized an authority and they obeyed him. As if he were a traffic cop, redirecting demons back to Hell.
He hadn't needed the extra show of power. That had been simply a bit of panache.
Simon chewed his lip, feeling more than a little guilty. It was spectacular, though. Wicked fricken pisser.
He staggered away from the ditch and sat down on a nearby cement blockade, watching the traffic zoom by. His nerves had stilled their noisy jangling. That little touch had awoken the snake, and that tiny activation had quelled what the cigarettes didn't.
Oh, no. He closed his eyes and let his head droop back. He was in the shit, now. Bad enough the wand hits had been needed more and more frequently. He knew he had a…slight problem. He knew it had been getting harder to satisfy the craving.
"Say it, Simon." His voice was drowned out by the drone of the unending stream of cars. Didn't matter. He could hear it. That's all that mattered. "Addict. You're an addict. But you knew that. You've known it for a long, long time. So why all of a sudden are you going Twelve Steps on yourself? Why now?"
He knew why now.
He scrubbed his mouth with a cupped hand. The answer was obvious: he'd just tasted a new drug. He tasted, and he devoured, and he cross-faded to the point of oblivion before waking up in a fricken ditch.
The cigarettes—they weren't stale. They were useless. He hadn't wanted one since his trip to the other side. Lucifer had taken that addiction away. Some favor. The Devil was the king of all nicotine patches.
Simon needed the nicotine addiction. It helped keep the other one at bay. But now—
He swallowed against a tongue made of cotton, his stomach twitching and every nerve starting to itch like boredom times ADHD times infinity squared. Hungry? Yes. No. There was only one thing.
Without cigs to keep the gnawing need muffled, he needed something else to abuse. He hovered his palm over the bend of his elbow, the slight heat of his hand like a lewd suggestion.
Great. Manual stimulation. Magical masturbation.
He closed his eyes, unable to look, but more than ready to touch himself. A new kind of low, one he couldn't smart-ass his way into justifying.
Maybe he should just get back into the ditch and save everyone a lot of time and trouble.
"Oh, Lucifer," he whispered. "You son of a bitching whore, you."
"Zophiel." Luminea's voice held a sharpness usually reserved for the under staff. "Have you heard a word I've said?"
"I apologize, madam." He did not resent the correction. Having lead so long a life, his kind was prone to becoming wrapped in reveries. Time flowed oddly around divinities, and the border between past and present was sometimes too thin to maintain proper separation. "I'd been lost in thought."
She softened her expression. "No small wonder. We've seen a lot together, you and I. Her being here brings much of it back."
"Indeed it does, madam."
"Well. We are not the sentimental type, are we? Daydreaming about the past is no way to secure a future. Have you seen her?"
"I have looked in at her, madam."
"My daughter." Luminea lingered over the words, savoring them. "I never thought she'd be here, or be so beautiful. I am not shallow, of course. She would be my daughter even if she weren't pleasing. But it does improve the aesthetics, does it not?"
Zophiel clasped his hands behind his back. There was only one he found beautiful. Any other was substandard. "Beauty is appreciable in many forms."
"Even when it's useless?"
There was that tone, that undercurrent that perpetually lurked in her shadows. Luminea was intelligent, beautiful, talented, devious. But there was something else to her. Self-loathing. Self-depreciating. She took on the faults of others and bore them like crosses. She punished herself for the sins that others had inflicted upon her. It turned a rage into a monstrous entity, roiling beneath the surface, unfathomable.
Generally, she directed that rage to building and creating and gaining and amassing. But not always.
Sometimes, she used it to destroy.
"Beauty is never useless," he said. This was a time for redirection. She, of all creatures, should venerate herself as a paragon. "Especially not when it is entwined with talent and promise."
"Oh, promise." She smiled, her eyes still cold. "Yes. There is so much promise in this endeavor."
"Yes, madam." Zophiel kept his expression still. She was
listening. A simple yes, madam kept her listening. She preferred obedience, the feeling that she was in control. "I believe you will achieve great things in this. You will finally obtain your peace."
She nodded, a sharp dip of her head. "Good. I like the sound of peace. It has long evaded me. I will enjoy it, I believe. You must, too."
Hard to decipher the meaning of that last part. He dared a glance at her, needing a read of her facial expression, knowing it would likely be unhelpful. Her expressions rarely tipped her hand.
Zophiel was not concerned. He knew her intimately, deeply, completely. Her meanings would all be clear in time. But it did help, knowing who she was and what she has always wanted.
"Has she seen you yet?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No, madam."
"I don't expect her to recognize you. Not in that get-up." She waved a finger at him in an up-and-down sweep. "No matter. I have every reason to believe she'll figure out exactly who you are. But I need you to remember one thing. She is my daughter. She is not the girl you remember, which makes your job easier. But she is still my daughter, and I need her."
Zophiel made no reply. Instead, he stepped over to her and kissed her forehead, smoothing her hair gently. Her scent was intoxicating, even after all these years. His body reacted the same exact way whenever they were close. He let his lips linger, breathing her in.
"Go." She turned away. "This needs to be done."
He felt her absence immediately, her warmth suddenly gone. No matter. There will be a next time. The thought of that was enough to sustain.
He would do anything she asked just for another chance at "next time".
Anything.
Another day, another exorcism.
The black smoke fizzled up and out of the host, flitting away like an acrid breeze. Simon rubbed his nose. Never got used to the smell.
Or the nosebleed. The bright red smear on his knuckles matched the disquiet that slow-roasted in the pit of his stomach. A price.
Petty price for power of this magnitude.
He scrubbed his hand against his side, glad he'd started wearing dark shirts. Easier to hide the occasional hemorrhage.