Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  "That tickles!" Jophiel giggled.

  He did it again, and then a third time, until she put an end to it by reaching down to pop the button of his own slacks, sliding her hand beneath the waistband until she found his manhood jammed into an awkward position and straightened it for him. His wings slapped involuntarily against the couch where they rutted like two hormonal teenagers.

  "Not … yet," Raphael groaned.

  He kissed his way back up to her lips, determined that this time when he made love to her, he would bond to her as it was said the Seraphim had done. He had no idea if such legends were true or simply the imaginings of some Mantiwood producer, but in his mind it was real, and if he wanted it badly enough, then who could say it wouldn't happen?

  He tore off his trousers and kicked them off his ankles. She slid her finger over the head of his manhood, already wet and slick from a glistening drop of his seed, and spread the milky substance with her thumb. Raphael slid his hand down to her feminine mysteries to make sure she was ready and grew harder at the feel of the warm juices which invited him. They had been apart for too long. His need was so great that it felt as though his heart would burst if he did not find his way inside of her immediately.

  She leaned backwards on the couch. Gods! This wasn't even a bed! Which way was her bedroom? He picked her up, almost tripping over her wings, and carried her towards the nearest door.

  "The other door," Jophiel's eyes flashed with hunger and excitement, a seductive mix.

  He silenced her with a kiss as he kicked open the door and carried her into her bed. Her snowy white wings spread out beneath her like a cloud, suspending her pink flesh above them as though she was a dream. Gods! She was perfect! He placed his knees carefully as he crawled up on top of her, mindful not to kneel upon her wings. Jophiel grasped his manhood and tugged him towards her, eager to complete their union.

  “Not yet…” he moved just out of reach and kissed her again, moving so his manhood rested just above her furry mound. He captured her beautiful, high cheekbones between his hands and looked into her eyes which had lightened to a paler shade of blue the more she became aroused.

  "My heart to your heart," he whispered the words from a popular movie about the Seraphim, the words he intended to be his wedding vow. He waited until she understood the commitment he was making to her.

  "And my heart to yours," Jophiel's lip trembled as she gave her reply.

  "My life intertwines with your life," Raphael whispered.

  "And my life intertwines with yours," Jophiel said.

  "My spirit binds to your spirit," Raphael said.

  "And my spirit binds to yours," tears welled in Jophiel's eyes.

  "Let us be mated, for eternity, so that no force in the universe shall ever tear us apart," Raphael whispered, "not even death."

  "Yes," Jophiel's said. "Make love to me, Raphael, and make this union a permanent one.”

  He took her lips gently, sharing a single breath as he sank into her feminine mysteries and felt her welcoming him back where he belonged. He forced himself to maintain eye contact. Her pupils widened, the irises turning ice blue around them as he withdrew part way and, with a groan, sank into her depths a second time. She exhaled into his lungs, sharing her breath, sharing her life, sharing her soul with him as she let go of the wall she had always kept between them and arched her back, inviting him to bury himself deeper.

  His wings slapped against hers as he wrapped his arms around him, their avian instinct to take flight together as they consummated their union which was more than a mortal marriage. Jophiel greedily rose up to meet him as they moved together in a dance which was older than time. Feathers flew, wings slapped together as each strove to bury themselves deeper into the other, to merge, to become one.

  Time and space seemed to meld together as they reached that peak together, the single breath they passed back and forth until their heads swam and it felt as though they no longer inhabited a physical body. Close. They were close. So close.

  “Raphael,” she cried his name, arching into his body with her wings pounding so hard she lifted him off the bed, trying to take flight.

  He succumbed to the flood of emotions as he merged with the woman he loved so that, for just a moment, it felt as though they had ceased being two separate people and become one heart and soul. He saw into her mind, that she had returned his commitment, and for a moment there was a pleasant sensation that his thoughts were hers and hers were his. There was a sensation of weightlessness, as though they rode together on the current of a beautiful song, and then it was over and he was back in his body lying on top of her, sweaty, spent, and oh-so-happy that if he died right this moment he would enter eternity a very happy man.

  “Oh … my … that … was….” Jophiel's chest heaved as she caught her breath.

  “We are mated,” Raphael kissed her with all the love in his heart. "Not even death can separate us ever again."

  From the open window, the sound of a bird singing from out in the Eternal Garden grew louder, causing Jophiel to smile. Raphael glanced up and saw a tiny, nondescript bird sitting on a branch of the Eternal Tree which had stretched its limbs as though it wished to peer into their window and witness their commitment as the bird warbled its beautiful wedding song. It was the song he had heard while he'd made love to her, and yet somehow it was only the faintest echo of what he'd felt in that moment when he'd been one with her.

  "And here I thought that was us?" Raphael rolled onto his side and pulled her with him so he could stay inside of her as long as he could.

  "It's the happy bird," Jophiel's eyes were tearful. She looked away and bit her lower lip, but he sensed whatever cloud worried her, it had nothing to do with them or the commitment they had just made to each other, but some other hurt she had not yet addressed from her past.

  "Don't worry," he nuzzled her neck as she fell asleep in his arms. "I will find the human homeworld! Even if I have to invade Hades-6 and shake the location out of Shay'tan himself!"

  Chapter 92

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.11 AE

  Zulu Sector: ‘Light Emerging’

  Angelic Air Force Colonel Glicki

  Glicki

  Colonel Glicki sat in the commander's chair of the Light Emerging, orchestrating the search for Mikhail. He was her friend, too! All three of them had come up through basic training together and she would keep the search parties running smoothly until Raphael got back. So far as she was concerned, unless Shay'tan himself showed up, she'd just assume have Raphael linger there than pester her here.

  The poor bastard had done nothing but mope ever since he'd received the message from Jophiel telling him not to come. Glicki wasn't sure who Raphael had missed more. Jophiel? Or his red-plumaged son with his wacky pet gorock?

  Glicki clacked her mandibles in an internal chuckle. She had slipped a few risqué movies into his duty roster so the clueless bastard would know which end of his manhood to stick where when he finally met up with Jophiel again. It was an affliction her species was cursed with, the compulsion to matchmake and meddle. What better love story could she orchestrate than the epic saga of their beautiful Supreme Commander-General and the lowly then-lieutenant-colonel? Mantoids hated the way the Emperor denied hybrids love! Stories about tempting Angelics to 'fall' was an esteemed plot trope of Mantoid culture.

  "Sir," a call came up through her comms pin. "The Brigadier-General's needle has just returned to the ship. Request permission to let it on board."

  "Permission granted." Glicki drummed her hard exoskeleton fingers on the console, eager to get back to something more intellectually stimulating than babysitting the fleet. A second call came up through the intercom.

  "It's not him, Sir," the needle handler called. "There's nothing in the marsupiam but a hand-written message."

  "What does it say?" Glicki asked. "Keep calm and carry on?"

  "No, Sir," the needle handler said, not getting the joke. "It says he will be delayed for the
next five days and could you please continue to take charge of the armada? No reason is given."

  Glicki fluttered her under-wings in a pleased, romantic way that was the Mantoid races equivalent of fan girl *squee!*

  “It’s about time!”

  She slapped her armored hands down upon the communications console, her mind whirring to recall if there was any pressing information she needed to relay back to him. No. There was nothing so pressing that she could not give her good friend the dignity of a decent honeymoon, and she was positive it was a honeymoon, whether or not they made their union public or an official blessing had been said.

  "Send the needle back with confirmation the ship is in good hands," Glicki ordered. "And tell him to please take as many days as he needs. I'll send the needle if we experience an emergency."

  Focusing her compound eyes upon the screens she perpetually monitored outlining which ship in the armada had shuttlecraft exploring which remote back-cubby of the spiral arm, Major Glicki continued her search for the Holy Grail.

  Chapter 93

  November – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Angelic Air Force Colonel Mikhail Mannuki'ili

  Mikhail

  Sunlight stabbed through the window and impaled Mikhail's eyes. He tried to shield his face from the painful phenomena, but a cruel, small man wielding a tiny screwdriver mercilessly jabbed holes into his throbbing brain. His mouth felt like somebody had stuffed rags into it and his tongue was swollen so thick he could barely swallow. He felt … grotesque. He felt for Ninsianna and she wasn’t there. He tried to sit up, but a sensation akin to planetary re-entry made the room spin, so he lay back down. Was he sick?

  “You’re hung over,” Ninsianna said from somewhere across the room.

  “Mmmpf…” He covered his eyes to block out the sunlight. “I don’t remember coming home last night.”

  “You were singing drinking songs.” Ninsianna's voice was rich with bemusement.

  “Not so loud,” he groaned. “I hope you have…”

  His stomach began to heave.

  “Here’s the urn,” she rushed over with a ceramic crock.

  He managed to keep down whatever was left in his stomach, at least saving himself that little indignity. “What happened?"

  “You’re asking me?” Ninsianna laughed. “You said something about the sisters making beer. It must have one hell of a kick.”

  Mikhail fought the urge to hurl out the contents of his stomach. “Don’t say that word.”

  “What? Beer?”

  He lost it. He stuck his head into the urn and managed to contain it to the pot, at least most of it. Of all the indignities to suffer in front of his wife!

  “Everyone knows you’re supposed to approach any new beverage the widow-sisters brew with caution,” Ninsianna tormented him with a sweet, musical laugh. “We’ve all been burned by their experiments at one time or another. Mine was the fermented crushed berries. Papa got sick with fermented millet grains. Mama still can’t look at a wild apple to this day without gagging.”

  “I don’t think we drink much where I come from,” he mumbled between stabs to his brain. “I don’t seem to hold it down very well. The sisters can drink me under the table.”

  “The sisters can drink everyone in Ubaid territory under the table,” Ninsianna laughed at him. “They come from a long line of fermenters and brewers. How do you think they’ve been supporting themselves all these years with no husbands?”

  “They’ve never traded me anything to drink what they make,” he mumbled.

  “They adore you,” Ninsianna said. “And besides … they only share their experiments. Anything that shows promise gets potted up and traded out of the village to traders.”

  “They said they traded for the recipe for this … beer,” he said. He felt his stomach lurch again at the mere mention of the name of the beverage, but he managed to keep it down this time.

  “How’s it made?” Ninsianna asked.

  “Break apart barley bread and soak in water,” he said. “Let it ferment two weeks or more. Sip through a hollow reed to avoid the disgusting part floating at the top and the bottom. And feathers. They were upset I contaminated a batch with a few molted feathers.”

  “What did they do with it?” Ninsianna asked.

  “We drank it, of course.” He spread two fingers to allow in a bit of light. “Why waste a perfectly good batch of beer?”

  He needed to see her. Lately, it only felt like she was there when he could see her. Awkward silence stretched between them, that canyon of uneasiness which had opened up between them. He was here and she was there, as far away from him in the room as she could get.

  “We need to talk,” Ninsianna finally said. That didn’t sound good. Immanu had warned him that whenever a female said ‘we need to talk’ it usually meant you had done something wrong.

  “Yes?” he said cautiously. Ninsianna had been distant and angry with him lately. He wished she would just tell him what he was doing wrong so he could rectify the problem.

  “I’ve been asking you to do a lot of things for me lately,” she said. “For everyone.”

  “Mmm-hmmm…” He would elaborate more, but the room had started to spin again.

  “We have no time together anymore. I guess I’ve just resented it.”

  “Mmmmm….” The room spun to the beat of his stomach gearing up to hurl its contents a second time.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is … I’m sorry,” Ninsianna said. “I’m sorry I’ve been snapping at you lately.”

  That was it. He lost it again. He stuck his head inside the urn and choked on the bitter taste of stomach acid burning his throat as his own stench filled his nostrils and made him vomit even more. Ninsianna sat next to him and ran her fingers through his wings as he lost all control.

  “Go away,” he mumbled in between dry heaves. ”This is disgusting.”

  “If you think this is bad,” she said wryly, “wait until I give birth.”

  He lost it again. He had no idea what giving birth entailed, but if she screamed half as much as Shahla had, he knew he wouldn’t like it. The heaving subsided enough for him to roll onto his back, crunching his left wing into an uncomfortable, awkward position. He covered his eyes to block out the sunlight, also blocking his ability to watch her. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t see her, so he peered between his fingers once more, only able to make out her blurry dark hair.

  “Light … hurts…” he mumbled.

  “Oh, honey,” Ninsianna caressed his cheek. “Poor thing. I’ll tell everyone you’re too sick today to spar.”

  “Don’t tell them I’m hung over,” he whimpered. “Please?”

  “Honey,” that bemused tone crept back into her voice, “everybody gets hung over at some point. Welcome to the human race.”

  She ran her hand down to his chest, to the place she’d stitched up the hole in his lung which had come dangerously close to piercing his heart. There. When she touched him there, he could feel her, even with his eyes closed.

  “I can feel you,” he grabbed her hand and flattened her hand over his heart. Warmth moved from her hand into his chest, quelling that frantic urgency which had grown louder the longer this distance between them had lingered.

  “What?”

  “I can feel you when you do that,” he said. “I like it.” He didn't say what he really meant. I -need- it.

  She curled up next to him and snuggled into his favorite sleeping position, her head upon his arm, cheek upon his chest, and hand over his heart. He could feel her when she did that. For some reason that he could not remember, it was important that he always be able to feel his mate.

  “I love you more than my own life,” he whispered as he drifted back to sleep.

  * * * * *

  He sat across the chessboard from the small, dark-winged Angelic. Beside them a timer counted out the seconds until the boy had to make his move. The boy did not speak, but then he n
ever did.

  "Tá sé do bhogadh, Gabriel," Mikhail said. He pointed to the timer. "Tá tú beagnach as am."

  Those sullen blue eyes were angry because he did not yet understand the game. With a chubby little hand, he picked up his black bishop and made an L-shaped move across the chess board to capture Mikhail's white queen.

  "Mo banríon!" Mikhail pointed to the black bishop. "Ní sin an tslí go bhfuil píosa fichille ceaptha a bhogadh."

  He stared at the timer ticking at the side of the chessboard, counting out the seconds until he could crush his opponent. The boy's lower lip quivered as he projected an image of him being -mean- directly into his mind. With a chubby arm, the boy stood up and swept the chess pieces onto the floor.

  The clock ticked louder, louder, louder. It felt as though he stared at an enormous black wall.

  "We are out of time," Mikhail said.

  At first he thought he'd slept through the day, but as the dream receded he realized Ninsianna had thrown a blanket over the window to block out the sunlight. A splinter stabbed into the back of one wing. He sat up slowly, hanging on to the bed frame just in case the room began to spin again. The urn had been cleansed and Ninsianna had placed a cup of fresh water on a stool next to his bed. He drank it slowly, wary that it might come right back up again. It stayed down. He blew into his hand to smell his own breath. Ugh! No wonder Ninsianna hadn't wanted to stick around!

  He swished some water around his mouth to clear out that unpleasant feeling of having swallowed feathers and spat it into the urn. His stomach lurched as he scrambled to his feet, but once he had his balance he wasn't too bad except for some residual light-headedness. The last time he'd drank too much at the widow-sister's house he'd learned the hard way to avoid the glare of direct sunlight. He decided not to pull the blanket off the window but to make his way downstairs and find something to settle his stomach.