My Fallen Angel

by Pamela Britton

  Concentrate, Lucy. Concentrate on the black fabric of your dress. Concentrate on being strong. Concentrate on the ocean

  Garrick loved so much. You may be a widow, but you can be the bloody finest widow Cardiff had ever seen.

  Cardiff. So beautiful with the granite castle stretching high on the cliffs behind her.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, knowing one of the staff watched her from the parapet behind her, yet the tears managed to escape anyway. She inhaled a ragged breath. A tear trekked down her cheek and she wiped it away with a grainy hand, uncaring that she left a streak of fine grit behind.

  They had searched for him for days, which had stretched into a month, and then two. The magistrate had told them they would continue to watch the beach. Sometimes they’d wash ashore, he had told her. They, the man had said. As if Garrick was nothing more than a piece of flesh, an empty shell to be found. Bile rose in her throat at the image of him being found. No. She would not think of it. She would remember Garrick as he was, vibrant, his sea-blue eyes full of life, his smile filled with love.

  Her hands clenched into fists, her shoulders hunched. She was going to break down again; she could feel the storm of tears building inside of her, could feel the emotion clogging her throat, plugging her nose. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t work. Her next breath was a sob and when she opened her eyes, it was through a sheen of tears.

  She cried.

  Cried for the love she had lost.

  She sobbed.

  Sobbed for the pain she saw in her friends’ eyes every time they looked at her.

  She mourned.

  Mourned for the child who would never know its father.

  She lay down on her side, uncaring that sand tangled in her loose hair. Her body shook with the force of her emotions. Their child. A child conceived in love, a child Garrick would never see, never teach how to sad, never grow to love.

  Everyone told her that it would be all right, that she must go on. But it would never be right. The man she loved was dead, taken away by her own carelessness.

  “It’s in, they’ve decided!” yelled a white-robed, dark-haired figure with the face of an angel—which he was.

  The door to Arlan’s office banged open so hard, the brass nameplate with A. H. SHUCK inscribed on its surface clattered to the marble floor.

  Arlan looked up, excitement caused his wings to quiver. “When?”

  “Just now. They’re about to read the verdict. Hurry.”

  Arlan shot up from his chair and raced around his desk. His friend turned, his wings swatting Arlan across the face and giving him a mouthful of feathers. Not that he cared. He had waited months for this moment, months during which Garrick’s soul had been in limbo, and Lucy, poor Lucy, had nearly died of a broken heart.

  The counsel room bustled with activity, those from the upper regions sitting on his right, their wings furled behind them. On his left, those from the lower regions sat, a forest of pitchforks rising from their masses.

  Arlan ignored it all and kept his eye firmly focused on the raised dais in front of him, or more importantly on the gray-bearded, silver-headed moderator who sat upon it. It was impossible to glimpse anything in the man’s brown eyes. His bushy brows shielded them from the light, but his lips pulled into a frown as he glanced first at Arlan, then at Belial, and then looked away.

  A bailiff opened the gate separating the masses from those defending the case. Arlan took his seat, refusing to look at Belial and the devil’s counsel, Dameon, who had argued the case. No doubt both were looking smug, which was to be expected given the moderator they’d drawn. It was an established fact that although moderators had a vested interest in being neutral, many had a tendency to vote more frequently for one side or another. Even moderators would one day try to earn their wings. When that time came, who wanted an angry devil trying to foul them up?

  “Quiet, please,” the bailiff ordered.

  The din faded into silence, pitchforks lowered, wings fluttered, throats cleared.

  “You may read the charges,” the moderator said.

  “Case number 100923. Wolf vs. Belial. Charges filed on behalf of Wolf by A. H. Shuck.”

  The moderator inclined his head. “Let the record state that counsel for both parties are present.”

  The bailiff began to read. “The charges filed by Mr. A. H. Shuck on behalf of the Plaintiff state that the Defendant, one Belial, aka the Devil, aka Beelzebub, aka Old Scratch, etc., did knowingly enter into a standard soul-for-a-soul contract with Plaintiff, one Wolf, andthat the aforementioned Contract should be considered null in that upon execution of said Contract, Exchangee’s soul, Exchangee being one Lucy Hartford, was in reality two souls, in that Exchangee was carrying Plaintiffs child.

  “Plaintiff also argues that the Defendant did knowingly and willingly change a soul’s Time of Death in order to coerce the Plaintiff into said Contract. Said T.O.D. has now changed the course of history in that it has been foreseen that Exchangee’s child, a child who was never supposed to be born, will affect future world events.” The bailiff lowered the paper he was reading from and looked at the moderator.

  “Let the record state that the charges have been read,” the moderator announced.

  Arlan tensed. This was it.

  “Let me preface my decision by saying that this was one of the most difficult cases I’ve ever had to moderate. Not only did I have to consider the T.O.D. issue, but I also had to consider the Exchangee’s health and happiness, as well as that of the child she carries.” He paused, piercing Arlan with a stare. “I have decided in favor of the Plaintiff.”

  The crowd gasped, pitchforks banged on the floor, angels applauded.

  Belial slammed his fist on the table, letting out a screech of rage which echoed throughout the room.

  Arlan shot from his chair. His wings quivered in excitement.

  “Further,” the moderator went on, much to Arlan’s shock, “in light of the child and the health of the

  Exchangee, I have decided to invoke the Right to Release Act.”

  Another gasp came from someone in the room. “Therefore, at oh-eight-hundred earth time, the Plaintiff’s memory of his time with us will be erased, where after he will be returned to earth and his Lucy.”

  Thunder boomed into the little room, the thunder of God’s laughter.

  29

  The horse and rider were a tiny speck on the horizon when the servant first spotted them from the granite parapet. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, the glint of the sun sparkling off the sea making it hard to follow the rider’s progress. Closer and closer they drew, galloping at a breakneck speed toward the castle, the rider seemingly oblivious to the sheer drop to his right, a drop which fell over a hundred feet to the ocean below.

  The servant watched, heart in his throat, as the horse and rider materialized into two separate beings, the horse’s rhythmic blowing audible now. White flecks of foam fell from its mouth and onto its chest and legs, its hooves pounding the soft dirt and sending up puffs of dust. Soon man and horse clattered beneath him and into the courtyard below, the horse skidding to a halt on the polished cobblestones. Sparks shot out from beneath its dancing hooves. The man didn’t seem to notice. He dropped the reins.

  “M’lord,” the servant gasped.

  Garrick froze, then tilted his head back, his hands automatically grabbing for the reins again. His horse, impatient with the sudden loss of movement, spun beneath him and tossed its arrogant head.

  “Mother o’ God, we thought you dead.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Her ladyship—”

  Garrick stiffened. “Where is she?”

  The servant straightened, seemed to recover himself, then said, “Down on the beach, m’lord.”

  Garrick jerked his horse toward the road.

  “’Tis good to ‘ave you ‘ome,” the servant called after him, making the sign of the cross.

  Garrick was oblivious to the man as he spurred h
is horse back toward the coastal road and the path which led to the beach. It was a narrow trail hewn into the rocks from generations of shoes, but never had Garrick guided a horse down it, nor would he now if the gelding he rode had any say in the matter. The animal balked, but Garrick’s sheer determination forced it to obey. He must see Lucy. For the past three days since his memory returned, the thought had burned in his mind.

  He kicked the animal forward and the horse tossed its head in protest. Garrick’s eyes alternately scanned the beach below and the path before him as they picked their way over clumps of shale and overgrown sea grass. His leather breeches scraped the side of the cliff, but he didn’t care.

  Then he saw her.

  Her body was still, so motionless at first he thought it was a piece of driftwood discarded by the churningsea. But when he glimpsed a flash of red hair and a glint of pale skin, he knew better. Panic choked him, fear sent a chill over his flesh. The waves broke terribly close to where she lay.

  He kicked his horse forward again. The gelding arrived by her side in moments, kicking sand upon her. Still she didn’t move.

  Flinging himself down, he quickly crossed to her and gazed at her pale and drawn face, a face clouded with pain even though she slept. The ravages of her grief where plainly visible. Dark circles lay beneath her smoky lashes. Her skin, once so vibrant, looked as colorless as the shale which dotted the cliffs behind him. He reached out to stroke that flesh, first her arm, just barely visible beneath the thick cloak she wore, then her cheeks. So soft, those cheeks, so familiar.

  “Lucy, my love,” he groaned, unable to keep his throat from tightening with tears. God, how he loved this woman. He would move heaven and earth for her, storm the very gates of hell if need be.

  A pair of green eyes slowly opened, eyes as beautiful and pure as spring, eyes which were filled with a pain so deep Garrick felt his heart clench.

  “I’m home, Lucy.”

  But instead of snapping awake she closed her eyes again and whispered, “Dream.”

  “No,” he said softly, swiping away a lock of hair which tugged across her face.

  She opened her eyes again. “Don’t wake.”

  He grabbed her hand and squeezed it softly. Then, unable to bear the distance a moment longer, hescooped her up in his arms, burying his nose into the waterfall of curls and inhaling her sweet fragrance: roses and tears, sand and sorrow. “God, Lucy, I love you.”

  He drew back and kissed her forehead, then dropped kisses on her cheek, her lips.

  A gentle finger touched his face. “Tears,” she said softly. “I feel tears.”

  He kissed the side of her neck, then her left ear.

  “And breath. I can hear someone breathing.”

  For a long moment she said nothing, but he could feel her trembling as he gently caressed her ear. “It can’t be,” she said softly.

  “Oh yes it can,” he said gently, trailing his lips toward hers. Her lips were cold and she tasted of salt and sunshine, of fear and disbelief. She was unyielding at first, but then suddenly she clutched at him, her nails digging into his arms. Her mouth opened and he kissed her, kissed her as he’d dreamed of doing for the past three days, kissed her as it was his fate to do from the moment he’d met her.

  A long while later he drew back. A grin spread across his face at her look of wonder and tender joy. “There. Have you ever been kissed by a dream?”

  “Yes,” she said on a sigh. “His name was Garrick.”

  He drew her to him again, hugging her tightly, but she wouldn’t let him for long. Instead she pulled back. And like the first rays of morning sunshine he saw the realization dawn. Finally, she seemed to accept that he was really there beside her. A multitude of emotions traipsed across her face: disbelief, wonder, hope.

  “Garrick?” she asked.

  “Yes, Luce, it’s really me.”

  She shook her head and for a very long moment simply stared. Her hands reached for his arms, clasping them, her grip growing tighter and tighter until, suddenly, she began to shake him. She did a poor job of it, her own body rocking harder than his own, her red hair flying about her face. The look in her eyes grew intense, as if she were almost angry.

  “Garrick Asquith-Wolf, where have you been?”

  He chuckled. This was the Lucy he remembered. “Luce, my sweet Luce. I’ve been recuperating.”

  Instant concern crossed her face, her eyes roving over him. “From what?”

  “Relax, my sweet. Just a small knock to the head. My memory only returned three days ago, it took me that long to get to you.”

  She lapsed into silence again, her gaze never wavering. Then her eyes began to glisten, to well with tears. “Don’t you ever leave me again,” she mumbled in a tear-clogged voice. “When I saw you fall overboard….” She stopped talking, as if she couldn’t go on.

  He gave her a smile, one to reassure her, one meant to tell her without words that she could go on, with him by her side. “Never, Luce. The fires of hell couldn’t pull me away from you.”

  And when he said the words, a niggling memory tugged at the edges of his mind. It bothered him for a moment, but then he forgot everything as he observed the love and tenderness captured in the sparkling depths of her miraculous emerald eyes.

  “Garrick,” she said softly.

  “Lucy. My angel.” He bent down and kissed her again.

  Neither one of them noticed the wave which promised to douse them.

  Then again, chances are they wouldn’t have cared.

  The red-haired boy stared down the snow-carpeted mountain with a look of excitement on his face, the makeshift sleigh cold beneath his breeches-clad bottom. It’s time, Robert thought. After three days of waiting for the snow to stop falling over Cardiff, it was time to embark upon his great adventure, an adventure he’d been planning for nigh on three months, the Grand Adventure.

  For a brief moment he let himself admire the view. Gray streamers of smoke rose from the chimneys of the home he’d been born in. Their wispy tendrils blended in with the gray sky and silver ocean beyond. From a distance the house looked tiny, instead of the castle it was, but it could have been a dog house for all Robert cared. What mattered was the coming ride. Once again, he smiled and then settled himself more firmly atop his great-great-grandfather something-or-other’s battle shield. He took a deep breath, releasing it in a steamy column of mist. Gingerly, he shoved off.

  Nothing happened.

  Frowning, he ignored the sting of cold through the fabric of his mittens and gave himself another shove.

  Still nothing.

  Frustrated, he got up only to have the shield begin to move without him. He flung himself atop it, a smile lighting his face as he began to slid down the hill.

  The sound of metal scraping over snow rang through the air. Soon he slid down the hill with the speed of Mr. Hanford’s new thoroughbred. His hands clasped the cold edge; his body vibrated. His eyes began to water. He hit a bump, giggling hysterically as the breath was knocked out of him. Next he hit a pit, sailing out of it like a ship jumping a wake. With a war whoop of delight, he glided down the hill, heading directly for the back of the castle.

  It was only as he reached the bottom of the hill that he realized he had a problem. It wasn’t a miscalculation on his part, really; it was more of an underestimation of his body weight.

  He had assumed the meadow was of sufficient length for him to glide to a gradual stop. Unfortunately, he was clipping along at a rate of speed far greater than he’d anticipated.

  It was with a sense of doom that he found himself heading for the stable yard and the clutch of chickens newly liberated from their coop.

  “Shoo,” Robert called, waving his arms to get their attention. Next he tried to alter his course.

  No luck.

  “Shoo,” he called again.

  Still no luck.

  He collided with them at full speed. Feathers flew through the air and the birds squawked as loudly as a rusty butter chur
n. One smacked into his chest; he was blinded by red-brown wings as the shield was launched off a mound of snow. Heart in his throat, chicken screeching madly, he braced himself for impact.

  He landed on a pillow.

  At least it felt like a pillow.

  It was only as he lay there, gasping for breath, the chicken who had ridden upon him clucking in fury as it ran away, that Robert realized he’d landed upon a pile of hay.

  He giggled.

  What luck. What complete and utter luck. Closing his eyes, he ignored the sting of cold and relived every moment of his spectacular ride.

  “Did we have fun?” a stern voice asked.

  Robert’s eyes snapped open. He pushed himself to his feet and flung himself at his father. “Did you see it, did you see it? I came all the way down that hill. I hit a hole and … and a bump, and I probably would have smashed into Cinder’s stall if that mound of snow hadn’t …”

  Garrick Asquith-Wolf stared down at his son and silently cursed. No, he wondered if he was cursed. Not that he cared, mind you. No, he loved his son more than life itself. It was just that from the moment he’d been born, it had been one calamity after another, starting with the doctor he’d watered down not five seconds after he’d been lifted from his mother, right up to the time Garrick had caught him jumping off the barn withmakeshift wings attached to his back. He sighed. Much as he loved his child, the boy took after his mother, even sharing her propensity for falling out of trees. He smiled as he remembered that long ago day, the day he’d met his wife, the day an angel had fallen from the heavens and into his arms, his angel.

  My fallen angel, he amended.

  Acknowledgments

  All of you know I’m crying as I write this, but then you know I cry at long-distance commercials, so here goes: