by Lucy Blue
Then suddenly his arm was gone. She heard the knife clatter on the pavement. He screamed, falling back from her, and hot, stinking blood spattered across her cheek, spurting from his shoulder where his arm had been. She caught a glimpse of Asher’s face behind him as he crumpled to the ground, beautiful and terrible with rage.
“Asher!” she cried out, and their eyes met for barely a moment.
Then the other two were attacking Asher, screaming in high-pitched, inhuman voices. She thought she saw a flash of long, wet fangs as one of them latched onto his shoulder and the other darted past him, scuttling over the ice like a crab and coming up with the knife. The leader was still writhing at her feet, howling and spitting with rage. She could see the gleaming white bone of the shoulder joint. Asher had ripped off his arm like twisting the leg off a chicken.
But she didn’t have time to feel sick. The one who had recovered the knife was coming after her. She tried to run, and he grabbed her by the hair. “No!” she heard Asher shout, his voice like a roar, too loud, making her ears ring. The one holding her let her go, dropping the knife to clamp his hands over his ears. She kicked at him, tripping over the one on the ground, trying to reach the street.
“Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the sidewalk was deserted. “Somebody call 911!” She looked down, searching for the knife, and something shoved her hard, sending her sprawling face down on the ice. A blinding white light swept over her, and she heard another high-pitched scream. Rolling over, she caught a glimpse of something glowing white but flickering like fire in front of Asher’s face—a sword? The one who had bitten his shoulder was still screaming, half-crawling, half-running down the street, clumsy but fast as a cockroach running from the light. Asher turned his back on her, watching him, and she lost sight of what he was holding, sword or not—the flickering light went out. She slid backward on her ass, trying to find her feet, and suddenly the one who had lost an arm was sitting up, reaching under his jacket with the hand he had left.
“Asher!” she screamed out, knowing what was coming, lunging for the gun before she saw it. Asher turned as he fired, and the bullet tore through his shoulder—she saw the blood spurt from a smoking hole in his coat. Laughing like a lunatic, the third one came up with the knife again and leapt on Asher like a monkey, slashing at him. He should have been cut to ribbons.
But he didn’t fall. He grabbed the one with the knife by the nape of the neck and shook him hard before flinging him against the wall. He smashed into the bricks with a sickening crunch and slid to the ground. The one with the gun was weak, swaying on his knees, but he raised it again, swinging it toward Kelsey. She saw the round, deadly mouth of the barrel and the blue flame in his eyes.
Then he was flying. Moving so fast she barely saw him, Asher grabbed him by the head, lifting him straight up into the air. She felt the bullet whiz past her cheek as she saw him twist, heard the terrible crack. Then she was falling, swooning, her cheek bouncing slightly on the gritty, blood-slick ice.
“Kelsey!” Asher was bending over her, holding her tight by the shoulders. “Kelsey, get up.”
“Can’t,” she mumbled, limp in his grasp. Then she looked past him and saw the leader. He was still moving, one blue eye still glowing. His head was hanging at a monstrous angle on his broken neck, but he was getting up. “Oh my God…”
“Get up!” Asher was heaving her up from the ground, and she put her feet under her, willing herself upright. “Run!” he ordered. “Get inside!”
“Come on!” She clutched his wrist in both hands and pulled with all her strength. “Asher!” It was like pulling on a marble statue. But the man on the ground had made it to his knees, his one hand scrabbling over the ground like a spider, looking for the gun. The one Asher had thrown against the wall was moving, too, hissing as he rolled over. “For Christ’s sake, Asher, come on!”
For a moment, he just stared at her, his face a mask. Then suddenly, he was moving, the statue giving way. He let her steer him to the door of her building, running beside her, holding her upright from behind as she fumbled her key into the lock and half-carrying her inside. She could hear the footsteps running behind them and willed herself not to look back. The door was steel and safety glass, at least six inches thick. As soon as she had locked the deadbolt, something huge and heavy slammed against it, and she screamed, falling back against Asher again.
It was the leader. His neck still looked broken, and his stump of a shoulder was still pouring blood. But he was smiling.
“See you later, Asher.” His rasp of a voice carried through the glass. “Later, pretty.” He lunged, jaws snapping like a dog’s, and she screamed again. Then with a laugh, he was gone.
The Nymph in the Hallway
Asher caught Kelsey as she crumpled, scooping her up in his arms. “No,” she said, pushing against his chest. “Put me down; I’m fine. You’re the one who’s hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” he promised, carrying her up the stairs.
“You need an ambulance,” she insisted. “You’re just in shock. He shot you—I saw it.” She twisted in his arms, risking being dropped two flights to push back his coat from his shoulder. “Right here.” The burned hole was still there, but the flesh underneath was already healing. He had to concentrate to keep it open at all.
“The bullet barely grazed me.”
“Bullshit…I saw…” She faltered, pushing back his shirt to examine the scratch. “Put me down.”
He obliged her, though it wasn’t easy. He wanted to keep hold of her. His heart was pounding. He was shaking all over. He couldn’t stop seeing her being slammed against the wall by Lucifer’s minions, couldn’t stop hearing her screams in his head. He wanted to hold her tight against him, feel her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, listen to her breath until his own heart stopped pounding. But to her, he was all but a stranger. He had to let her go.
She ran her hands over his chest, touching all the rips and slashes in his shirt and coat, and it was all he could manage not to grab her again. “Kelsey…”
“The other one cut you,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I saw him. I saw the knife—I felt that knife.” She touched her own throat, staring wide-eyed at his bare chest. The cuts from the demon’s earthly knife were already healed over, but the deep scratches from his unholy fangs and claws were festering, hot and ugly as a brand. “Oh my God…”
“They were whacked out of their minds,” he said, trying to sound normal, a mortal man who had just escaped disaster. “I barely saw them; it happened so fast.”
“He knew you,” she said, her eyes widening as they met his. “He called you by name. You ripped his arm completely off.”
“Adrenaline,” he started to explain. But she was falling, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Kelsey!” He caught her just before she fell back down the stairs.
“Kelsey?” A door opened—4B. “Oh my God!” A woman came out, petite, middle-aged. But no, he realized as she came closer and he smelled the sweet, earthy scent of her and saw the warm glow of her aura. Not a woman at all. “What happened?” She looked up at his face and gasped, recognizing him for what he was, too. “Well, what do you know?” she said with a tentative smile.
“What are you doing here?” He shifted Kelsey back into his arms, and the pagan nymph came to help, turning the unconscious woman’s head to rest against his shoulder.
“The same as you at the moment,” she said, brushing Kelsey’s hair back from her eyes. “Protecting this poor mortal.” She murmured some pointless incantation under her breath as her fingers danced lightly over Kelsey’s skull and down her neck as if checking for injuries. “Though I think I might be doing a better job of it.” She fixed him with warm, green eyes. “And with a purer motive.”
“Is she broken?” he asked, ignoring her challenge. He wasn’t surprised to find an earth spirit living in the same apartment building as Kelsey. These days, with their forests all but gone and the old passages between worlds becoming ha
rder and harder to open, the fae were everywhere. Every major city had at least half a dozen of the more corporeal ranks living among mortal humans. A city the size of this one might have as many as a hundred, with ethereal ancients as well. This one smiled at him, and he scowled. The pagan powers always found angels dreadfully amusing. They considered themselves outside the jurisdiction of angels and demons with their own version of the Light, their own definitions of good and evil. At least they had wisdom enough to fear the Fallen One.
“Just bruised and scraped, I think,” she said. “And very badly frightened.” She brushed a kiss on Kelsey’s temple, and she stirred, moaning softly. “Rest, child,” the nymph ordered, and the woman relaxed in his arms. “Are you the one who brought the demons here?”
He wanted to deny it. “Probably,” he said. “That wasn’t my intention, but they were probably after me.”
“Not just them,” she said. “He was here yesterday morning. I wondered what could have called him up.” She looked him up and down, shaking her head. “I might have known it was a falling angel.”
“I haven’t fallen,” he said, scowling again. “Who was here?”
“I said falling, not fallen,” she said. “There is more than one way to fall.” As if to underscore her point, a man came out of the apartment.
“Should I call the police?” He was definitely human, small and balding, dressed in baggy flannel trousers and a shapeless sweater. But there was an aura of magic about him, too, a light beyond mere mortal intelligence in his eyes. And like his immortal wife, he knew an angel when he saw one. “Oh my…”
“Who was here yesterday morning?” Asher demanded.
“Lucifer, of course,” the wizard said. His wife shivered, and he drew her close to him, patting her hand. “Pretending to be a policeman.”
“Investigating a mess in the alley that he made himself, no doubt,” the nymph said, cleaving to her husband. “A homeless woman murdered.”
“No,” Asher said. “She’s not dead. I took her to the hospital. She was possessed, and I cast the demon out.” He broke off, looking away from their smiles to look down at Kelsey. Whatever the fae had done had put her into a deep, apparently peaceful sleep. One hand was curled around the lapel of his coat, clinging to him, and he shivered. “Did he see Kelsey?”
“He spoke to her,” the nymph said. “Nate was in class, but I had followed her downstairs. I heard them talking. I was ready to intervene.”
“Which would have been madness,” her husband interjected.
“But she resisted him,” she finished. “I kept her with me most of the day, watching over her, but she seemed fine.” She stroked Kelsey’s hair. “The question is, angel, what is she to you?”
“I found her at her husband’s grave,” he said. “I was afraid she was going to kill herself, so I….” Suddenly her piercing gaze was too much. “I’m taking her inside.” Pushing past her, he carried Kelsey to her own apartment door.
“You had no right,” the nymph said, following him as he went inside, ignoring the lock. “No right to approach her, to charm her. You’ve put her in danger, not just in body, but in soul.”
“I never charmed her,” he said, laying Kelsey on the sofa.
“Didn’t you?” Her eyes were dark, avid as an animal’s. “I can smell you all over her; I smelled you yesterday as soon as she walked past my door.”
“I wanted to help her,” he said.
“Of course you did,” she said. “Angels always want to help.” Her words were scornful, but she smiled. “Why can you never admit the truth even to yourselves until it’s too late?”
“Sylvia, darling,” the wizard said. “Enough.”
“Will you tell her the truth?” she said. She reached up and touched Asher’s cheek. Her skin was pale, showing a slight, otherworldly green at her temples and the hollows of her cheeks. “Will you tell her what you are?”
“Sylvia,” her husband repeated. “Come home now, darling, please.”
“Such a beautiful thing you are,” she said, her accent deepening, lilting the worlds like a song. The wizard took her hand, and she allowed him to draw her back away from Asher. “How will she resist you?”
“Come,” the wizard said. He smiled at Asher. “Good night.”
Asher locked the door behind them, then covered Kelsey with a blanket. He had no idea what he would say to her when she woke up, but he couldn’t leave her alone.
He felt a strange emptiness inside him, an ache that was entirely physical that had been growing for hours, and suddenly, he knew what it was. For the first time in his timeless life, he was hungry.
He went into the kitchen. He had no notion of cooking, but he could smell the food, and his stomach actually growled. Angels could eat food just as they could indulge in other mortal pleasures; it wasn’t forbidden, just unnecessary. And just as with other pleasures, Asher had always chosen to abstain.
He found the plate of brownies covered in plastic on the counter. He took the first bite slowly, sniffing it before he put it in his mouth. The deep, luscious flavor of the chocolate made him think he might swoon. He sat down on a barstool like a man in a trance and devoured the whole plate.
Hunger was dangerous. The more an angel indulged in human pleasure, the more susceptible he or she became to human desire. They developed human emotional responses, and not just the sweet ones like passionate love or empathy but uglier feelings as well. Jealousy, pride, and murderous rage, unhampered by fear or physical weakness, could infect them like poison. If these passions drove them to open defiance of their purpose, they fell, becoming the most powerful and cruelest form of demon, a guardian and prisoner of Hell. Lucifer had told him Kelsey would cause him to fall.
As he swallowed the last brownie, he realized he was thirsty. Licking the last crumbs from the plate, he went to the refrigerator, looking for something to drink.
He had watched his brother stray into this path. Asher had begged him to repent and give up the thirst for power. But he had failed. He had watched him fall. Now he watched him torment the mortals he hated so desperately, the creatures he had once so loved.
He opened the gallon jug of milk and sniffed it…perfect. Turning it up with one hand, he guzzled it down, ice cold and impossibly delicious.
“Hey.” He brought down the jug and turned around. Kelsey was standing behind him, the blanket he had put over her draped around her shoulders, her lips curved in smile. “Want a glass?”
The Angel in the Kitchen
Kelsey had been dreaming about the most horrible moment of her childhood. Her father was leaving, and her mother had betrayed her. “Tell him,” Mama was saying, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Tell him I’m not crazy. Tell him you can see them, too.”
“Stop it,” her father said. “Stop trying to drag your own child down with you. For God’s sake, Rowena, let her go!”
“Tell him!” Mama screamed. “They’re here right now, standing right there watching. You can see them, Kelsey, I know you can.” Her mother fell to her knees beside her and turned her toward the trio of figures standing in the doorway. “Be a good girl, baby. Tell your daddy the truth.”
“You promised, Mama,” the little girl Kelsey said, crying. “You promised me you wouldn’t tell.”
“Enough!” her father said, trying to grab her, but Mama snatched her away from him.
“Tell him!” Mama screamed.
She woke up on the couch in the now, covered with a blanket. Her rescuer was standing at her refrigerator. As she watched, he took out the jug of milk, opened it, and turned it up like it weighed nothing. “Hey,” she said, going to him. “Want a glass?” He turned around looking so shocked, she almost laughed. “It’s okay,” she promised. “Go ahead.” Seeing this man who looked like Michelangelo’s David swilling milk straight from the jug made everything in this strange, scary night seem easier to manage.
“Sorry.” He sounded like he meant it, and the sheepish look on his face was adorable. He turned t
he jug back up as she let the blanket fall behind her. She should be terrified, checking the locks, pushing furniture in front of the door, calling the cops, calling a priest. That thing at the door couldn’t have been human; it had said it wasn’t giving up. But somehow she couldn’t make herself care. She felt warm and comfortable, slightly sleepy. Even the horror of her dream had faded, leaving a child-like sense of well-being. I must be in shock, she thought. This must be a side effect of being scared out of my mind. But even that thought couldn’t dispel the cloud.
“You must have been thirsty.” She shrugged out of the coat and let that fall, too. “That’s probably the adrenaline. Didn’t you say something before about adrenaline?” Drunk, she thought. It’s like I’m drunk. She had tried marijuana a few times, and it had made her sleepy and irritable. This seemed more like what her friends had said it did for them, this mellow, slightly addle-pated calm. She watched Asher guzzle down the milk, not caring that he didn’t answer her. She was fascinated by the way the muscles worked in his throat as he swallowed and the trickle of milk that had run down over his chin. “I feel sort of weird.” She handed him a dishtowel as he lowered the empty jug. “I almost never pass out, and I always feel sick afterward. But this time I don’t.”
“Still.” He set the jug down to wipe his mouth with the towel. “You should lie back down.”
“No, I’m fine.” She took the towel and wiped his chin then dropped it to run her hand over the shallow scratches in his chest that should have been deep gashes from their attacker’s knife. “Let me see your shoulder.”
“It’s all right,” he insisted, but she pushed his coat back over his shoulders and onto the floor without waiting for permission and opened his shirt. The wounds that had seemed to be festering before now looked like clean, healing cuts.